The Secret of Pirates' Hill

by Franklin W. Dixon

  As the boys fought desperately, the face masks slipped off their attackers. The men were strangers to the Hardys.

  Joe wrested his right arm free and sent a vicious punch to his adversary’s jaw. The man’s grip relaxed and he fell back, groggy. This was Joe’s chance for escape!

  “Here I come, Frank!” he yelled.

  But a kick from the other man sent Joe sprawling. In a flash his own antagonist was on top of him. There was little fight left in his assailant but he depended on his great weight to hold the boy down. Joe could hardly breathe.

  At this point Frank was giving his opponent a rough time. The man was now gasping for breath. “I’ll let him get really winded,” Frank thought, wriggling even harder to break loose.

  “Hold still or I’ll finish you for good!” the man threatened.

  “Just try it,” Frank grunted defiantly.

  He gave another violent twist and almost broke free. But the man retained his powerful hold. An unexpected downward swipe with his stiffened hand caught Frank on the back of the neck and he slumped to the floor.

  The man now turned his attention to Joe and helped his accomplice pin him to the floor. They bound and gagged the young detectives, then held a whispered consultation. One of them went into a back room and returned a moment later dragging something in a burlap sack. He slid it into a corner and both men left the shack by the front door.

  Frank and Joe heard a muffled groan. A human being was in the sack!

  The boys concluded it must be Gorman. He, too, had been ambushed! Were the attackers enemies of Gorman working on their own, or were they in league with Bowden? Or perhaps Latsky?

  Desperately the Hardys tried to loosen their bonds. Frank found that by wriggling his jaw and rubbing the gag against his shoulder he could loosen it. At once he cried out:

  “Gorman!”

  As the bundle in the corner moved slightly in reply, they were horrified to see their assailants rush back into the shack. They had heard Frank’s outcry. Without a moment’s hesitation, they knocked both boys unconscious.

  Some time later Joe revived. He was amazed to find that he was outdoors and dusk was coming on. He saw Frank not far away and on the other side of him the captive in the burlap sack.

  “We’re in a gully,” Joe thought as he struggled to rise.

  His arms were still tied behind him and the gag was in his mouth. Every part of his body ached. He was lying face up in a puddle of rain water and was soaked.

  Frank, still unconscious, was also bound and gagged. His position was precarious; he lay in a deeper part of the ditch with water rushing only inches from his nose and mouth. The stream, swollen by the heavy rain, was tumbling along in torrents.

  “Frank will drown!” Joe thought in horror. “I must get him out of here!” He struggled desperately and finally by twisting and turning slipped his gag off. But his bonds held firmly.

  “Frank!” he shouted. “Sit up! Sit up! You’ll drown!”

  At first there was no response, then Frank made a feeble effort to rise. He raised his head a few inches and tried to pull himself up, but he lacked the strength. Exhausted, he slumped back into an even more dangerous position.

  “I must rescue him!” Joe said to himself.

  He dragged his body through the mud to Frank. Rolling onto his side, he was able to clutch his brother by one leg with his tied hands. Getting a firm hold, he pulled Frank inch by inch from the threatening stream.

  It was an agonizing task. The sharp gravel on the edges of the gully scraped Joe’s cheeks, but finally he brought Frank to a safe spot. He managed to remove the gag, but the knots on Frank’s bonds defied him.

  “We’d better give this up,” said Joe, “or I may be too late to save Gorman.”

  “Go ahead,” Frank said weakly. His own arms had no feeling in them.

  The burlap sack lay only slightly out of water. “Those thugs must have figured on having the three of us drown in the stream. They evidently sent us rolling down the bank, but we didn’t go far enough,” Joe thought.

  Redoubling his efforts, he crawled to the burlap sack and attempted to secure a hold similar to the one on his brother. But the embankment here had a slimy mud surface. With each attempt to haul the sack away from the water, Joe lost ground.

  “I’ll never get Gorman out this way!” he groaned. “I’ll have to get my hands free.”

  His bonds were as tight as ever. Joe decided to crawl back to Frank and have him work on the knots again. Halfway to his goal, he heard the sound of an approaching car. Apparently there was a road above the gully!

  “Help! Help!” Joe cried out.

  The car went by and the boy’s heart sank. He yelled even louder. To his immense relief, he heard the car slow down. Then it stopped.

  A door slammed, and Joe continued his cries for help. Someone came running and leaned over the rim of the gully.

  Bowden!

  “Joe Hardy!” the man cried out. “What happened to you?”

  “Come down here, quick!” Joe yelled, “Untie me! And we must get the others out!”

  Bowden, his raincoat flapping in the wind, grabbed the overhanging branch of a nearby tree for support and slid down the embankment.

  “There’s a penknife in my pocket,” Joe told him. “Get it out and cut me loose.”

  Bowden did so, and together he and Joe freed Frank and assisted him to his feet.

  Joe pulled Frank from the threatening stream

  The burlap sack began to move. Bowden jumped back, startled. “For Pete’s sake, what’s in there?”

  “It’s—” Joe started to say, when Frank gave him a warning look.

  “We don’t know,” Frank spoke up, “but we figure it’s probably a man. Two thugs knocked Joe and me out. They must have put all three of us in the gully.”

  The boys made their way to the sack. Both were thinking the same thing. What was Bowden’s reaction going to be when he and Gorman faced each other?

  With the penknife Joe slashed the cords that bound the burlap sack and yanked it open. A cry of astonishment burst from the Hardys. The prisoner was not Gorman! He was Chet Morton!

  The stout boy, bound and gagged, and wearing only swim trunks, gazed at his rescuers dazedly. It was evident he was weak and in a state of shock.

  “Chet!” the Hardys exclaimed, removing his bonds.

  As their pal took in great drafts of fresh air, Bowden asked, “Is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes,” Joe replied. “We must get him home at once.”

  “I’ll take you there,” Bowden offered.

  “Thanks. Where are we, anyway?” Frank asked him, slapping and swinging his arms to restore the circulation.

  “On the shore road about ten miles from Bayport. Say, where did you fellows get slugged?”

  “Somewhere up on the dunes,” Frank replied offhandedly. He felt in his pocket. The car keys were gone!

  Bowden preceded the boys up the steep embankment. Frank and Joe assisted Chet, who could hardly put one foot in front of the other.

  “You’ll feel better, pal, as soon as we get you something to eat,” Joe told him.

  Chet gave a half-smile and nodded. “Awful hungry,” he admitted.

  Out of earshot of Bowden, Frank whispered to Chet, “We thought you were Gorman.”

  “Yes,” said Joe. “That guy double-crossed us.” He looked at Frank. “I guess you’re ready to admit now that Gorman is a phony!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Chet’s Kidnap Story

  As the three boys followed Bowden to his car, the man’s denunciation of Tim Gorman came back to them. Bowden probably was right, but where did he himself fit into the picture? The Hardys wondered if there were any significance to the fact that he happened to be passing the gully.

  “The less we say the better,” Frank warned the others.

  Reaching the car, Joe got into the front seat, ready to grab the controls should Bowden attempt to turn off the main road and lead them into an
y more trouble. But the man drove along normally and in silence.

  Suddenly Joe cried out, “There’s our car parked just ahead!” It had been pulled way over to the side.

  Bowden stopped and waited as the Hardys examined the automobile. The keys were in it and nothing had been disturbed. The motor started at once.

  “Thanks again, Mr. Bowden,” Frank called, as the other boys climbed into the convertible. By this time it was almost dusk. “We’ll have to show our appreciation to you by working harder than ever to locate the demiculverin.”

  Just then they were startled by a sound that resembled a low, muffled groan.

  Frank looked around. “What was that?”

  “Just the wind in the trees, I guess,” Bowden replied as he waved and drove off.

  “Well, one thing seems certain,” Frank remarked as he pulled out onto the road. “Bowden didn’t know anything about the attacks on us.”

  “On the other hand,” said Joe, “those thugs may have been in his employ and he drove out here to see if they had carried out instructions.”

  “If you’re right,” said Frank, “he sure got a surprise. And say, what about Gorman? I guess he didn’t come to the shack after all.”

  “But sent those thugs instead,” Joe said.

  “Listen, you just said it was Bowden.”

  “Sure I did. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m completely baffled. And now, Chet, tell us what happened to you.”

  “Here’s the story. It all began when I put an ad in the paper.”

  “For what?” Joe asked.

  “Skin-diving equipment. I wanted to buy some secondhand. Well, this morning a fellow came out to the farm to see me.”

  “By the name of Gil,” Frank said. “Iola told us. What was his last name?”

  “I didn’t ask him,” Chet said. “I was too excited. You see, he told me he represented a man who was willing to sell his equipment cheap.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I was out at our pool when he arrived. His car was parked down the road and he offered to drive me to the man’s house to look at the gear. Since he was in a hurry, I hopped in without taking time to change.”

  “What then?” Frank asked.

  Chet related that the boy had stopped the car in a wooded section which he said led to the house. “As soon as I stepped out, a stocky, masked man jumped from behind a tree. In a flash he had me tied up and blindfolded,”

  “Then what?” Frank asked.

  “While I was lying there in the rain, he said, ‘What did you do with the cutlass?’ ”

  “ ‘What cutlass?’ ” I asked. “He kicked me and said, ‘You know which cutlass I mean.’

  “I told him that I had been to an antique shop to buy one but had arrived too late. The man didn’t have any left. I sure didn’t want to tell him about the one you fellows have.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t,” said Joe. “Chet, we were at that shop and heard the story. We think the character who bought all the cutlasses was Latsky.”

  “Wow! That sure complicates things.”

  “Why did you go to the shop?” Frank asked.

  Chet smiled wanly. “I was hoping to get a clue for you on the sword Gorman and Bowden know about.”

  “Good try,” said Joe. “Go on with your story.”

  Chet scowled angrily at the recollection. “When I wouldn’t tell that guy anything, he flew into a rage. I don’t know what he hit me with but he sure kayoed me. From that time on I don’t remember a thing until you found me in the gully.”

  Just then the car reached the side road which led to the shack where Frank and Joe had been ambushed. Frank turned into it.

  “Hey, where you heading?” Chet asked. “I thought you were going to get me something to eat. I’m weak.”

  “Ten minutes won’t make any difference,” Frank replied. “I just had an idea.”

  “Well, it had better be good,” Chet grunted.

  Frank said it was possible that the figure in the burlap sack at the shack had not been Chet. Why would his attackers have bothered to take him there and carry him off again?

  “The prisoner was probably someone else— maybe even Gorman,” Frank declared, “and he may still be there.”

  “Listen, fellows,” Chet protested. “I don’t want to be captured again now!”

  “You won’t,” Frank said. “You’ll take the car key and hide in the trunk. Leave the lid open an inch. You can act as lookout and give us the old owl whistle if anyone approaches.”

  “Okay, that’s safe enough.”

  Frank parked in the same spot as before. The Hardys put flashlights in their pockets and got out. The area ahead was in semidarkness, with the shack standing out like a black block silhouetted against the sky.

  Frank and Joe moved cautiously, taking care not to step in the footprints that led away from the shack. Mingled with them were drag marks, no doubt made by the feet of the Hardys as the unconscious boys were removed from the building.

  “You take the front, Joe, and I’ll go around,” Frank suggested.

  They separated. Finding no sign of an occupant, they finally beamed their flashlights through the windows. The shack was empty.

  In swinging his light back, Joe became aware of something interesting a few feet away. Quickly he summoned his brother and pointed out a depression in the damp sand.

  “Someone was lying there,” he said, “Face down.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Chet,” Frank surmised. “From head to toe the length is a good six feet.”

  “Look!” Joe exclaimed. “There’s an initial here!”

  The boys bent over a spot a few inches from the face mark in the sand. Scratched faintly was a letter.

  “It looks like a C,” Joe commented.

  “Or perhaps a G,” Frank said. “It could stand for Gorman.”

  They assumed that the man, bound and gagged, had made the impression with the tip of his nose. A more careful search of the area revealed footprints and drag marks that indicated he had been taken into the shack, probably in a sack, then later carried off.

  The boys trudged back to the shack and again looked at the face impression in the sand. Frank felt it belonged to Gorman.

  “I wish there were some way to make sure,” Joe said.

  “I think there is,” Frank replied. “Let’s make a mold of this face.”

  The Hardys often made plaster molds of footprints and shoe prints. They kept the equipment for doing this in their workshop over the garage.

  “We’ll have to come back early tomorrow,” Frank said. “In the meantime, we’ll protect the impression.”

  He went into the shack and looked about for something to use as a cover. In one corner was an old box. He carried it outside, and placed it firmly over the sand impression.

  “Let’s go!” Joe urged.

  As they started back toward their car, the stillness was suddenly shattered by the mournful hoot of an owl: Chet’s signal that something had gone wrong.

  The Hardys broke into a runt

  CHAPTER XV

  An Impostor

  THE hooting was not repeated and the Hardys wondered if Chet were in trouble. They doubled their speed and quickly reached the convertible. No one was in sight.

  Joe pulled up the trunk lid. Chet, inside, looked relieved.

  “Did you hoot?” Joe asked him.

  “I sure did. A couple of guys were here. I heard them coming through the woods, so I gave the signal.”

  “Where are they now?” Frank demanded.

  “Both of them ran back through the woods when they saw you coming.”

  “Who were they?”

  Chet said he did not know. It was too dark to see them well, but neither was the man who had knocked him out. From Chet’s description the Hardys concluded they might have been the men who had attacked them in the shack.

  “They didn’t use any names,” said Chet, “but they talked a lot.” He added that upon seeing the car, t
hey had seemed worried, wondering how it got there. “They decided that perhaps the police had brought it there and were using it as a decoy. Just then they saw you coming and beat it.”

  “It’s a good thing they did,” said Frank, “or we might have had another battle on our hands.”

  As the three boys started home, Chet gave a gigantic sneeze. “Those guys’ll kill us one way or another,” he groaned. “But I’ll probably die of pneumonia first.”

  Joe wrapped a blanket from the rear seat around Chet’s shoulders, but the boy continued to sneeze all the way to the farm. By the time they entered the Morton driveway he was having chills.

  “Sorry,” said Frank. His conscience bothered him that they had not brought their pal home sooner.

  “Look!” Joe exclaimed as they pulled up behind a police car. “Chief Collig’s here now.”

  Mrs. Morton and Iola were overjoyed to see that Chet was safe. Chet’s mother at once insisted that he take a hot shower and go to bed. She prepared a light supper, topped off with steaming lemonade.

  In the meantime, the police chief listened in amazement as Frank and Joe related their experiences.

  Chief Collig agreed with the Hardys that the case had assumed serious proportions. “Take it easy, fellows,” he advised. “I’ll notify the State Police about that shack. I’m sure they’ll want to station a man there.”

  “Joe and I plan to make a plaster cast of the impression we found in the sand,” Frank told him. “We thought it might be a good clue.”

  “I doubt that it will work,” said the chief. “But good luck. When are you going to do it?”

  “Very early tomorrow morning.”

  “I’ll tell State Police Headquarters.”

  The chief said he himself would put more men on the case and station a plainclothesman at the Morton farm. As he left the house, Mrs. Morton bustled into the living room to report that Chet had finally stopped sneezing. “He’ll be asleep in a few minutes,” she said.

  Before Frank and Joe left they telephoned their home. Mrs. Hardy answered and was happy to hear that they had suffered no ill effects from their experiences that day.