Danger on Vampire Trail (5 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Danger on Vampire Trail
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Light from the big bonfire flickered across their concerned faces as they gave Frank and Joe some bits and pieces of information. Several campers had seen the blond youth before. One of them, a man from Texas, had warned him to use the unlicensed cycle only on the mountain trails.
“But of course he paid no attention to me,” the man said.
A young woman pushed her way through the crowd and told Joe, “If you're looking for that mean boy I may know where he's staying.”
“You do?” Joe said in surprise. “Where?”
The woman said that the day before the same trail bike had zipped past her on the highway, then turned onto a dirt road. “I saw it pull up to a camp,” she said. “It's two and a half miles from here, off to the right.”
Joe thanked her and decided to visit the place the next morning.
That night Sherlock was tied up outside and the night passed quietly.
“What are you going to tell that hoodlum when you see him?” Chet asked as he prepared breakfast.
“Nothing,” Joe replied. “I'm going to punch him in the nose.”
“That is if you find him,” Biff said. “Suppose he's left already?”
“Come on, Chet. Hurry up,” Joe said. “We can't wait all day for the sausages.”
Half an hour later they were ready to go. Frank drove out of the area and onto the highway. Exactly two and a half miles down the road Frank slowed, and the boys peered into the heavy growth of trees and brush on the right side.
“Look, I see it!” Joe called out. “Turn here, Frank.”
The lane, made by car wheels, was barely visible. Frank drove in slowly with twigs cracking under the tires. As they approached a small clearing they saw a trailer, the kind that normally sleeps two. No car was in evidence, but the trail bike was propped against a tree. Painted on the gas tank were two words:
Vampire Trail.
The only person in sight was the blond-haired youth. He was washing tin dishes in a pan of water. When the car drew nearer, he turned around. Joe got out first, walked up to him, and said, “I'm Joe Hardy. Who are you?”
The boy pushed the hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. “Name's Juice Barden. What do you want?” He had a thin face and light-blue eyes which blinked nervously. Joe judged him to be about eighteen years old.
“Look, you broke my guitar last night,” Joe said.
“So?”
“So it's no joke. You're going to pay for it!”
“Now there's a real joke,” Juice said arrogantly. “You didn't get out of the way fast enough.”
“You've got no right to buzz a trail bike around a crowd of people!”
“La-de-da,” replied Juice. He reached down, picked up a half-empty bottle of orange soda, and took a swig.
Infuriated, Joe cocked his right arm and was about to let fly with a punch when Biff grabbed him. “Don't hit Junior, he's no match for you,” Biff said. “We'll just wait to see his father and tell him what a bad boy he has.”
Juice sneered, “You think you're great because there are four of you.”
Chet, meanwhile, was strolling around the campsite. From nails driven into the trees hung a few pieces of drying laundry and a blackened skillet. Chet spied a guitar dangling on a leather thong.
“Hey, Joe, look at this!” he called out. “You want a guitar? Here's one!” Chet lifted the instrument off the nail and walked over to Joe.
Juice took a step forward but thought better of interfering. “You can't take that!” he declared.
“Oh no? I'll keep it until you buy me a new one,” Joe said.
Juice replied coolly, “Fingers won't like it.”
“Fingers?” asked Chet. “Who's he?”
“You'll know soon enough.”
The four boys shrugged and turned to leave. Joe looked back for a moment. “Okay, Barden. Tell Fingers the guitar is in good hands.”
“What a crumb!” Chet muttered as they got into the car.
“I wonder who this Fingers is,” said Biff.
“My guess,” Joe said, “is that he's some fancy pants dumb-dumb. What's the old saying—birds of a feather flock together?”
“Is it a good guitar?” asked Biff as Frank started off.
“Fair, I'd say,” Joe declared after strumming a few notes. “Mine was a lot better.”
They sped westward for an hour and when Biff spelled Frank at the wheel they stopped to admire a spectacular waterfall. It gushed out from a crevice in the pine hills and churned white on rocks close to the road's edge, before boiling under the highway bridge. The boys got out and stood on the bridge to enjoy the sight, until Biff became impatient.
“Come on. We're wasting too much time,” he said, and walked toward the car which was parked off the bridge on the side of the road.
As the others ambled along behind Biff, a sedan pulling a small trailer, squealed past them and drove up directly in front of the Hardys' convertible. Juice's trail bike was lashed to the rear of the sedan.
The doors opened and out jumped Juice Barden and two others. One was a youth about Juice's age, who had frizzy hair, droopy eyelids, and a sullen expression. The other was a man in his twenties, thin, agile, and as tall as Biff.
“These are the ones,” Juice said to the tall man.
Frank looked at him. “I suppose you're Fingers.”
“I'm Fingers, all right.” The man turned to the droopy-eyed youth. “Rip, you and Juice look for my guitar.”
“Oh no you don't!” said Joe. “This buddy of yours crushed mine with his trail bike!”
“Juice is no responsibility of mine,” Fingers replied coldly.
“Don't be tough!” Biff spoke up and stepped forward. “You'll get your guitar when you pay Joe for his.”
“Oh yeah? How much?”
“Fifty dollars,” Joe replied.
“Out of sight,” retorted Fingers as his two pals slowly walked to the Hardys' car.
“Touch that and I'll flatten you!” Biff thundered.
“We'll see about that!” snapped Fingers. His right hand flew to his pocket. He pulled out a knife, pressed a button, and a switchblade flashed in the sunlight. “Okay now, we'll take my guitar,” he said with a menacing sneer.
Frank's mind whirled. “Better not push this too far,” he thought, “or somebody'll really get hurt.” Aloud he said, “Okay, Fingers, I guess you win this time.” He walked to the car, got the guitar, and approached Fingers. As he did, Biff edged closer.
“Here, take it,” Frank offered.
As the man reached for the instrument, Biff lashed out with a karate kick. The toe of his boot caught Fingers' wrist, sending the knife flying.
Biff followed up with a chop and Fingers landed on his back. As he struggled to his feet, Rip jumped on Frank and wrestled him to the ground. Juice threw a punch at Joe.
“You asked for it,” Joe muttered. With a lefthand feint and a right-hand cross to the jaw, he sent Juice sprawling. The battle was short. Without his knife, Fingers was no match for Biff. Chet picked up the knife and the seven stood there glaring at one another.
Fingers' guitar lay broken.
“Okay,” Frank said. “That evens things up. One broken guitar a piece.” He bent over to pick up Fingers' smashed instrument and his eyes widened. Inside were some blue stones, glued to the wood.
“What are these?” Frank asked.
Wincing, Fingers reached out for the guitar. “None of your business,” he muttered. He took the fractured instrument, turned, and climbed into his car. Juice and Rip followed and they drove off. The Hardys passed them a few miles down the road.
Frank, meanwhile, had been thinking about the stones. Obviously they had been hidden for a reason. “Sapphires are blue, aren't they, Joe?” he asked.
“Sure. Don't you remember, Mother's birthstone?” Joe shook his head. “You missed a chance to get her a present, Frank!”
Shortly afterward they stopped at a rest area to have lunch, then rode on for the balance of the afternoon. It was four o'clock when they reached a sparkling lake. Its sandy beach had accommodations for a few trailers and Joe eased their camper to a shady spot close to the water.
“How about a swim, fellows?” he asked.
They were all eager to get into the cool water and soon had put on their swim trunks which they kept handy in the car.
“What'll we do with Sherlock?” Biff asked, reaching into the car's trunk for a towel.
“Tie him to the bumper,” Frank advised. “We'll let him have a dip when we're finished.”
The boys raced into the water, their arms and legs flying. Strong strokes carried them far out. Chet rolled over and floated on his back, spewing a plume of water into the air.
Frank chuckled. “There's good old Chet the whale.”
Encouraged by this remark, Chet dived and surfaced like a porpoise. As Joe watched him, he looked back and saw another car parked near the water's edge. Two men got out.
Biff sent the knife flying
“Look, fellows!” Joe cried in alarm.
One of the men produced a bottle from his car, then lighted a wick at the mouth of it.
“It's a Molotov cocktail!” Frank gasped.
With swift strokes the boys churned toward shore. But they were not in time to prevent the men from hurling the bottle at the camper. It burst in a sheet of flame as the pair jumped into their car and sped off.
The bloodhound, unable to get away, strained at the leash and howled pitifully.
Biff yelled, “Sherlock's going to get burned!”
Midnight Stakeout
REACHING shore, the boys dashed to the camper. Flames were blazing close to the terrified bloodhound.
Biff untied the dog while Frank, Joe, and Chet threw sand on the fire. Then Biff grabbed the fire extinguisher from the Hardys' car and doused the last of the flames.
The boys assessed the damage. Paint had been burned off the side of the trailer and one of the tires gave off a pungent odor. But the damage was slight.
“Thank goodness Sherlock wasn't hurt,” Frank said, bending to scratch the dog's ears.
Chet said, “Somebody's really out to get us.”
“And you can bet it's Fingers,” Biff added.
As they dressed, Frank said, “Biff, I doubt that it was Fingers who did this.”
“Why?”
“Because he would have done it himself. Neither of those men was Fingers, or his pals. It looks more like Whip Lasher's mob.”
“Another one of his practical jokes?” Biff said.
Frank nodded.
The boys hit the road again. Two hours later the low hills they were passing through flattened out to rolling prairie as far as the eye could see.
“Where are we going to camp tonight?” Joe asked.
“We'd better stay away from a popular trailer court,” Frank said.
“Let's get a secluded place,” Biff suggested.
“Right,” Joe agreed. “I'll take my sleeping bag and station myself a distance away in case we should have more visitors.”
As the sun began to set, Chet was at the wheel. He noticed a cleared area in a cornfield which seemed to stretch for miles. “How about this?” he asked.
Frank and Joe looked about for any sign of habitation. There was none. Chet pulled off the road close to the green stand of head-high corn. The trailer was unhitched, and the camper set up.
“Let me take the galley tonight,” Joe said. “You look kind of pooped after that long drive, Chet.”
“Okay,” Chet said and stretched himself out on one of the bunks.
After sundown, darkness dropped like a blanket over the warm prairie. Joe took his sleeping bag, walked toward the road, and found a nook between rows of corn.
He slept intermittently, an occasional passing car stirring him to semiwakefulness. Shortly after midnight he heard the distant noise of a motorbike. Then the bike stopped.
Joe crept out of the sleeping bag, crouched, and listened. From the side of the road someone with a covered flashlight was approaching. There was no beam, just an eerie red eye searching through the cornstalks.
Joe decided to surprise the prowler. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The challenge stopped the prowler in his tracks. A voice from the dark said, “You know who I am. You palmed some of my sapphires. Now give them back!”
Fingers again! What was he up to now?
“We didn't take any of your sapphires. Maybe you dropped them along the road,” Joe said.
“Impossible.”
“Perhaps Juice or Rip took them.”
Fingers did not advance. It seemed obvious that the man was thinking over what Joe had said.

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