The Secret of Wildcat Swamp

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Quickly the boys leaped into their saddles and reached the camp without further adventures.

  To their relief, nothing had been disturbed, and once more they crawled into their sleeping bags. Next morning Frank and Joe discussed the strange events of the previous evening.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as strange that three new rangers were sent here in addition to the others already located in this area?” Joe asked Frank.

  His brother nodded. “And it’s not natural for men in that position to be whispering in a cave. I’d like to sneak back to the swamp in daylight and see what’s going on.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll watch camp. We can’t take a chance on having our stuff stolen.”

  As soon as they had eaten, Frank went off to reconnoiter. His careful approach through the defile and the ledge was effort wasted, he discovered. There appeared to be no one around, and no trace whatever of the men who had been there only a few hours before.

  Without Joe to stand guard for him outside, Frank did not attempt to enter the cave. But he played his flashlight into both entrances and satisfied himself that they were vacant. The only explanation he could think of was that the rangers might comprise a special group to evacuate people from the new government reserve. If the Sanderson ranch actually was to be turned into a reserve!

  Back at camp, he said to Joe, “As soon as Cap gets back I think we can take a chance digging again. As long as we don’t carry away any fossils, there won’t be any harm in looking for them.”

  Joe agreed. In the meantime, he wanted to keep busy.

  “I think one of us had better get in touch with Mrs. Sanderson,” he said. “Harry may have been stopped before reaching home.”

  “I’ll stand guard here this time,” Frank said. “You ride over to the ranch.”

  With Harry’s directions to guide him, Joe started out for the Sanderson ranch house. The path led over fairly rough country on the other side of Wildcat Swamp. Joe saw no evidence of grazing cattle, though there were occasional grassy stretches that would have afforded pasturage. He scared up several rabbits, and took a potshot at a fox about to devour one.

  Presently the way led up through another rocky defile, similar to the one near camp. Joe was halfway through this narrow ravine when he heard the sound of horse’s hoofs from up ahead. The horseman was coming straight in his direction and there was no place to hide from a possible enemy.

  The strange rider bore down on him from around a curve in the traiL Twenty paces ahead the newcomer’s horse shied, stumbled over a loose stone, and threw his rider headlong.

  Like a sack of meal, the rider struck the ground and lay still.

  “This can’t be a trick,” Joe thought to himself. “He hit the earth too hard!”

  Cautiously, nonetheless, Joe dismounted and approached the fallen rider, who had not moved.

  Joe took hold of him, turning the rider over on his back.

  It was Chet Morton!

  CHAPTER X

  Three Odd Letters

  “CHET! Chet Morton!” Joe shouted in disbelief.

  His friend did not stir. Joe flipped the top of his canteen and held the cool water to Chet’s lips. The boy moaned and tried to rise.

  “Joe! No, it couldn’t be. I guess I’m dreaming. I’m still kayoed.”

  “You’re not dreaming, Chet. What are you doing way out here?”

  Chet rested several seconds before replying.

  “Morton’s Pony Express. Modem variety,” he said cheerfully. “Boy, that spill knocked the wind out of me. I have a message for you guys. Several, in fact.”

  “Is Dad okay?” Joe asked apprehensively.

  “Oh, sure. Your dad and I flew to Red Butte together yesterday afternoon with Jack Wayne.”

  “You and Dad?”

  “Yeah. He’s hot on the trail, I guess. Those train robbers are going to the hoosegow.”

  “Well, what’s the news?” Joe asked eagerly.

  “I have the fingerprint pictures you asked for,” Chet said as he struggled awkwardly into his saddle.

  “Come on, Chet,” Joe said. “I’ll show you the way back to camp and while I’m there I’ll compare those prints with the ones we found on the pistol.”

  As they rode along, Chet told Joe the reason for his sudden trip to the West.

  “Your dad thought I’d enjoy it,” he began. “And also, he didn’t trust anyone else to give you an important message. He thought Sheriff Paul probably would know where you were, so just before he took the midnight train, he told me to contact the sheriff and have him take me to Wildcat Swamp.”

  “Where did Dad go?”

  “He was as secretive as usual,” Chet said.

  “Did Sheriff Paul bring you?”

  “No, he wasn’t at his office, so I rode out to his ranch. But he wasn’t there either. Nobody was.”

  “Then how did you find this place?” Joe asked.

  “A nice kid reined up in front of the Paul ranch just as I was about to leave,” Chet said. “Name of Harry Sanderson.”

  “We know him.”

  “Yeah, he told me you did, and he showed me how to get here. Knows all the short cuts. And boy, he can ride like the wind!”

  Chet paused for breath, then asked, “How’s Cap?”

  “All right, I hope, He went to Red Butte. Funny you didn’t see him at the hotel.”

  “He wasn’t registered.”

  This turn of events worried Joe. Had Cap been attacked on the way to town?

  “Nothing seems to be turning out right on this expedition,” he told Chet, and brought him up to date on all that had happened.

  “At least you now have a copy of the fingerprints you wanted,” Chet remarked with pride.

  Arriving at camp, Joe flung himself from the saddle. “Hi, Frank!” he yelled. “Look what I found along the trail.”

  “Chet! How’d you get here? You look as if you’d ridden all the way from Bayport.”

  “I had a spill,” Chet confessed. Then, repeating his mission, he pulled a packet from his jeans and handed it to Frank.

  Eagerly Frank tore it open. It contained magnified copies of three sets of fingerprints—Turk‘s, Willie’s, and Gerald Flint’s. The Hardys at once compared them with those taken from the pistol.

  “Look at this whorl,” Joe cried excitedly. “No mistaking it. The gun we found in the cave was once in the hands of Willie the Penman. And I’ll bet it’s in his shoulder holster right now!”

  Chet let out a whistle. “He’s—he’s after you guys?”

  “Guess he is,” Frank said.

  “In that case”—Chet gulped—“I’d better get back to Bayport and finish digging our swimming pool.”

  “Before you eat?” Joe needled him,

  Chet grinned. “I’ll stay till morning. Got to get some rest, anyway.”

  “Hold it!” Joe said suddenly. “Did you give us all of Dad’s messages?”

  “Hey, it’s good you reminded me,” Chet answered. “I forgot something.”

  “What?”

  “Your dad wants to see you.”

  “When?”

  Chet pushed his Stetson back and scratched his head. “Let’s see. Just before midnight on the seventeenth.”

  “Where?” Frank asked impatiently.

  “On the railroad siding near Spur Gulch.” Chet pulled a map from his pocket and handed it over.

  “Frank, that’s real news from Dad!” Joe exclaimed. “Something’s doing. A trap for the train robbers, or I miss my guess.”

  “Could be,” Frank said. “I hope we can dear up some of the mystery around here before we leave to meet Dad in two days. I think we ought to find Sheriff Paul and tell him about Willie the Penman. And we still have to see Mrs. Sanderson.”

  During the evening the boys waited expectantly for Cap, hoping someone in town had told him of Chet’s arrival. But Cap did not come.

  “I’m afraid he never reached Red Butte,” Frank said fearfully. “And now that we know Willie
the Penman is in the neighborhood, I’m worried.”

  With concern on his face, Chet pulled a bright bandanna from his pocket and mopped his brow.

  “Honest, fellows, I have to start back for Bayport in the morning.”

  “But as long as you are here, wouldn’t you like to help us dig up a camel?” Joe suggested.

  “A what?”

  “That’s right. We’ve found one.”

  Chet began to weaken. “Well, I might stay a day or two.”

  When morning came and Cap still had not appeared, the Hardys decided that one of them should go to Red Butte to investigate.

  “I’ll go,” Chet said. “As long as you guys need help, I’ll stick around for a while.”

  He mounted his horse like a bear cub trying to straddle a split-rail fence. After he had ridden off, Frank and Joe saddled their mounts for the ride to Sheriff Paul’s ranch. They hid their camping equipment in a rocky depression, covering it with brushwood, then set out.

  It was quite a long ride to the ranch, but finally they reached it. Picketing their horses, they knocked on the back door, which immediately was opened by a trim, middle-aged woman. When the boys introduced themselves, she asked them in.

  “We have a few worries we’d like to talk over with the sheriff,” Joe said.

  “My husband isn’t here,” Mrs. Paul replied. “And I have a few worries too. He hasn’t been home for three days.”

  “Three days? Is that unusual?” Frank asked.

  “He got a phone call and told me there was trouble about some rangers. I didn’t get the details, because he rode off in a great hurry.”

  Joe gave his brother a sidelong look. Rangers ! Could it be the same three men who had ordered Frank, Cap, and him away from the swamp? Frank caught his brother’s glance and nodded in reply.

  “I guess we’d better leave a note for the sheriff,” Frank told Mrs. Paul, who promised to give it to him as soon as he returned.

  “Maybe we’d better go back to where we hid our supplies and not go to the Sanderson ranch just now,” Frank told Joe after they had finished the lunch graciously offered by the sheriff’s wife.

  The boys headed back toward camp. When they were still some distance from it, Frank, hearing voices, reined in suddenly. Dismounting, he and Joe walked forward cautiously.

  “Chet! Cap!” Frank exclaimed.

  Cap explained that he and Chet had met shortly after the stout boy had left for Red Butte. Cap, having heard about Chet’s arrival and departure from a restaurant owner, had started back but had lost his way.

  “I—I like it better here now,” Chet said. “I think I’ll stay till you all go. With Cap here, there are four of us. Just let Willie the Penman dare to show up!”

  The tension relieved, they all laughed and set about preparing supper,

  As night fell and there still was no sign of the rangers, Frank said, “Let’s sneak back and do some more digging.”

  Armed with flashlights and tools, the four carefully made their way down to the fossil deposit. Chet was impressed, and wanted to see more of the camel. However, he soon tired of the digging.

  “What’s the matter, Chet?” Joe asked. “Break your shovel?”

  Chet grunted and went to work. It was becoming evident that the fossil they were excavating was an enormous one.

  “I believe we have a perfect specimen,” Cap said enthusiastically.

  Chet found plenty of excuses to rest from his tabors. Only the sarcastic remarks of his friends kept him digging in the spot designated to him. He had not been at it long when he unearthed a half-rotted board.

  “Huh,” he said, “all I can do is find clam fossils in Bayport and old billboards out here.”

  Frank looked up suddenly. “Billboards? Where?”

  “Here,” Chet said, beaming his light on the rotten piece of wood. “It has letters on it. E R S. What does that mean?”

  “Could be part of the name Sanderson,” Joe said.

  “Perhaps an old prospector left it here,” Cap volunteered.

  Frank snapped his fingers. “I have it!” he cried. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.”

  Without explaining why, he dashed off in the darkness.

  “I think he ate some locoweed,” Chet remarked, leaning over his shovel and heaving a sigh.

  The words were hardly off his lips when a shriek of terror sounded in the night.

  Was Frank in trouble?

  CHAPTER XI

  Underground Snare

  CATAPULTING himself out of the pit, Joe dashed down the slope in the direction Frank had taken. Chet and Cap hurried after him. With their flashlights stabbing the blackness, they finally reached the edge of the swamp.

  Just then a flashlight beam was turned on Joe and a familiar voice called, “What’s going on? You guys sound like a stampede of water buffalo.”

  “Frank! Was that you who yelled?”

  “No. I thought it was one of you.”

  “Must have been a wildcat,” Cap said. “They sometimes sound like humans.”

  “Say, Frank, where were you going in such a rush?” Chet asked.

  “To get that sign on the tree. I have an idea about it.”

  With the others following, he pushed through the dark swamp to the gnarled willow tree.

  Frank pointed out the dangling sign to Chet. Then he yanked the weathered old board loose.

  “I want to compare this with the piece of wood you found, Chet,” he said.

  As they struggled back up the hill to the pit, Chet puffed and heaved. “You sure—make things —hard,” he said.

  Joe was the first to notice that something was amiss at the pit.

  “Hey! I left my shovel right here. Where’d it go?”

  “Everything is gone!” cried Cap.

  “The board too,” Frank said. “We’ve been robbed!”

  “That cry was just a trick to get us away from here,” Cap declared. “Somebody wanted our tools. Put out your lights, boys. There’s no sense making targets of ourselves.”

  The four stood motionless in the darkness. Frank broke the silence by whispering that it would be hopeless to try finding the thief in the darkness. The logical move was to return to their campsite as secretly as possible.

  By this time all of them except Chet knew the route well enough to find it in the dark. Chet stumbled along between Frank and Joe. Reaching camp, they crawled into their sleeping bags.

  “Now tell us about the sign, Frank,” Chet whispered.

  “I was going to try fitting the two pieces together. I think originally it was all one sign.”

  “But that would mean it doesn’t refer to wildcats at all,” Chet pointed out.

  “Right! It would read, ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcatters’!”

  “Wildcatters has two t’s,” Joe reminded him.

  “The second t could have been right on the break,” Frank explained, “and easily have rotted away.”

  Chet still did not see the real significance. “What’s the difference whether there were twenty wildcats or twenty wildcat hunters here?”

  Cap spoke up. “A wildcatter, Chet, isn’t an animal hunter. He’s a man who hunts for oil-well locations.”

  “Oil prospectors!” Chet whistled. “You mean there might be oil here?”

  Cap said that was quite possible, and then Joe exclaimed, “Those rusty pipes we found could have been part of some drilling equipment! And that skeleton in the cave might have been another one of the wildcatters!”

  “Sk-skeleton!” Chet quavered.

  “Oh, we didn’t tell you about our Mr. Bones!” Joe laughed. “Wait till you see him. He’s out of this world.”

  Chet crawled deeper into his sleeping bag and was silent.

  “Seriously,” Frank said a moment later, “I wonder what really happened to those wildcatters, and when.”

  “I’ve been mulling that over myself,” said Cap, “and I’ve about decided that it couldn’t have been too long ago.”r />
  “I think you’re right,” said Frank.

  “Well, I feel we can be certain,” Cap said, “that there still may be a few men living who learned about the possibility of oil below the swamp from some of those wildcatters. That’s why they’re trying to run us out of here.”

  Frank remarked that a certain George Moffet seemed to fit right into this theory. No doubt he was trying to get Mrs. Sanderson’s property.

  “Is there any way of telling where there might be oil except by drilling?” Chet asked Cap.

  “Yes, indeed,” the teacher replied. “In certain periods in prehistoric times far more oil deposits were formed than in others. If I could locate some fossils from one of those periods, I’d know we’ve made the right guess about the situation here. Incidentally, every big oil company today employs a paleontologist for this kind of exploration.”

  “If we’re going to do any more digging,” Chet spoke up, “we’ll have to buy some more tools.”

  “Joe and I might get them in Red Butte after we see Dad,” Frank suggested. “Tomorrow night we plan to meet him at Spur Gulch, Cap,” the boy added, and told him about Chet’s message.

  Bailey volunteered that he and Chet buy the tools. They would stop at the Sanderson ranch and tell Harry and his mother their suspicions.

  Next morning, an hour after sunup, Frank and Joe set off in an easterly direction, while the others went northwest.

  “I’d like to look around that cave once more before we leave,” Cap said when they reached the ledge. “Besides examining those pipes again, we may find other clues to prove we’re on the trail of the old wildcatters or of some new ones.”

  Chet was reluctant, but on the other hand, he didn’t want the teacher to think he lacked courage.

  “Okay, Cap. Lead the way!”

  When they reached the narrow opening in the rocks, Chet glibly offered to remain at the cave entrance to “guard the horses.” Cap grinned as he dismounted.

  “If there’s trouble,” the teacher said, “we’re better off together than split up.”

  “You’ve talked me into it,” Chet replied solemnly.

  Flashlight in hand, Cap stalked ahead of him down the incline to the cave entrance below the ledge. At the end of the passage, where it broadened out into the wider portion of the cave, Bailey’s light flickered.