The Hardys were mystified. “Why do you think it’s Charlie’s ghost, Ben?” Frank asked.
“Because some nights I hear the piano—it’s still there. Sort of tuneless, like when Charlie let his fingers wander over the keys.”
“When was the last time you saw the blue light?” Frank queried.
“Night before last.”
“You don’t really believe it’s a ghost, do you?” Joe said.
“Might be. Then again might not. Somebody might be up to monkey business,” Ben admitted. “That’s why I keep this handy.” He pointed to the rifle leaning against the wall.
Frank, on impulse, asked the old-timer, “Do you know anything about John and James Coulson?”
“Sure do. They died in a mining accident about twenty-five years ago, after some highbinder stole a lot o’ gold from them.”
“We’d like to hear the story,” Frank said quickly.
Ben’s rambling account of the Lone Tree incident agreed with the version the Hardys had heard from Mike Onslow.
“What happened to Bart Dawson?” Joe asked.
“Can’t say for sure,” was Ben’s reply, “but he must have kept the gold. I saw him in Helena a couple o’ years after and he acted like he didn’t know me. Why would he have done that if he hadn’t been guilty?”
The Hardys exchanged glances. It certainly sounded as though Mike Onslow’s ex-partner had absconded with the gold! The brothers got up to leave, and Frank said, “Thanks for telling us all this, Ben.”
“Any time, boys. Come back again,” the man urged. “But stay away from that graveyard!”
As the Hardys walked down the main street toward the populated part of Lucky Lode, Frank suggested that the blue light could be a signal.
“I think so, too,” Joe agreed. “Cemetery Hill is clearly visible from everywhere in town.”
“It would be an ideal place for Big Al to signal a spy if he had one in Lucky Lode,” Frank remarked.
“Ben said the light has been around for only a couple of weeks,” Joe added, “and that’s about the length of time Dad thinks Big Al has been hiding out near here.”
“The footsteps Ben hears could be the spy returning to town after meeting Al in the cemetery,” Frank speculated.
“What about the piano playing in the deserted dance hall?” Joe asked.
“Maybe it’s Ben Tinker’s imagination.”
By this time the boys had reached the business section of Main Street. Frank stopped in front of the general store. “Let’s go in and see if we can find out anything about that red paint.”
Inside, a husky man stood behind the counter, slitting open cartons with his pocketknife. Frank asked if he were the owner.
“I am,” he said. “Jim Burke’s the name.”
Frank and Joe told him who they were, and he introduced the boys to several men seated around a potbelly stove. The Hardys noticed that the town post office, telephone switchboard, and telegraph office were also in the store.
“You must know everything that’s going on in town, Mr. Burke,” Joe said, smiling.
“That’s right,” the man answered with a wink.
“Could you tell us which stores here stock red paint?” Frank asked.
Burke chuckled. “This is the only store there is,” he replied. “I carry it. You want some?”
“No,” said Joe. “We’d like to find out if anyone bought red paint in the past few weeks.”
“No one,” Burke told him promptly. “I’d remember because I don’t sell much of it. Why?”
While Frank described the boulder attack on Hank’s cabin, he and Joe watched their listeners’ faces. None showed any sign of guilt. The Hardys told about meeting Ben Tinker and asked if anyone else had seen the blue light at the top of Cemetery Hill.
Burke laughed. “Ben Tinker’s always imaginin’ things.”
One of the other men guffawed. “A couple of weeks ago he was seein’ men from outer space.”
The Hardys did not believe this but made no comment. They left the store and went back to their cabin. Here they found Hank Shale and their father repairing the damaged wall.
“You’d better take it easy, Dad,” Joe said with concern.
“Oh, I haven’t been exerting myself.” Fenton Hardy grinned at his sons. “I have to find some way to work off a little energy.”
While Hank fixed lunch, Frank and Joe related what they had found out.
“Ben is an old man,” Hank put in as he dished out a sizzling plateful of ham and eggs, “but he’s not loco. Still, the whole story, blue lights and all, might be just his imagination.”
That afternoon the boys insisted that their father remain quiet while they helped Hank rebuild the cabin wall. By nightfall the job was done.
While they were relaxing in front of the fire after supper, Hank told the boys where they could rent horses to search for Big Al’s hideout. “I only have my mare Daisy,” he added, “and she’s none too young and spry.”
“There are a number of abandoned mines in this area,” Mr. Hardy told his sons. “I suggest you investigate them.”
“But watch out for tommy-knockers,” Hank warned with a grin.
“Tommy-knockers? What’re they?” Joe asked.
“Some kind o’ gnomes or spirits or suchlike that live underground. Old-time miners used to say that if you heard one knockin’, it meant there was about to be an accident.”
“Okay. If we hear any, we’ll watch our step,” Frank promised jokingly. “By the way, we’d like to search the Lone Tree area. Where was Mike Onslow’s claim located?”
“Nobody knows, any more,” Hank said, scratching his head. “The Lone Tree territory’s too big for you fellows to cover alone.”
He drew them a sketch, showing the location of Lone Tree and deserted mines in the area. Frank and Joe decided which ones they would try next day.
Later, the brothers walked down to the livery stable on Main Street and rented horses for their expedition. The boys rode back to the cabin and stabled the animals in Hank’s lean-to. When they returned, Hank and Mr. Hardy were asleep, but the boys sat up for a while and discussed the mystery. They became aware that the wind had risen and was whipping around the cabin.
“We’d better take a look at the horses,” Frank suggested.
Bundling into their heavy jackets, the boys went outside. The lean-to was snugly built and the animals seemed comfortable. Satisfied, Frank and Joe started back. As they rounded the corner of Hank’s cabin, they stopped short.
“Look!” breathed Joe.
Clearly visible on the top of Cemetery Hill was a winking blue light!
CHAPTER VI
Ghost Music
“LET’S go up there!” urged Frank, grabbing Joe’s arm.
As quickly and quietly as possible, the boys scaled the hill in back of Hank’s cabin and hurried along the ridge trail toward the graveyard. When they reached the edge of the clearing, Frank and Joe paused in the shelter of the trees.
The night was moonless but the northern lights made great colored streaks across the sky. In a back corner of the cemetery, the brothers spotted a tall, thin figure.
“Probably the person who signaled with the blue light!” Joe whispered.
Crouching low, the young detectives crept through the broken fence. They moved forward soundlessly to a large stone monument and knelt behind it. The Hardys wished they could get closer to the man, but that gravestone was the only one large enough to afford them cover.
The man paced about restlessly, stamping his feet and huddling his shoulders for warmth. Presently the boys heard the sound of footsteps in the front of the cemetery. A second figure, big and bulky, approached the first. The newcomer’s cap was pulled low, and his face appeared to be muffled for protection against the bitter cold. He took up a position with his back turned to the two brothers.
As the thin man spoke, Frank and Joe strained their ears to hear above the roaring of the wind. They were able to catch on
ly a part of the conversation.
“... Big Al’s plenty mad,” the first man was saying. “He gave me special orders for you tonight, Slip Gun.”
The big man was silent, apparently waiting for the speaker to continue.
“He wants you to keep the Hardy boys bottled up in town,” the thin man went on. “Also, be sure to tip him off on every move they make.”
The other man’s muffled response was drowned by the wind. Evidently he had asked a question.
“No luck yet,” the tall figure declared. “He’d better forget ... that special business ... it’s hopeless ... meeting day after tomorrow ... wants ... the usual stuff.”
“Where?”
“Shadow of the Bear,” answered the thin man.
The next instant there came the loud crack of breaking twigs. Both men whirled toward the noise. The boys held their breath. Was somebody else in the graveyard?
After a long silence, the thin man said, “Tomorrow Jake and I . . . with the boss ... Brady’s Mine. It’s one that ain’t flooded.”
Frank’s and Joe’s hearts jumped with excitement, but the wind rose to a howl and they could hear no more. The men murmured together for a few minutes, then parted.
The thin man moved past the Hardys’ hiding place. He slipped through the gap in the fence and quickly disappeared into the woods. Soon afterward, the boys heard a horse whinny and a brief clatter of hoofs on rocky ground.
“No chance of following him,” Joe muttered. “He might have led us to the gang’s hideout, too.”
Just then the other man trudged by. The boys waited tensely until the bulky figure reached the gate.
“Joe,” whispered Frank, “we can still find out who Big Al’s spy in town is.”
Cautiously the boys started toward the cemetery gate. They could hear the big man ahead, slipping and slithering along over the stony, snow-covered hill. The Hardys followed him as closely as they dared, moving furtively from one patch of scrub brush to another.
Suddenly Frank stopped short to listen. He thought he had heard a noise behind them and seized his brother’s arm to alert him. Startled, Joe slipped and nearly fell. A shower of stones cascaded down the hill!
There was silence on the dark slope. Frank and Joe stood motionless, listening intently. They could imagine the burly figure ahead listening as well. Then, from behind them, another rock came tumbling down.
Joe nudged Frank. “We didn’t cause that! Someone’s following us!”
Had the thin man spotted them, the Hardys wondered, and doubled back to stalk them? Or had a third person been in the cemetery, as they suspected?
The brothers scanned the hill above, but could see no one. “He’s probably hiding behind boulders or scrub,” Frank whispered.
After a while the Hardys thought they detected sounds of movement below them. Warily they descended, alert for any possible attack from the rear.
By the time they reached the foot of the hill, Frank and Joe had drawn close enough to their quarry to spot his shadowy figure disappearing into the ghost town. The boys trod stealthily on the snow-crusted wooden sidewalk, hugging the buildings. Ahead they could hear the man’s footsteps and see his bulky, muffled shape. Suddenly he vanished into the sagging shell of a deserted building.
The Hardys quickened their pace and peered around the corner of the building. They were just in time to see the man emerge from the rear. He whirled about and ran to the far side of the adjoining building.
Frank darted in pursuit and saw the man return to the street. When Frank reached the sidewalk again, Joe was at his elbow, silent as a shadow. Ahead, the man was hurrying down the street toward the other end of town.
“He knows he’s being followed,” Joe whispered, “and is trying to shake us.”
“Come on, or we’ll lose him!” Frank urged.
Flinging caution aside, the boys broke into a run, their steps pounding on the plank walk. Apparently their quarry heard them and immediately stepped up his own pace. A moment later the dim figure melted into the darkness between two old buildings. Frank and Joe reached the spot in a few seconds.
“This way!” Frank urged in a low voice, and the Hardys plunged into the shadowy gloom of the narrow passageway.
Behind the two structures, the brothers found themselves in an area overgrown with weeds and brush which merged into the trees on the hillside. Frank and Joe halted, straining their eyes in the darkness and listening intently. Nothing could be heard but the wind—then the howl of a wolf somewhere beyond the ridge.
“Looks as if he’s given us the slip,” Joe muttered.
The boys flicked on their flashlights and searched about. They finally picked out the fugitive’s prints, but his tracks led to the hard-trampled roadway and became indistinguishable. Baffled, the Hardys started back through the ghost town on their way to Hank’s cabin.
“Of all the luck!” Joe grumbled. “We almost had our hands on that spy!”
“At least we’ve learned one thing about him,” Frank said thoughtfully.
“What’s that?”
“His nickname. The man he met in the cemetery called him ‘Slip Gun.’”
“You’re right! I almost forgot,” Joe said. “Maybe it’ll help us trace him, if we can find out what it means. Any idea?”
Frank shook his head. “Not a glimmer, except that it sounds like a cowboy expression. Maybe Hank can tell us.”
As they approached Ben Tinker’s place, the brothers noticed that the windows were dark. Frank and Joe paused at the shack to listen, and heard a steady wheezing snore coming from inside.
“Good thing the old man’s asleep”—Frank chuckled—“or he might have started shooting at us!”
The Hardys resumed their pace. They were about to go past the deserted dance hall next door, when suddenly they froze in their tracks. Both Frank and Joe felt the hair on their necks rise and cold chills sweep up and down their spines.
From the abandoned hall, through the moan of the wind, came the sound of piano playing.
Tinker’s ghost music!
CHAPTER VII
A Rooftop Struggle
THE wind suddenly died down and in the eerie silence Frank and Joe again heard the tinkle of the piano keys coming from the deserted dance hall.
Joe murmured, “Here’s one mystery we can solve tonight! Let’s find out what goes on in here!”
“Right.”
Moving lightly over the wooden sidewalk, the boys approached the dance-hall entrance. The weird, tuneless music stopped.
Frank and Joe looked at each other. “Maybe we’ve scared the spook away,” Frank whispered half jokingly.
As if in answer, the music started once more. This time both the treble and bass keys of the piano sounded.
Quickly the Hardys drew flashlights from their jacket pockets and stepped inside. The searchers snapped on their flashlights and played the beams about the interior.
The music stopped again.
The room was sparsely furnished with a few rickety tables and chairs, heavily coated with dust. Ancient oil-lamp chandeliers, festooned with cobwebs, dangled from the ceiling.
At that moment the piano resumed its tinkling. Outside, the wind howled and shutters banged.
“Boy! This place is really creepy!” said Joe with a shudder.
Frank gripped his brother’s arm. “Look there!”
The boys’ lights now fell on a raised dais at one end of the room. On it stood a battered upright piano.
The Hardys stared in astonishment as the music continued. “The piano’s playing by itself!” Joe exclaimed.
Quickly the brothers crossed the room and Frank lifted the top of the old piano. He shone his flashlight inside. There was a sudden squeaking and twanging of wires.
“For Pete’s sake!” he burst out, as several rats scampered out of the piano, jumped down to the floor, and scurried away.
The boys laughed heartily. “There goes Tinker’s ghost music,” Frank said.
&nbs
p; “Talented rats.” Joe grinned.
Suddenly, from the direction of the doorway, they heard the sidewalk creak. The boys whirled as a low, flat voice snarled, “You kids have been askin’ for it!”
Frank and Joe barely had time to glimpse a head—masked by a ghostlike hood with eyeholes —above the swinging doors. Then a gloved hand jerked into view, clutching a short-barreled revolver, the thumb cocking back the hammer. There was a spurt of flame.
Bang! A bullet whistled across the room and thudded into the piano. The Hardys dived from the dais, snapping off their flashlights and crashing into the tables and chairs below.
As the echoes of the shot died away, Frank picked up a broken chair and hurled it in the general direction of the gun flash.
There was a grunt as the chair connected, then the Hardys could hear the gunman’s feet scraping across the floor. He was stalking them in the darkness!
The boys separated instinctively to divide his attention. Frank crept off to the right and Joe to the left.
Suddenly Frank sprang to his feet. In two long strides he reached the window and leaped through it into the darkness outside.
Crash! Bang! There was no glass in the window, but Frank’s weight had carried away the crosspieces of the frame. He landed feet first. A moment later he saw a figure struggling through the window, grunting with the effort. The masked man!
Frank dashed around the corner of the dance hall. When he reached the back, he skidded to a halt at a high fence that was blocking his way. Hearing the gunman’s steps behind him, Frank vaulted the fence and fell in a heap on the other side.
The gunman leaped a moment later. Frank held his breath. He could see the man silhouetted against the dim light of the sky—then darting off into the darkness.
Frank jumped up and dashed into a ramshackle building that stood next to the dance hall. But the hooded man evidently had spotted the boy’s move, for Frank heard steps pounding in pursuit.
Without hesitation he raced through the front door and out onto the slippery, snowy sidewalk.
Hunting for Hidden Gold Page 4