The Alaskan Adventure

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Joe let out his breath. He had been afraid the bear would come toward the boulder.

  “Okay, city boy,” Lucky called to Curt. “You can come outside now. He’s gone.”

  “Why didn’t you shoot it?” Curt demanded.

  “Because I don’t like bear meat,” Lucky replied. “Besides, we’ve known each other a long time. I’d get lonely out here without that stupid bear.”

  “I’m going to leave now. But remember what I said,” Curt warned.

  “You’d better remember what I said,” Lucky replied.

  Joe and Frank looked at each other as Curt’s footsteps faded down the trail. After a long moment they heard Lucky’s cabin door slam shut.

  “Let’s go,” Joe whispered.

  On the way back to town Joe said, “Well, Lucky isn’t working for Curt. But he could still be the one doing all the sabotage on his own. Curt seems to think he is.”

  “But if Curt’s the one,” Frank replied, “he might accuse Lucky as a smoke screen.”

  “Why do that, unless there were other people to hear?” Joe objected. “Unless . . . Frank, do you think Curt knew we were following him? Maybe he and Lucky staged the whole thing for us.”

  Frank grinned. “Including the bear? I doubt it. Anyway, we still don’t know for sure that all these incidents are linked to the ThemeLife plan. How is cutting Big Foot’s tether going to get anybody to vote for the plan?”

  Joe fell silent. He had to admit that Frank’s question stumped him . . . for now, at least.

  As the Hardys entered the town, they saw Justine coming up the hill. She had a bag of flour slung over one shoulder. She recognized them and waved, then put the bag on the ground and waited for them.

  “Hi,” she said, when they came up to her. “Listen, I just saw something. I don’t know if it’s important, but I thought I’d better tell you.”

  “What is it, Justine?” Frank asked.

  Justine hesitated, then said, “I went by the post office to see if the mail plane had brought anything for us yesterday. Curt Stone was there, picking up his mail, too.”

  “When was this?” Joe asked. “We saw him a little while ago.”

  “It was just a few minutes ago,” Justine said. “Anyway, he got a big stack of letters and started going through them. Then some other people came in, and he put down his letters to talk to them. That’s when I saw it.”

  Frank asked, “Saw what, Justine? Something about one of the letters?”

  She nodded. “I know I shouldn’t have peeked,” she said, turning pink. “It’s just that this one word in the return address caught my eye.”

  Joe took a deep breath and asked, “What word, Justine?”

  She looked at him from under her lashes and said, “Dynamite. The return address was the Northfield Dynamite Company, in Fairbanks. I noticed it because I couldn’t think what Curt Stone would be doing getting a letter from a dynamite company. Is it important?”

  Frank nodded. “It could be very important, Justine. Thanks for telling us.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome,” she said. “I’d better go. This is Mom’s baking day, and David’s mother was out of flour.” She picked up the bag, put it on her shoulder, and walked up the path.

  Joe turned to Frank. “Why would Curt have any dealings with a dynamite company?” he asked.

  “To blow things up?” Frank suggested. “If he’s got a better reason, maybe we ought to find it out.”

  The Hardys walked through the town. Curt had to be around somewhere, and Glitter was too small for someone to stay out of sight for long.

  They found Curt on the far side of town, coming out of a cabin.

  “Hi, boys,” he said when he saw them. “How’re you liking Glitter? Are you starting to yearn for the bright lights?”

  “It’s pretty exciting around here,” Frank said dryly. “Fires, explosions . . . That reminds me—have you ever heard of the Northfield Dynamite Company?”

  Curt’s face colored angrily, but he managed a smile. “Just as I said, news travels fast around here,” he said. “Well, my snoopy friends, I never heard of the company before today. But today I heard from the company. Somebody in the post office noticed the envelope, I guess.”

  “They just wrote you out of the blue?” Joe asked.

  “Right,” Curt replied. “They sent me a price list.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence, coming the day after Jake’s shack blew up,” Frank said.

  “It’s no coincidence at all. It’s obviously part of a plot to discredit me and the ThemeLife Company. I never asked for that price list. I have no use for dynamite. If I did, I’d buy it from Jake.”

  Joe frowned. “Jake sells dynamite?”

  “Jake sells everything from antiques to zebra-striped vests,” Curt retorted. “Get it? A to Z? People around here need dynamite, for mining or blowing up stumps or settling arguments with their neighbors. So Jake sells it. Simple. See you later. Don’t forget what too much curiosity did to the cat.”

  After Curt walked away, Joe asked, “Do you believe that story?”

  “He makes it hard to believe him,” Frank said. “But why would he admit getting that price list if it incriminates him? Everybody here has a wood stove. Open the fire door, toss the paper in, and there goes the evidence, up in smoke.”

  “So Jake sells dynamite,” Joe said slowly. “I wonder whom he’s sold it to lately.”

  “Let’s go ask him,” Frank suggested.

  They were nearly to the store when Joe spotted Jake down by the river, standing next to a weird, rickety-looking machine. “There he is,” he said.

  He and Frank walked down the path to the riverbank. When they were a few yards away, Joe called out, “Hi, Jake.”

  The storekeeper jumped, then turned to face them. “Hello,” he said. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.”

  Frank nodded toward the machine. “What on earth is that thing?” he asked.

  Jake glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a fishwheel,” he said. “Come summer, the river current turns the paddlewheel, and those chicken-wire baskets dip down, scoop salmon out of the river, and drop them into a slatted box. Whole thing works automatically.”

  “That’s pretty clever,” Joe said. “Is it yours?”

  “No, no,” Jake said. “It belongs to Ralph Hunter. I came down here because I thought I saw somebody lurking around it. After what happened to Ralph’s boat the other day, I wasn’t going to take any chances.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Joe asked.

  Jake hesitated, then said, “I didn’t get a good look, but I had a feeling it was Lucky Moeller.”

  Joe and Frank spent a few moments studying the fishwheel, then walked back to the store with Jake and asked him about dynamite.

  “I haven’t sold any since fall,” he said, giving them a shrewd glance. “You boys are thinking about that shed of mine, aren’t you? I doubt it was dynamited. You wouldn’t have seen anything left big enough to make toothpicks. No, I’d say it caught fire somehow, and one of those jerricans I was storing blew up.” He went up onto the porch, then turned and said, “Still, it could have been dynamite.”

  As the Hardys walked up the hill toward their cabin, Joe said, “I don’t see how Lucky could have gotten from his mine to that fishwheel in time. He would have had to pass us on the trail. Maybe we haven’t solved this case yet, but we’re not dumb enough to miss someone running past us on a deserted road!”

  “Jake must have been mistaken,” Frank replied. “Unless . . . it’s no secret that he and Lucky dislike each other. Maybe Jake made it up, to get Lucky in trouble.”

  “But he was down at the fishwheel,” Joe objected. “Why would he leave his store and traipse down there if he didn’t see someone acting suspiciously?”

  “Someone,” Frank said emphatically. “There’s no proof it was Lucky. And we know one thing—it wasn’t Curt. We were talking to him at the time Jake must have spotted the intruder.”

&nbs
p; From around a bend in the trail, Joe heard frantic barking and “Hike, hike!” Seconds later Gregg’s dogteam came racing around the curve. Joe and Frank stepped to the side, just off the packed-down part of the trail. Frank raised his hand, signaling Gregg to stop before he reached them.

  Gregg called out again, “Hike, hike!” The powerful dogs increased their speed and kept running straight down the trail toward Joe and Frank.

  The lead dog, teeth bared in threat, was only yards away when Joe realized the trail was too narrow.

  The sled was going to crash into them.

  13 The Process of Elimination

  * * *

  Frank swept out his left arm and pushed Joe off the trail, then jumped back himself. Joe tripped on a chunk of ice and tumbled into the snow, but Frank stayed on his feet.

  “Gregg!” he shouted. “We need—”

  Gregg’s answer was to aim his gloved fist at Frank’s face as he went by.

  Frank snapped. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed Gregg’s wrist with both hands and twisted. Taken by surprise, Gregg flew off the back of the dogsled and landed hard in the middle of the trail. His team, alerted by the sudden change in their payload, slowed down and came to a stop a few yards down the trail.

  Gregg was stunned by his fall. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his head, and looked defiantly from Frank to Joe.

  Frank was still mad. “Listen, turkey,” he said. “Just what is your problem? That’s the second time you’ve tried to run us down. And whenever something bad’s happened in Glitter, you’ve been somewhere in the picture. Right after the Windman cabin caught fire, you went sledding off into the sunset. You brought Peter and Mona that basket of poisoned fruit. You were practically the only person in the town who wasn’t at the meeting yesterday when somebody bombed Jake’s shed. And I would personally like to know where you were when some lowlife cut the tether on one of David’s team and let Big Foot run away.”

  “You talk!” Gregg said scornfully. “Who threw drugged meat in my kennel? Who cut my harness half through? Who put sand in my runner wax?”

  Joe replied, “I give up. Who?”

  Gregg struggled to his feet. “You did! David’s gangster friends from New York! He brought you here to help him beat me in the Iditarod, didn’t he? And you’ll do anything to make it happen. But I won’t let you ruin my dream! Never!”

  Taken aback, Frank looked over at Joe, who was just as surprised by this turn of events. Were Gregg’s accusations some kind of bluff? Or was Gregg, too, a target of sabotage? And if so, who was responsible and why was the person doing it?

  “Are you saying that all these things happened to you in the past couple of days, since we came to Glitter?” Frank demanded.

  Gregg hesitated. “There were accidents before,” he said slowly, “but those were David’s fault.”

  Joe asked, “How do you know?”

  “Who else?” Gregg retorted. “We used to be friends once, but how can I stay friends with someone who tries to harm my dogs and wreck my life?”

  Frank put every ounce of sincerity he could into his voice as he said, “Gregg, someone’s been trying to hurt David, too. Someone’s trying to destroy your whole town. David and Peter and Mona asked us to find out who it is.”

  “We’re not gangsters,” Joe added. “We’re detectives.”

  Hope and disbelief struggled on Gregg’s face. Disbelief won. “Now you’re trying to confuse me,” he said. “Where is your proof?”

  “We don’t have any yet,” Frank admitted. “But when we do, you’ll see that we’re telling you the truth. David isn’t your enemy.”

  Gregg gave Frank a searching look. Then, without a word, he turned and walked down the path to where his dog team waited patiently.

  “He didn’t believe us,” Joe said. “But he wanted to.”

  Frank nodded. “I know. The question is, do we believe him? If the answer’s yes, then we just lost one of our main suspects.”

  “I think I do,” Joe said slowly. “Unless he’s an awfully good actor . . . ”

  Still discussing Gregg, the Hardys continued up the track and decided to drop in on the Windmans. They knocked on the door, and Mona opened it.

  “Oh,” she said, holding up a length of striped wool. “I thought you were Lucky. He forgot his scarf. Come on in.”

  “Lucky was here?” Joe asked, after he and Frank took off their parkas. “When?”

  “Why, just now,” Mona replied. “Why?”

  “Was he here long?” Frank asked.

  From his seat near the stove Peter said, “About fifteen minutes. He was trying to talk me into supporting the ThemeLife project. He even offered me a job as a tour guide at his mine,” he added with a chuckle.

  The door flew open. Lucky came in so fast he seemed to bring the wind with him. Snow fell off his boots and made puddles on the floor. “My scarf,” he said. “I nigh froze my neck without it.”

  Laughing, Mona handed it to him. He wrapped it around twice and turned to leave.

  “Lucky?” Frank said quickly. “Were you down by Ralph Hunter’s fishwheel? Jake said he saw you there.”

  “What? When?” Lucky demanded.

  “Less than half an hour ago,” Joe told him.

  Lucky’s face turned red. “He’s lying through his teeth!” he shouted. “I haven’t been down that way all day.”

  Peter looked puzzled. “How could Jake have seen Lucky down there?” he asked. “He was here with us. Jake must have made a mistake.”

  “It’s easy to get people confused in winter,” Mona added. “Everybody’s so bundled up.”

  “That must be it,” Frank said.

  “Anything wrong with Ralph’s fishwheel?” Lucky asked suspiciously.

  “Not that we know of,” Joe replied.

  “Because if something does go wrong with it,” Lucky continued, “you won’t have to look far to know who to blame. That lying, gouging, money-grubber Jake Ferguson, that’s who!”

  He stomped out, slamming the cabin door behind him.

  Peter looked over at Frank and Joe and said, “Would you believe that, under that gruff exterior, Lucky is a kind, considerate friend? No? I didn’t think so. Half the time I don’t believe it myself. But it’s true, just the same.”

  The door opened, and Justine came in with an armload of firewood. When she saw Frank and Joe, she said, “Hi. Did you find out about the dynamite?”

  Peter and Mona looked surprised. Frank told them about the envelope Justine had seen, then gave them Curt’s explanation. “He could have been lying,” Frank concluded. “But I can’t figure out why he’d risk getting mail from a dynamite company if he’s mixed up in criminal activity.”

  “Everything that’s happened is so confusing,” Peter said, rubbing his forehead. “I hope you can straighten it out before it wrecks our community.”

  “Speaking of the community,” Mona said, “tomorrow is a big day here, and we want you to be part of it.”

  “What’s happening?” Joe asked.

  “It’s a ceremony we have every year,” she explained. “A potlatch, with singing and dancing and a big feast to celebrate the return of spring.”

  • • •

  The next morning Joe and Frank were out for a walk when they spotted Peter and David at the foot of a hill on the outskirts of town. Peter waved for the Hardys to join them. They all hiked up the hill to a clearing surrounded by a rail fence. Joe spotted a headstone just inside the gate, poking through the snow, and realized this was the town cemetery.

  Willy Ekus was there, staring at a headstone. When he saw Peter, he turned and left the cemetery, keeping a careful distance from them. That reminded Joe that he and Frank had suspected Willy of setting Peter’s cabin on fire. Yet afterward Willy had dropped out of sight and out of their thoughts. Had he been lurking about the past two days, carrying on a campaign of sabotage?

  When he got a chance, Joe took David aside and asked him about Willy.

  “He’s bee
n away,” David replied. “He has a valuable trapline up on the Mink River—not the one he and Uncle Peter keep arguing over. Every week he takes his team up there and spends a couple of days checking and resetting his traps.”

  Joe relayed this information to Frank later. “So, if it checks out,” he concluded, “we’ll have to cross Willy off our list, too. That list is getting awfully short.”

  “That’s called the process of elimination,” Frank pointed out. “It means we’re getting somewhere.”

  “Unless we run out of suspects,” Joe retorted. “Then it’s called getting nowhere!”

  • • •

  That afternoon Frank and Joe joined the townspeople at the potlatch in the assembly room. A group of Athabascans stood up to sing in their native language, moving their bent hands and forearms up and down in front of them in time to the hypnotic chanting. Others shuffled their feet in a dance, turning slowly to the steady rhythms.

  When the dance was over, the oldest member of the group spoke about the meaning of the day. When he was finished, two Athabascan women in traditional dress came forward. One was carrying a caldron, and the other carried a stack of bowls and a ladle. They went up to each person in turn and handed him or her a bowl of steaming broth.

  “What’s that?” Joe asked David in an undertone.

  David grinned. “A ceremonial soup,” he said. “Everybody must taste it. It’s the custom.”

  Joe glanced at Frank, then asked, “What’s in it?”

  David’s grin widened. “Moose head,” he replied. “It’s really good.”

  “It’s made with a real moose head?” Frank asked.

  David nodded, then said, “Don’t worry, it’s just for flavor. You’ll like it.”

  The two women reached Joe and handed him a bowl. He gulped, then raised it and took a sip. He wouldn’t say he liked it, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as he had expected. He tasted salt more than anything else.

  He looked around the room. Everyone else seemed to be polishing off the soup and wanting more. Then something caught his eye.