“Beat it!” Fingers cried out.
The trio raced down the street, dodging passersby. A patrol car appeared and screeched to a halt. The clerk came racing from the store and a crowd hemmed in Frank and Joe.
An officer pushed through the milling throng and began to ask questions.
Joe related what had happened, and a man stepped forward to corroborate his story.
“Do you know where those fellows were headed?” the policeman asked the Hardys.
“No, sir.”
“Okay, you can go. We’ll look for them.”
On their way back to the campsite, a thought suddenly leaped at Frank.
“Joe, Fingers mentioned Blackfoot country in the jewelry shop!”
“So?”
“Remember that wrapper in the Mountain Dogie Store said that Lasher and his pal had mentioned Foot Meadow?”
“Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe exclaimed.
“That could be it,” Frank said. He pulled to the side of the road, grabbed the camping guide on the dashboard, and thumbed through the book. “Look, here it is!”
Frank pointed to the name Blackfoot Meadow. It was a public camping spot maintained by the State of Colorado, located in extremely rugged mountainous country.
“Just the place for a hideout,” Joe said.
“We ought to drive there right away,” Frank said.
“But what about Biff and Sherlock?”
“Guess we’d better wait here for them.”
By this time Biff and his dog had already left the animal hospital and were on their way to the campsite. The two had not been able to get on a bus. On Biff’s back was a cleverly devised sling made of an old bedsheet and in it rested Sherlock.
The hound’s lugubrious visage looked out over Biff’s shoulder as the sturdy young athlete walked along, trying to thumb a ride.
Several cars slowed down to look at the unusual sight, but continued on without stopping.
“Don’t worry, Sherlock,” Biff said. “We’ll get there. But I wish this was Be-Kind-to-Animals Week.”
After several miles Biff put the dog down and Sherlock walked for ten minutes. The hot sun and the weakness caused by his recent illness brought the panting animal to a halt. Biff poured some water from his canteen into a tin dish and Sherlock lapped it up. Then the boy hoisted his pet onto his back again.
His right arm had gotten tired of thumbing when a car slowed down and stopped. In it were a man and a woman. “You poor boy!” the woman said after rolling down the window of the air-conditioned Ford. “What are you doing out here?”
“Trying to get to Denver with my dog,” Biff replied.
“We’d like to give you a lift, but my husband is allergic to dogs.”
“Anyway, it’s nice of you to stop, ma’am,” Biff said.
“Here, maybe this will help,” the woman said. She reached into the back seat and pulled two sandwiches from a bag. Smiling, she handed them to Biff.
“Thank you,” the boy said. “This will come in real handy.”
The woman rolled up the window and the car sped on. Biff ate one sandwich, Sherlock the other. “Okay, old chum,” the boy said. “We’re off again.”
He trudged on under the blazing sun, but no one offered him a lift. Biff was beginning to feel discouraged when he spotted a car parked beside the road in a clump of cottonwood trees a quarter of a mile ahead.
As Biff approached, he saw that the hood was up and a man was tinkering with the motor.
He looked up and smiled at Biff. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to laugh,” he said with a thick German accent. “But I’ve never seen a boy before with a dog knapsack!”
“Man’s best friend,” Biff replied with a grin. “I’m sure Sherlock would do the same for me if he could. But he’s just recuperating from a recent illness.”
Biff put the dog down and looked at the motor. “Overheated?” he asked.
“No. I don’t know what’s the matter. Something in the ignition system, I think.”
Biff had taken his own car apart and put it together several times. He studied the maze of wires carefully. “Sometimes a loose connection will cause trouble,” he said.
“Ja, I was thinking that. Except that I cannot find anything loose.”
“Tell you what,” Biff suggested. “If I fix your car, will you take me to Denver?”
“And the Hund, too,” the man said, smiling.
“Sure. He’s my baggage.”
Biff introduced himself and told his story. Then he found out that the stranded motorist was Fritz Burger from Austria. He was on a tour of the United States.
“I do a lot of climbing in the Alps, and I intend to see if your Rockies are as great a challenge,” Burger said, watching Biff as he checked the automobile’s wiring.
Finally Biff found the trouble. A cable beneath the low-slung car had been cut, as if by a sharp knife.
“Have you been over some rough ground?” Biff asked.
“Ja.”
“A sharp flying stone could have done this. I’ll fix it.”
“Thank you,” Burger said with a grin. “Good thing you came along. Now we all go to Denver.”
Biff expertly repaired the damage and soon they were on their way.
It was late afternoon when Burger pulled into the Hardys’ camping spot.
“Biff, you made it!” Joe called out when he saw his friend approaching.
Frank and Chet came out and introductions were made. Burger said he would stay for the night and continue on the next morning.
“Where are you going?” Frank asked.
The Austrian explained that there were two mountains he wanted to climb. “One is Eagle Ridge, the other Blackfoot Peak.”
“That must be near Blackfoot Meadow!” Joe said. “We’re headed there too!”
As he spoke, an object whizzed through the air, just missing Joe’s head. It crashed into the side of the camper and burst to pieces!
CHAPTER XII
Prince Cuthbert
AT the sound of the crash everybody ducked. Splinters of glass fell on Joe’s hair and he gingerly combed out the pieces.
The Austrian said, “You have enemies?”
“A few,” Frank replied. He bent down to examine the larger pieces of glass. “Just as I thought!” he muttered. “An orange soda bottle. Juice probably threw it.”
Leaving Biff and Burger, the Hardys and Chet fanned out over the area in an effort to locate the assailant.
“He’s a pretty slippery guy,” Frank remarked as they came to the edge of the camping area beside the highway.
“Look!” Chet said, pointing. “There’s his trail bike!”
The motorcycle was parked a hundred yards away. As the Hardys approached, they could see the name Vampire Trail on it.
But before they had a chance to advance farther, a figure darted out of a huge drainpipe laid under the highway.
“There he goes!” Joe cried.
Juice was closer to the bike than the Hardys. Joe was only ten feet behind when Juice gave the machine gas, sending up a spray of dirt and gravel into Joe’s face. He sped off down the road, waving defiantly.
“No use to chase after him now,” Frank said as the youth zigzagged through the traffic and finally disappeared from sight.
When they returned to the camper, Biff was feeding Sherlock and chatting with Burger. The boys invited the Austrian to have supper with them and he gratefully accepted.
As they ate, the Hardys plied Burger with questions, mainly about his country. The man said he was an engineer and that his hobbies were travel and mountain climbing. “So now I try your American mountains,” he said.
Biff remarked, “Fritz says Blackfoot Peak is dangerous.”
“In what way?” Frank wanted to know.
Burger shrugged. “That I don’t know, but I’ll find out.”
“Thanks again for helping Biff and Sherlock,” Joe said. “In German I believe you say—Danke schön!”
“Bit
te schön,” Burger replied with a grin.
“Gosh,” Chet said, “I didn’t know you could speak German, Joe.”
Joe chuckled. “Picked it up on TV.”
Burger said good night, adding that he hoped to see the boys again. But by the time they awakened the next morning, the Austrian’s car was gone.
“Now let’s see if we can have a peaceful day,” Biff said, after he had exercised Sherlock and they were ready to depart.
“If we don’t have any more trouble with that dog of yours, we should reach Blackfoot Meadow this evening,” Frank said. He pulled out of the parking area and joined the sparse traffic on the mountain road.
After a short stop for lunch they set off again. The road led higher and higher, and the boys breathed deeply of the thin, exhilarating air.
“By the way,” said Chet, who was munching a spare sandwich in the back seat, “when you find this guy Whip Lasher, what will you do with him?”
“Turn him over to the police,” Joe said.
“Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched,” Frank put in. “We’ll have to catch him first, and that won’t be easy.”
In the middle of the afternoon they drove down the main street of the village of Snowcap.
“Pretty snazzy,” Biff remarked as he looked at the elegant stores lining both sides of the street.
Joe studied his guidebook. It stated that Snowcap was an exclusive ski village in the winter, and in summer catered to vacationists at the many luxury dude ranches located in the surrounding area. It had a number of smart shops and fine restaurants.
“This is no place for us,” Biff said. “Too rich for our blood.”
“Who wants this ritzy stuff, anyhow?” Chet said. “We’re the camper type. Let’s go on.”
The road switched back and forth as they climbed even higher. Finally it dipped into a broad, flat valley spreading open like a wide green carpet between two towering peaks. A sign announced: Blackfoot Meadow State Park.
All types of trailers dotted the cozy sites laid out along a stream shaded by willows and cotton-woods.
“What a great view,” Frank said.
At the park entrance were a cluster of rustic shops and modern facilities for campers. Joe eyed the grocery store since they needed to stock up. Chet pointed to a laundromat.
“Look, you guys,” he said. “I’ve got a couple of shirts that are a little gamey. Think I’ll do some laundry.”
“Okay, go ahead,” Frank said. “I’ve got a few things to be washed, too.”
“Same here,” the others chimed in.
After they had found a pleasant camping spot, the boys uncoupled the trailer tent and quickly set it up. While Frank and Joe went to the grocery store for supplies, Chet gathered up the clothes and took them to the laundromat.
He pushed through the door and looked around. Two women sat on folding chairs, watching their laundry tumble behind the glass doors of the machines. At the far end, a girl about Chet’s age was bending over a half-filled basket of clothes.
Chet got a packet of soap powder from a vending machine and approached a machine with its door half open. Paying more attention to the girl than to the clothes in his hand, he stuffed them into the machine, tossed in the detergent, and closed the door. The machine began to whirl.
Suddenly the girl turned about. An expression of indignation covered her pretty face.
“You can’t do that!” she cried out.
“Wh-what do you mean?” Chet asked. “Can’t boys do laundry in this place?”
“Not in my machine!”
Chet looked bewildered as the girl chided him.
“Half of my laundry was in the machine you’re using!” she told him rather sharply.
Chet blushed. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t see it!” He was embarrassed and sat down on the bench, looking glum.
“Oh, don’t take it so hard,” the girl said finally. “There’s no harm done.”
Encouraged, Chet brightened and began to tell her about his friends and the camping trip. “You see, we’re detectives,” he said importantly. “And we’re looking for a crook called Whip Lasher.”
“What an odd name,” the girl said.
“He’s one of the country’s most wanted swindlers.” Chet went into great detail in describing the suspect, including the buckskin jacket.
The girl said, “Several men around here wear buckskin jackets. One of them could be the one you’re looking for.”
“Oops, the wash is done,” Chet said.
“I’ll dry it for you,” the girl offered.
When it was ready, Chet raced back to the camper. Frank and Joe were stowing away the canned goods they had bought.
“We’ve got hamburgers and hot dogs too, Chet,” Joe said.
“And I’ve got a clue!” Chet exulted. “A couple of guys in this camp are wearing buckskin jackets. One of them could be Whip Lasher!”
“Calm down,” Biff said. “Buckskin jackets are a fad right now, Chet old boy. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
Chet passed out the laundry. “Okay. But I’ll bet if you let old Sherlock smell that inner sole he’ll pick up the scent!”
“Good idea!” Frank replied.
He produced the inner sole and the sad-eyed hound sniffed at it. Then Biff attached a leash and led Sherlock outside.
They walked leisurely about the meadow, chatting briefly with some of the campers who made admiring comments about the dog. Sherlock paused to sniff several spots, but then disdainfully padded away. As they passed an equipment store which sold and rented trail bikes, Sherlock became interested in a new scent and strained at the leash.
“He’s on the trail, Frank!” Biff exclaimed.
They walked rapidly behind the hound who kept his nose to the ground, with ears flapping. He stopped beside the steps of a small trailer. It was weirdly painted in psychedelic colors.
The dog moved around in circles as if he had lost the scent. Did Lasher get into a car at this spot or was he inside the trailer? Joe pressed close to the screen door and looked in. What he saw of the dim interior was even more weird than the exterior.
The walls were covered with paintings and tapestries. Colored tassels hung down from the comers of the ornate picture frames. Two rows of bookshelves were set high above a silk-covered couch laden with embroidered pillows.
Joe turned to the others. “This is fantastic,” he said.
Just then a voice boomed out, “Who’s there?”
The Hardys gulped and Frank stepped forward. “Just some curious visitors, sir.”
“Then come in.”
Frank motioned to the others to wait, then he opened the door and stepped inside. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness, he saw the robed figure of a man seated in a thronelike chair at the rear of the trailer.
He had a full beard, squared off at the bottom. His mustache was waxed, with each end standing straight up like a spear. On his head was a jewel-studded Norman-style helmet made of cloth. Several medals were pinned to his velvet jacket and rings sparkled on his fingers.
Frank’s gaze met the keen blue eyes of the regal-looking occupant. “I’m—I’m Frank Hardy,” the boy said.
“Pleased to meet you. My name is Prince Cuthbert de Solo Prudham du Paris.”
“Oh. Do you always dress like this?”
“Indeed I do, as befits royalty.” The man’s piercing eyes never wavered. “You see, I’m a direct descendant of King Arthur and the lawful prince of the British Isles and Normandy.”
“That’s quite an honor,” Frank commented with a straight face. He glanced about, but saw no sign of Whip Lasher. “Nice to meet you, Prince,” Frank said as he backed toward the door.
“I suppose you’re a camper, too,” the prince went on. “New to these parts?”
“Yes, sir. We’ll be here for a day or two.”
“My advice is to beware of Vampire Trail!”
The same name as Juice Barden’s trail bike!
&nb
sp; “What’s Vampire Trail?” Frank asked casually.
Prince Cuthbert explained that it was a path leading to the top of Blackfoot Peak. “Don’t go there,” he warned. “It’s very dangerous—vampire bats and the like!”
“Thank you,” Frank said and hastened outside.
He beckoned Joe, Chet, and Biff to follow him. When they were a discreet distance from the trailer, Frank burst out laughing.
“Wow! You should have seen that guy who lives in there! A real wacky eccentric who thinks he’s related to King Arthur!” Frank told the boys about his conversation with the man and they chuckled.
“Did you ask him about Whip Lasher and show him the picture?” Joe asked.
“No. He might be in with Lasher, for all we know.”
“And what about Vampire Trail?”
Frank shrugged. “We’ll have to find out what’s going on there.”
Biff spoke up. “Suppose I rent a trail bike and explore that Vampire Trail while you look for Whip Lasher.”
“Okay,” said Frank.
Biff left the bloodhound with Chet and hurried off to rent a motorbike.
“Don’t be too long,” Chet called to Biff. “Dinner’s at seven!”
A further search of Blackfoot Meadow turned up no trace of Lasher. Questions put to shop-keepers and campers elicited only negative replies.
“How about rustling up some grub?” Frank asked Chet when they returned to the trailer.
Biff had not come back yet. Chet cooked the hamburgers and set out the tasty repast. “If Biff doesn’t show up soon, he just won’t get any,” he declared.
It was after dusk when a car pulled up beside the boys’ camper. A trail bike was lashed to the top. Out stepped Fritz Burger. He walked around to the other door, opened it, and helped Biff to his feet.
“Biff! Fritz! What’s the matter?” Frank exclaimed.
“Your friend was attacked on Vampire Trail,” Burger said.
Biff shook his head groggily, and Chet noticed a red welt on his neck.
“A vampire bite!” Chet moaned.
CHAPTER XIII
A Grizzly Attack?
By the time Biff had completely recovered, Fritz Burger was on his way again to Blackfoot Peak.
Danger on Vampire Trail Page 7