Farming Fear

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “They’re clearly more familiar with these fields than we are,” Joe agreed. “Probably they’re from nearby.”

  “Like the Costello farm, for instance?” Frank suggested.

  “Maybe,” Joe replied. “I was thinking that anyone wanting to buy this farm would probably become pretty familiar with its layout.”

  “So Patsy Stein’s mall consortium is at the top of your suspects list,” Frank said.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal has tried to force owners off their land,” Joe concluded.

  The buggy left the pasture and zipped through the stand of pine trees that stretched down from the northern forest. The snow grew worse by the minute, limiting visibility even further.

  “I think I see their taillights!” Joe said, pointing through the trees.

  Frank nodded and smiled, but just at that moment, the buggy’s headlights flickered. “It must be a loose wire!” the elder Hardy said.

  “We don’t have time to fix it,” Joe countered. “If we do, we’ll lose them for sure. And the way this snow is blowing, we might lose their tracks as well.”

  The woods gave way to pasture again as the intruders turned south. Snowdrifts sprang up suddenly across the snowmobile tracks. The Hardys plowed forward without slowing down. The powdery obstacles burst into blinding clouds as the buggy rushed through.

  ‘We’re off course,” Frank said after a particularly bad whiteout. The bandits rode on their right now, rather than ahead of them.

  “They could be cutting back toward the main road,” Joe said, nearly shouting to be heard above the storm and the growl of the buggy’s engine.

  “I’ll cut across the field and try to head them off,” Frank said. He turned to the right, angling the vehicle over a patch of clear snow separating them from the intruders. The buggy’s headlights flickered again, but the brothers were too intent on catching their foes to worry about it.

  ‘We’re catching up!” Joe exclaimed. Then his blue eyes went wide. “Frank! Watch out for that—!”

  Before he could finish, they burst through another drift and skidded onto a large farm pond. The ice beneath the vehicle gave way, and the buggy pitched into the cold, dark water.

  8 Frozen Stiffs

  * * *

  The chilly liquid burst up all around the Hardys, spraying into their eyes and over their clothing.

  The buggy came to a sudden, violent halt, half-submerged in the pond. Frank and Joe jerked forward in their seats; only their seat belts kept them from flying over the stripped-down vehicle’s hood.

  “Are you okay?” Frank asked.

  “Aside from being soaked, you mean?” Joe replied. “Yeah.”

  The buggy’s rear-mounted engine remained above the water and was still running. The drive wheels, also in the rear, were tipped up at an angle and had nothing to purchase on. The tires spun wildly through the snowy air while the engine roared. Frank switched off the engine and pocketed the key.

  With broken ice and chilly water pressing in around them, it took the brothers a few minutes to struggle out of their seat belts. Then they crawled through the marshy, half-frozen edge of the pond back onto the snow-covered pasture.

  Joe gazed at the half-submerged buggy. “Think there’s any chance we could pull it out?” he asked.

  Frank shook his head. “Not tonight—not before we freeze, anyway.” He grabbed the tarp from the back seat and threw it over the engine to protect it. “What about using the rope? We could run the rope to a tree and drag it out.”

  “The rope’s in the trunk, and the trunk’s in front—underwater,” Frank replied. “So unless you feel like ice diving . . .”

  “Not without a wet suit.”

  “Let’s go,” Frank said. “It’s not getting any warmer. Got your flashlight?”

  Joe fished a penlight out of one of his coat pockets and switched it on. “Still works,” he said.

  “Good,” said Frank. “We’ll follow the tracks back as far as we can. Hopefully we’ll spot the house before the trail drifts over.”

  “If we don’t, I guess the Mortons will be able to use us as lawn ornaments until we thaw out in the spring,” Joe said sardonically.

  Frank chuckled, but he was already beginning to feel chilled. Their waterproof parkas had protected the brothers’ torsos some, but the rest of them was still pretty soaked. “We’d better get moving before we freeze in place,” Frank said. He and Joe trudged back through the snow along the tire tracks.

  The heavy snowfall made the landscape gray and surreal. Pale light reflected from everywhere. Most of the time, they didn’t even need the flashlight to see.

  “It’d be beautiful if I weren’t freezing,” Joe said.

  “We’d turn into Popsicles before we could build a decent fire,” Frank said. “If we keep moving as fast as we can, our body heat should dry off some of the water.”

  Joe nodded and the two began jogging through the rising drifts.

  They stopped briefly to catch their breath under the shelter of the south-reaching spur of pines. They didn’t stay long, though. Frank’s plan to warm up by running had worked, but their clothes began to freeze again almost as soon as they stopped. In addition both brothers knew the weather conditions were worsening every moment they delayed.

  Driving winds and blowing snow made it nearly impossible to follow the buggy tracks once they left the forest. Fortunately both brothers had wilderness scout training, so they had a pretty a good idea where the Morton farmhouse lay, even if they couldn’t see it.

  They forged ahead, moving as quickly as they could, plowing through the growing snowdrifts. They avoided several farm ponds: wide, flat expanses of snow-covered, treacherous ice. Ahead, solitary hedge evergreens poked up through the drifts like pointy-hatted sentries trying to block the brothers’ way.

  Taking shelter from the wind behind one of the larger trees, the Hardys took a moment to catch their breaths and reorient themselves. As they did, Joe’s flashlight went dark.

  “The water must have shorted it out,” he said. “I just put in new batteries.”

  “Don’t worry,” Frank said. “We can’t be far from the house now.”

  “I hope not,” Joe replied, shivering. “I don’t know how much longer I can keep going.”

  “We’ll walk as long as we need to,” Frank said. “I’d hate to come this far only to freeze to death within site of the barn.”

  But they couldn’t see the barn or the house from where they were. The rolling pasture and blizzard conditions made every direction look the same. They steeled themselves and forged on.

  Their lungs began to burn from the cold. Their legs felt as though icy needles poked them at every step. Joe stumbled and fell face-first into a drift.

  Frank pulled him up again, but he seemed exhausted too.

  “M-maybe we sh-should have built that f-fire instead,” Joe said.

  “T-too late . . . n-now,” Frank replied.

  A row of wild hedge pines rose up before them, attempting to trap the brothers in the deadly winter wonderland. The Hardys staggered to the trees and leaned against the trunks, trying to rally, trying to muster the strength to continue. Joe pressed his face to the cold, snow-covered branches. Incongruously, they felt warm to him.

  Joe had heard that feeling warm was a sign of hypothermia. Your body gets so cold it can’t tell it’s freezing anymore. He longed to close his eyes and rest, just for a minute.

  The trees shuddered and Joe realized without looking that Frank must have collapsed.

  The younger Hardy forced his eyes open and peered through the pine needles at his brother lying in the snow. Something glistening in the distance caught his eye.

  “A light!” he cried. “I see the house!”

  He grabbed Frank’s shoulder and shook it. “I see it!” he repeated. ‘We’re almost home!”

  Wearily, Frank opened his eyes. Ice and snow crusted his eyelashes and eyebrows. He looked more frozen than alive.

&nb
sp; Joe helped his older brother to stand, and they leaned against each other. Together, they staggered through the drifts toward the beckoning lights. It took them nearly fifteen minutes to cross the remaining three hundred yards to the house.

  Exhausted, they wrenched the back door open, and stumbled inside.

  “Joe! Frank!” Iola cried. Worry filled her pretty voice.

  The brothers were picked up by warm hands and steered into chairs by the stove. The old cookstove was warm and had coffee and cocoa simmering on a burner.

  The Hardys stripped off their freezing clothes while the Mortons wrapped them in blankets. Grandpa brought buckets of tepid water to warm the Hardys’ feet while Grandma plied them with cocoa.

  An hour later, the brothers felt much better.

  “Thanks for all your help,” Frank said sleepily.

  “If you hadn’t been up,” Joe added, “you might have found us passed out on the kitchen floor come morning.” He yawned.

  “The back door slamming woke us,” Grandpa said. “Then we spotted a commotion out by the barn. Before we could get dressed to help you, we saw you boys drive off into the snowstorm.”

  “Not your brightest move ever,” Chet noted.

  “Where’s the buggy?” Iola asked.

  Frank shook his head ruefully. “We got blinded by the storm and drove it into a pond.”

  “No wonder you were soaked!” Iola exclaimed.

  “It’s swamped but not completely sunk,” Joe said. He looked at the Morton grandparents and added, “We’re so sorry. We’ll drag it out tomorrow if we can.”

  “We’ll fix any damage, too,” Frank added.

  “Now, don’t you worry about that,” Grandpa Morton countered. “What’s done is done.”

  “Eat this,” Grandma said, handing each Hardy a bowl of homemade chicken soup.

  Joe and Frank ate the soup gratefully, feeling more and more like their old selves with every passing minute.

  As the Mortons bustled about, busy with other tasks, Joe looked at Frank.

  “We really blew this one,” he whispered. “Not only did we lose the bad guys, but we sank the buggy as well.”

  Frank nodded grimly. “We’ve got a lot to make up for. We can’t let the Mortons down again.”

  • • •

  By mid morning, the snow had subsided, though it didn’t let up entirely. Plows cleared Kendall Ridge Road and, aside from Bernie being missing, life at the farm returned to its winter routine.

  The Hardys slept in late, recovering from their ordeal. They woke feeling achy and cramped, but still much better than they had the previous night.

  If the Mortons felt angry about the brothers driving the buggy into the pond, none of them showed it when the Hardys came down for a very late breakfast. Grandpa happily served the brothers ham and eggs, while Iola brought toast and juice. Chet kept busy washing the dishes, and Grandma returned to housecleaning.

  The normality of the whole routine made Frank and Joe feel even more guilty. The Mortons were good people, and certainly didn’t need the added grief that the Hardys had inadvertently caused.

  “You missed quite a parade of well-wishers this morning,” Chet commented as the brothers ate.

  “Oh?” Joe asked.

  “J.J. stopped by,” Iola said, picking up her brother’s train of thought. “So did Patsy Stein and Gail Sanchez.”

  “What did they want?” Frank asked.

  “The usual,” Grandpa replied. “J. J. was just checkin’ in on us. Sanchez came by to try and pawn off some of her ‘top of the line’ snow removal equipment. And Stein’s still making insulting offers to buy the farm.”

  “I guess she figures if she pesters you enough, you might give in,” Joe said.

  Grandpa paused and stretched, as though his back were aching. “Sometimes this farm does seem more trouble than it’s worth,” he admitted, “but I don’t really think that Bayport needs another mall no matter how top-class it is.” He shot the teenagers a half smile.

  “Mr. Myint doesn’t agree, apparently,” Iola said. “Ms. Stein said he’s already signed aboard her plan.”

  Grandpa harrumphed. “Just because Patsy Stein says something, doesn’t make it true.”

  Joe and Frank glanced at each other, each wondering about Stein’s connection to the farm’s troubles.

  “Maybe we can drag the buggy out of the pond today,” Frank suggested.

  “Don’t you worry about that,” Grandma said, poking her head in from the other room. “We don’t want you straining yourselves after your close call last night.”

  “We’d really feel better if we brought it home,” Joe said.

  Grandma shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. I don’t want either of you gettin’ sick over that old piece of junk. A day or two in the ice won’t hurt it. You two take it easy today.”

  Reluctantly, Joe and Frank nodded. “Yeah, okay,” Joe said.

  “Good,” Grandpa said. “With Chet and Iola’s help, even if Bill’s snowed in, I think we can manage all the chores around this place. You two relax and recover.”

  “If you’re really itching to do something,” Grandma added, “turn your brains on figuring out who took Bernie.”

  “No news from the police?” Frank asked.

  “We called ’em, but they didn’t have anything new,” Grandpa replied.

  “We’ll see what we can do, then,” Joe promised.

  He and Frank finished their breakfast while the Mortons went about their chores. After cleaning up, the brothers donned their snow gear—which Grandma had run through the dryer while they slept—and headed back outside.

  “Looks like it’s foot patrol for us today,” Joe said.

  “After nearly freezing last night, stretching our legs will probably do us good,” Frank replied. “At least it’s warmer out today than it was last night.”

  “And not so snowy,” Joe agreed. “I don’t think Grandma Morton would mind us taking a walk. Where do you want to start?”

  “That spur of pine woods to the east,” Frank suggested. “We know the snowmobilers went through there. Maybe we can pick up their tracks.”

  “That’s a pretty good hike,” Joe replied.

  Frank smiled wryly. “Think of it as penance,” he said.

  On their way to the forest, they walked past the pond where they’d swamped the buggy. Both brothers felt relieved that there didn’t seem to be much damage, aside from the fact that the vehicle’s nose was wedged into the water. The temperature was hovering around freezing, and little ice had reformed where the buggy broke through.

  “Maybe we should pull it out anyway,” Joe suggested.

  Frank shook his head. “The Mortons told us not to,” he replied. “They’re not mad at us right now, but if we broke Grandma’s ‘orders’ they might be.”

  Joe reluctantly agreed, and the two continued on to the south-reaching spur of the big pine forest. Inside the woods, it didn’t take them long to discover snowmobile tracks peeking out amid the drifts.

  “Hey,” Frank said, “check this out. There are some dog prints next to these snowmobile tracks over here.”

  “Do you think they might be from Bernie?” Joe asked.

  “Could be,” Frank replied. “They look big enough.”

  “The dog track is on top of the tread impression,” Joe said. “So the dog was here after the snowmobile. Could Bernie have escaped?”

  Frank shrugged. “Let’s follow the tracks and see where they lead,” he suggested.

  The brothers trudged through the woods for ten minutes, heading north toward the power lines. They nearly lost the trail a few times, but finally reached the edge of the forest.

  Joe scratched his head. “Okay,” he said, “I think we’re on the wrong track.” He stooped to examine a patch of tracks on the ground. “It looks like there’s more than one dog here.”

  “I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” Frank said, his voice suddenly filled with tension.

  Joe
looked up just as a loud growling shattered the stillness of the snowy winter air.

  At the edge of the woods on the other side of the power lines prowled a pack of angry-looking dogs. And as soon as the canines spotted the brothers, they charged.

  9 Snow-Dog Days

  * * *

  The pack ran directly for the Hardys, bounding across the treeless swath surrounding the power lines. Savage barks and angry howls cut through the chilly afternoon air.

  “Run!” Frank cried.

  The brothers turned and sprinted back toward the forest. They had a sixty-yard head start on the pack, and both Frank and Joe were good runners. The snow slowed them down, though, and even the fastest human sprinter couldn’t outrun swift dogs like these for long.

  Joe glanced back as they ran, sizing up their pursuers. “I see six,” he told Frank. “Two are huskies, two look like shepherd mixes, and two are mutts.”

  “That’s a pretty odd pack for a bunch of wild dogs,” Frank said, not slowing down as they conversed.

  “You’re thinking someone set them on us?”

  “Maybe. Did you see any collars?”

  “I wasn’t looking that close,” Joe replied. “You can stop and check for tags if you like.”

  “No thanks,” Frank said. “We may get a better look soon anyway.” He smiled ruefully.

  “I’d give about anything for a good set of skis right now,” Joe said.

  “Why don’t you wish us up a snowmobile instead,” Frank suggested. Both brothers kept their tones light, though each realized the graveness of their situation. Caught in the wilderness with no weapons, if they were caught by the pack, they stood little chance.

  The snarls and barks of the dogs grew louder.

  “They’re gaining on us,” Frank said, daring a backward glance.

  “Up into the trees,” Joe suggested. “It’s our only hope.”

  Both brothers headed for the nearest climbable pines. They picked separate trees, not wanting to chance their combined weight on just one. They scrambled up into the low-hanging branches as swiftly as squirrels. The dogs leaped after them, snapping at their heels. The brothers shinnied up the trunks, out of reach.