Farming Fear

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Well,” Joe said, panting, “that was . . . stimulating.” He clung precariously to the branches of a big white pine.

  “Not something I plan to do every day,” Frank commented. He sat perched in a similar tree, about five yards away from his brother. Powdery snow drifted down from the branches above him, chilling the older Hardy’s face.

  The stray dogs circled around the trees, howling and barking, looking up hungrily at the brothers.

  “Do you have the cell phone?” Frank asked.

  Joe nodded. “I stuffed it into my pocket before we went out, just in case.” He fished the phone out of his parka, pressed a few buttons, and then frowned. “Nothing!” he said, frustrated. “I can’t get a signal.”

  “Maybe it’s interference from the electric towers,” Frank suggested. “Or maybe the farm is in one of those cell phone ‘dead zones.’”

  “Either way, we’re up a tree, literally and figuratively,” Joe said, putting the phone away. “Maybe we can throw some pinecones at them, scare them off.”

  “It’s worth a try,” he said. “I don’t have a better idea, at any rate.”

  The brothers inched higher up their trees until they could reach clusters of big pinecones dangling overhead. When they’d collected enough ammunition, they took aim at the pack circling below.

  “Try for their noses,” Frank said. “If we can give them a good enough sting, maybe they’ll back off.”

  They pelted the dogs with pinecones for several minutes, scoring a few hits and being rewarded with several yelps. The pack wasn’t discouraged, though. The dogs quickly became wise to the brothers’ tactics and scurried back, out of easy range, while continuing to circle the trees from a safe distance.

  “I suppose we could try lighting the pinecones on fire,” Joe said, feeling frustrated.

  “Too tricky,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Climbing down and brandishing lit branches might work, though. A makeshift torch would at least keep them at bay.”

  “Or we could try to wait them out,” Joe replied. “We’re well-clothed, well-fed, and dry. It’s not like we’re going to perish any time soon.”

  Frank glanced up through the branches at the gray winter sky and the blowing snow. “The storm’s building,” he said. “If we stay here too long, we’ll be blundering back to the farm in a snowstorm again—assuming the dogs leave at all.”

  “All right,” Joe said. “The flaming branch idea is worth a shot. Do you have any matches?”

  “I was an Eagle Scout,” Frank replied. “I always have matches.”

  The brothers climbed lower, searching out dead branches to make torches with. They had their pocketknives as well as matches and soon selected a few good limbs to make into firebrands.

  As Joe was cutting through his branch, though, the treelimb under him creaked loudly and then snapped.

  “Joe!” Frank shouted as his brother fell.

  Joe reached out and grabbed a smaller branch nearby, but it snapped under his weight as well. He grabbed at another, and then another. The third held, though it groaned at supporting him.

  The younger Hardy clung desperately to the limb, his boots dangling two yards above the forest floor. The pack of dogs raced under the hapless teen, jumping and trying to bite his toes.

  “Hang on, Joe!” Frank said. His gloved fingers fumbled with his matches as he tried desperately to light the branch he was holding.

  Slowly, Joe edged down the dangling limb toward the tree trunk, hoping to climb up once more.

  Frank lit his makeshift torch, but dropped the book of matches as he did so. The matches tumbled into the savage pack below.

  “Shoo! Go home!” Frank shouted futilely. He leaned down from his perch, waving the burning stick at the dogs.

  But with Joe dangling just out of reach, the pack showed no intention of leaving. They barked and snapped and redoubled their efforts.

  Joe had almost reached his tree’s main trunk now, but the branch he was clinging to groaned more loudly with every passing second.

  Frank clenched his teeth, preparing to jump down and fight the dogs if his brother fell.

  A shrill whistle sounded, cutting through the winter wind, keening above the snarls of the pack. Instantly, the dogs all stopped running and barking. They turned their heads toward the north and listened.

  Joe seized upon the momentary reprieve. He swung back onto the main trunk just as his branch gave way. He shinnied up higher, out of reach of the dogs. Frank breathed a long sigh of relief.

  “What was that sound?” Joe asked.

  Frank shrugged, concentrating on keeping his torch alight in case they still needed it.

  “Who’s up there?” a gruff voice called. “Show yourselves! You can’t escape!”

  “We’re not trying to escape,” Joe called. “We’re just trying to keep out of reach of these dogs!”

  Vic Costello, dressed in a blaze-orange jacket, stepped into view. He carried a shotgun in one hand and a metal whistle in the other. His eyes narrowed. “I shoulda known it’d be some of you Morton kids setting my dogs loose from their pen!” he growled. “I ought to blast you just on principle!”

  “We didn’t set them loose,” Joe shot back. “We were walking toward the power lines when they rushed out of the woods and attacked us.”

  Frank kept hold of his emotions. “If we had set your dogs free,” he said reasonably, “don’t you think we’d have had a better plan to get away than running up a tree?”

  Costello stuffed the whistle into his vest pocket. “I did see snowmobile tracks near the pen,” he said. “And you’d have to be pretty dim—even for a Morton—to get off a machine after opening the kennel door.” He looked around, as if expecting to find a snowmobile hidden nearby. When he didn’t see one, he called to the dogs, “Come here, boys! Sit! Let those varmints out of the trees.”

  The dogs trotted over and sat down beside Costello, though they continued glaring at the Hardys.

  “Thanks,” Frank said. He and his brother swung quickly down to the snow-covered forest floor. Frank extinguished his firebrand and picked up his lost matches.

  “Are you sure you didn’t leave the dog pen unlocked?” Joe asked.

  “Fine way to thank a man for savin’ your life,” Costello scoffed. “Only a spoiled boy would ask that kind of question. Out here, our animals are our lives. We’re very careful with them.” He turned and, motioning to the pack, walked back toward the power lines.

  “Where are you going?” Joe asked.

  “Home,” Costello replied. “You don’t think I want to stay on Morton land any longer than I need to, do ya?”

  “Thanks again,” Frank said as Costello tramped off. The farmer didn’t reply, though his dogs continued to shoot hungry glances toward the brothers as Vic and the pack disappeared back into the woods.

  “That was lucky, him coming along when he did,” Joe said.

  “If luck had anything to do with it,” Frank replied.

  Joe’s blue eyes narrowed. “You think he might have let the dogs free on purpose?”

  “I can’t rule it out,” Frank said. “Doing so would give him a good excuse to prowl around the Morton property—and maybe cause a bit of mischief himself. We have only his word about those snowmobile tracks.”

  “That’s true,” Joe said, “and I doubt we’ll be visiting his farm to corroborate the story.”

  “With the way this storm is picking up,” Frank said, “I don’t think we’d get the chance, even if he and the Mortons were best friends. Come on, let’s get back before we turn into snowmen.”

  Joe nodded, and he and Frank slogged back to the Morton farm through the escalating snow.

  • • •

  By the time they returned to the old farmhouse, the storm had reached blizzard proportions. They could barely see twenty yards in any direction through the blowing snow.

  They met Chet and Iola returning from the barn.

  “Boy, are we glad to see you guys,” Chet s
aid as they all headed for the house.

  “We were starting to get worried,” Iola added.

  “We spotted some dog tracks in the woods,” Joe explained. “We thought they might be Bernie’s, but it turned out they belonged to a pack owned by Vic Costello.”

  “Costello said someone set the dogs loose from his kennels,” Frank added.

  “Do you think it could have been the same person that took Bernie?” Iola asked.

  “Might be,” Joe said.

  They took off their snow gear in the mudroom and went into the kitchen. Just as they got inside, the power flickered and then went out.

  “That’s been happening all afternoon,” Chet said. Gray, ghostly light from the snow blowing outside filtered through the old house’s windows. The Mortons had been busy while the Hardys were gone; all the windows in the house were now covered with clear insulating plastic.

  “Usually the lights came right back on, though,” Iola added. “Maybe this time they’re out for good.”

  The phone rang, and a minute later Grandma Morton came into the kitchen. “That was J. J. Zuis,” she said. “Some fool hit a telephone pole up the highway. The power’s out in this whole area until they can get a crew to repair it.”

  “Which, in this weather, might not be any time soon,” Grandpa Morton added as he entered the room. “You Hardy boys have a nice walk?”

  Joe and Frank glanced at each other, then said, “Yes.” It seemed easier not to go into details of their adventure right at that moment.

  “Let’s get some lamps lit and the fire going,” Grandpa said. “It’ll be dark soon, and even with the plastic on the windows, this old house still leaks heat like a sieve.”

  They all did as Grandpa suggested. Then the Hardys went out to the old water tower and filled up buckets with fresh water. The tower’s foam insulation kept it from freezing for most of the winter.

  “There’s an old pump back near the horses that’ll keep the animals in good stead,” Grandpa told the brothers as they returned. “Us, too, if the tower runs low. Its a long haul from there to the house, though.”

  With their preparations to weather the storm finished, there was nothing to do but sit by the fire and enjoy “roughing it.” They could light the stove by hand, so there was still plenty of hot food and drinks to go around. They warmed up the remainder of Grandma Morton’s chicken soup for dinner and ate by candlelight. Then they snacked on cookies and played games by the fire. Frank came dangerously close to beating Grandpa Morton at chess. In the end, though, the elder Hardy had to concede defeat.

  The wind howled loudly around the drafty old house, reminding Frank and Joe of the baying of the dogs circling their pine trees earlier in the day.

  Chet got up and stretched. “I’m grabbing some more cocoa,” he said. “Anyone want some?”

  Everyone did, and his grandparents wanted more coffee. “I’ll help you carry the mugs,” Frank said, rising and following Chet into the kitchen.

  The two puttered around the stove, preparing the drinks. Frank fetched everyone’s mugs from the living room so they could refill them. As he returned to the kitchen, he found Chet staring out the window overlooking the backyard.

  Frank stopped beside his friend and followed Chet’s gaze.

  Chet gasped. “Fire!”

  10 The Long, Hot Winter

  * * *

  Yellow flames licked up the side of the red barn. They weren’t very big, but they were growing rapidly.

  “Fire!” Frank yelled. He dropped the mugs on the table and followed Chet out the rear door. They paused only long enough to grab their parkas and put them on as they rushed outside. Joe dashed out a moment later, just behind his brother. The rest of the Mortons followed.

  “We’ll take care of the animals!” Grandma cried, hurrying around the barn toward the pens with Iola.

  Grandpa threw a garden hose from the main house to Joe, then went to turn it on. “There may not be much pressure left ‘cause the electricity is out,” he said. “If it fails, we can hook a line to the water tower.”

  Joe ran to where Chet and Frank were throwing snow on the fire. He opened up the hose’s nozzle. For a minute water sputtered out of the hose, stanching the flames a bit. Then, just as Grandpa had predicted, the pressure gave out.

  “Maybe I’ll invest in a generator next year,” Grandpa Morton said ruefully.

  Frank and Chet had run to the nearby water tower as Joe used the garden hose. Chet threw open a wooden bin that had been sheltered by the aging structure’s stout legs. “There’s an old fire hose in here,” he said. “They only use it for filling up water trucks to take to the field, so it doesn’t have a great nozzle on it.”

  “With luck, it’ll be good enough,” Frank said.

  As the garden hose drizzled out, Joe came and helped Frank and Chet hook up the water tower to the old fire hose. The Hardys lugged the heavy tubing toward the fire while Chet connected the end to the water tower tap and prepared to turn on the spigot.

  Grandpa fetched a blanket out of the back of the station wagon and tried to beat the flames down. But the fire had climbed up higher than he could reach.

  “Let ’er rip!” Frank called as they came within range of the burning barn wall.

  Chet twisted the valve on the water tank spigot and water shot through the hose and out of the nozzle. Chet had been right; the nozzle wasn’t very good and as much water squirted out the sides as the front. Frank and Joe fought to direct the spray toward the burning wall.

  The water pressure from the tower left a lot to be desired, though it was better than they’d gotten from the fire hose. Fortunately the weather was with them. The wind and snow seemed to be taking a breather. None of the group believed that would last, though.

  As they worked frantically to extinguish the blaze, two pickup trucks skidded into the driveway, coming to a halt near the back door. Bill Backstrom and J. J. Zuis leaped from their vehicles and ran to help the Mortons and their friends. They grabbed some buckets from beneath the water tower and filled them from the wild spray sloshing out of the old fire hose.

  “Glad you two dropped by,” Grandpa said as he gave up on the blanket and fetched a bucket for himself.

  “I was heading home from town when I saw the light and you folks running around out here,” Backstrom replied.

  “I spotted the fire while working in the fields near my place,” J. J. added. “With the power out, this blaze is the brightest spot for miles around. If the storm hadn’t cleared a bit, though, I never would have seen it.”

  “Whatever the reasons you came,” Chet said, “we’re glad you showed up to help.” He grabbed a bucket of his own and joined the brigade.

  “Did either of you call the fire department?” Frank asked.

  Both Backstrom and Zuis shook their heads. “I tried, but the phones were out at my place,” J. J. said. “And I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “Me either,” admitted Backstrom.

  “Cell phone!” Joe said, slapping his forehead. He let Frank handle the old hose, got out of side-splatter range, and pulled the phone out of his pocket. He punched 9-1-1, then listened. “Rats. Nothing!”

  “Service is pretty bad out here,” J. J. explained. He sloshed another bucket of stray water onto the fire. “That’s why I don’t have a cell phone.”

  “They’re talking about putting a cell tower in that new mall complex they want to build,” Backstrom added.

  “Well, that ain’t gonna help us now,” Grandpa said. “Keep bailing!”

  Between the Hardys, the Mortons, and the two volunteers, they soon brought the blaze under control. The wall of the old barn was badly scorched in places, but not entirely burned through.

  The impromptu firefighters breathed a collective sigh of relief. Chet twisted the aging water tower’s spigot closed. The storm began to build again. The wind picked up and fresh drifts snaked across the driveway.

  “Thank you, each and every one,” Grandpa said. “We might
have lost the barn without you.”

  “What are neighbors for?” J. J. asked rhetorically.

  “Hey,” Bill Backstrom said jovially, “I was just savin’ my own job. I certainly don’t want to be lookin’ to Stein’s mall for work, and J. J.’s not hiring.” He smiled at farmer Zuis.

  J. J. shook his head. “I think the Mortons need you here, Bill.” Both of the men chuckled.

  “You smell that?” Joe asked, sniffing the air. “Smells like gasoline.”

  “You didn’t leave one of our gas cans near that side of the barn while you were working, did you Bill?” Grandpa Morton asked.

  “Not me,” Backstrom replied. “I haven’t touched the can since I worked on the tractor the other day.”

  “If the phones are working inside the house, we should call the fire department and have them check it out,” Frank said. “It looks like arson to me.”

  Grandma Morton and Iola came around the side of the barn, dusting hay and snow off of their clothes. “Call in more people? Tonight? In this weather?” Grandma said. “It looks to me like we’ve got this under control. Let the professionals go where they’re really needed . . . or stay at home—which is where all sensible people should be tonight.”

  “We got all the animals safely outside,” Iola said, “just in time to move them back, I guess.” She sighed.

  “Better to be safe than sorry,” Grandpa said.

  “Don’t worry,” J. J. added, “we’ll help you get them back inside.”

  He and the rest went to help relocate the animals and bed them down for the night. Grandma Morton and Iola coordinated the effort, and soon the rear of the barn was full of the sounds of contented horses and cows once more.

  “I think it’s time for more cocoa,” Chet said.

  “My grandson’s right,” Grandpa agreed. “Coffee and cocoa for everyone.”

  J. J. Zuis and Bill Backstrom looked around at the escalating snow. “Thanks, Dave,” J. J. said, “but I think I better be getting home.”

  “Me too, boss,” Backstrom said. “This storm is getting pretty nasty. Like Marge said, all sensible people should be safe at home tonight.”