Farming Fear

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “The weather’s not going to get any better,” Iola said. Already the drizzle of snow had begun to mix with freezing rain.

  “Let’s see if we can drag it back,” Joe said. He’d finished freeing up the wheels and steering. “Leaving it out in the rain won’t help it any.”

  “I can try to work on the engine as we go,” Frank said. “Maybe if I dry it out a bit more, it’ll start up.”

  “Let’s hope,” Iola said.

  They fastened ropes to the front for Joe and Chet to pull. Iola pushed on the frame at the driver’s side, so she could reach in and steer when necessary. Frank pushed from the rear while at the same time trying to dry off the wet engine parts with some rags they had brought with them.

  It turned out that dragging the buggy across the snow wasn’t much easier than pulling it out of the pond. They took frequent breaks, especially as the weather worsened. Soon more rain than snow was falling, and the drifts around them were turning into slush. As they all paused to catch their breath, Joe turned his head toward the distant outline of the pine forest.

  “What is it?” Frank asked.

  “I hear something,” Joe said, listening closely.

  “Snowmobiles!” Iola gasped.

  Sure enough, the faraway whine of small, powerful engines echoed across the snow.

  Joe jumped into the buggy’s driver’s seat. “Prime that carburetor, Frank,” he said. “Time to see if all that work you’ve been doing has paid off.”

  Frank got their small jar of gasoline from his pocket and put some in the carburetor. Joe turned the key and pumped the gas pedal.

  With a sputter and a cough, the old VW engine roared to life.

  Chet and Iola cheered.

  Frank hopped into the passenger seat beside his brother. “Chet, you and Iola go home and call the cops,” he said. “Joe and I will see if we can catch the snowmobilers.”

  “Check,” Chet replied.

  “It’ll take us about fifteen minutes to walk home,” Iola said. “We’ll get the police here as quickly as we can. Be careful.”

  “We will,” Joe said.

  “And don’t drive into any more ponds,” Chet cautioned.

  “Don’t worry,” Joe said. “We won’t.”

  He turned the buggy toward the forest and stepped on the gas.

  14 Double Snow-Cross

  * * *

  Frank held on tight as Joe gunned the engine and roared away across the snowy field. Chet and Iola soon disappeared from view as the Hardys careened over drifts and between the trees that punctuated the broad pasture.

  “We’ll have to stop to get a bearing on them,” Frank said. “I can’t hear the snowmobiles over the buggy’s engine.”

  “I agree,” Joe said, “but let’s get to the forest first.”

  They skidded through the field toward the rapidly approaching line of pine trees. Several times Joe skidded the buggy sideways to avoid ponds that had been hidden by drifts. “Boy,” he said, “this is hard enough in the day time. I see why you had trouble at night during a snowstorm.”

  “It’d help if we knew the area better,” Frank said, “like those bandits apparently do.”

  “You’re thinking they must be locals,” Joe said, “not hired guns—like Stein’s assistants.”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.” Joe cut the wheel and they plunged between two big pine trees and into the eastern spur of the forest. Flying through the woods, they soon reached a fork in the snow-covered trail. They knew from the day they’d been caught in the avalanche that one way led to the power lines, and the other toward the old factory.

  Joe switched off the motor and both brothers listened.

  “The power lines,” Frank said.

  “Definitely,” Joe agreed.

  He turned on the engine and veered left, heading north toward the power lines and Vic Costello’s farm. The trees whizzed by on either side of the trail—tall, red-barked poles sticking up out of the snow. The buggy plowed through several drifts that had blown across the road.

  Once, they went into a skid, but Joe handled it expertly, turning into the swerve and then recovering. A tree zoomed by Frank’s side of the car, so close that the elder Hardy could have reached out and touched it.

  “That was close,” he said.

  “I don’t think we’ll mention that one to Iola,” Joe said with a grin.

  They broke out of the trees considerably to the east of where they’d run into Costello’s dogs. The huge metal electric towers strode like giants across the snowy landscape. More forest lay across the right-of-way to the north, Vic Costello’s land. The precipitation had turned completely to rain. Curls of cold mist rose from the drifts where water met snow. The area beneath the power lines looked like a river of slush.

  Joe brought the buggy to a halt, switched off the engine, and both brothers listened again.

  As they did, two snowmobiles crested a rise to the west and roared past. A big sleek, black machine came first. A smaller, red snowmobile trailed close behind. The two of them rocketed past the Hardys, following the service road.

  “Let’s get them!” Frank said.

  Joe turned the key, but nothing happened. The buggy sat still at the edge of the forest.

  Frank unbuckled his seatbelt, ran to the back of the vehicle, and took the jar of gasoline from his pocket. There wasn’t much left—enough, he hoped, to start the engine one more time. He primed the carburetor and crossed his fingers.

  Joe cranked the starter and the old VW engine roared to life once again.

  “Move it!” Frank said, hopping back in and buckling up.

  Joe stepped on the gas, and the buggy leaped onto the road. The trail led down the northern side of the swath, running beside the huge power towers, rather than directly beneath them.

  The snowmobiles had built up a considerable lead while the buggy was stalled. But even with the rolling terrain beneath the electric lines, the criminals weren’t far enough ahead for the Hardys to lose them. Every time the brothers went down a dip they temporarily lost sight of their quarry. Every time they crested a rise, they found them again.

  “Keep an eye peeled, in case they veer off the trail,” Frank said.

  “Sure thing,” Joe replied. The buggy began gaining speed.

  The snowmobiles seemed to notice the Hardys and began swerving back and forth between the towers. Their tactic didn’t work, though. Keeping to the road, the Hardys steadily gained ground on their quarry.

  As the buggy drew closer, the red snowmobile pulled up next to the black one. The black rider swerved, nearly crashing his machine into the smaller red vehicle.

  “What are they doing?” Joe asked.

  The red snowmobile swerved, avoiding the other one. He gunned his throttle and pulled up alongside the black rider. The red driver reached out, seemingly trying to grab the controls of the black machine.

  The black driver fought back, pushing the red rider’s hands away. The red driver reached for a rifle strapped on the black-helmeted snowmobiler’s back.

  The black vehicle swerved and its rider pulled his leg out of the way as the two snowmobiles smacked against one another. The black rider kept going, thrusting the red vehicle toward one of the big electric towers.

  The red snowmobile turned right, weaving between the tall metal legs. He hit a wet snowdrift on the far side of the tower and lost control. His snowmobile skidded back across the road, directly in front of the Hardys.

  Joe cut the wheel to the right, then left again, barely avoiding both the onrushing vehicle and the tower’s metal leg.

  The red snowmobile crossed the road and nosed down into a dip. He skidded up a rise and the vehicle launched itself into the air. The driver lost his grip on the handlebars as the snowmobile flipped over in midair. Rider and machine soared in two different directions.

  The snowmobile crashed into a nearby snowbank. The helmeted man landed hard in a pile of ice and slush at the edge of the wood
s. He lay flat on his back, motionless.

  The black snowmobiler continued down the trail next to the power line, rapidly pulling away from his fallen compatriot.

  Joe skidded the buggy to a halt and turned it around. He backtracked down the trail and pulled the buggy to a stop next to the injured man. He and Frank hopped out, though they left the stripped-down VW’s engine running. They moved quickly to the side of the fallen man. Fortunately both brothers had first aid training.

  “I hate letting that villain go,” Joe said, glancing at the black snowmobile as it sped away.

  “Saving this guy’s life is more important,” Frank replied. “He’ll probably be able to tell us the identity of the other driver.” He studied the man lying in the snow for a few moments, then said, “I don’t see anything broken, but his helmet’s face plate is smashed.”

  “We should take the helmet off,” Joe concluded, “and see if he’s hurt underneath.” He grimaced. “Now would be a great time for the cell phone to start working.”

  “With these electric towers overhead?” Frank said. “Not a chance.”

  The brothers cautiously removed the red rider’s helmet.

  Joe nodded slowly when he saw the man’s identity. “Elan Costello.”

  “This is starting to make sense,” Frank said.

  “You think so?” Joe asked. “I was pretty certain he and his father were on those snowmobiles. But why would Vic Costello cause his own kid to crash?”

  “He wouldn’t,” Frank replied. “If you remember the other night, the bandits had two black snowmobiles. Not a black one and a red one.”

  Joe snapped his fingers. “You’re right! So Vic Costello’s story about his dogs getting set loose wasn’t just a ploy.”

  “No,” Frank said. “Someone really did let them out—someone who had something to gain by pressuring both the Costellos and the Mortons.”

  “And I suddenly have a pretty good idea who that person might be,” Joe said.

  As the words left his lips, a deafening roar filled the rain-soaked air.

  The black snowmobile barreled over a nearby rise, heading straight toward them. The snowmobile driver swiftly leveled his rifle and fired.

  15 Power Play

  * * *

  The shot screamed through the soggy air and burst into a nearby snow bank.

  “No time to worry about Costello’s injuries,” Frank said. “Get him into the buggy or we’re all dead!”

  He and Joe lifted Elan Costello and hustled him onto the back seat of the buggy. As they strapped him down with the seat belts, another shot whizzed by. This one clanked off the leg of the electric tower next to them.

  The rain was getting worse, and both brothers nearly slipped as they hurried back into their seats. Joe spun the wheel and gunned the engine. The buggy raced west, away from the oncoming gunman.

  Freezing slush flew up from their tires as they went. They hit an icy patch on the trail and nearly skidded out of control. The gunman kept moving toward them, the report of his rifle barely audible over the roar of the buggy’s engine.

  Chilling, bitter rain drove down around them, stinging their exposed faces and drenching their parkas.

  “If we keep this up,” Joe said flippantly, “we’ll be soaked to the skin again.”

  “Any time you see some sniper-proof shelter, I’m willing to stop and take it,” Frank replied. “Until then, let’s keep driving.”

  The snowmobile pulled closer and fired a shot across the buggy’s rear.

  Joe cut the vehicle to the left, taking a daring chance and darting between two of the big towers. He wheeled the buggy, spinning it one hundred and eighty degrees around. Then he got back on the service road behind their attacker, who was still going in the other direction.

  “Good move, Joe!” Frank said as they headed east again, toward the old factory complex.

  “That may have bought us some time,” Joe said, “but I don’t know that we’ll be able to keep ahead of him much longer.”

  “If we can reach the factory parking lot, we should be able to cut over to the road,” Frank said. “On pavement, we could outdistance that sniper easily.”

  “Of course, this baby isn’t street legal,” Joe noted.

  “It’s not legal to shoot at people, either,” Frank replied. “If we get to the street and he follows us, the sniper will have more to worry about than we do.”

  While the brothers talked, they had increased the distance between themselves and the gunman. Joe’s sudden turn had caught the sniper completely off-guard. The criminal nearly spun out as he wheeled his black snowmobile and resumed the chase.

  Joe put the pedal to the metal. The buggy bounded over the dips and bumps of the power line service road, going airborne for a few seconds after cresting each rise. The younger Hardy fought to control the modified car chassis, while at the same time trying to maintain their distance from the gunman.

  Rain and wet snow splashed all around them, splattering their parkas and their exposed faces. “How’s Costello doing in back?” Joe asked.

  Frank turned and checked. “He seems okay,” he replied. “It’s a good thing we strapped him in good.”

  Crack!

  Another shot whizzed past Frank and Joe as the snowmobile marksman found his range once more.

  “His shots are getting closer,” Frank noted. “He’s gaining on us, too.”

  “I know,” Joe replied. “This buggy may be good in the snow, but it’s not nearly as good as a snowmobile.”

  With each passing second, the pursuing sniper closed the distance between the two vehicles.

  “Hang on,” Joe said. “I’m going to try something.”

  Frank gripped the side of the buggy’s roll-cage, bracing himself.

  Joe swerved, taking the buggy off of the roadway and between two of the huge electrical towers. The snowmobiler followed, firing again as he came. Joe cut back in the other direction, weaving between the power scaffolds like a skier running a slalom course.

  The sniper kept after him, but all the swerving was throwing off his aim. His shots flew wildly through the air, some ricocheting off of the big metal towers.

  “Keep it up, Joe!” Frank said. “I can see the factory ahead, and the road leading out of it looks clear.”

  “If we can hit the highway, this guy will eat our slush,” Joe replied. He splashed the buggy through a huge puddle at a dip in the road, then turned to dart between the towers again.

  Crack!

  A shot sailed over the brothers’ heads and struck a tower ahead of them. It hit one of the connections that held the power lines to the huge metal structure. The line snapped in a shower of sparks and swooped down directly at the buggy.

  “Look out!” Frank yelled, but Joe was already swerving. He cut to the left and the electrified line barely missed them. It fell into the wide puddle the brothers had just crossed.

  The sniper’s black snowmobile hit the puddle and electricity shot through it. A sound like thunder echoed above the rainstorm. The gunman went rigid and lost his grip as his snowmobile bounded through the electrified puddle and soared up into the air. The gunman’s hands flew open convulsively. His rifle arced through the rain and landed at the base of one of the towers. The snowmobile exploded in midair, shattering into a hundred pieces.

  The gunman flew head over heels and smashed hard into an icy snowdrift. He didn’t get up.

  “Yeow!” Frank said.

  “Ouch!” Joe agreed. He skidded the buggy to a halt and looked back over his shoulder.

  The burning wreckage of the snowmobile covered the slush at the base of one of the big metal towers. The sniper lay motionless in the snow bank nearby.

  “I suppose we have to go back and get him medical attention,” Joe said.

  “I guess we do,” Frank replied. “Just be sure to skirt that puddle as we go. The power probably cut out at a substation by now, but just in case . . .”

  “Yeah,” Joe said. “We don’t want to join
that guy in the emergency room.”

  Joe drove back cautiously to where the gunman lay, and both brothers got out of the buggy. “Let’s put him in back with Costello,” Joe said. “We’ll take them to the old factory and call for help.”

  “This guy should be right at home there,” Frank said, lugging the gunman into the back seat. “After all, he owns the place.” He took off the sniper’s helmet, revealing the unconscious face of Leo Myint.

  “Let’s hope he’s got a first-aid kit somewhere in that factory,” Joe said. “He’s going to need it.”

  After making sure both of their passengers would survive the trip, the brothers drove to the factory. When they arrived, they found a second black snowmobile parked outside the back door.

  Just then, the door opened and a young man with a snowmobile helmet in his hand came out. Seeing the Hardys next to his vehicle, he charged.

  Frank dropped and swept out the attacker’s knees with a martial art’s kick. At the same time, Joe stepped forward and planted a solid right uppercut to the man’s jaw. The snowmobiler’s head snapped back, and he went out like a light.

  “Who is this guy?” Joe said, looking at their unconscious assailant. “I don’t think we’ve ever seen him before.”

  “He must be one of Mvint’s workers,” Frank replied. “A ‘hired gun’ who was in on the scheme with his boss.”

  “So he’s the second guy we fought in the barn that night,” Joe deduced.

  The brothers dragged the bad guys inside and tied them up. They brought Elan Costello in and laid him on a couch in Myint’s reception area, then they found a working phone and called the police and an ambulance.

  Dark shadows crowded the old factory’s interior. All the power seemed to be out, probably because of the broken line. In the darkness the brothers heard something that made them smile. Joe produced his recharged penlight from his coat pocket, and the two of them did some exploring. In a back corner of the factory, near the restrooms, they found a huddled, shaggy shape chained to a wall: Bernie, the Mortons’ missing dog.