The Clue in the Old Stagecoach

by Carolyn G. Keene

  Nancy had a hard time getting her convertible turned around. She had to do it inches at a time. But finally she was headed in the opposite direction and started the jolting ride back to the main road.

  “Since this wasn’t the right road,” said Bess, “I wonder where the one to the Zucker farm is. We might be miles from it.”

  Nancy disagreed. “Mrs. Strook seemed so sure of the spot, I believe we’ll find the road not far from here.”

  “I hope it isn’t as bad as this one,” Bess worried, as she suddenly flew off the seat. “I’d better stop talking or I’ll bite my tongue!” she added with a giggle as she landed.

  Bess had no sooner said this when the car stopped abruptly. The engine had died.

  “Goodness, what’s the matter?” Bess asked.

  Nancy’s eyes had darted to the fuel tank. “It’s empty—completely empty!”

  “But you just had the tank filled while we were in Francisville,” George told her.

  Bess gave an earsplitting scream

  “I know,” Nancy replied. “It’s my guess that one of the rocks we went over punctured a hole in the tank.”

  “And all our gas is gone?” Bess exclaimed in dismay.

  “I’m afraid so,” Nancy told her.

  The girls got out of the car and looked back of them. There was a long trail of gasoline on the grass-covered road.

  “This is a fine predicament!” said Bess. “Here we are in the middle of nowhere. What are we going to do?” Just then she glanced up and gave an earsplitting scream. “Look!”

  Nancy and George glanced up just in time to see a large black bear, its teeth bared, loping toward them. He was not more than fifty feet away!

  CHAPTER X

  Secret Notes

  IN A flash the three girls jumped inside the car and Nancy pushed the buttons for the mechanisms to raise the top and the windows. The job was finished just as the shaggy black bear reached them.

  “Oh, I hope he won’t get nasty and break the windows,” Bess said, fright in her voice.

  The bruin stood up on its hind legs and sniffed the car. Then he got down and walked round and round it, grunting.

  “We’re virtually prisoners,” said George. “We might be here for days!”

  Nancy chuckled. “The bear is bound to get hungry at some time and go off looking for food.”

  “He might decide not to,” said Bess. “He’d probably find us a good meal.”

  “Don’t be silly,” George chided her cousin. “Bears like honey and green things—”

  Bess was unconvinced. “Well, even if he didn’t eat us, he could maul us to death.”

  Each time the bear had stood on its hind legs to peer inside the car, Nancy had looked intently at the fur around his neck. Finally she detected what she was looking for—a collar.

  “I believe this fellow is tame and has escaped from some place,” she said.

  George grinned. “You mean he’s lonesome and wants to crawl in here with us?” She pretended to open the door, whereupon Bess gave one of her loudest screams.

  “His master’s probably looking for him,” said Nancy. “I’ll sound the horn to attract his attention.”

  She began a series of staccato blasts and in about ten minutes the girls saw a man coming down the road. He was wearing a white shirt, riding breeches, and puttees. As he drew nearer, the bear loped up to him. He patted the animal, took a stout chain from his pocket, and slipped it into a ring on the bear’s collar. Then the two of them walked over to the car. By this time Nancy had lowered the windows.

  “I’m sorry Sally frightened you,” the man said. “She got away while I was dozing after lunch.”

  He introduced himself as Harold Henderson and said he was transporting Sally from one county fair to another. “Thanks for sounding the horn,” he said, smiling.

  Nancy grinned back. “I’m afraid we had a double reason for doing so. We need a little help ourselves.” She explained about the hole in the gas tank.

  “Well, one good turn deserves another,” Harold Henderson said. “I’ll take Sally back to the truck, lock her up so she can’t get out again, and then come back here with putty. It’ll fix up that hole temporarily. I’ll bring some gas too.”

  He started off.

  “We’re just plain lucky,” Bess remarked, as the girls sat and waited. “I hope that we’ll be as lucky finding the Zucker farm.”

  Harold Henderson returned in a little while, puttied the hole, then covered it with tire tape.

  “I’m sure that’ll hold till you get to a service station,” he said, and poured half a gallon of gasoline from a can into the tank.

  He refused to take any money from Nancy. “My help,” he said, “is a small return for your aid in recovering my bear. The loss of her would have meant many dollars out of my pocket tonight.”

  He hopped aboard the convertible and it started up the road. Nancy went very carefully, and when she reached the main road, turned right at Mr. Henderson’s direction. Soon they came to his truck where Sally sat on her haunches, looking around. She seemed very content.

  “You’ll find a service station about half a mile down this road,” Henderson said. “It’s at the junction of one of the main highways.”

  When Nancy reached the service station, the temporary work was replaced with a permanent repair job. Then the tank was filled.

  While the mechanic worked on the car, Nancy asked him if he knew anyone in the neighborhood named Zucker. “A young couple with a baby?” he queried.

  “They live on an isolated farm.”

  “They’re the ones all right,” the garageman replied. “I don’t know why they want to live back there. Ground’s full of rocks. Not many fields on it to farm. Zucker can’t make money that way.”

  Nancy asked for specific directions and was told to continue straight ahead for another half mile “Then, if you look sharp, you will see a lane. It’s just about the width of a car. The Zuckers get in and out all right, so I guess you can. But it’s rough going. The house is about half a mile in.”

  The girls started off again and presently found the trail. Nancy turned in and drove slowly, mostly through woods, until she came to the Zucker property. It was evident that the original house had been a one-room structure to which an addition had been built fairly recently.

  The callers noticed a baby’s net-covered play pen in the dooryard. In it was an infant asleep.

  A young couple came from the house and smiled at the girls, who stepped out of the car. “Are you looking for us—the Zuckers?” the man asked.

  Nancy revealed why they had come and asked if he could give her any information about the old stagecoach which Abner Langstreet had driven.

  “I’m afraid not,” the young man replied, introducing himself as Morton and his wife as Marjory. Nancy introduced herself and the other two girls.

  Marjory spoke up, “When we moved here, this place had been thoroughly cleaned out. Oh, there was plenty of dirt, but not even a bottle or a piece of firewood or anything.”

  “And former owners never mentioned anything about Abner Langstreet living here or owning a stagecoach?” Nancy asked.

  The Zuckers shook their heads, then Morton said, “But if you think you can find anything, you’re more than welcome to look around.”

  “Thank you,” said Nancy. “Actually, I was hoping there might be a bill of sale of the old stagecoach hidden away, perhaps behind some secret panel.”

  Intrigued, the Zuckers said they would like to join in a search. First an ancient barn was thoroughly searched. Nothing came to light.

  “What was that old shed used for?” Nancy asked.

  “I believe it was the blacksmith shop,” Morton answered. “A hundred years ago life on a farm was very different from today. A man was his own blacksmith and builder as well as farmer. Besides growing all his own grain, fruits, and vegetables, and raising chickens, colts, calves, and pigs, he built houses and barns, with some help from his neighbors.�
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  “Amazing,” Bess murmured.

  “The farmer also forged and hammered his own iron hardware for nails, latches, andirons, and lamp bases,” Morton went on. “He often made wrought-iron boxes and tools,” the young man ended, as they entered the shed.

  Marjory smiled. “I guess that’s how the saying started, ‘A man works from sun to sun.”’

  No clues were found in the shed, so Morton said, “Let’s try the house.”

  On the way there, Morton added suddenly, “I just thought of something. When I bought this farm I had the title thoroughly searched. Abner Langstreet was never an owner, so if he lived here he must have rented the place.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” said Nancy. “If the property were registered at the courthouse, Abner Langstreet could have been found.”

  “Maybe this isn’t the right place,” said Bess.

  Nancy reminded her that Mrs. Strook had given the directions, and if the Zuckers were willing, she thought they should go on with the search, Morton insisted that they do so.

  “I’m highly interested in this thing myself now,” he said. “A missing stagecoach!” He looked quizzically at Nancy. “You didn’t say so, but I figure there must be something valuable hidden inside it.”

  “We suspect there may be,” Nancy confessed, but did not explain further.

  Work began in the four-room farmhouse. It was decided to confine the search to the original building. Walls were carefully tapped, and the stones of the fireplace inspected for any which might pull out. The hunt proved futile.

  “Do you mind if I peek under your rugs, Marjory?” Nancy asked, “to see if there might be an old trap door or loose board?”

  “Go ahead,” the farmer’s wife said. “And I wish you luck!”

  Nancy looked under each of the small hooked rugs which lay on the wide-board floor. She was about to give up and admit defeat, when one of the boards seemed unsteady as she trod back and forth on it. “There may be something under here!” she called out excitedly.

  Morton brought a small wedge from a tool chest in the kitchen and pried up one end of the board.

  “Why, there are lots of notes underneath!” Bess exclaimed.

  The notes, in an old-fashioned handwriting, had been placed in rows on top of a board lying on the ground. They were musty but legible. Without disturbing them, Nancy began to read the words.

  The first one in the upper left-hand corner read, “First burial today.” The one directly below it said, “Second burial today.” To the onlookers’ amazement the same phrase with succeeding numerals appeared on each of the notes, which numbered thirty.

  “Ugh!” Bess cried out. “This is gruesome!”

  Marjory Zucker was greatly disturbed. Turning to her husband, she said, “Morton, there may be a graveyard on our property!”

  By this time Nancy had picked up the first note and turned it over. On the back was written Abner Langstreet, October 1, 1853.

  “This was Great-uncle Abner’s hide-out!” the young sleuth cried out excitedly.

  Each note was turned over. All were signed with the same signature, and each was dated one day later than the note before it. On a few of them were short lines and here and there a circle.

  Morton Zucker had put an arm around his wife. “I am sure if there is a burial ground on this property, it was not for human beings. Probably Mr. Langstreet had to shoot various wild animals for self-protection and buried them one by one.”

  “Possibly,” Nancy agreed. “But there may be some other explanation. One thing I do know. If these notes were really written by Abner Langstreet, they were done only one month after he disappeared from Francisville.”

  She went on to say that she thought the handwriting should be compared with something which Abner Langstreet had written. “May I borrow these notes?” she asked Morton. “I’d like to take them to Mrs. Strook. She may have a sample of her great-uncle’s handwriting, and we can compare it with these notes.”

  “Take them along,” the young man said. He smiled. “They’re certainly no good to me.”

  Before the girls left, the Zuckers invited them to come back at any time and make a further search. Morton grinned. “Maybe I won’t even wait for you,” he said. “I may do some searching and find the old stagecoach.”

  “Please do,” Nancy answered. “And if you locate anything, call me at Camp Merriweather.”

  “I sure will.”

  On the way to Mrs. Strook’s home, the three girls discussed the mystery from this new angle.

  “Do you think the notes are authentic?” Bess asked Nancy.

  “Yes, I do. And I believe they prove without a doubt that Mr. Langstreet never went out West to sell his stagecoach. He wouldn’t have had time to get there and back before October 1,1853. The coach must be hidden in this very area!”

  “Maybe,” Bess said. “But the vehicle was so large, how could he have hidden it without someone having found it during the past hundred years?”

  “I have a theory,” Nancy replied. “I think from what the notes say that Great-uncle Abner took his stagecoach apart piece by piece and lovingly buried them somewhere day after day.”

  “But wouldn’t they have rotted away by this time?” George argued.

  “They might have,” said Nancy, “but I have a feeling Mr. Langstreet would somehow have protected the stagecoach, particularly if it contained something valuable.”

  Bess asked if Nancy was going to dig up the Zucker farm to try finding it.

  “I may,” the young sleuth replied. “But even if we find the coach, the clue in it may not be of any value to the town of Francisville.”

  “Why not?” Bess asked.

  Nancy said that anything located on the Zucker property would belong to them as owners.

  Bess and George groaned. “Why, Mrs. Strook would be heartbroken!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she would,” Nancy replied. “But we’ll have to—Oh!” she cried out.

  The car wheel had been almost wrenched from her hand by a sudden violent tremor of the ground. This was accompanied by an explosion not far away I

  CHAPTER XI

  The Cave-in

  “It’s an earthquake!” Bess cried out, as Nancy swerved her car to keep it from going into a ditch. “Please let’s stop and get out!”

  Nancy turned off the engine and the three girls hopped to the road. There was no further tremor of the earth.

  “There must have been blasting some place near here,” George remarked.

  The girls climbed into the convertible again and Nancy drove on. About half a mile farther along they found a crowd of people gathering. The center of the explosion seemed to have been at this point and everyone was trying to find out the cause.

  “Folks have no business using dynamite or bombs without permission,” said an irate man, “and I happen to know that not a soul applied for a license to do this.”

  Nancy and her friends joined the search in a long field for the person or persons responsible. As they hurried along Bess asked if Nancy had any theory regarding the explosion.

  “We’re not far from the end of one of those housing developments,” the young sleuth whispered. “This might have been a bomb scare to get people to move out.”

  “You mean,” said George in a low voice, “that somebody like Judd Hillary or one of his backers might have done it?”

  “I’m not making any accusations,” Nancy replied. “But I think it would be a good idea if we keep our eyes open for suspicious-looking persons.”

  The three girls did not notice any such person at first, but just as the group reached a tremendous cave-in of earth caused by the recent explosion, they saw Judd Hillary. Nancy and her chums edged near him. He was talking to a group and wore a self-satisfied smirk.

  “Now maybe this’ll drive some o’ those newcomers away,” he was saying.

  Bess winked at Nancy, who walked up to the man. “Mr. Hillary, just why are you against progress in this comm
unity?” she asked.

  The man became livid with rage. “You already know the answer and besides you don’t belong around here. Why don’t you get out and stop snoopin’!”

  This crude remark angered Nancy. “No, I don’t live here,” she said. “But I do have a lot of sympathy for people who are in danger.”

  “Yes,” George broke in, “instead of feeling relieved that no one was hurt by the explosion, you seem delighted that it happened. You say you don’t want newcomers here because of higher taxes, but there are some people who think you have other reasons for keeping them out which you’re not telling!”

  Judd Hillary fell back as if he had been stunned. He seemed at a loss for an answer and a frightened look had come over his face. But he recovered quickly. Throwing back his head, he said disdainfully:

  “You got no business talkin’ like that. I don’t have to say any more. Your friend here has had a couple of warnings. Now I’ll give you one: Leave this place before you get hurt!”

  At that moment two men stepped forward and took hold of Judd Hillary’s arms. As they began telling him that this was no way to talk to young ladies who were spending a vacation in the neighborhood, Nancy whispered to her friends to follow her. She threaded her way through the crowd, saying, “Maybe those two hijackers are in this with Hillary! Let’s look for them!”

  The girls circled the crowd from the rear but did not find the two suspects. Nancy was about to give up when George spotted two men she thought might be the hijackers running toward the road. The girls darted after them. But before they could get close enough to identify the two or read the license plate of a car into which they jumped, the men drove off at top speed.

  “Here come the police,” Bess spoke up.

  Four officers alighted from a squad car and hurried toward the crowd that had gathered at the site of the explosion. Nancy and her friends followed the policemen. But the officers announced that everyone who could not give them any clue as to who had caused the explosion was to leave.

  “I guess that includes us,” said George.