Joe’s forehead had been painted with mud. “Yours, too,” Joe replied. Frank also had something written in mud on his forehead, and so did Chet. The boys climbed down from the limbs of the tree.
“Did you say these were Seminole words?” Frank asked.
“Yep,” Homer replied, pointing first to Frank. “Yours says ‘Last,’ Joe’s says ‘Your,’ and Chet’s says ‘Warning.’ ”
“Last your . . . ” Joe said, before it hit him. “Your last warning.”
“Or, rather, our last warning,” Frank said, giving Joe a knowing look. “From none other than Reuben Tallwalker, no doubt.”
“Couldn’t be anyone else,” Homer agreed.
“How could he climb that tree and do this without waking us up?” Chet asked as he dipped his hand into the water and began rubbing off the mud.
“Folks say he can move in, out, and around as quietly as snowflakes falling,” Homer replied in a warning tone.
“We were dead tired, too, don’t forget,” Frank noted. “I would have slept through a car alarm.”
There was the sound of an approaching airplane. Homer waved as Dusty’s hydroplane buzzed over them.
“Dusty’s been out looking for you since dawn,” Homer told them, starting up the engine of his boat. “We’d better tell him you’re okay.”
Back in their cabin, the boys showered and put on dry clothes. “Based on the number of bites,” Chet said, looking at the raised red bumps on his arms and face, “I was the mosquitoes’ midnight snack.”
Chet was coating the bites with lotion to stop the itching when Dusty popped his head through the door. “Boy, am I glad to see you safe and sound!”
Frank and Joe filled Dusty in on everything, beginning with Randy Stevens running off and leaving them at the rodeo when he found out they were detectives.
“Don’t forget the mysterious light in the swamp,” Chet added.
“That could have been the moon reflecting off the surface,” Dusty said. “The thing that has me confused is these alligator attacks. You weren’t near her clutch of eggs. Why would that big mama alligator attack you for no reason?”
“Maybe it’s Reuben’s pet. Like an attack alligator,” Chet suggested. Frank and Joe shared an amused look over their friend’s joke.
“I have a friend who runs an alligator farm in Big Cypress Swamp,” Dusty said. “He knows more about reptiles than the reptiles do. Maybe he can explain it.”
“What about the rodeo? Aren’t you competing tonight?” Joe asked, concerned.
“I’ll be back in time,” Dusty replied.
“Would you mind if I came along?” Frank asked.
“Not at all,” Dusty said. “Maybe I’ll even give you a chance to fly the hydroplane.”
“Meanwhile, Chet and I will go back to the scene of the attack,” Joe said. “Maybe we can figure out some details about what happened now that it’s daylight.”
“And why don’t we rent our own boat from the trading post?” Chet suggested.
“Good idea,” Joe remarked, rubbing the pedaling muscles in his calves. “I don’t want to get stuck without wheels again.”
Frank agreed and gave Chet and Joe some money toward the boat rental, then they all headed for the hydroplane.
As Frank and Dusty were boarding the hydroplane, Trent Furman came strolling down the dock, sipping a mug of coffee. “I heard you got into some alligator trouble again.”
“Yes, sir,” Chet replied, scratching his shoulder. “Mosquito trouble, too.”
“That’ll teach you boys to go into the swamp alone at night,” Furman said sharply.
Frank gave Furman a probing look. Furman’s hard gaze turned to a warm smile. “Just kidding, boys. Hey, I’ll bet Zack Platt will catch that big alligator tonight. Then it’ll be safe for all of us.”
“Where was Mr. Platt?” Joe asked. “We were stranded out there all night and didn’t see him.”
“I guess you just didn’t cross paths,” Furman said lightly. “Where are you going now?” he added, skillfully changing the subject.
“Big Cypress Swamp,” Dusty replied.
“Sounds exciting. What’s there?” Furman wondered.
“An alligator farm,” Dusty replied.
Frank saw Furman’s expression cloud for a moment before he recovered and smiled again. “Well,” Furman said, “have a safe trip.” He tipped his hat and returned to his cabin.
A minute later Dusty and Frank were airborne and flying north toward Big Cypress Swamp.
Joe and Chet headed for the lodge to try to find Homer. As they passed beneath Furman’s window, Joe heard the crackle of a shortwave radio and Furman’s voice. “They’ll be there in less than an hour.”
“Okay. We’ll take care of it at this end,” another voice replied over the radio. There was so much static that it distorted the other voice, and Joe had no chance of recognizing it.
“Ten-four,” Furman’s voice replied, then Joe heard him switch off the radio.
Joe and Chet found Homer in the main lodge, tying his own fly fishing lures. Homer was planning to do some trout fishing, and he was a little grumpy about being asked to take Joe and Chet to the trading post instead.
Joe mentioned Furman’s shortwave radio and the strange bit of conversation he had overheard.
“I know all about his radio. That’s the only way to communicate with the outside world from here,” Homer grumbled. “I have a shortwave radio, too, and I suppose that means I’m up to no good?”
Joe could see Homer was in no mood to discuss anything reasonably, so he said nothing more. Chet asked if their first stop could be at the scene of last night’s accident. Homer grumbled, but said yes.
• • •
In daylight, Joe thought, the swamp didn’t look at all menacing. He spotted the corner of the sunken pedal boat sticking out of the water. “I’ll get it,” he said to the others. Joe had worn swimming trunks under his clothes, pledging to keep at least one set of clothes dry for a whole day.
“You sure you want to go in that water?” Homer asked, worried. “The water’s murky, and who knows what could be down there.”
“If you two keep your eyes peeled, I should be all right,” Joe replied as he took off his T-shirt.
With that, he slipped over the bow of the pontoon boat and into the water. He discovered he could just touch the muddy bottom on tiptoe. Finding the rudder, he began running his hand along the hull of the boat until he found a hole in the fiberglass.
Joe stretched, turning his chin up to keep his mouth above the surface. “There’s a hole in the bottom of the boat.”
“I could have told you that,” Homer replied. “The alligator probably rammed it with its snout.”
“Wait!” Joe said, excited. “There’s something wedged in the hole. It’s stuck in here pretty well.”
Joe was happy he had been pumping iron all year. With his powerful arms, he was able to pry the object free. He handed it up to Chet, then pulled himself aboard the pontoon boat.
Chet and Homer were staring at the object, stunned. “There’s your ghost,” Joe said.
It was a heavy-duty waterproof flashlight. A sticker on the top of it read Property of the Swampland Trading Post.
7 A Missing Giant
* * *
The trading post was bustling with activity, as the people from the rodeo had the morning free before the contest resumed that afternoon. When Angus Tallwalker saw Joe and Chet, he scowled and turned away, making a point to help every other customer in the store before he even looked at them.
“We’d like to rent one of your airboats,” Joe asked finally, when there was no one else in the store for Tallwalker to help.
“I don’t have any to rent,” Tallwalker responded, although Joe spotted the keys to two of the airboats still hanging on their hooks behind the counter.
“Is there something wrong, Mr. Tallwalker?” Joe pressed.
Tallwalker stared at him a moment. “How would you like it
if I went to the cemetery in the town you’re from and pitched a tent over your great-grandfather?”
Joe realized what Tallwalker meant. “So Reuben told you we got stranded on Twin Cypress Key?”
“Stranded?” Tallwalker said sarcastically. “Reuben told me you’ve been out there swimming and poking around.”
“That’s not true,” Joe protested.
“That island was sacred to my grandfather. It is still important to me and my grandson,” Tallwalker said angrily. “Last night you camped out in one of the cypress trees.”
“Only because Reuben sank our pedal boat!” Chet countered.
Tallwalker looked confused. “Do you mean my old pedal boat from the junkyard?”
“Um, yeah,” Chet replied, bowing his head, embarrassed. “Sorry.”
“Reuben wouldn’t do something like that,” Tallwalker insisted.
“Then why did we find this stuck in the hull?” Joe said, setting the flashlight on the counter.
“What makes you think it’s Reuben’s?” Tallwalker asked.
Joe pointed to the label on top, but Tallwalker just shook his head. “That flashlight has been missing since yesterday. In fact, I haven’t seen it since you were alone in here while Dusty and I were fetching your horses. Maybe you stole it.”
“And maybe you’re just protecting your grandson!” Joe snapped back.
There was a tense silence. Joe realized his temper had gotten the better of him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Tallwalker. It was stupid of me to accuse you.”
“And I read people well enough to know you wouldn’t steal from me,” the older man replied, patting Joe’s shoulder.
Chet was also apologetic. “I don’t blame you for being upset, but we ended up sleeping in that tree because we had no other choice. Honest!”
Tallwalker rubbed his chin. “Maybe Reuben hasn’t told me everything.”
“Where is he now?” Joe asked.
“Early this morning he packed some gear. He said he would be camping out in Gator Swamp for the next few nights to keep the rodeo people away from Twin Cypress Key.”
“I think a big part of this mystery could be cleared up if we could just talk to Reuben,” Joe suggested.
Tallwalker paused, deciding whether or not to speak. “There’s a chance you could find him. He usually camps in an abandoned poacher’s shack at the east end of Gator Swamp.”
“How are we going to get there?” Chet asked.
“I’m going to rent you a boat, of course.” Tallwalker grinned.
Five minutes later Joe was in the skipper’s perch of an airboat, getting instructions from Tallwalker on how to operate it.
Joe turned the ignition key, and the giant fan propeller spun into motion. The powerful breeze from the fan flattened the saw grass behind them. It was the loudest engine Joe had ever heard, and Chet had to cover his ears until he got used to it.
Tallwalker untied the bowline, and the boys cast off.
“Do you have the map to the poacher’s shack?” Joe shouted. Chet held up the map Tallwalker had drawn for them. Joe gave the thumbs-up sign, and they headed for the east end of Gator Swamp.
• • •
Frank checked the control panels and gauges in the cockpit as Dusty brought the hydroplane in for a landing. By watching the speedometer and keeping track of the flying time, Frank figured they were about one hundred and twenty miles north of Gator Swamp.
Dusty set the hydroplane down on a small lake that bordered the Big Cypress Alligator Farm. Frank saw a young Native American man wave to them from a clearing on the shore. The man then pointed to the ground beneath him.
“I think that’s where he wants us to park the plane,” Frank suggested. “Or dock the plane, or whatever you do with one of these things.”
Dusty smiled as he guided the hydroplane and let it coast right up onto the grass on the shore. “Willow, you old snake lover, how are you!” Dusty shouted in his booming voice.
Frank could tell by the way the two men clapped each other on the back that they were close friends.
“I’m Steven Willow,” the man said to Frank. “Welcome to Big Cypress Alligator Farm.”
“I’m Frank Hardy,” Frank replied, shaking the man’s hand.
“We need to ask you some questions about alligator behavior,” Dusty said.
“Sure. I’ve got a busy day today, so I hope you don’t mind walking while we talk.” Willow motioned them forward, and as they walked, Frank and Dusty told him about the strange attacks.
Frank thought the Big Cypress Alligator Farm looked a lot like a zoo. He saw a number of walled pits with various types and sizes of alligators, caimans, and crocodiles. There were also a dozen cages filled with snakes, iguanas, turtles, and other reptiles.
Frank heard a grunting sound from a distant corner of the farm. “What’s that?”
“Baby alligators,” Willow explained. “They grunt to let their mother know that they’ve hatched.”
Willow stopped beside one of the pits. Frank looked into it and counted twenty-one alligators lying in the sun at the edge of a shallow moat filled with water. The alligators were so still that Frank thought they looked like stuffed replicas.
One rose up on its stumpy legs, walked to the edge of the moat, and slid into the water. Although none of them were nearly the size of the giant that attacked Joe, Frank felt a little nervous when Willow climbed down a ladder into the pit, armed with nothing but a six-foot-long wooden pole and a small bag.
First, Willow approached one of the alligators from behind. “They have a lousy field of vision,” Willow explained. “Humphrey can’t see me right now.”
“Humphrey?” Frank wondered aloud.
“This screwball names all his alligators,” Dusty replied. “To tell the truth, I don’t know how he tells them apart.”
Willow grabbed Humphrey by the tail and swiftly dragged him backward and away from the others. In an instant, Willow had dropped onto the alligator’s back, grabbed its snout, and pulled its head up. Pulling a rope from his bag, he wrapped it around the alligator’s snout, securing the jaws.
“All the alligator’s muscles are for biting down,” Willow explained. “Once the jaws are shut, I can keep them shut with my two fingers.”
“You look like a calf roper.” Dusty laughed.
“Tell me, Dusty, you ever heard of a calf biting off a man’s fingers?” Willow joked.
The image of Zack Platt’s missing fingers shot through Frank’s mind. “Did Humphrey bite off someone’s fingers?” he asked Willow.
“Shh,” Willow warned Frank as he rolled Humphrey over and, still sitting on top of him, began rubbing the smooth white underbelly. In a minute, he had put Humphrey to sleep.
“Tell me if any of the others try to sneak up on me,” Willow said with a grin. Frank had to admire Willow’s style. The man seemed fearless.
“Humphrey’s sick,” Willow explained, pulling a vial of medicine and a large syringe from his bag. “As you can see, he doesn’t like taking his medicine.” The reptile expert gave the alligator an injection, rolled him back over, untied his snout, then quickly climbed out of the pit.
“As for your alligator problem,” Willow continued, wiping off his hands on a rag, “it sounds as if she was protecting her nest. My only guess is the alligator’s usual breeding area is polluted or has dried up. Otherwise, she wouldn’t want to lay her eggs on your island.”
“What about the second attack on our pedal boat?” Frank asked. “We weren’t near her nest.”
Willow shrugged. “Could be she’s sick or starving. Without checking the alligator myself firsthand, I can’t give you one clear answer.”
They were walking past another pit now, and curiosity made Frank take a look. He saw a sign that read Big Bertha, Largest Alligator in Florida. There appeared to be no alligator in the pit.
“Where’s Big Bertha hiding?” Frank asked.
Willow frowned. “Strangest thing . . . I opened up two days ago and th
e pit was empty. Fifteen feet of alligator, gone. Her eggs were gone, too. The locks were still on the gates. I can’t figure it out.”
“Sounds like a lot of trouble. Who would take such a big risk to steal one alligator?” Dusty asked.
Willow shrugged. “Big Bertha was the meanest alligator I’ve ever seen. It would take an expert handler to get her out. Could have been someone from another alligator farm.”
Frank’s eyes widened, as he began connecting things in his mind. Zack Platt’s missing fingers, a stolen alligator, the locks on the gates still intact. Things were falling into place.
Willow continued, “But they’ll never get away with it. Bertha is easily identified.”
“She has one white eye,” Frank blurted.
Willow looked stunned. “Yes, she’s blind in that eye. How did you know?”
“Did a man named Zack Platt ever work here?” Frank asked.
“Yeah, briefly,” Willow replied. “I fired him last winter because I caught him stealing from the cash register.”
“And Humphrey bit off two of his fingers?” Frank guessed.
Willow looked at Dusty. “Is Frank psychic?”
“No, he’s just the smartest sleuth since Sherlock Holmes!” Dusty responded proudly.
“I think Zack Platt planted Big Bertha on your island to keep people away from that part of Gator Swamp,” Frank said with excitement in his voice.
“Why?” Dusty asked.
“He’s hunting for something, and I don’t think it’s alligators,” Frank concluded.
“What is it, then?” Dusty demanded.
“A sunken treasure,” Frank replied.
“From an old Spanish galleon?” Willow asked.
“No, from a bank vault in Miami,” Frank replied. “But I don’t want to make more accusations until I have some proof,” he added. “Dusty, could you take me to Frog’s Peninsula? I want to talk to Deputy Miles as soon as possible.”
Willow escorted Dusty and Frank back to the shore of the lake and helped them slide the hydroplane off the grass and back into the water.
“Here’s your chance,” Dusty said, opening the door to the hydroplane and pointing to the pilot’s seat. “Ready to try a takeoff?”
Lost in Gator Swamp Page 4