Lost in Gator Swamp

by Franklin W. Dixon

  While Frank placed the call to Bayport, Joe and Chet headed to the bunkhouse where the riders dressed and prepared for their events. The place was bustling with activity when they entered. Cowboys were pulling on their boots, tying on their chaps, or rubbing ointment on their sore spots from the opening day’s events. Others were playing cards at a table at the back.

  Randy Stevens stepped up to one of the lockers. When he saw Joe, he started to walk away, but Joe grabbed him by the shoulder and stopped him.

  “Hey, Joe!” Randy said. “I lost track of you guys at the barbecue. What happened?”

  Joe wanted to say, Cut the baloney, I saw you run away, but he was afraid to tip his hand too early. “Yeah, I don’t know what happened either. By the way, Frank saw you today at the Big Cypress Alligator Farm.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Randy replied.

  “That wasn’t your white truck?” Joe pressed.

  “I can’t—” Randy stopped himself. “I mean, I don’t own a truck. I’ve been working at the gas station all—” Randy stopped himself again, flustered.

  “What gas station?” Joe asked.

  “Forget it,” Randy said quickly. “Listen, I’ve got to get to the ring. I’m riding a bull named Storm Cloud, and I need to get prepared mentally.”

  “Bull riding is the most dangerous competition in the rodeo,” Chet pointed out. “Aren’t you kind of young for that?”

  “I’m eighteen!” Randy said angrily. “You just watch me.”

  Randy spun the dial on his combination lock and opened his locker. He began quickly searching for something, growing distressed. “Hey, where’s my—”

  “What?” Joe asked.

  “My good-luck charm,” Randy said, giving Joe and Chet an accusing look. “Someone’s stolen it.”

  “Hey, we just got here,” Chet said defensively.

  “Somebody must have picked the lock.”

  “Who would do that?” Joe grilled Randy.

  Randy didn’t respond. Instead, he grabbed his hat out of his locker and turned to leave.

  “Your hat!” Joe exclaimed.

  “What about it?” Randy asked, puzzled.

  Joe was too surprised to speak for a moment. Randy was holding a black Stetson hat with a red feather. “Where’s your white hat with the orange-and-black feather?”

  “Huh?” Randy was clearly confused. “Look, I’ve got to go.” Randy pushed by Joe and out the side door leading to the bull pens.

  “Why would Randy change hats?” Joe wondered aloud. “Does he know that we’re on to him?”

  “He must know,” Chet remarked. “A few simple questions about his driving a white truck and being too young for bull riding and he practically jumped out of his skin.”

  “Joe!” Frank shouted, rushing in. “Dad just gave me some incredible news. I think I know what they’re looking for in Gator Swamp. It turns out the robbers didn’t steal currency from that bank vault in Miami.”

  “What did they steal?” Chet asked.

  Lights went off in Joe’s head. Frank opened his mouth to respond, but Joe beat him to it. “Gold coins.”

  Frank stared at his brother, baffled. “Yes! Half a million dollars in rare gold coins. How did you know?”

  “Reuben’s metal detector, Deputy Miles saying she didn’t have to worry about the loot floating off, and then the gold coin Randy was flipping last night,” Joe explained. “It suddenly all fits together.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said. “We need to get a closer look at Randy’s coin, and pronto.”

  Chet and Joe glanced at each other, frowning.

  “Randy says somebody stole his coin out of his locker,” Joe explained.

  “He said they picked his lock,” Chet added, pointing to Randy’s locker.

  Frank examined the lock. “This is a heavy-duty lock. To pick a lock like this, you’d have to know your stuff.”

  “You mean you’d have to be a locksmith?” Chet asked.

  “A locksmith,” Frank said with a grin, “or a safecracker!”

  10 Live Robbers and Lost Gold

  * * *

  “You’re right! One of the robbers who drowned must have been a safecracker,” Chet said.

  “What if the robbers didn’t drown?” Frank asked his companions.

  “If their stolen airboat was found at the bottom of Florida Bay,” Joe pointed out, “it’s safe to assume they drowned.”

  “And if they survived, what would they be doing back in Gator Swamp?” Chet asked.

  Frank was ready with a hunch. “The robbers knew they were being pursued. What if they ditched the evidence? What if they hid the coins in the swamp?”

  “Then they wouldn’t have to search,” Joe said. “They could have gone right back to the spot and recovered them, unless—” Joe stopped midsentence as an idea struck him. “With the wind and rough water of the winter storm, the coins could have been knocked overboard!”

  “Little brother, sometimes your hunches surprise even me,” Frank said, slapping Joe on the shoulder.

  “Wait a second,” Chet argued. “What makes you think Randy’s telling the truth about his coin being stolen? We’re pretty sure he’s lied to us about everything else.”

  “Chet’s right, Frank,” Joe admitted.

  “Hmm.” Frank thought it over. “If anyone would know who Randy Stevens is, I’m looking at him,” he said, eyeing a card player at the back of the bunkhouse. Joe turned to look. It took him a moment to recognize Barney Quick, the rodeo clown, without his white makeup and red ten-gallon hat.

  “Mr. Quick?” Frank said, approaching the table. “We’re sorry to interrupt your game, but we were interested in one of the rodeo contestants. What can you tell us about Randy Stevens?”

  “Nothing,” Quick replied.

  “Nothing?” Chet repeated.

  “Well, I know an Ernie Stevens,” Quick recalled, playing a card. “He moved to Frog’s Peninsula a year ago. Runs the all-night service station. He has a boy at the junior high, I think. But the boy wouldn’t be old enough to ride rodeo.”

  “Randy must have ridden rodeo somewhere,” Joe insisted.

  “I’d say no,” Quick replied. “But if you don’t believe me, check the book.”

  “The book?” Chet asked.

  “The rodeo book. Mr. Deeter’s got it,” Quick explained. “It’ll have names and statistics on any rodeo in America.” Quick tossed his cards on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, boys, I have to get into my makeup.”

  The boys thanked Barney Quick as he headed out through the side door.

  “I’ll ask Mr. Deeter about that book,” Frank suggested. “You and Chet better get into the grandstands. We don’t want to miss Dusty’s ride.”

  “But we still haven’t found Reuben,” Joe said.

  “Maybe he’s afraid to show up,” Chet reasoned.

  “Reuben, afraid?” Joe shook his head. “No way. He’s got to be around here someplace. Go ahead, Chet, and save us some good seats.”

  The three boys split up. Frank caught Melvin Deeter just as he was leaving his trailer and asked about looking at the rodeo book.

  “I have to get to the announcer’s booth at the main ring,” Deeter replied. He saw the concerned look on Frank’s face. “Is it something connected to that bank robbery?”

  “I’m afraid it is,” Frank replied.

  Deeter paused. Then he unlocked his door, stepped in, grabbed a thick book off his desk, and handed it to Frank. “Be careful with it, son. Bring it to me in the announcer’s booth when you’re finished.”

  Frank found some good light near the concession stand, and he began rapidly skimming through the lists of rodeos all over America. Ten minutes later he slammed the book shut and went off to find Chet and Joe.

  Frank found Chet by the bulletin board where the entries and results were posted. Chet had a half-eaten corn dog in his hand and a puzzled look on his face. “What’s wrong, Chet?”

  Chet turned to Frank. “I can’t find h
is name.”

  “Neither can I,” Frank said. “I’ve checked every rodeo in the last three years. Randy Stevens is nowhere—”

  “Not Randy Stevens,” Chet interrupted. “Trent Furman.”

  “What?” Frank asked.

  “I was hanging around the bulletin board hoping to scare up a steer-roping partner,” Chet explained, “and I started looking at the board. Mr. Furman’s been bragging about winning the bronco-busting trophy at the rodeo in Fargo, North Dakota, but he didn’t even enter the competition here.”

  Frank’s eyes widened. “Wait a second!” Frank started paging through the rodeo book.

  “In fact,” Chet added, “he isn’t entered in a single category.”

  “Here it is!” Frank exclaimed. “The Fargo Rodeo.” He paused. “Trent Furman not only didn’t win the bronco-busting competition, he never even competed.”

  • • •

  Joe had searched all over the rodeo grounds, but no one had seen Reuben Tallwalker since the day before.

  He was passing the bull pens when he thought he heard someone whispering. He stopped and listened. He heard snorts and huffs from the huge animals, then the whispering again.

  Crouching down, Joe moved silently along the fence until he came to a pen with the name Señor Cyclone hanging on the gate. Inside the pen was a huge charcoal gray bull.

  Whispering into the animal’s ear was Reuben Tallwalker. “You are a great warrior, but you will not throw me. Tonight is mine.” Reuben cocked his head, listening. “Someone is outside your gate, skulking about like a weasel.”

  Joe stood up tall. “I’m not skulking. I just didn’t want you to run away from me again.”

  With one smooth motion, Reuben pulled himself up and over the gate, until he stood face-to-face with Joe. “I’m not running.”

  “Neither am I,” Joe replied. “Here, you dropped this.” Joe handed Reuben his rodeo number. “Forty-five. That’s yours, right?”

  Reuben slipped it in his pocket. “So?”

  “We found it in the woods beside the highway last night. You lost it while you were following us,” Joe accused him.

  “Why didn’t you come get me?” Reuben taunted. “Were you afraid?”

  “Last night it was too dark,” Joe replied. “This afternoon, I didn’t like the look of the machete you were carrying.”

  “This afternoon?” Reuben asked. “So you were out in the swamp again today. That was your equipment in the poacher’s shack,” Reuben accused.

  “Our equipment?” Joe said in disbelief. “Why would we have a snorkeling mask and a metal detector?”

  Reuben’s eyes narrowed. “So you could search for arrowheads or some lost Seminole treasure you think is there. Desecrating an island that was sacred to my forefathers.”

  “You’ve got the wrong guys and the wrong crime, Reuben,” Joe explained.

  Reuben wasn’t listening. “Dusty Cole respects our island, but not you and your snooping brother.”

  Joe protested. “My brother and I are trying to find the people responsible for a bank heist!”

  “You’re a liar,” Reuben broke in.

  “Ask your grandfather,” Joe replied. “He knows that we meant no harm.”

  “I called you a liar,” Reuben repeated.

  Joe could tell Reuben was looking for a fight, and he was ready to give it to him. “I’m giving you three seconds to take that back,” Joe added hotly.

  “Hey, what’s going on here!” One of Deeter’s cowhands moved in quickly between Joe and Reuben. “The bull riding is about to start. Isn’t that enough excitement for you boys?”

  “We’ll continue this later,” Reuben said as he stormed off to the rodeo ring.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Joe replied coolly.

  As much as he wanted to clock Reuben one to the jaw, Joe found it hard to believe that the proud young man could be a bank robber or a safecracker.

  • • •

  “It’s about time!” Chet said as Joe sat down with him and Frank in the grandstands. “Four riders have already gone, and not one stayed on his bull’s back long enough to qualify.”

  “I found Reuben,” Joe replied. “He actually accused us of owning the equipment in the poacher’s shack.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Chet grumbled. “No one tells the truth about anything around here.”

  Chet and Frank explained what they had discovered about Randy Stevens and Trent Furman not having been listed in a single rodeo.

  “So Furman is a fraud, and maybe Randy, too,” Joe said.

  “Don’t forget Reuben,” Chet added.

  “The thing is, Chet,” Joe said, “I almost believe Reuben.”

  “Why?” Chet asked. “Who else would have snorkeling equipment and a metal detector in Reuben’s shack?”

  The answer suddenly hit Joe. “Zack Platt! Of course! He asked about snorkeling equipment the day we got here. He could have easily stolen Tallwalker’s flashlight while my back was turned. He used the poacher’s shack to store his equipment because someone—like Randy—told him it was abandoned.”

  Frank picked up the story. “And instead of hunting Big Bertha in Gator Swamp last night, he was searching for the coins with the metal detector.”

  “Right,” Joe concurred.

  “It’s a solid theory, Joe,” Frank said. “Now we need to prove it.”

  “The next contestant is . . . ” Deeter’s voice echoed through the public-address system. “Dusty Cole riding Texas Twister!”

  “Come on, Dusty!” Chet shouted.

  The boys could see Dusty lowering himself onto the bull’s back. He wound the guide rope tightly around his gloved hand, then nodded to one of the rodeo clowns that he was ready. The rodeo clown swung the gate wide open.

  Texas Twister was as good as his name. The bull jerked and twisted like a whirling tornado, kicking up dirt in every direction. Dusty couldn’t have been happier. Giving his trademark whoop and holler, he hung on through the qualifying bell and got a massive round of applause from the crowd.

  “Way to go, Dusty!” Frank shouted. Dusty tipped his hat to the three boys and smiled.

  “Good ride, Dusty!” Deeter added over the public-address system. “Our next contestant is Randy Stevens, riding Storm Cloud.”

  Three pairs of eyes snapped over to the pen where Randy was lowering himself onto the bull’s back. He held up his hand, letting the rodeo clown know he wasn’t ready.

  “He looks awfully scared,” Chet pointed out.

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed. “But is he scared about the bull or about something else?”

  Randy took a deep breath, then grabbed the guide rope and was about to loop it around his gloved hand when Barney Quick suddenly swung the gate wide open.

  Storm Cloud blasted out into the ring, bucking wildly and yanking the guide rope out of Randy’s hand. There were screams and shouts from the crowd. Randy was helpless, having nothing to hold on to except for the bull’s hide.

  Suddenly Storm Cloud spun completely around in midair, hurling Randy off his back and into the fence. The crowd gasped in horror.

  “Mr. Quick isn’t doing anything to help Randy!” Chet shouted, pointing toward the gate.

  Frank spotted the rodeo clown running out of the ring and toward the bunkhouse, shielding his face with his ten-gallon hat. “This may have been a setup!” Frank shouted.

  “Or a frame-up. Come on, guys!” Joe yelled. The Hardys ran down the steps of the grandstands and vaulted over the railing into the ring. Chet followed close behind.

  Joe saw Randy trying to get to his feet. Stunned, he fell back to one knee. Storm Cloud had turned and was bearing down on the dazed teenager. Joe gave a loud whistle and waved his hands frantically, trying to get the bull’s attention.

  Storm Cloud turned toward the noise. Frank and Chet rushed to Randy, helping him over to the fence, where two cowhands pulled him to safety.

  “Uh-oh,” Joe muttered as Storm Cloud lowered his head and
charged. Joe ran full steam toward the closest railing. He heard the bull snorting behind him and felt its hot breath on his back.

  Joe knew he was about to be sandwiched between the fence and the bull’s deadly horns.

  At the last second, Joe jumped. He grasped the top railing and pulled up his feet just as the bull’s horns crashed against the slats of the fence below him.

  Storm Cloud hit the fence with such force that it shook Joe’s grip loose, and he fell down into the ring and onto his back.

  Joe saw Frank behind the bull, shouting, trying to get the bull’s attention, but Storm Cloud was now focused on the younger Hardy. Joe made a break for the other side of the ring.

  But the distance was too far, and the bull was too fast. Storm Cloud was catching Joe, and he knew he would never make it to the fence in time.

  11 A Lot of Bull

  * * *

  “Faster, Joe!” Frank shouted across the ring. But Joe was running as fast as he could through the deep, soft dirt in the ring.

  Suddenly Storm Cloud stumbled as Chet’s lasso wrapped around the bull’s hind leg. It was the break Joe needed. “Way to go, Chet!” he shouted, as he took a flying leap toward the top railing and managed to pull himself up to safety.

  Meanwhile, Chet was being jerked around the ring in every direction. Yanked off his feet and dragged through the dirt, he lost his grip on the rope.

  “Over here, Chet!” Joe shouted, motioning for his friend to run toward him.

  Chet jumped, grabbing a slat halfway up the fence. Joe leaned over, pulling on Chet’s wrist with all his might, and yanked him over the fence just as Storm Cloud crashed into the spot where Chet had been.

  Seeing his friend and his brother out of danger, Frank climbed the fence to safety. Finally two other rodeo clowns ran into the ring through a second gate and got the bull under control.

  By the time Frank reached the other side of the grandstand to join Joe and Chet, Dusty had heard about the accident and rushed over from the bunkhouse.

  Everyone was standing around Randy Stevens, who was being attended to by a paramedic.

  “What happened?” Dusty asked.