FENTON HARDY'S STORY
Lucky Bottom was a particularly desolate place in the winter time. It
was not especially prepossessing at any season, but when the cold winds
blew down from the rocky mountainsides and when snow drifted deep in
the narrow street Lucky Bottom seemed like a deserted village. It had
once been a prosperous mining camp, but one by one the mines had been
worked out until now there was but one left. A few prospectors made the
village their headquarters still, hanging on in the vain hope of some
day making a lucky strike that would restore the town to its former
grandeur, but the general impression prevailed that Lucky Bottom's days
were numbered.
There were a few gaunt, hard-bitten individuals on the station platform
when the Hardy boys got off the train. They were the only passengers
that day and evidently it was unusual for any one to alight at Lucky
Bottom, because the loungers stared at them as if they were beings
from another world.
"Can you tell me where Hank Shale's cabin is?" asked Frank of one of
the men leaning against the station.
The native shifted his chew of tobacco, spat into the snow, and
reflected.
"Straight down Main Street," he said. "Then you start climbin' the
hill. When you get to the top of the hill you'll find Hank's place. You
can see it from here."
He conducted them to the end of the platform and pointed to the top
of a hill back of the collection of shacks comprising the town. The
boys could see a small log cabin, almost hidden by trees and almost
buried in the snow. The distance was not great, so Frank and Joe, after
thanking the man who had directed them, started off toward the cabin.
They went through Lucky Bottom, which was nothing more than a
collection of shacks and cabins ranged on either side of a wide street,
and struck out up the hill until the street came to an end. There they
followed a narrow path through the snow until at length they reached
Hank Shale's place.
Their approach had evidently been seen, because the door opened as they
neared the cabin and an elderly man with heavy, drooping mustache stood
awaiting them.
"You the Hardy lads?" he inquired, in a piping voice.
"Yes. This is Mr. Shale's place, isn't it?" returned Frank.
"Come in. Come in," invited Hank Shale, standing aside to let them
enter. "We've been expecting you this last day."
The boys entered a small, two-roomed cabin, a typical bachelor's
residence, which, however, was kept scrupulously neat. They had barely
time to look around before Hank Shale led the way to the adjoining room.
"Your father's in here," he said. "Come along."
They followed the man into the bedroom, and there they saw Fenton Hardy
lying on a small cot. He sat up in bed as they entered, and held out
his hand.
"Hello, sons!" he greeted them, with his cheerful smile. "Glad to see
you."
When greetings had been exchanged, Hank Shale took the boys' coats
and hats and began setting the table for supper. Soon the cabin was
redolent with the fragrant odor of coffee. While Hank was busy in the
other room, the boys had a chance to talk with their father.
"But how did you get hurt, Dad?" asked Frank.
Fenton Hardy leaned back on his pillow with a sigh.
"I cracked two of my ribs," he told them. "Tumbled down off a big rock
back in the mountains, and now I'm laid up until the ribs mend again.
I'm thankful it wasn't a great deal worse."
"We thought perhaps some one had shot you."
"No, it wasn't that bad. I was chasing a fellow at the time, and if it
hadn't been for falling off the rock I would have caught him. So my
good friend Hank Shale insisted that I come to his cabin until my ribs
set again. It isn't very serious, but it will keep me indoors for a
while. That's why I sent for you."
"You want us to take up the case where you left off?"
Their father nodded.
"I'll be able to help you considerably, even if I am laid up," he said.
"But what delayed you? We expected you here yesterday."
The Hardy boys glanced at one another.
"You must have enemies that knew we were coming, Dad," Frank said.
"They tried to sidetrack us in Chicago. We were delayed a whole day
there."
"How was that?"
The boys then told their father of their meeting with the man who
called himself Hopkins, of being locked in the compartment on the
wrong train, of their fight on the road and of their eventual return
to Chicago. When they told him of their simple disguise on the trip
westward he nodded approval. When they told him of the rough-looking
man who had searched the train for them at the mining village he
frowned.
"Just as I expected," he remarked. "Some one must have got their hands
on a copy of that telegram I sent you."
"The operator wouldn't give it out."
"No. But they may have tapped the wires. They would know that if I sent
a message it would be to bring some one out here to help me. And this
gang I have been fighting are capable of anything."
"Who are they?"
"It's a long story, boys. But seeing that you're going to be working on
the case, I may as well give you all the information I have. This case
concerns a quantity of gold that was stolen from three miners. One of
these men, called Bart Dawson--"
"Bart Dawson!" exclaimed Frank and Joe simultaneously.
Their father looked at them in surprise.
"Yes. Do you know him?"
"Why, that's the man Jadbury Wilson mentioned!" Frank exclaimed.
"And who, may I ask, is Jadbury Wilson?"
"We'll tell you later, Dad. It may not be the same fellow, but he
mentioned a miner named Bart Dawson. Go on with the story, and then we
can tell you about Wilson."
"Well, this chap Dawson called me out here on the case and told me
that the gold was stolen from them by a gang of outlaws who have been
terrorizing this district for years. The outlaws are known as Black
Pepper's Gang."
"Black Pepper! And his real name is Jack Pepperill."
"You seem to know as much about these fellows as I do myself," said the
detective, in surprise.
"We'll tell you how we happened to hear about him. It's the same man
all right. Go ahead."
"Black Pepper's gang stole the gold from these miners. I discovered
that before I'd been working on the case two days. We laid a trap for
two members of the gang and managed to capture them. Then we threatened
them with imprisonment if they didn't tell where the gold had gone to.
They declared that one member of the gang had deserted and had taken
the gold with him. The gold was in four bags, and although the outlaws
gave chase and finally caught this man, the bags had disappeared. Try
as they might, they could not get the fellow to admit where he had
hidden it. He denied the theft utterly, said he had seen nothing of
the gold, and that night he escaped.
"The outlaws were of the opinion that the gold had been hidden
somewhere in a deserted mine shaft. That was the story the two rascals
told us, and it was while I was checking up on this story that I was
attacked by Black Pepper himself. I managed to fight him off and
disarmed him, but he got away so I chased him and it was while I was
chasing him that I fell off the rock and cracked my ribs."
"And that's how the case stands now?"
"That's how it stands now. I don't know whether to believe the two
outlaws we captured or not. They may have been telling the truth. The
gold may have really been stolen by the chap who deserted them. They
said he later escaped from them and that they thought he had probably
gone back to where he had hidden the gold and made away with it."
"In that case there wouldn't be much chance of getting it again."
"It's that circumstance that makes me suspicious of the story. If
the deserter had recovered the gold and cleared out, the outlaws
would likely give up hunting for it and they would certainly give up
bothering me. But they are still in the vicinity and I have an idea
they know just where the gold is and are waiting for a chance to get
their hands on it. I think this story about the chap deserting from the
gang and making away with the loot is false. They just wanted to throw
me off the trail and probably thought I'd give up the case and go back
East, leaving them a clear field."
"What is your theory about the gold?"
"I think they know where it is, all right. They have it hidden away
safely but they don't dare remove it. They'll wait until the affair
dies down and then they'll probably separate and leave this district,
meeting somewhere else to divide the loot."
"Our problem is--"
"To find that gold." Fenton Hardy looked steadily at his sons as he
said this. "I have a lot of confidence in you," he went on. "It just
requires a lot of hard work and keeping your eyes open. Mainly, it will
keep the gang on the jump. They'll know we haven't given up the case
and they'll be afraid to do anything. And now," he said, "you might
tell me how you happen to have heard the names of Bart Dawson and Black
Pepper before."
Frank and Joe then told their father of their meeting with Jadbury
Wilson, the old miner who said he had once lived in Lucky Bottom. They
deemed it best not to mention the fact that Jadbury Wilson suspected
Bart Dawson of stealing from him. If Bart Dawson were back in Lucky
Bottom they felt safer in reserving this bit of information. They
merely told their father that Wilson had mentioned the names of Dawson
and Black Pepper, among others, as having lived in Lucky Bottom at the
time he had been a miner there.
"What kind of chap is Dawson?" asked Frank.
"One of the finest!" declared their father promptly. "He is a real
square-shooter, as the miners would say. The loss of the gold has
broken him all up. He told me he had had hard luck all his life and now
that he had a fortune within his grasp it was heart-breaking to lose it
again."
Frank could not help thinking that life had evidently paid back Bart
Dawson in his own coin. He had stolen a fortune from Jadbury Wilson
after Wilson had endured hard luck for years. Now he was getting a
taste of his own medicine. Still, it seemed strange that Fenton Hardy
should be so convinced of Dawson's honesty if he were the type of man
who would rob his own partners.
"Come and get it!" piped Hank Shale, from the next room.
"That's the supper call," laughed Mr. Hardy. "You must be hungry after
your journey. Better go and eat. Hank will bring me mine in here."
Nothing loath, the two boys went into the combination living room and
kitchen, where Hank Shale was already dishing out piping hot beans
and stew from an enormous pot. What with huge slabs of bread, thickly
buttered, and excellent coffee, the boys sat down to their supper with
a will. They ate off tin plates and drank from tin cups, but they
agreed that no meal could have tasted better. Even the food of the
dining car on the train, exquisitely cooked and served though it had
been, seemed somehow to lack the flavor of this meal in Hank Shale's
mountain cabin.
Hank, like most men who have lived a solitary existence, was a silent
man. He said nothing throughout the meal, but as he watched the boys
eat and as he responded to their request for second helpings, a slow
smile crept over his wrinkled face.
"That's the best meal I ever ate!" declared Frank emphatically, when he
had cleared his plate for the second time.
"Me too," agreed Joe.
"Glad ye like it," said Hank Shale, deeply pleased.