Farming Fear (8 page)

As the Mortons bustled about, busy with other tasks, Joe looked at Frank.

“We really blew this one,” he whispered. “Not only did we lose the bad guys, but we sank the buggy as well.”

Frank nodded grimly. “We’ve got a lot to make up for. We can’t let the Mortons down again.”

•  •  •

By mid morning, the snow had subsided, though it didn’t let up entirely. Plows cleared Kendall Ridge Road and, aside from Bernie being missing, life at the farm returned to its winter routine.

The Hardys slept in late, recovering from their ordeal. They woke feeling achy and cramped, but still much better than they had the previous night.

If the Mortons felt angry about the brothers driving the buggy into the pond, none of them showed it when the Hardys came down for a very late breakfast. Grandpa happily served the brothers ham and eggs, while Iola brought toast and juice. Chet kept busy washing the dishes, and Grandma returned to housecleaning.

The normality of the whole routine made Frank and Joe feel even more guilty. The Mortons were good people, and certainly didn’t need the added grief that the Hardys had inadvertently caused.

“You missed quite a parade of well-wishers this morning,” Chet commented as the brothers ate.

“Oh?” Joe asked.

“J.J. stopped by,” Iola said, picking up her brother’s train of thought. “So did Patsy Stein and Gail Sanchez.”

“What did they want?” Frank asked.

“The usual,” Grandpa replied. “J. J. was just checkin’ in on us. Sanchez came by to try and pawn off some of her ‘top of the line’ snow removal equipment. And Stein’s still making insulting offers to buy the farm.”

“I guess she figures if she pesters you enough, you might give in,” Joe said.

Grandpa paused and stretched, as though his back were aching. “Sometimes this farm does seem more trouble than it’s worth,” he admitted, “but I don’t really think that Bayport needs another mall
no matter how top-class it is.” He shot the teenagers a half smile.

“Mr. Myint doesn’t agree, apparently,” Iola said. “Ms. Stein said he’s already signed aboard her plan.”

Grandpa harrumphed. “Just because Patsy Stein says something, doesn’t make it true.”

Joe and Frank glanced at each other, each wondering about Stein’s connection to the farm’s troubles.

“Maybe we can drag the buggy out of the pond today,” Frank suggested.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Grandma said, poking her head in from the other room. “We don’t want you straining yourselves after your close call last night.”

“We’d really feel better if we brought it home,” Joe said.

Grandma shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. I don’t want either of you gettin’ sick over that old piece of junk. A day or two in the ice won’t hurt it. You two take it easy today.”

Reluctantly, Joe and Frank nodded. “Yeah, okay,” Joe said.

“Good,” Grandpa said. “With Chet and Iola’s help, even if Bill’s snowed in, I think we can manage all the chores around this place. You two relax and recover.”

“If you’re really itching to do something,” Grandma added, “turn your brains on figuring out who took Bernie.”

“No news from the police?” Frank asked.

“We called ’em, but they didn’t have anything new,” Grandpa replied.

“We’ll see what we can do, then,” Joe promised.

He and Frank finished their breakfast while the Mortons went about their chores. After cleaning up, the brothers donned their snow gear—which Grandma had run through the dryer while they slept—and headed back outside.

“Looks like it’s foot patrol for us today,” Joe said.

“After nearly freezing last night, stretching our legs will probably do us good,” Frank replied. “At least it’s warmer out today than it was last night.”

“And not so snowy,” Joe agreed. “I don’t think Grandma Morton would mind us taking a walk. Where do you want to start?”

“That spur of pine woods to the east,” Frank suggested. “We know the snowmobilers went through there. Maybe we can pick up their tracks.”

“That’s a pretty good hike,” Joe replied.

Frank smiled wryly. “Think of it as penance,” he said.

On their way to the forest, they walked past the pond where they’d swamped the buggy. Both brothers felt relieved that there didn’t seem to be much damage, aside from the fact that the vehicle’s nose was wedged into the water. The temperature was hovering around freezing, and little ice had reformed where the buggy broke through.

“Maybe we should pull it out anyway,” Joe suggested.

Frank shook his head. “The Mortons told us not to,” he replied. “They’re not mad at us right now, but if we broke Grandma’s ‘orders’ they might be.”

Joe reluctantly agreed, and the two continued on to the south-reaching spur of the big pine forest. Inside the woods, it didn’t take them long to discover snowmobile tracks peeking out amid the drifts.

“Hey,” Frank said, “check this out. There are some dog prints next to these snowmobile tracks over here.”

“Do you think they might be from Bernie?” Joe asked.

“Could be,” Frank replied. “They look big enough.”

“The dog track is on top of the tread impression,” Joe said. “So the dog was here
after
the snowmobile. Could Bernie have escaped?”

Frank shrugged. “Let’s follow the tracks and see where they lead,” he suggested.

The brothers trudged through the woods for ten minutes, heading north toward the power lines. They nearly lost the trail a few times, but finally reached the edge of the forest.

Joe scratched his head. “Okay,” he said, “I think we’re on the wrong track.” He stooped to examine a patch of tracks on the ground. “It looks like there’s more than one dog here.”

“I think that’s a reasonable assumption,” Frank said, his voice suddenly filled with tension.

Joe looked up just as a loud growling shattered the stillness of the snowy winter air.

At the edge of the woods on the other side of the power lines prowled a pack of angry-looking dogs. And as soon as the canines spotted the brothers, they charged.

The pack ran directly for the Hardys, bounding across the treeless swath surrounding the power lines. Savage barks and angry howls cut through the chilly afternoon air.

“Run!” Frank cried.

The brothers turned and sprinted back toward the forest. They had a sixty-yard head start on the pack, and both Frank and Joe were good runners. The snow slowed them down, though, and even the fastest human sprinter couldn’t outrun swift dogs like these for long.

Joe glanced back as they ran, sizing up their pursuers. “I see six,” he told Frank. “Two are huskies, two look like shepherd mixes, and two are mutts.”

“That’s a pretty odd pack for a bunch of wild dogs,”
Frank said, not slowing down as they conversed.

“You’re thinking someone set them on us?”

“Maybe. Did you see any collars?”

“I wasn’t looking that close,” Joe replied. “You can stop and check for tags if you like.”

“No thanks,” Frank said. “We may get a better look soon anyway.” He smiled ruefully.

“I’d give about anything for a good set of skis right now,” Joe said.

“Why don’t you wish us up a snowmobile instead,” Frank suggested. Both brothers kept their tones light, though each realized the graveness of their situation. Caught in the wilderness with no weapons, if they were caught by the pack, they stood little chance.

The snarls and barks of the dogs grew louder.

“They’re gaining on us,” Frank said, daring a backward glance.

“Up into the trees,” Joe suggested. “It’s our only hope.”

Both brothers headed for the nearest climbable pines. They picked separate trees, not wanting to chance their combined weight on just one. They scrambled up into the low-hanging branches as swiftly as squirrels. The dogs leaped after them, snapping at their heels. The brothers shinnied up the trunks, out of reach.

“Well,” Joe said, panting, “that was . . . stimulating.”
He clung precariously to the branches of a big white pine.

“Not something I plan to do every day,” Frank commented. He sat perched in a similar tree, about five yards away from his brother. Powdery snow drifted down from the branches above him, chilling the older Hardy’s face.

The stray dogs circled around the trees, howling and barking, looking up hungrily at the brothers.

“Do you have the cell phone?” Frank asked.

Joe nodded. “I stuffed it into my pocket before we went out, just in case.” He fished the phone out of his parka, pressed a few buttons, and then frowned. “Nothing!” he said, frustrated. “I can’t get a signal.”

“Maybe it’s interference from the electric towers,” Frank suggested. “Or maybe the farm is in one of those cell phone ‘dead zones.’”

“Either way, we’re up a tree, literally and figuratively,” Joe said, putting the phone away. “Maybe we can throw some pinecones at them, scare them off.”

“It’s worth a try,” he said. “I don’t have a better idea, at any rate.”

The brothers inched higher up their trees until they could reach clusters of big pinecones dangling overhead. When they’d collected enough ammunition, they took aim at the pack circling below.

“Try for their noses,” Frank said. “If we can give them a good enough sting, maybe they’ll back off.”

They pelted the dogs with pinecones for several minutes, scoring a few hits and being rewarded with several yelps. The pack wasn’t discouraged, though. The dogs quickly became wise to the brothers’ tactics and scurried back, out of easy range, while continuing to circle the trees from a safe distance.

“I suppose we could try lighting the pinecones on fire,” Joe said, feeling frustrated.

“Too tricky,” Frank said, shaking his head. “Climbing down and brandishing lit branches might work, though. A makeshift torch would at least keep them at bay.”

“Or we could try to wait them out,” Joe replied. “We’re well-clothed, well-fed, and dry. It’s not like we’re going to perish any time soon.”

Frank glanced up through the branches at the gray winter sky and the blowing snow. “The storm’s building,” he said. “If we stay here too long, we’ll be blundering back to the farm in a snowstorm again—assuming the dogs leave at all.”

“All right,” Joe said. “The flaming branch idea is worth a shot. Do you have any matches?”

“I was an Eagle Scout,” Frank replied. “I
always
have matches.”

The brothers climbed lower, searching out dead branches to make torches with. They had their
pocketknives as well as matches and soon selected a few good limbs to make into firebrands.

As Joe was cutting through his branch, though, the treelimb under him creaked loudly and then snapped.

“Joe!” Frank shouted as his brother fell.

Joe reached out and grabbed a smaller branch nearby, but it snapped under his weight as well. He grabbed at another, and then another. The third held, though it groaned at supporting him.

The younger Hardy clung desperately to the limb, his boots dangling two yards above the forest floor. The pack of dogs raced under the hapless teen, jumping and trying to bite his toes.

“Hang on, Joe!” Frank said. His gloved fingers fumbled with his matches as he tried desperately to light the branch he was holding.

Slowly, Joe edged down the dangling limb toward the tree trunk, hoping to climb up once more.

Frank lit his makeshift torch, but dropped the book of matches as he did so. The matches tumbled into the savage pack below.

“Shoo! Go home!” Frank shouted futilely. He leaned down from his perch, waving the burning stick at the dogs.

But with Joe dangling just out of reach, the pack showed no intention of leaving. They barked and snapped and redoubled their efforts.

Joe had almost reached his tree’s main trunk
now, but the branch he was clinging to groaned more loudly with every passing second.

Frank clenched his teeth, preparing to jump down and fight the dogs if his brother fell.

A shrill whistle sounded, cutting through the winter wind, keening above the snarls of the pack. Instantly, the dogs all stopped running and barking. They turned their heads toward the north and listened.

Joe seized upon the momentary reprieve. He swung back onto the main trunk just as his branch gave way. He shinnied up higher, out of reach of the dogs. Frank breathed a long sigh of relief.

“What was that sound?” Joe asked.

Frank shrugged, concentrating on keeping his torch alight in case they still needed it.

“Who’s up there?” a gruff voice called. “Show yourselves! You can’t escape!”

“We’re not trying to escape,” Joe called. “We’re just trying to keep out of reach of these dogs!”

Vic Costello, dressed in a blaze-orange jacket, stepped into view. He carried a shotgun in one hand and a metal whistle in the other. His eyes narrowed. “I shoulda known it’d be some of you Morton kids setting my dogs loose from their pen!” he growled. “I ought to blast you just on principle!”

“We didn’t set them loose,” Joe shot back. “We were walking toward the power lines when they rushed out of the woods and attacked us.”

Frank kept hold of his emotions. “If we had set your dogs free,” he said reasonably, “don’t you think we’d have had a better plan to get away than running up a tree?”

Costello stuffed the whistle into his vest pocket. “I did see snowmobile tracks near the pen,” he said. “And you’d have to be pretty dim—even for a Morton—to get off a machine after opening the kennel door.” He looked around, as if expecting to find a snowmobile hidden nearby. When he didn’t see one, he called to the dogs, “Come here, boys! Sit! Let those varmints out of the trees.”

The dogs trotted over and sat down beside Costello, though they continued glaring at the Hardys.

“Thanks,” Frank said. He and his brother swung quickly down to the snow-covered forest floor. Frank extinguished his firebrand and picked up his lost matches.

“Are you sure you didn’t leave the dog pen unlocked?” Joe asked.

“Fine way to thank a man for savin’ your life,” Costello scoffed. “Only a spoiled boy would ask that kind of question. Out here, our animals are our lives. We’re very careful with them.” He turned and, motioning to the pack, walked back toward the power lines.