Lost in Gator Swamp (10 page)

Frank dialed the Frog's Peninsula Police Department. Deputy Miles wasn't there, nor had she been heard from since that afternoon.

“Does anyone have a clue about where she might have gone?” Frank asked the desk sergeant.

“She went off-duty at one o'clock this afternoon,” the sergeant explained. “She said she was headed to the rodeo.”

“And that's all she said?” Frank pressed.

“Yes, that's all she said,” the sergeant replied. Then he added, “Oh, wait. She said she was
stopping by the marina to double-check on something first.”

“The marina? Well, thank you, Sergeant,” Frank said, and hung up. For now, he would have to investigate on his own. He hurried to the room where they had left Randy to recuperate.

The light in Randy's room was off. Frank knew he should probably let the teenager rest, but he had to get some answers.

“Randy?” Frank called quietly. There was no answer. “Randy?” No answer again. Frank flipped on the light switch next to the door. The hospital bed was empty. Randy Stevens was gone.

“Help!” Joe shouted in a last-ditch effort to save himself.

A lasso suddenly landed neatly atop the surface of the quicksand. “Grab it, Joe!” a familiar voice called.

Joe grabbed the rope, and Chet began to tug. “It feels like you weigh three hundred pounds.” Chet groaned.

Slowly Chet dragged Joe's quicksand-caked body onto solid ground, then fell backward. Chet and Joe sat for a minute, huffing and puffing, trying to catch their breath.

“Chet? Did I ever tell you how glad I am that you took up your new hobby?” Joe said between breaths.

“No,” Chet replied, laughing. “Did I ever tell you that I think you've set the record for the most changes of clothes in two days?”

Joe laughed, then grew serious. “Come on, Chet. We need to get back to the rodeo. I think Zack Platt and his accomplice have Reuben.”

“I thought Reuben
was
Mr. Platt's accomplice,” Chet said.

“No,” Joe replied. “I have a lot to tell you.”

As the two boys headed back through the swamp toward the rodeo grounds, Joe told Chet about his encounter with Reuben and of the mysteries that were starting to become clearer to him now.

“So Reuben's been following us because he really did think we were the ones messing around on his ancestors' sacred island,” Chet said.

“Right,” Joe replied.

“But if Zack Platt's accomplice isn't Reuben and isn't Randy Stevens, who is the man in the white hat?” Chet wondered aloud.

“I think I have an idea,” Joe replied.

By the time the two boys made it back to the barn, the fire had been put out. Tired cowboys sat on the ground outside the half-burned structure. One cowboy, his face covered with soot, jumped to his feet when he saw Joe and Chet walking up.

“Where in Sam Hill have you been!” Dusty shouted, giving his young friends a hug. “I thought you had burned up.”

Deeter, Homer, and some of the other cowboys
surrounded Joe and Chet, relieved to see them alive. Joe explained about his near-fatal encounter in the swampland.

“Thanks to Chet, I escaped,” Joe concluded. “But I think they got Reuben.”

“They?” Deeter asked. “Who exactly is ‘they'?”

“Zack Platt and his accomplice,” Joe replied. “Find Zack Platt and you'll have your culprit.”

“Why don't you say that to my face, youngster?” Joe whirled around to find himself face-to-face with Zack Platt. Standing beside Platt was Trent Furman.

“All right,” Joe replied, his temper flaring. “Explain why Reuben Tallwalker saw you and another man run from the barn after you'd thrown me into Volcano's stall?”

“What are you talking about, kid?” Platt countered. “I'm the one who saw young Tallwalker running from the barn after he had started the fire.”

“He didn't start the fire, you did!” Joe shot back.

“Hold on, Joe,” Furman jumped in. “You're the one I saw walk into that barn with a lantern.”

“Don't listen to him. He's a fraud,” Chet shouted, pointing an accusing finger at Furman. “He didn't win a rodeo in Fargo, he's never even
been
in a rodeo, and we can prove it!”

The crowd quieted, looking to Furman for an explanation.

“You don't need to prove it,” Furman said, acting embarrassed. “I told a few tall tales. What cowboy doesn't? I didn't want everyone to know I was a greenhorn, that's all.”

Joe couldn't believe that the crowd was buying Furman's story, “He's lying! Furman and Platt are the robbers who cracked the bank vault in Miami.”

Furman laughed. “Do you mean the robbers that the Coast Guard is dragging the bottom of the bay for?”

A few cowboys chuckled at this. Joe grew even angrier. “Trent Furman is the man who left me to sink in quicksand about ten minutes ago!”

Deeter gave Joe a stern look. “Ten minutes ago, Mr. Furman was standing toe-to-toe with me helping put out the fire in the barn. He's been with me from the time the blaze started.”

Suddenly all eyes were looking accusingly at the two boys. Joe knew he had blown it. No one would doubt Mr. Deeter's word, and Joe and Chet had lost all credibility.

“I think you owe Mr. Furman and Mr. Platt an apology,” Deeter said.

“I'm sorry,” Joe said, mustering as much sincerity as he could.

“I'll call the authorities and have them investigate the matter,” Mr. Deeter assured the crowd.

“Good idea,” Platt said, flashing a mean smile at Joe. “If you'll excuse me now, I still have an alligator to catch tonight.”

“What about the rodeo?” Billy Biggs asked Deeter.

“Postponed until further notice,” Deeter said.

The crowd grumbled, disappointed.

“Look, I'm sorry,” Deeter said, “but there's another storm headed our way late tonight. We'll have to see what it does before I can tell you if we'll be back in business tomorrow.”

“If a storm's coming, we'd better get back to the fishing camp and batten down the hatches,” Homer suggested.

Everyone kicked into high gear. While the cowhands began closing down the rodeo, Homer and the other spectators headed for the parking lot.

Dusty stopped to talk with Joe and Chet. “Boys, I believe there's all kinds of criminal mischief going on.

“I'm glad someone believes us,” Joe said thankfully.

“I wasn't finished,” Dusty said. “You're going to get us all in trouble making claims without hard evidence and the law on your side.”

“You're right,” Joe admitted.

“You can trust Mr. Deeter,” Dusty went on. “He'll have this whole thing investigated thoroughly.”

Homer pulled up in the pickup truck, which was filled with the other fishing-camp guests. “Come on, Dusty, I want to get back before the storm hits.”

Joe looked over the guests in the bed of the truck and realized who was missing. “Where's Mr. Furman?”

Homer gave Joe a cross look. “He said he'd had enough of our hospitality and is taking a motel room in Frog's Peninsula for the night.”

With that, Homer pulled away, kicking up dust as he headed down the road.

As Joe and Chet walked toward the bunkhouse, Joe went over in his mind that first night at the rodeo. If Trent Furman wasn't the man in the white hat, whom had Randy borrowed it from? Joe stopped dead as they passed the fire pit behind the main tent.

“What's wrong?” Chet asked.

“There's a third man,” Joe said, half to himself.

“What?” Chet was still confused.

“Are you up for a long ride on Old Caloosa?” Joe asked. “I think I've finally figured out who the man in the white hat is.”

•  •  •

Frank figured he had walked about a mile from the hospital when he reached 7 Manatee Lane. The little house was dark inside. Apparently, Randy was not there.

As Frank walked around back, he noted that the house was on the waterfront. Frank moved to the seawall and looked out at the dark waters of Florida Bay. He saw a few distant lights, which he guessed came from Dusty's fishing camp.

Randy's dock had a hoist for a small boat. Frank figured his best move was to watch for Randy from the dock. This way he'd also have a good view of Randy's house.

Frank checked his watch. It was three minutes past ten. He sat down, listening to the tiny waves breaking against the seawall. A cool breeze whipped up, and he wondered if it meant rain was coming.

Frank was dead tired, and the breeze and the sound of the waves made him doze off for a minute. At least, he thought it was for a minute until he checked his watch again. It was eleven-thirty!

He heard the low hum of a small outboard motor on the water. The sound grew louder as it moved toward him. Frank took cover behind a palm tree.

The outboard engine shut off, and Frank saw a johnboat heading toward the dock. In it was Randy.

Frank arched his eyebrow, puzzled. Why would Randy go all the way back to the Swampland Trading Post for his boat when the hospital was only a mile from his house, he wondered. Even if Randy were too young to drive, he could easily walk that distance.

Randy hoisted the boat out of the water, then headed toward the house.

Frank knew he had to be cautious. Even if Randy was only fourteen, he was nearly as tall as Frank and looked just as strong. Frank slipped up behind Randy and stuck a knuckle in his back. “Freeze!”

Randy went rigid. “Don't hurt me, please. I didn't tell anyone about the gold coin, I swear.”

Frank quickly frisked Randy to make sure he wasn't armed. Randy sneaked a look at Frank out of the corner of his eye and saw that the “gun” was only Frank's knuckle.

“You!” Randy spun around and pushed Frank away. “With your snooping around, you nearly got me killed!”

Randy threw a wild punch, but Frank easily ducked under it. He let Randy swing again, and using his opponent's momentum, he threw the boy onto the grass. Randy grabbed a coconut from beneath the palm. As funny as Randy looked coming at Frank with a green coconut, Frank knew that the coconut was as hard as a rock and could do as much damage.

Frank made an X with his arms, blocking Randy's blow, then flipped the lanky teenager onto the ground, pulling Randy's right arm behind his back and putting it in an unbreakable hold.

“I'm not letting you up until I get some answers. And this time, Randy, the answers are going to be the truth. How old are you?”

“Eighteen!” Randy shouted, squirming to get away.

“How old?” Frank asked, adding a little pressure to the arm hold.

“Fourteen!” Randy shouted, grimacing. “Look, all I did was find a gold coin in Gator Swamp,” he
said. “I didn't know it was part of a Seminole treasure.”

“A Seminole treasure?” Frank asked.

“He said he would split it with me if I kept quiet,” Randy explained.

“Who did?” Frank pressed.

“I can't say,” Randy insisted. “He'll kill me.”

“First off, Randy, whoever it is, someone tried to kill you anyway,” Frank told him. “And secondly, your coin isn't part of a Seminole treasure. The Seminoles never minted gold coins.”

Hearing this, Randy stopped squirming. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he was lying to you,” Frank replied. “My guess is that gold coin you found came from a bank vault in Miami, and there's half a million dollars' worth of them still lost in Gator Swamp.”

“Wow,” Randy said heavily. “I had no idea. You can let go of me, Frank. I won't fight you anymore.”

Frank let Randy up. Dusting off his clothes, Randy began to explain his bizarre behavior. “My father owns the all-night gas station on the main road out of town. He won't let me ride rodeo, even though he knows I look old enough to pass for eighteen at least.”

“Which is the minimum age for contestants in the Swampland Rodeo,” Frank surmised.

“Right. I'm sure Dad won't let me ride even when I am eighteen,” Randy said. “He's always afraid I'm going to get hurt.”

Frank gave Randy a skeptical look, throwing a glance at the discolored bump on Randy's head.

Randy touched the bump and continued. “Anyway, I couldn't get past the gas station without Dad or one of his friends seeing me, so I would take my boat through Gator Swamp and walk from the trading post.”

“You must really love the rodeo to take that kind of risk,” Frank said.

“I love riding rodeo more than anything!” Randy exclaimed. “We just moved here last year, and I haven't made many friends. The rodeo is the first good thing that's happened to me since we got here.”

“But why did you run away from us at the barbecue?” Frank asked.

“The deputy said you were detectives,” Randy replied, “and I didn't want to be detected. Besides, my sponsor told me not to talk to anyone about the Seminole treasure. When someone stole the coin out of my locker, I didn't know who to trust.”

“Your sponsor?” Frank thought aloud, as the answer came to him. “Salty Hubbard. The man you met through Trent Furman?”

“Yeah,” Randy replied. “He was going to help me search for the rest of the treasure after the rodeo was over.”

“Salty Hubbard, the charter-boat captain. Then I was right,” Frank said. “The robbers didn't drown.”

“What?” Randy couldn't see the connection. “How could those robbers have survived in those high seas after their airboat sank?”

“Because they weren't on it,” Frank deduced. “The two robbers rendezvoused in Florida Bay with a bigger boat and a third accomplice—none other than Salty Hubbard.”

“What makes you think Trent Furman will come to Salty Hubbard's boat?” Chet asked, munching on a candy bar. The long horseback ride from the rodeo grounds to the Frog's Peninsula Marina had made him hungry.