Mystery of Smugglers Cove (10 page)

“So am I,” the others said in unison.

“Come on downstairs. The makings are in the refrigerator. I saw them the other night when I went for my snack.”

In the kitchen, Chet got the cook's permission to use the stove. Pouring batter into a frying pan, he hummed merrily, then tossed half-fried flapjacks into the air, flipping them over expertly, and caught them in the pan again. Soon he had a sizable pile of pancakes on a platter beside the stove.

The other three set the kitchen table and poured milk. Chet set the platter down in the middle of the table. “Chef's specialty,” he boasted with a grin.

The boys attacked the treat with great appetite. When they were finished, they cleaned up the kitchen and went to Frank's room to size up the situation.

“Well, this was an interesting experience,” Biff started. “But we haven't found the picture.”

“Junior mentioned that some chief gave orders to Nitron,” Frank said. “And Fatso talked about a chief on the plane. Maybe it's the same guy.”

“He left the messages for Nitron in the Everglades,” Joe added. “That should be our next stop!”

It was decided that Frank and Joe would look for the chief, while Chet and Biff would stay in Harrison Wester's house—to wait for Wester's return and to watch for Morphy. Then, exhausted after the excitement of their trip and the capture of the smugglers, the boys went to bed and slept soundly until morning.

After breakfast the Hardys were ready to leave.

“We'll tell Mr. Wester what's happened if he gets back before you do,” Biff promised.

“Just say hello to the alligators for me,” Chet quipped. “Sorry I can't go swimming with them.”

“We'd better get moving,” Frank said with a grin. “Our best bet is to take the ferry to Flamingo on the southern tip of the mainland. From there we'll make our way into the Everglades.”

The young detectives walked into Blanco City and were soon aboard the ferry on the Gulf of Mexico. When they arrived, they went to the Flamingo Visitors' Center, past the lines of small boats tied to the docks. Frank bought a map at the information desk, while Joe studied an announcement on a bulletin board nearby. It stated that alligators were an endangered species and that hunting them without a license was illegal.

“How do we get to Moss Tributary?” Frank asked the woman behind the counter.

She consulted her detailed guidebook. “Take the bus up the Mangrove Trail to the Pa-hay-okee Trail. There you can rent a boat and follow the map west.”

“Thanks. ”

Frank and Joe went to the terminal and boarded the bus. Luckily they did not have to wait long for its departure. On the Mangrove Trail they saw trees with great bunches of roots that arched through the air and then grew down into the swampy earth below. Soon they came to an area of grass and trees not too different from what they had seen farther north.

“Hey, Frank, this isn't bad,” Joe exclaimed. “Maybe we won't drown in the swamp after all!”

“Forget it,” Frank replied. “Moss Tributary is in the real Everglades. We'll get our feet wet for sure.”

At the Pa-hay-okee Trail, the Hardys rented a flat-bottomed skiff along with leather boots for walking. Joe took the controls, while Frank checked the map as they chugged west.

They found themselves moving through a wilderness of water, mud, and mangrove trees broken up by higher and dryer areas. In certain places it was possible to walk for hundreds of yards on dry land. But the rest was a morass of shallow winding streams, often joining one another only to separate farther downstream. Acres of grass pushed out of the mud to a height of six feet or more.

Egrets and other birds rose in flocks as the boys passed. Fish broke the surface of the water, and snakes slithered over the ground. Alligators cruised along the streams with their snouts barely visible, seeking their prey.

“This looks like the end of the world to me!” Joe complained. “How are we ever going to find a clue in this desolate swamp?”

For the first time since they began their search, Frank shared his brother's doubts. Hopelessly he looked around him. “I really don't know!” he said.

The Hardys kept moving for several miles. The sound of their motor mingled with the cries of birds, the scream of bobcats, and the rustle of mangroves in the wind.

“Boy, we really are a long way from nowhere,” Frank complained.

A broader expanse of water caught Joe's eye. “Looks like a lake up ahead,” he announced. “We're heading right into it.”

Frank plotted the area on his map. “It's called Moss Pond. Five streams run together here, which makes it the biggest lake in this part of the Everglades. ”

They chugged into the shallow expanse of water bordered by marsh grass.

“The Moss River is number four,” Frank said.

Joe twisted the steering wheel and guided the skiff into the direction his brother had indicated. “How far to Moss Tributary?” he asked.

“A few miles,” Frank replied. “It's the only stream that runs into this river.”

When they reached Moss Tributary and turned toward it, Joe said, “Now that we're here, we don't even know what to look for. ”

“It has to be a building, don't you think? But keep an eye peeled for anything. No telling what we'll run into. ”

They entered a desolate area with swamps on one side and dry, rough terrain covered with tangled vegetation on the other. Mangroves were spread out everywhere.

Suddenly Joe spotted a wisp of black smoke curling into the sky. Quickly he shut off the engine and let the skiff drift to a stop.

“What's up?” Frank asked.

Joe pointed to the smoke. “Somebody got here before us. ”

“Let's check it out,” Frank said, excited.

The boys picked up a couple of paddles, quietly dipped them into the water, and moved the boat over to a clump of tall grass. Parting it, they saw the remains of a campfire. The wood was still smoking.

“Nobody here,” Joe stated. “Let's see if we can find a clue. ”

“But be careful!” Frank warned.

Paddling to the site, they climbed out of their skiff and explored the area. Footprints were grouped around the fire.

“I count four different people,” Frank announced after examining the prints closely. “I wonder where they went. ”

“Well, the fire's still smoking, so they were here only a few minutes ago,” Joe deduced. “If they'd gone downstream, we'd have met them. Therefore, they must have gone upstream.”

Frank nodded. “I hope we can pick up their trail. But we'd better watch out. If they hear us, they might set a trap for us!”

“Right. Let's paddle up as quietly as we can,” Joe agreed.

After stamping out the smoldering embers, they went back to their skiff and continued along Moss Tributary. Half an hour later, they heard the sound of voices ahead.

“I wonder if they're park rangers,” Joe said.

Frank shook his head. “Not a chance. Rangers wouldn't leave smoking embers. Too much danger of starting a fire. ”

The Hardys turned into the mouth of a small stream feeding Moss Tributary, then tied their skiff to a mangrove root. Under the cover of the trees, they followed the sound of the voices until they spotted a boat at the bank.

Four men were inside, all carrying high-power rifles.

“I don't recognize any of them,” Frank whispered. “Do you?”

“Never saw them before,” Joe replied. “I wonder what they're up to. ”

“We'll have to get closer to find out.”

Silently the boys slipped through the mangroves until they found a hiding place among the giant roots of a tree. They had a clear view of the men in the boat, whose conversation was now clearly audible.

One of them patted his rifle and boasted, “We'll get plenty of ‘gators this time.”

“Long as the park rangers don't butt in!” said another.

“We'll take care of them if they do!” a third spoke up. “We've got enough ammo to fight a war!” He rapped his knuckles on a box labeled Ammunition.

The men laughed loudly, and began to joke about shooting alligators.

“Who cares if it's illegal as long as we make big money?” one asked. “There's such a market overseas for skins—belts, handbags, wallets, watch-bands, you know ... ”

Joe recalled the sign at the Flamingo Visitors' Center warning that the Everglades alligator was an endangered species that ought to be protected. He nudged Frank and whispered, “Poachers! We can't let them get away with it! But there're too many of them for us to tackle. What'll we do?”

“Lie low,” Frank advised. “That's all we can do right now. ”

Suddenly footsteps approached from the upstream area. The men jumped out of their boat and crouched next to it.

“Might be the rangers!” one of them rasped. “Let's give ‘em a friendly reception!”

All four raised their rifles and pointed them in the direction of the footsteps. Then the bushes parted and two men appeared, both carrying rifles. One was tall and muscular, the other shorter and heavy.

“Tom and Fatso!” Joe hissed.

Dumbfounded, the Hardys watched the pair walk up to the boat, where the men lowered their guns and greeted the newcomers with friendly grins.

“We'll have a clear shot at the ‘gators,” the tall man said, “or my name isn't Tom Lami.”

“How about the park rangers?” one of the men wanted to know.

“They'll never catch us,” Fatso retorted. “We saw ‘em patrol the alligator pool, then they moved on. Never knew we were watching 'em!”

“Biggest concentration of ‘gators I ever saw,” Tom continued. “We'll start hunting tomorrow. ”

“It's like shootin' fish in a barrel.” Fatso smirked.

Suddenly a terrific clatter broke out overhead, a deafening sound that echoed across the Everglades. The poachers ducked for cover under mangroves some distance from the Hardys.

A helicopter zoomed through the sky toward the area. The emblem, EVERGLADES PARK RANGERS, was painted on its side.

“If we could only signal the pilot!” Joe muttered. “Then he could send a patrol here and nab these guys!”

“Maybe he'll spot their boat,” Frank said. “I doubt he'll see ours. We hid it too well.”

Tensely the young detectives watched the chopper coming closer and circling overhead. The pilot looked down at Moss Tributary, and said something to his copilot. Then the craft moved off, but returned a few moments later.

“Would he be coming back for a second look if he hadn't seen the boat?” Frank whispered.

“Maybe he's calling headquarters on his radio,” Joe guessed.

But they observed the pilot shaking his head. The chopper completed another circle and flew off, the sound of its propellers diminishing in the distance.

“He didn't see the boat,” Frank said, disappointed. “It must be too far under the trees.”

“That leaves us to deal with the poachers!” Joe said.

“Six against two isn't very good odds. We need a miracle to help us in this situation.”

“I still think we should forget the chief for a while until we save the alligators,” Joe concluded.

The poachers came out of their hiding place, grinning triumphantly.

“Those rangers didn't see us,” Fatso exclaimed. “We're safe.”

“Right,” Tom Lami agreed. “Now let's get this show on the road. No sense in wasting any more time. The men walked over to their boat and Tom untied the rope.

Frank and Joe stood up, looking after them. Just then the older Hardy boy felt a slithering movement over his boot. He looked down and froze with fright. A rattlesnake stared at him with open jaws and extended fangs, ready to strike!

Frank stood stock-still for an instant, then kicked his foot violently—just in time to prevent the snake's sharp fangs from reaching him. The rattler flew through the air and landed with a thump on the bank near the boat.

The noise caused the poachers to whirl around.

“The rangers!” Fatso hissed. “Knock ‘em off!”

Six rifles pointed in the direction of the rattlesnake as it slithered out of the underbrush. Frightened by the men the reptile vanished among the roots of a tree.

“It's only a snake,” Lami said, lowering his gun. “Let's get going. We'll establish a base camp at the big bend upstream. It's near the alligator pool.”

The boat moved away from the bank and chugged up Moss Tributary. The Hardys, still shaken from their close call, came out from under the mangroves and watched it till the poachers were out of sight.

“Lucky they didn't see us!” Joe muttered.

Frank nodded. “We'll have to go after them. Too bad we don't have backups. I wish Chet and Biff were here.”

“Let's radio the rangers,” Joe suggested. “Maybe they can get here in time to give us some help.”

Returning to their skiff, he used its radio to contact the headquarters of the park rangers. A sergeant answered.

“Alligator poachers on Moss Tributary,” Joe reported tensely. “Send help fast. ”

“Patrol boat will be on the way,” the sergeant promised after hearing the details.

When Joe hung up, Frank pointed to a spot on the map. “Here's where Moss Tributary cuts to the west and then back to the east. That must be the bend Lami talked about. We can catch up with them there.”