Hunting for Hidden Gold

I

In the Storm

“A fortune in hidden gold! That certainly sounds mighty interesting.”

Frank Hardy folded up the letter he had just been reading aloud to his brother.

“Dad has all the luck,” replied Joe. “I’d give anything to be working with him on a case like that.”

“Me, too. This case is a bit out of the ordinary.”

“Where was the letter postmarked?”

“Somewhere in Montana. A gold-mining camp called Lucky Bottom.”

“Montana! Gee, but I wish he could have taken us with him. We’ve never been more than two hundred miles from home.”

“And I’ve never seen a mine in my life, much less a real mining camp.”

The Hardy boys looked at one another regretfully. They had just received a letter from their father, Fenton Hardy, an internationally famous detective, who had been called West but a fortnight previous on a mysterious mission. The letter gave the boys their first inkling of the nature of the case that had summoned their father from Bayport, on the Atlantic coast, to the mining country of Montana.

“A fortune in hidden gold,” repeated Frank. “I hope he finds it all right.”

“It was stolen from one of the big companies, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. He says that an entire shipment of bullion was stolen before it left the camp, so they believe it must have been hidden somewhere in the neighborhood.”

“And his job is to find it.”

“If he can. And the thieves as well.”

Joe sighed. “I sure would like to be out there right now. We might be able to help him.”

“Well, we’ve helped him in other cases, but I guess we’re out of luck this time. Montana is too far away.”

“Yes, and we have to keep on going to school. I’ll be glad when we’re through school and can be regular detectives like dad.”

Frank grinned. “No use grouching about it,” he said cheerfully. “Our time will come some day.”

“Yes, but it seems a long time coming,” replied Joe, smiling ruefully.

“Oh, in a few more years we’ll be going all over the country just like dad, solving robberies and murders and having all sorts of excitement. We haven’t done too badly so far, anyway.”

“Yes, we had the fun of discovering the tower treasure.”

“And running down the counterfeiters.”

“Yes; and solving the mystery of the house on the cliff and finding out about Blacksnake Island.”

The boys were referring to previous cases in which they had been involved and in which their ability had been proved. But it had been several months since any adventure or excitement had come their way and they were feeling restless, the more so now that they knew their father was at that moment in the remote mining camp in the West engaged on a mystery that seized their imagination.

“Hidden gold!” said Joe, half to himself. “That would be a case worth working on.”

“Forget it,” laughed his brother. “There’s no use making yourself miserable wishing we were out there, because we’re not and it doesn’t look as if there’s much chance that we shall be. Perhaps his old case isn’t so exciting, anyway. You’re not going to spend all Saturday wishing for something you can’t have. Don’t forget we’re to go out with Chet and Jerry this afternoon.”

“That’s right,” declared Joe. “I’d almost forgotten. We were to go skating, weren’t we?”

“Yes; and it’s about time we started or the others will be going without us.”

This possibility moved Joe to action and in a few moments the Hardy boys had dismissed their father’s letter from their minds and were rummaging in a cupboard beneath the stairs for their skates. They had planned to meet their chums at the mouth of Willow River, a stream that ran from the mountains down through the farm lands to Barmet Bay, on which Bayport was located. It was a brisk, clear winter afternoon, ideal for an outing, and their Saturday holiday from Bayport high school was much too precious to be spent indoors.

Their Aunt Gertrude, an elderly, crotchety maiden lady of certain temper and uncertain years, eyed them suspiciously as they came into the hallway with their skates and began donning sweaters and warm gloves.

“Skating, hey?” she sniffed. “You’ll go through the ice, I’ll be bound.”

The boys knew from experience that it was always best to placate Aunt Gertrude.

“We’ll try not to, Aunt Gertrude,” Frank assured her.

“You’ll try not to! A lot of good that will do. If the ice isn’t strong, all the trying in the world won’t keep you from going through it. And the ice isn’t strong. I’m sure it isn’t. It can’t be.”

“The fellows have been skating on Willow River for more than a week now.”

“Maybe so. Maybe so. They’ve been lucky, that’s all I can say. You mark my words, that ice will break one of these fine days. I only hope you boys aren’t on it when it does.”

“I hope so too,” laughed Frank, drawing on his gloves.

“It’s no laughing matter,” persisted Aunt Gertrude gloomily. “Well, I suppose if you will court death and destruction, an old lady like me can’t do anything to stop you. Although you’d be better off at home studying. Run along. Run along.”

“Goodbye, Aunt Gertrude.”

“Run along. Be home early. Don’t skate too far out. Don’t get lost. Don’t get caught in a snowstorm. I’m sure there’s one coming up. I know the signs. My lumbago is troubling me again today. Don’t forget to come back in time for tea.”

Aunt Gertrude’s favorite word was “don’t” and she persisted in treating her nephews as though they were but a grade advanced from kindergarten. Mrs. Hardy was out for the afternoon and in her absence the worthy spinster rejoiced in her opportunity to exercise her authority. When she had exhausted her store of admonitions, the boys departed, and she watched them from the door with gloomy forebodings as to the ultimate outcome of their skating trip. Aunt Gertrude was a pessimist of the first water.

When the Hardy boys reached the foot of the street they found Chet Morton, rotund and jovial, and Jerry Gilroy, tall and red-cheeked, awaiting them.

“Just going to start without you,” declared Chet, swinging his skates.

“We had a letter from dad and we were so interested in reading it that we mighty near forgot about the trip,” confessed Frank.

“Where is he?”

“Out in Montana, in a mining camp, working on a case.”

“Gosh, he’s lucky!” said Jerry enviously.

“I’ll say he is,” agreed Frank. “Joe and I have just been wishing we could be out there with him.”

“Well, we can’t have everything,” Chet said cheerfully. “Come on—I’ll race you to Willow River.”

He dashed off down the snow-covered street, the others in close pursuit. The race was of short duration, for Willow River was some distance away, and the boys soon slowed down to a walk. At a more reasonable gait they continued their journey, and within half an hour had reached the river, now covered with a gleaming sheet of ice. In a few minutes the lads had donned their skates and were skimming off over the smooth surface.

The banks of the river were covered with snow and the trees along the shore were bare and black. Above the hills the sky was of a slaty gray.

“Looks like snow,” Frank commented, as they skated on up the river.

“Oh, it’ll blow over,” answered Chet carelessly. “Let’s go on up to Shallow Lake.”

“We don’t want to be away too long. It’ll be dark before we get back.”

“We can skate up there and back in a couple of hours. Come on.”

It was a brisk, cold afternoon and the boys did not need much urging. Shallow Lake was back in the hills, but the boys made such good time over the glassy surface of the river that it was not long before they left the farm lands behind.

Frank Hardy cast an anxious glance at the sky every little while. He knew the signs of brooding storm and the peculiar haziness above the horizon indicated an approaching snowstorm. However, he said nothing, in the hope that they would be able to reach the mouth of the river again before the storm broke.

It was four o’clock before the Hardy boys and their chums reached Shallow Lake. It was a picturesque little body of water and the ice shone with a blue glare, smooth as glass and free of snow. It was a natural skating rink, and Chet Morton gave a whoop of delight as he went skimming out upon it.

The boys enjoyed skating on the lake so greatly that they scarcely noticed the first few flakes of snow that drifted down from the slaty sky, and it was not until the snowfall became so heavy that it almost blotted out the opposite hillsides that they thought of going back.

“Looks as if it’s settling down for the night,” Joe remarked. “We’d better start back before we get lost.”

“Might as well,” agreed Chet Morton, with a sigh. “I wish we’d come out here this morning. I’d like to skate here all day.”

With Frank Hardy in the lead, the boys began to make their way toward Willow River, where it left the lake. They were about half a mile out on the open expanse of ice and the snow was now falling heavily. At first the soft white flakes had merely drifted down. Now they came scudding across the ice, whipped by a rising wind.

“It’ll be harder getting back,” Frank said. “The wind is against us.”

The wind was indeed against them and it was rising in volume. It came in quick, violent gusts, storming sheets of snow down upon them, snow that stung their faces and erased the scene before them in a white cloud. Then it blew steadily, with increasing force. The storm moaned and whistled about them. They could scarcely see one another, save as dark, shadowy figures skating steadily on toward the gloomy line of hills that rose from the haze of storm.

“Why, this is a regular blizzard!” Chet Morton shouted.

As though in emphasis, the wind shrieked down upon them with redoubled fury. The snow was swirling across the flat surface of the lake in great white sheets. The cold became more intense. It became apparent that in a few minutes even the nearby shores would be blotted from view.

“Let’s make for the shore!” called out Frank. “We’ll wait until it blows over.”

There was a high cliff not far away, and Frank judged that it would provide shelter from the brunt of the storm until they should be able to continue their journey. Clearly, it was inadvisable to go on, for the wind was against them and they were making little headway. Also, in the fury of the sweeping snow it was possible that they might become separated. So they turned toward the cliff, that they could see dimly through the gray gloom.

The wind shrieked. The snow beat against them. The sharp flakes stung their faces, swept into their eyes. The hurricane seemed like a mighty wall, forcing them back. Doggedly, they skated on, into the face of the blizzard that seemed to be sapping their strength.

Chet Morton already was lagging behind. The snow was collecting on the ice in little heaps and banks that clogged their skates and made progress even more difficult.

The face of the cliff seemed a long distance away. And, with redoubled fury, the wind came howling down over the hills.

Frank was almost exhausted by the constant battle against the wind and snow, and he knew that the others, too, were tiring quickly. It would be death for them if they faltered now. They must reach the shelter of the cliff!