The Secret Of The Lost Tunnel Part 10

"Right. Let's go."

With Joe carrying the rifle, the boys made their way through the howling, thrashing woods. They were drenched, and water was squishing over the tops of their shoes by the time they reached the car and tumbled into the front seat. Frank slammed the door and started the motor. Joe reached back and laid the gun on the floor behind him.

When they arrived at General Smith's home, the boys made a mad dash into the house and up to their room for a change of clothes. Upon returning 107 to the first floor, they found the officer in the living room and told him about their recent experience. The brigadier was greatly concerned when he heard the story of the electrified rifle.

"Somebody's trying to kill you! Where's that gun?"

"We left it in the car," Joe said. "I'll get it as soon as the storm's over."

When the boys related the episode of finding the note in the canteen, and showed it to the general, he was astonished. "This is remarkable. Your hunch was correct, boys, about finding a real clue at the museum. Now we're ready for the big push," he declared. "And I'd suggest no time be lost. If I could lay my hands on the fiend who tried to kill you-"

"I think the rifle may prove to be a good clue," Frank declared. He glanced out the window. "It has stopped raining," he said. "I'll get the gun."

Side-stepping puddles of water like a football player in broken-field practice, he ran to the garage. In a minute he was back in the house, his eyes blazing angrily.

"The gun's gone!"

"What?"

"It's disappeared.''

Joe could not believe it. He dashed out to the 108 car and searched himself. Frank, Chet, and the general followed him. The rifle was not in the car.

"We were followed!" Frank exclaimed. "What chumps we were not to take it into the house."

"Somebody must have wanted that rifle awful bad to come out in the storm to get it,"

Chet commented.

"And that somebody was the man who planted it," Joe said. "Doc Bush or one of his gang. Maybe it was borrowed from someone who wants to use it in the shoot tomorrow.

We'll have to do some investigating there."

"You're a good marksman, Joe," Chet spoke up. "Why don't you enter the contest?"

"With what?" Joe asked.

General Smith got up, walked over to a cabinet, and unlocked it. "Here's a suitable rifle," he said. "It belonged to my grandfather. Glad to have you use it, Joe."

Joe Hardy was thrilled. It took no urging for him to accept. That evening the general gave him pointers on its use, and schooled the boys in the nomenclature of Civil War rifles.

"These old muzzle loaders," the officer said, "fired homemade bullets. I have a box of them you can use tomorrow." He produced the pellets and also a mold in which they were made.

109 The three boys could hardly wait until the next morning, which dawned bright and clear, an ideal day for a rifle shoot.

Claude served another delicious Southern breakfast, which included beaten biscuits and fried chicken. Then, taking the general's rifle, the boys and the officer drove to the site of the marksmanship event, which was at the edge of town. The rifle range was laid out in a field alongside the highway.

Joe got out and registered with the officials, who examined his weapon and approved it.

Then he joined his companions, and all walked up to the firing line. On a table lay the prizes.

The one marked first prize took the boys' eyes. It was the latest model rifle with a telescopic sight.

Suddenly Joe clutched Frank's arm. "There's the stolen gun!" He pointed to a youth holding the antique firing piece.

The Hardys spoke quietly to the others, doing their best to conceal the excitement they felt.

"This is the time for a showdown," Joe declared.

"I agree," the officer said.

"Me, too," Chet agreed. "But how you going to do it?"

"We'd better put it up to him right now before the meet begins," Frank suggested.

With the general following them, the boys strode 110 over to where the fellow was standing. Joe confronted him.

"That's my rifle you've got!"

"Says who?" The youth stared defiantly as a crowd gathered, sensing a fracas.

"We all say so!" Frank said firmly.

The youth lowered the rifle menacingly until it was pointing directly at Frank.

"Prove it!" he cried out.

CHAPTER XIV.

A Fighting Foe.

"don't point that rifle!" General Smith snapped at the youth.

The officer's command, plus the added weight of the United States uniform, caused the young fellow to change his att.i.tude. He lowered the rifle until the stock rested on the ground, then continued his protest.

"I didn't take n.o.body's gun," he said stoutly. "You can't prove this is yours."

To be sure, Joe had slim evidence that the rifle belonged to him. He had found it in the woods and could present no receipt to show he had purchased it. Perhaps the boy was right. Certainly he did not look like a thief, and there might be a possi bility that two guns were identical.

111.

112 General Smith broke the deadlock. "We'll look into this later. The shoot must not be held up."

At this moment a trumpeter sounded the bugle call. The contestants lined up. The shoot begao with burst after burst of musketry.

Joe, his shirt open at the neck, and his eye c.o.c.kec over the sight of the Civil War rifle, might have stepped out of a history book! The boy's finely muscled arms held the weapon firmly and the general observed with pleasure his gentle squeeze of the trigger.

"Atta boy, Joe!" diet shouted as his friend scored a bull's-eye.

Joe flipped his rooter a brief smile, then hurried to reload the old gun. The boy handled it like a veteran, blazing away round after round.

"Cease fire!"

As one of the judges shouted the command, the riflemen put down their guns so the targets could be inspected. The four with the highest scores would continue. Joe was among them!

"Keep up the good work," Frank advised his brother as the contest was about to resume. Then he added, "Hey! That fellow with the stolen rifle is still in the shoot!"

"Come on, Joe, beat that guy!" Chet whipped a clenched fist into the palm of his hand.

113 Joe looked toxvard the general. The officer nodded encouragingly as the meet resumed. Ten shots apiece!

The Hardy boy's rifle spoke with precision as Joe sent shot after shot ripping into the target. Once he glanced at the youth, standing beside him. His opponent remained calm and expressionless, firing quickly after aiming.

A sudden silence told the onlookers the marksmen had finished. The judges hurried forward to examine the targets.

"Six out of ten!" one of them reported, peering at the first target.

"Seven out of ten!" came the next call.

Now the suspicious youth's "Eight out of ten!"

A judge studied Joe's target. The man paused a moment and beckoned another judge to his side. Together they examined the card carefully. One of them cleared his throat.

"Eight out of ten! Tie score!"

Frank ran up and thumped his brother on the back. "Swell, Joe!"

The boy grinned. "But I didn't win." He stepped toward the youth who had tied the score.

"Maybe they'll let us shoot it out." His rival turned on his heel.

"Good guy," diet said sarcastically.

114 General Smith praised Joe and went on to say the judges were arranging a shoot-off.

"You'll get a ten-minute rest," he said. "Sit down on the gra.s.s here and relax."

As Joe stretched out beside his rifle, Frank and Chet wandered off among the spectators.

"Watch for anybody who looks as if he might be a friend of that guy," Frank told Chet.

Then he added, "Oh, h.e.l.lo there!"

"Enjoyin" yourself?" asked an old man as Frank approached him. He was the Registrar of Deeds at the courthouse.

"We sure are," Frank answered. "It was lots o fun to watch 'em shoot these old Civil War guns."

"They really made rifles in the old days," the man boasted. "My father manufactured "em." He hastened to add, "But I don't know what's becomin' of our local boys."

"What do you mean?"

The old man took a couple of quick puffs at his corncob pipe and sent the smoke idly out of the corner of his mouth.

"Our local boys," he said, "they ain't as good shots as you visitors."

"I don't get it," Frank said, smiling. "One of your local fellows tied my brother, and who knows, he might win the meet."

115 "You mean that round-faced lad with the steady eye?" asked the man quizically. "He ain't a kid from around here."

The remark startled Frank. "You mean he ... he's a visitor, too? He talks like the people in Centerville."

"Don't know where he's from, but it ain't Centerville."

Just then Chet, who had been standing near by gawking at the crowd, pulled Frank's arm. "Come here quick!"

"What's up?"

"That guy over there. Oh, he's gone now."

"Who was he?"

"Smi-something, that funny-lookin' guard at the museum. He was standing right over behind you when you xvere talking to that old man. I bet he heard what you said."

Frank was sorry to learn this. If, by some chance, the guard were spying on the boys, he might have picked up some useful information.

"I have big news of my own," Frank said. "Let's go back to Joe."

He hurried to where his brother was reclining. General Smith was sitting on a tree stump alongside him.

Frank told them about Joe's rival not being a 116 native. "The whole setup looks queer," he re marked. "I'd say he bears investigating."

"Perhaps he's one of the 'foreigners' old Jeb was talking about," General Smith commented, frown ing.

"I'm going to ask him where he comes from," Frank said, strolling off in the direction of the youth.

Chet followed eagerly.

"Nice shooting," Frank commented, walking up to the young man. He got only a cold stare. "I hear you're not from town. Where do you hail from?"

"What business is it of yours?"

"Just curious," Frank replied.