Farming Fear by Franklin W. Dixon Read Free Book Online

going east ahead of them. “Cutting through the trees would be pretty dangerous.”
    “Like a high-speed slalom,” Joe said. “A fun ride, but deadly if you make a wrong turn.”
    “Where does the road go?” Frank asked.
    “It splits up ahead,” Chet replied. “One branch goes down to the hill by the old factory; the other heads up to the power lines.”
    “Near the Costello property,” Iola added.
    When they got to the fork a few minutes later, they stopped to check for signs.
    “It looks like snowmobiles have been down both of these trails recently,” Joe said.
    “That makes sense,” Iola replied. “This part of the farm is on a registered snowmobile trail. Our grandparents gave the local association permission to use it.”
    “Snowmobilers usually show up the minute the ground is covered in powder,” Chet said. “They don’t want to miss a minute of riding after waiting through the summer for the first snowfall.”
    “Unfortunately,” Frank said, “that just makes our job harder. Which way should we go?”
    “The factory hill is closer than the power lines,” Chet said.
    “Let’s check it first, then,” Joe suggested. “We can always backtrack if we need to.”
    “Assuming the snow doesn’t get any worse,” Iola said.
    They turned to the right, heading toward the slope on the eastern edge of the Morton property.
    The big pine trees flew by, and a few minutes later they broke out of the forest into the open once more. Chet skidded the buggy to a quick halt.
    Ahead of them, the ground dropped off in a steep hill. The slope flattened out about thirty yards down and then stretched toward an old factory about a quarter mile away.
    “If we take the buggy down there,” Chet said, “we’ll have to cut over to the main road to get back to the farm. No way we’ll make it up the slope again—not in this weather.”
    “I don’t see any snowmobile tracks here,” Frank said, pointing to the decline in front of them.
    “Let’s check along the ridge,” Joe suggested.
    “We’ll have to do it on foot,” Iola said. “There’s not enough room between the forest and the drop off to maneuver the buggy.”
    “Plenty of room for a snow mobile, though,” Frank noted. “Let’s get going. If we don’t find anything, we’ll take the trail back toward the power lines.”
    Chet and Iola went south, while Frank and Joe went north. They moved quickly but deliberately through the shin-high snow.
    “See anything?” Chet called to the brothers. The two groups were about fifty yards apart now, with the buggy idling in between, near the trail.
    “There are definitely some snowmobile tracks this way,” Frank called back. “What about you?”
    “This way, too,” Iola replied. “They’re running along the edge of the woods, though, not down the slope.”
    “The dognapper could have gone either way, then,” Joe concluded, “if these are even his tracks at all. Maybe he didn’t even go down the slope.”
    “He’d have to,” Chet said. “There’s no safe way back into the forest. Though they could have followed the ridge line all the way south to the road.”
    Ahead of the brothers, the trees grew progressively nearer to the slope’s edge. A snowmobile couldn’t go much farther in that direction.
    “Wait a minute!” Frank said, peering through the blowing powder. “It looks like someone cut downs-lope up ahead.”
    He and Joe quickly hiked toward the track the elder Hardy had spotted. A small jut of land stuck out right where the slope met the forest. The snowmobile tracks dipped over the edge of the prominence and vanished down the hill.
    The brothers stopped at the edge and peered into the snow.
    “Do you think we can climb down?” Joe asked.
    Frank frowned. “It’s getting back up that’s probably the problem, but if Chet has some rope in the buggy, it’s worth a shot.”
    Joe turned back the way they’d come and cupped his gloved hands to call to their friends. As he did, the