The Secret of Wildcat Swamp by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

had decided to ride first to Sheriff Paul’s and find out about the “ranger trouble.”
    Upon reaching the Paul ranch, the boys dismounted and knocked on the front door. To their amazement, it swung wide open under Frank’s touch,
    Joe called out, but there was no reply. He peered into the neat living room.
    â€œThe place is deserted and the note we left is still on the table!”
    â€œThat’s funny,” Frank remarked. “Mrs. Paul must have gone off soon after we did.”
    â€œI hope nothing’s happened to her,” Joe said apprehensively.
    The boys circled the house, but there was no sign of the sheriff’s wife. Nor was she in the barn or any of the other ranch buildings. The boys were more mystified than ever.
    â€œLet’s go back to the house,” Frank suggested.
    In the kitchen they saw unwashed dishes on the sink—a startling contrast to the spick-and-span condition of the house. Near the door was a basket of clothes. On a hunch, Frank felt them.
    â€œThey’re still damp, Joe. That means Mrs. Paul was interrupted in her work. She must have left here in a hurry. Let’s check the corral.”
    Joe, first to reach it, called out, “Look at these fresh hoofprints. Several riders were here.”
    Frank knelt down. “Three sets come up to the gate, then four go away. The question is, Did Mrs. Paul go with the others, or leave later?”
    Carefully checking the trail and the turnoff into the ranch, the boys discovered that one set of hoofprints were headed in another direction.
    â€œShe might have ridden off to warn somebody about her visitors,” Joe said, “probably her husband. But why didn’t she use her radiotelephone? I noticed one in the living room.”
    Hurrying back to the house, Frank examined the set. “The sheriff no doubt uses it to contact police headquarters at Red Butte. I’ll do the same.”
    He switched on the set and waited for it to warm up. However, no hum came from the loudspeaker. He pressed the microphone button.
    â€œThat’s funny, Joe. This set doesn’t seem to be putting out at all.”
    Frank tried again, but the output dial remained at zero. Turning off the set, Joe unsnapped the cover slides, and removed the top.
    â€œNo wonder!” he exclaimed. “A tube is missing!”
    â€œThat’s proof enough for me,” Frank cried. “Those visitors were here for no good reason.”
    â€œWe’d better ride to Red Butte as fast as we can and report the whole situation,” Frank said grimly.
    â€œRight,” Joe agreed. “Then later we can hop a train from there to Spur Gulch.”
    Hurrying outside, the Hardys sprang into their saddles and galloped off. At this rapid pace, they quickly covered a mile. Then they were forced to slow down because the trail had entered a rocky valley.
    As they proceeded, the valley became a narrow pass walled in by steep rock formations on either side.
    â€œI guess it’ll have to be Indian file now!” Frank said, cantering in front of his brother. As they neared the end of the pass, he suddenly reined in.
    â€œWhat’s up?” Joe asked, almost colliding with Frank’s mount.
    Frank did not answer, but from up ahead, Joe heard a gruff voice shout:
    â€œHold it!”
    A man in cowboy attire, astride a pony, blocked the exit to the pass. The boys couldn’t see what he looked like, because of the dirty blue kerchief tied over the lower part of his face and a ten-gallon hat pulled low on his forehead.
    â€œI see you’re packing a gun!” he remarked, looking at the weapon Frank carried in a holster.
    â€œYes. Protection against wild animals.”
    The cowboy gave a sarcastic laugh. Then he pressed his horse up beside Frank’s mount and tried to make a quick grab for the boy’s gun.
    But Frank was alert. As the stranger’s arm shot out toward his holster, the boy stood up in his