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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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“You take it, Chet.” Joe laughed. “Frank and I will spread our sleeping bags on the floor.”

The bright gasoline lanterns with their constant, gentle roaring sound were turned off. Their mantles, resembling empty tea bags, glowed orange for a moment, then the cabin was silent and dark. Weary from the long drive and the evening's activities, the boys slept soundly.

But in the middle of the night they were rudely awakened by a fearsome sound. The three campers lay rigid, with eyes wide open, waiting tensely for the sound to be repeated.

Abruptly it came. The night outside was rent by a long, full-throated screamâlike that of a woman in terror. It seemed to come from the depths of the hollow behind the cabin.

As the scream died away, Chet whispered, “Do you suppose Captain Maguire heard that last night and went to investigate?”

“I don't know,” answered Frank, jumping up. “But a scream's a scream. It sounds as if someone is in serious danger. Slip on your shoes and trousers, and let's go!”

Minutes later, the trio, led by Frank, were hastening down the steep wooded path into the hollow. The boys' flashlight beams caused weird shadows to fall on the huge boulders and dense brush. Tree roots and small protruding rocks made the unfamiliar path tricky and dangerous.

They saw no one, and finally their progress was barred by a rushing mountain torrent.

“This is as far as I got earlier!” Frank shouted above the sound of the water. “Guess we'll have to risk it now.”

“Let's go!” Joe forged ahead into the stream.

The crashing white water exploded against the boy's body. The impact caught him off balance. Frank and Chet, following his progress with their flashlight beams, saw him stagger, then go down underneath the relentless, rushing cascadel

CHAPTER III

An Eerie Trail

“DON'T lose sight of Joe! Keep both beams trained on him!”

With these words, Frank Hardy thrust his flashlight into Chet Morton's hands. Then he plunged into the boiling torrent himself.

The freezing water crashed against his hips with the force of a football tackler. Joe, apparently unconscious, already had been carried several feet downstream. Cautiously Frank inched across, groping for footholds on the treacherous bottom.

“Better to move slowly than to risk a fall now!” he thought.

In a moment, guided by Chet's flashlights, Frank reached his brother. He was lying unconscious against a rock; his head just out of reach of the water.

Frank braced his feet carefully and stooped. In a moment he straightened up, with Joe's limp form held firmly across his shoulders in a fire-man's carry.

“Over here, Frank!” Chet called anxiously, lighting the way.

Frank lurched through the raging water to the bank, where Chet helped lower Joe gently to the ground.

“Isâis he breathing?” gulped Chet, who was pulling off his shirt to use as a towel.

“He'll be all right. Nasty crack on the head, that's all,” Frank answered tersely.

He indicated a bloody mark on Joe's temple. Then he swiftly stripped off his brother's soaking clothes. Meanwhile, Chet rubbed Joe's body briskly with his big woolen shirt.

In a moment Joe was blinking in the glare of their flashlights, and grinning weakly into their anxious faces. “Say, take the light out of a fellow's face,” he protested feebly. “And what have you two done with my clothes?”

Chet took charge. “Never mind your clothes. Just put that shirt on to keep yourself warm. You Hardys are going straight back to the cabin to dry out by the stove. Whoever was doing the screaming down here can wait until tomorrow.”

There was no more screaming during the night. In the morning, sunshine had already flooded the little clearing before any sign of activity was to be seen around the captain's cabin.

Inside, Frank and Joe were still sleeping soundly. From the kitchen came the clink and rattle of dishes and the unmistakable aroma of pancakes and sausages.

Clang! Clang!
Chet Morton appeared in the doorway pounding on a metal pan with a big wooden spoon. “Breakfast, gang! Up and at âem! It's almost ten o'clock!”

On the floor, two khaki sleeping bags stirred. Two heads popped into view.

“Oh-h-hâmy aching head,” Joe moaned and sat up. “Captain Maguire hasn't shown up, has he, Chet?”

“Ain't nobody here but us pancakes,” the stout boy replied cheerfully as he re-entered the kitchen. “And if you two don't get a move on there won't be any of us pancakesâor sausagesâleft for long, either!”

Chet's threat was enough for the Hardys. They were ravenous after their exertions of the night before and wasted no time getting to the breakfast table. In half an hour the trio, refreshed, was ready for a thorough search of Black Hollow.

Before starting, Frank slung the leather case containing his powerful binoculars around his neck.

“I'm taking these, just in case.”

Frank led the way down the steep, twisting path while Joe brought up the rear. Once they were under the huge, closely growing trees, very little of the bright sunlight above filtered down to them. The dark, somber evergreens made an almost impenetrable umbrella over their heads. All the time they kept looking for signs of Captain Maguire.

“It's easy to figure how this place got the name Black Hollow,” Joe remarked.

The absence of wind in the well-protected valley made an unnatural stillness. Not a leaf stirred. Furthermore, no small animals seemed to be moving. Joe's voice had a peculiar loudness and made all three a bit uneasy.

“Wait!” Chet Morton halted abruptly. “What's that?” All three listened intently. At the same time, their eyes surveyed the surrounding woods.

“Just the call of a crow,” Joe said sheepishly. “Must be a mile away, at least.”

When the trekkers reached the rushing torrent, Joe unslung a coil of stout Manila rope from his shoulder. Working rapidly, the brothers rigged a lifeline for future passages by securing one end of the rope to a stout tree on the bank.

Once across, the search party continued their descent. Soon the sound of the turbulent stream was left behind. The eerie silence again surrounded them.

Once more Chet stopped. “Listen!”

“What now?” asked Joe with some impatience.

“I thought I heard something rustling.”

Tor Pete's sake!” Joe grinned at Chet. “It's your dungarees' legs rubbing against each other. Come on! We'll never get to the bottom of this hollow.”

The trio resumed its way down the trail.

“Hold it!” There was a tense note in Frank's voice.

“Hear anything?” Chet demanded eagerly.

Warily the alert youth's eyes scanned the trail behind them. “I just can't shake the queer feeling that somebody or something is following us.”

“Must be stopping every time we do,” muttered Chet. “I can't hear a thing.”

After switching positions, the boys continued down the trail. Now it was Joe who scrambled forward in the lead. Frank, watching every tree and rock suspiciously, brought up the rear.

At last the steep path leveled off onto the floor of the hollow. Quickening his pace, Joe plunged forward. Before he knew it, his legs were caught by many vinelike bushes. Innumerable tiny prickers bit through his dungarees, grasped his sweater like claws, and dug into his exposed wrists and hands like fishhooks.

“Ow!” he shouted, struggling frantically. “What's got me?”

“You're in a brier patch,” called his brother, laughing. “Simmer down. Stop fighting it. Go through it slowly. Take off one vine at a time.”

By doing this Joe succeeded in freeing himself. Carefully he worked his way through the patch, with Chet and Frank following. Suddenly he stopped once more.

“Frank! Chet!”

“What's the matter? Caught again?”

Grinning triumphantly, Joe turned to face his comrades. “Maybe I did rush in here without looking. But I wasn't the only one. Take at look at this!” With a flourish, he held up a piece of bright plaid material about two inches square.

“It was clinging to this bush,” he announced. “Looks like part of somebody's flannel shirt. Maybe the captain's! It hasn't been here long. Not faded a bit by the weather.”

“Let's see it” called Chet, struggling forward through the briers.

“Can't wait now,” returned Joe as he emerged from the bushes. “Captain Maguire may be right near here!” He rushed headlong down the forest path, leaving Chet and Frank to catch up as soon as they could.

Just as they, too, worked clear of the tenacious prickers, another triumphant shout came from Joe, which caused them to set off on the double.

A wide, rock-strewn brook, apparently running the length of the valley, came into sight. Joe, kneeling beside it, was fishing something out of a little eddying pool on the near bank.

As Frank and Chet pounded up, he showed them an empty matchbook cover. It was wet, but still bright colored and fairly firm. “Hasn't been here long,” he commented.

“It's a find, all right,” Frank agreed soberly. “It may not prove that Captain Maguire passed this way! But
some
human being did. Now let's follow the brook and keep our eyes open!”

The soft ground, covered with a brown carpet of pine and hemlock needles, disclosed no footprints. But as Frank Hardy approached a large dead trunk which had fallen directly across the path, his trained eyes picked out two distinct cup-like indentations in front of it.

At the same time, something shiny just off the trail attracted Joe's attention. Reaching in among the thick vegetation that grew beside the stream, he drew out a pair of empty shotgun shells!

“Must've been shot recently,” he noted, sniffing. “I can still smell gunpowder.”

Meanwhile, Frank carefully placed one of his knees in each of the sunken marks in front of the fallen tree.

“Whoever was here knelt in this spot and fired across the log,” he concluded. “One of Captain Maguire's guns is missing. Maybe he fired the shots. But at what?”

“This trail is really getting hot!” Joe exclaimed, starting off.

The path continued to follow the bank of the brook. Suddenly Joe, in the lead, drew up to a sharp halt.
“Whup!
On your guard! Prickers again! And hey, another piece of plaid flannel shirt!”

“And that's not all,” Frank broke in excitedly. “Look at the way these nettles have been crushed down in this one spot, as though something heavy had fallen on them!”

Now it was Chet's turn to make a discovery. With a yelp the stout boy bent over to snatch up a bent metal flashlight. Fragments of the shattered lens lay on the ground nearby.

“It's Captain Maguire's!” he declared excitedly, pointing out the initials T. M. scratched into the barrel of the flashlight.

Frank, in the meantime, had dropped down to examine the crushed nettle stalks more closely. “I'm afraid this is serious,” he announced at last. “Some of these leaves are stained dark.”

“Blood?” queried Chet in a worried tone, and the Hardys nodded.

At that moment the boys heard a slight noise just above them. Jerking their heads abruptly upward, they were startled to see a face gazing down at them from the height of a boulder on the bank.

It was a strange, wild-looking, sun-browned face, framed with scraggly black hair. The fierce dark eyes glared at the watchers as the wide mouth shaped itself into a weird grimace.

CHAPTER IV

The Windowless Cabin

THE Hardys and Chet stood frozen for a moment, as if entranced by the fierce stare of the wild face above them. Then suddenly the person back of the boulder was gone.

“The witch!” breathed Chet, who had turned chalk-white. “It must have gotten Captain Maguire!”

“Witch or no witch, it can't have gone far!” Joe cried out, leaping to his feet. “Come on!”

Frank sprinted forward with his brother along the forest path. The two boys ran through the dark woods, turning and twisting with the unfamiliar trail, dodging trees, and hurdling small bushes.

From up ahead came the sound of somebody crashing through the underbrush. Suddenly Frank caught a glimpse of a tall, rangy figure in dark flannel trousers and a green sweater, darting swiftly in and out among the huge trees.

“That's no witch.” Frank panted. “But he sure can run!”

In fact, the long-legged stranger seemed to be pulling away from the Hardys, though they were both strong runners. Unexpectedly he cut sharply to his left, leaving the path and darting in a straight line across the forest floor. With amazing agility he leaped over fallen trees and ducked under low-hanging branches.

“Keep him in sight!” Joe yelled. “We'll trap him against the hillside!”

But the strange figure, upon reaching the steep, wooded side of the hollow, did not pause. Grasping at the small trees and bushes with his long arms, he clambered swiftly up the hillside from one foothold to another. Apparently he knew the route well.

Frank and Joe, meanwhile, were forced to waste precious time battling their way up. Doggedly they kept on, but the gap between the pursuers and their quarry widened.

At last, halfway up the valley wall, the man broke into the open onto the gray sunlit rock forming the upper rim of the hollow. Skillfully he moved diagonally from rock to rock until he disappeared from sight beyond the rim.

Frank and Joe, who had just emerged from the trees, sat down on a rock to catch their breath.

“There's one witch that doesn't need a broomstick,” observed Joe, shaking his head ruefully.

BOOK: The Clue of the Screeching Owl

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