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

has letters on it. E R S. What does that mean?”
    â€œCould be part of the name Sanderson,” Joe said.
    â€œPerhaps an old prospector left it here,” Cap volunteered.
    Frank snapped his fingers. “I have it!” he cried. “Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.”
    Without explaining why, he dashed off in the darkness.
    â€œI think he ate some locoweed,” Chet remarked, leaning over his shovel and heaving a sigh.
    The words were hardly off his lips when a shriek of terror sounded in the night.
    Was Frank in trouble?

CHAPTER XI
    Underground Snare
    CATAPULTING himself out of the pit, Joe dashed down the slope in the direction Frank had taken. Chet and Cap hurried after him. With their flashlights stabbing the blackness, they finally reached the edge of the swamp.
    Just then a flashlight beam was turned on Joe and a familiar voice called, “What’s going on? You guys sound like a stampede of water buffalo.”
    â€œFrank! Was that you who yelled?”
    â€œNo. I thought it was one of you.”
    â€œMust have been a wildcat,” Cap said. “They sometimes sound like humans.”
    â€œSay, Frank, where were you going in such a rush?” Chet asked.
    â€œTo get that sign on the tree. I have an idea about it.”
    With the others following, he pushed through the dark swamp to the gnarled willow tree.
    Frank pointed out the dangling sign to Chet. Then he yanked the weathered old board loose.
    â€œI want to compare this with the piece of wood you found, Chet,” he said.
    As they struggled back up the hill to the pit, Chet puffed and heaved. “You sure—make things —hard,” he said.
    Joe was the first to notice that something was amiss at the pit.
    â€œHey! I left my shovel right here. Where’d it go?”
    â€œEverything is gone!” cried Cap.
    â€œThe board too,” Frank said. “We’ve been robbed!”
    â€œThat cry was just a trick to get us away from here,” Cap declared. “Somebody wanted our tools. Put out your lights, boys. There’s no sense making targets of ourselves.”
    The four stood motionless in the darkness. Frank broke the silence by whispering that it would be hopeless to try finding the thief in the darkness. The logical move was to return to their campsite as secretly as possible.
    By this time all of them except Chet knew the route well enough to find it in the dark. Chet stumbled along between Frank and Joe. Reaching camp, they crawled into their sleeping bags.
    â€œNow tell us about the sign, Frank,” Chet whispered.
    â€œI was going to try fitting the two pieces together. I think originally it was all one sign.”
    â€œBut that would mean it doesn’t refer to wildcats at all,” Chet pointed out.
    â€œRight! It would read, ‘Here lie the bodies of twenty wildcatters’!”
    â€œWildcatters has two t’s ,” Joe reminded him.
    â€œThe second t could have been right on the break,” Frank explained, “and easily have rotted away.”
    Chet still did not see the real significance. “What’s the difference whether there were twenty wildcats or twenty wildcat hunters here?”
    Cap spoke up. “A wildcatter, Chet, isn’t an animal hunter. He’s a man who hunts for oil-well locations.”
    â€œOil prospectors!” Chet whistled. “You mean there might be oil here?”
    Cap said that was quite possible, and then Joe exclaimed, “Those rusty pipes we found could have been part of some drilling equipment! And that skeleton in the cave might have been another one of the wildcatters!”
    â€œSk-skeleton!” Chet quavered.
    â€œOh, we didn’t tell you about our Mr. Bones!” Joe laughed. “Wait till you see him. He’s out of this world.”
    Chet crawled deeper into his sleeping bag and was silent.
    â€œSeriously,” Frank said a moment later, “I wonder what really