Free The Shattered Helmet by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

wave of water swept several inches above the bridge. Evan gunned his machine and the wheels set up a spray as he flew across the span.
    Seconds later three feet of muddy, boiling, sandy water flooded over the bridge, carrying pebbles and debris, just as the three cyclists reached higher ground.
    They stopped to look back at the phenomenon. Evan’s hands were shaking a little. The roof of a cabin swirled against the bridge, tearing apart like matchwood. Three uprooted pine trees followed. The span shuddered as they banged against the superstructure and stuck there.
    â€œI just got out in time,” Evan said. He promised to be more careful in the future.
    â€œYou’d better,” Frank said with a grin. “We don’t want to send you back to Greece in a coffin!”
    The cyclists followed the uphill road, which gradually became nothing more than an indistinct trail. Off to one side, in a grassy gully, they spied about two dozen cattle being urged along by a lone cowboy. They waved to him and drove over to ask if he had seen Buckles.
    â€œThe old man with the dog?” the man said.
    â€œYes,” Frank replied.
    â€œAre you looking for him, too?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, too?”
    The horse grew restless and the cowboy leaned over to pat the animal’s neck. “A young fellow like you asked the same question about an hour ago.”
    â€œWas he blond?” Evan inquired.
    The cowboy nodded. A smile crossed his wrinkled face. “You’ll find the old guy up there on the mountain,” he said. “But I’m warning you. He’s about as friendly as a wounded grizzly bear.”
    â€œThanks,” Frank said. “You’ve been a big help.”
    The trio drove quietly around the cattle, found the dim outline of the trail again, and continued on as evening settled.
    Frank said, “Do you suppose it was Saffel who asked the cowboy about Buster?”
    â€œWe’ll find out,” Joe replied.
    But soon it became too dark to follow the trail.Finding the elusive Buster Buckles would have to wait until morning. They made camp at the base of three towering pine trees, ate some canned food, and crawled into their sleeping bags.
    The sighing of the wind blowing through the treetops lulled the weary travelers to sleep. Frank was awakened at dawn. He had been dreaming that he was swimming in choppy water. Suddenly he realized that something was lapping against his forehead.
    The boy opened his eyes slowly and saw the face of a friendly fox terrier. He reached up, patted the dog, and called to the others. “Look, fellows. We’ve got a mascot.”
    Joe and Evan crawled out of their sleeping bags, skinned into dungarees and shirts, and combed their hair. The terrier continually jumped up and down, and Joe said, “Hold still while I look at your collar.”
    Attached was a small tag. Joe studied it and whistled. “Hot dog! If this isn’t luck. Little Bozo belongs to Buster Buckles!”
    â€œWhich means,” Frank said with a whoop, “that he’s close by.”
    â€œCome on, pooch,” Joe said. “Take us to your master!”
    The dog yapped several times, then headed up the hill through a stand of trees.
    â€œIf we ride our bikes, we might scare the daylightsout of the old boy,” Frank said. “I don’t think he’d appreciate that. Let’s go on foot.”
    The dog cavorted around, yapping at his newfound friends, and led them over a small hill. Down the other side, not more than three hundred yards, was a camper. Several shirts had been hung on the roof to dry.
    The boys followed the dog to the door and Frank called out, “Hello, Mr. Buckles!”
    Someone stirred inside. Then the door opened and a wrinkled face poked out. The gray hair was disheveled, and the eyes were full of sleep.
    The face showed annoyance at being rudely awakened. The man retreated for a minute, then reappeared, wearing