The Chase for the Mystery Twister by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

the other side of the pickup, reached through the passenger window, and grabbed the crumpled bag off the seat. As he did, Snowdon opened the door on the driver’s side.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Joe?” Snowdon asked.
    â€œJust checking out your tires,” Joe replied. “They look good as new.”
    â€œThey are new,” Snowdon said, looking a bit confused.
    â€œWell, then, that’s a good thing,” Joe said.
    Snowdon smiled. “We’ll see you in the morning.”
    After Snowdon pulled away, Phil began heading for the Blue Bomber. “Wait a second, Phil,” Joe called after him. Joe looked in the crumpled bag. There was a crumpled root beer can, an apple core, an empty bag of chips, and a crust of bread.
    â€œWell, we know what his eating habits are,” Joe said. He looked toward the grove of trees. “I have a hunch, Phil. Snowdon’s hiding something, and I think I know what it is. Come on.”
    As Joe and Phil walked toward the grove of trees, the smell of hickory became sharper. At the center of the grove, they came upon on an old wooden shack. “It’s a smokehouse,” Joe quietlytold his friend. “And it’s my guess that Henry Low River is hiding inside it.”
    â€œOkay,” Phil said. “And I suppose you want to go in and find him?”
    Joe smiled and nodded yes. Phil shook his head no. When Joe didn’t budge, Phil sighed, then nodded as well. Phil opened the door, and they slipped in. Hams hung from hooks, as did a lit lantern and some sides of bacon. Hickory chips smoldered in a long rectangular barbecue grill that ran along the back wall. But there was no sign of Henry Low River.
    â€œI guess I was wrong,” Joe said. “Let’s go.”
    Just then, Joe felt something creak beneath him. He looked down to see the floorboards moving. Before he could run to safety or even move an inch, he found himself falling through the floor!

8 The Wrong Gun
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    Joe hit the bottom of the five-foot-deep pit with a thud. Phil knelt and stuck his head through the trapdoor. “Joe, what happened? You okay?”
    A hand reached up from the shadows and yanked Phil by the collar down into the pit. Joe saw the gleam of the blade of an ivory-handled pocketknife that was being brandished at Phil. As his eyes became accustomed to the light, he also saw the long handle of a Colt .45 revolver in their attacker’s other hand.
    â€œWho are you?” the voice asked from the shadows.
    â€œJoe Hardy,” Joe replied.
    â€œPhil Cohen,” his friend said, a tremble in his voice. “Harmless, nonviolent Phil Cohen.”
    â€œLet me guess. You’re Henry Low River?” Joeasked. The man didn’t answer. “You’re holding the knife that your grandson picked up off the floor in Toby Gill’s office, so I’m pretty sure I’m right.”
    â€œWhat if you are?” the man asked.
    â€œWe’re not the law,” Joe assured him. “We’re just trying to help find out what happened to Toby Gill.”
    In one quick movement, the man pushed Phil over to Joe’s side of the pit. He folded his pocketknife against his chest and put it away. He kept the gun trained on the two boys.
    As the man leaned into the light, Joe got a good look at him. Low River looked younger than Joe had expected, maybe fifty. He had a strong face, with imposing features and wrinkles around the eyes. His hair was long and black with silver strands.
    â€œI’ll tell you where Gill is,” Low River said. “He’s running. He cruised, the same way he did after he rooked me in Texas.”
    â€œIf that’s true, what were you doing parked behind his office this morning?” Joe asked.
    â€œHanging out. Hoping he might come back for something,” Low River said. “I had gone to his office earlier to flush him out.”
    â€œFlush him out?” Phil asked.
    â€œTo make him fess up to