The Sasquatch Mystery, page 1
part #25 of Trixie Belden Series
Your TRIXIE BELDEN LIBRARY
1
The Secret of the Mansion
2
The Red Trailer Mystery
3
The Gatehouse Mystery
4
The Mysterious Visitor
5
The Mystery Off Glen Road
6
Mystery in Arizona
7
The Mysterious Code
8
The Black Jacket Mystery
9
The Happy Valley Mystery
10
The Marshland Mystery
11
The Mystery at Bob-White Cave
12
The Mystery of the Blinking Eye
13
The Mystery on Cobbett’s Island
14
The Mystery of the Emeralds
15
Mystery on the Mississippi
16
The Mystery of the Missing Heiress
17
The Mystery of the Uninvited Guest
18
The Mystery of the Phantom Grasshopper
19
The Secret of the Unseen Treasure
20
The Mystery Off Old Telegraph Road
21
The Mystery of the Castaway Children
22
Mystery at Mead’s Mountain
23
The Mystery of the Queen’s Necklace
24
Mystery at Saratoga
25
The Sasquatch Mystery
26
The Mystery of the Headless Horseman
27
The Mystery of thé Ghostly Galleon
28
The Hudson River Mystery
29
The Mystery of the Velvet Gown (new)
30
The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder (new)
31
Mystery at Maypenny’s (new)
© 1979 by Western Publishing Company, Inc.
All rights reserved. Produced in U.S.A.
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0-307-21596-2
All names, characters, and events in this story are entirely fictitious.
Camp on Champion Creek ● 1
MART BELDEN TOSSED a log onto the campfire. Sparks exploded upward, flashing into brief, bright life against a starry sky.
Hypnotized by the miniature fireworks her brother had set off, Trixie Belden murmured a regretful “ah-h” as the sparks descended into the ashes.
The sound was echoed by her best friends, Honey Wheeler, Jim Frayne, and Diana Lynch; by her teen-age brothers, Brian and Mart; by her cousins, Knut, Cap, and Hallie Belden; and even by their chaperon, Miss Trask.
“Good job, Mart,” said Miss Trask. “Not that I’m an expert on bonfires, by any means.”
“It doesn’t take an expert,” Mart said, “to see that this is no ordinary smoke-in-your-eyes, ashes-in-your-food bonfire. It’s a fire with vitality... character. It’s—”
“It’s an Idaho bonfire!” said Honey with a toss of her honey-blond hair.
“What’s the difference?” Hallie drawled. “I seem to remember plenty of good picnic fires in New York.” While her parents had gone to a mining conference in Switzerland, Hallie had spent part of one summer with Trixie and her family at Crabapple Farm. Now Hallie’s parents were in South America, leaving their three teen-agers to welcome their New York friends to their favorite camping area.
“My cousin has a point,” said Mart. “Even on Champion Creek in northern Idaho, fire is fire. As usual, you have your heat and visible light emanating from a body during the process of its combustion. Also as usual....”
While Mart trailed off into one of his more pompous explanations, Trixie thought to herself, No, Mart, it’s not usual—not at all.
Just beyond the reach of firelight, she could hear the stirrings and rustlings of the forest and its unfamiliar inhabitants. Day hunters settled into nests and burrows. Night predators prowled.
She shivered a little and edged closer to Knut. Over six feet tall, Knut looked enough like Brian to be a brother instead of a cousin. Trixie felt comfortable with Knut, even though she hadn’t seen him for years—not until this very morning.
Knut was from the handsome, dark side of the family that included her own father, Knut’s father, Brian, and Hallie. His slightly waved black hair was brushed back like bird wings at rest. Firelight glinted on his unexpectedly heavy glasses. Trixie had assumed that Knut would have something close to X-ray vision. After all, during Hallie’s visit, she had spoken Knut’s name with unabashed pride each time she mentioned him. On the other hand, Hallie called Cap “birdbrain,” and that didn’t fit, either.
Trixie pictured a meeting between her banker father and this Idaho nephew. Capelton Belden lay on the ground, feet toward the fire, while the rest of the group perched on logs and flat stones. The two would like each other, although Peter Belden would probably disapprove of Cap’s long brown hair tied with a leather thong at the nape of a strong neck. From the minute she and the others had stepped off the plane that morning in Wallace, Idaho, Trixie had been aware that both Brian and Mart were trying not to notice Cap’s swinging ponytail.
Cap wore Indian moccasins. His leather jacket dangled fringes. Without appearing outlandish, Cap fitted the here and now. The here was a camp high in Idaho’s mountains. The now was a starlit August Monday night.
Trixie was ecstatic over this sudden break in the end-of-summer routine on Crabapple Farm. Less than two days ago, she had been scalding and skinning tomatoes for canning, a job she loathed. And now she was almost the width of the continent away from the Hudson River valley. Bless Honey’s father for his generosity! When Matt Wheeler had learned of his business conference in Seattle, he had filled the vacant seats of his company’s plane with the Bob-Whites of the Glen, the club made up of Trixie and her friends.
It had not been difficult to persuade Miss Trask to accompany them. The manager of the Wheeler estate was eager to learn more about the Idaho wilderness. Because she so seldom interfered with their plans, Miss Trask was always the Bob-Whites’ first choice for chaperon.
Dan Mangan was the only Bob-White who had not been able to fly west, due to his temporary job as counselor at an upstate New York boys’ camp.
Recalling that Dan and Hallie had become good friends during Hallie’s eastern visit, Trixie called across the circle, “Hallie, Dan said to tell you ‘hi.’ He wishes he could have come.”
“Thanks, Trix. I was kind of hoping he could, too.”
At the mention of a boy’s name, Hallie’s brothers glanced at each other, but they did not tease. Trixie liked that. In their shoes, Mart would have recited the entire balcony scene from Romeo and Juliet.
Knut shifted weight and stared upward at the sky-scraping pines. After a while he said, “Stars, hide your fires.” His tone was as conversational as if he had said, “Please pass the butter.”
“Jeepers,” breathed Trixie, “did you make that up?”
“Nope,” Knut answered good-naturedly.
“Shakespeare beat him to it,” Jim guessed.
“Nothing wrong with quoting a little Shakespeare,” said Hallie, staring proudly at Knut.
At thirteen, Hallie Belden was beautiful. Her bones were long and fragile-looking. Her braided, smooth hair was as dark as Brian’s. She had eyes the color of ripe blackberries and brows that would never need tweezers. Trixie had no trouble imagining Hallie as a rajah’s daughter in floating silks, but there she sat—in well-worn blue jeans, an old plaid shirt, and scuffed boots. Trixie doubted that she would ever be able to overcome a niggle-naggle of jealousy. She herself weighed a few more pounds than any of the other girls, and she wasn’t as tall. It was hard to think of herself as pretty, when each time she faced Mart she saw herself—sandy curls, round blue eyes, and freckles. Mart was many things, but he wasn’t pretty!
Something Brian said made Hallie laugh. The deep, gurgling chuckle caused others to smile with her. She clapped her hands, then made a welcoming gesture that included the Bob-Whites and Miss Trask. “I’m so glad you’re here that I’m just bustin’ buttons trying to think what to share with you first!”
“Something edible?” Mart suggested helpfully. Cap looked astounded. “Wasn’t that you who just ate three hot dogs in buns?” he asked.
Mart tried to sound deeply wounded. “My own cousin, mine host, actually counts the morsels with which I barely maintain this emaciated body!”
“You’re about as emaciated as a hippo,” Trixie snorted.
“Well, I’m just a little dry,” Mart said hastily. “There’s some watermelon in the creek that I just know—”
Knut started to rise but Hallie motioned her brother to sit down. “Later,” she promised. “We’ll have the melon later.”
“We will if we beat that porcupine to it,” Cap said.
“What porcupine?” Di squealed.
“Ssh!” Cap warned.
In the silence that fell, Trixie could hear the grumbling and chittering of a porcupine. She heard other sounds, too. A whistle and a snort.
“There’s a deer close by,” Knut whispered. “Something startled it.”
“What’s that bawling sound?” Trixie whispered back.
“Bear cub,” Knut told her.
“That means its mother is hanging around, too?” Trixie asked, edging even closer to Knut.
“Or soon will be,” Knut said.
There was another sound.
Cap seemed to float up into a sitting position. His brown eyes became as alert as those of a fox. Not a sound betrayed his own presence, but Trixie caught an exchange of glances between Cap and Knut.
A twig snapped. Again the bear cub squalled. To Trixie, that woods baby sounded scared.
The camp had been set up in a parklike glade beside Champion Creek where it tumbled down
a steep, narrow gulch. Sounds were Tunneled to the campground as if through a megaphone: a series of grunts, barks, and wails... a sharp whistle... a coaxing suka, suka. Then, after a breathless wait, a long, drawn-out agoouummm.
“It’s going away,” Knut said.
“What was it?” asked Jim. “What animals do you have around here?”
Knut didn’t seem to hear the first question. “Oh, the usual,” he said. “Cougar, deer, elk, brown bear, skunk, whistling marmot.”
“I thought a marmot was a kind of rodent,” Trixie ventured.
“It is,” Cap said.
“Well, that was an awfully big sound,” Trixie declared.
“Maybe it was an awfully big rat,” said Di nervously.
“Maybe,” Cap said. He snapped a dry stick. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Immediately the surrounding forest became so quiet that Trixie could hear the burble of water that swirled around large, white rocks in the dim half-light beyond the circle of firelight. No matter how hard she looked, she could see nothing but black-dark beyond those stones. Suddenly it seemed very important that she know exactly where she was at that very moment, where she would be when she put her head on her pillow, and where she would be when she woke up the next morning.
“Just where are we, anyway?” she asked finally. “Gleeps, we went around so many curves after we left Wallace this morning, I decided you were taking us to the moon.”
Cap chortled. “We did, cousin. We took you to the Moon and kept right on going.”
Trixie frowned.
Knut reached over to gather both her hands for a quick, reassuring squeeze. “The pass is called Moon,” he explained. “There’s a mountain named Moon, too, and a creek. Cap’s just trying to rattle you.”
“Like a birdbrain,” Hallie added.
“We’re in northern Idaho’s ,” Knut went on. “You may have seen the trail signs as we drove in this morning. Most of the northern half of Idaho is covered with the largest stand of virgin white pine remaining in the United States. This area is divided into five national forests. The Kaniksu and the Coeur d’Alene stretch from the Canadian border to the mining region. Next comes Joe, covering all that space between the Bitterroot Range on Montana’s border to the wheatlands on the west. The mines are largely in the Coeur d’Alene
Mountains. The next mountain range south is called the St. Joe. The forest keeps marching south to cow country.”
As Knut stood to point out the compass points in the sky, his shadow grew to monstrous proportions and moved crazily when the flames leaped. Trixie had a momentary vision of a prehistoric man claiming his territory. She sensed that these Idaho cousins’ hearts were anchored in this rocky land just as firmly as her own family’s roots were in Crabapple Farm and the Hudson River valley.
“All around us,” Knut said quietly, “there are peaks that belong to eagles, and valleys where animals aren’t afraid of men. There’s mystery and treasure, adventure, danger, and quiet that stretches from earth to sky.”
“That sounds like poetry,” Miss Trask said. “And I’ll bet it isn’t Shakespeare,” added Honey.
“It isn’t,” Knut admitted. “Thank you.”
“Any of you guys smoke?” Cap asked.
“No” was the prompt reply from both girls and boys.
“Good,” Cap said. “Welcome to Joe Country.” After Knut sat down again, Trixie said, “Pinch me, somebody! I must be dreaming. I don’t have to feed those stupid hens when I
wake up tomorrow!” She joined the chuckle at her expense. Nobody could accuse Trixie Belden of enjoying chores. Mystery was her interest, first, last, and always—and, oh, this Joe Country must hold a thousand unsolved mysteries. Why else was the blond fuzz standing up on her bare forearms?
At that moment, an eerie cry that originated at the head of the canyon hit unseen cliffs and echoed endlessly: fleep... fleeoweep-p-p-p!
Cap jumped up and began feeding the fire with reckless haste.
“You’re using the morning kindling,” Hallie objected.
“So what?” Cap shot back.
“Don’t be a birdbrain!”
“Look, I cut this. I can split more.” Fire gobbled the dry pitch Cap threw. Light increased in intensity, and so did Cap’s effort.
Without understanding why, Mart, Brian, and Jim began to throw on all the dry, small wood scraps they could find in the circle of light. Knut moved to the outer edge of the lighted area and stared up the dark slot of the canyon.
Trixie hunched alone on the log Knut and Jim had deserted. She was sure she would hear that cry again.
She did. This time it came from some spot just beyond those white rocks. When she pulled in her breath to keep from screaming, she choked on the nauseating smell-taste of rotten fish and dead field mice.
Lonely Vigil ● 2
A COUGAR SCREECHED at the same time that Hallie choked, “What is that gosh-awful smell?”
“A carcass,” Knut said.
“A bee trap,” Cap corrected him quickly.
Again Trixie saw her cousins having an eye conversation.
Along with the rest of the campers, the usually unflappable Miss Trask was openly gagging. “Well, which is it?” she asked.
Knut hesitated, then said, “Cap’s usually right about things in the woods. Yes, it’s a bee trap.”
“We’ve been here most of the day setting up camp,” Hallie said flatly. “I didn’t see another car nearby. I didn’t hear another car. Not even a motorcycle. So who set a bee trap?”
Knut adjusted his glasses and waited for Cap to speak.
Cap strolled to the outer edge of the fire circle. “A fisherman, maybe, while he cleaned his trout. Or another camper.”
“Somebody who’s already pulled out,” Knut agreed.
Trixie didn’t have brothers of her own for nothing. Knut and Cap were building an explanation out of thin air. They didn’t know any more than she did what had caused that fetid odor.
Hallie held her nose and declared, “They’d better change recipes.”
“Or their good neighbor policy,” Brian said with a hollow laugh.
“Why would anybody want to trap a bee?” Di asked. “I thought they were good for making honey and leaving it in trees for bears to eat.” Knut’s surprised chuckle broke the tension. “That’s one way to look at it, Di, but when you’re trying to clean fish or cook, yellow jackets can get pretty pesky. Woodsmen get some protection when they hang a fine-meshed wire basket several feet away from where they’re working. They smear stale fish—usually just the heads—with cooking fat and anything else they can find that will turn rancid in the sun. They put the mess in the basket and let nature take its course. Yellow jackets are scavengers. They go for the rotten food and leave the fishermen in peace.”
Di wrinkled her nose with distaste.
Cap’s brown ponytail swung as he quit his prowling and sat beside her. “Never mind,” he said. “We’ll take care of it in the morning.”
The wind changed and soon it was possible to breathe freely. Still, Trixie sensed restlessness in the forest. A great owl swooped low through the clearing. Coyotes argued, came to some agreement, and moved on. Once she thought she heard that cranky bear cub.
Trixie agreed with the theory that nothing was in the woods at night that wasn’t there in broad daylight. But that was more comforting when she was in the Wheeler game preserve, way back home on the Hudson River. This was the vast Joe country in Idaho. Who knew what might be watching every move she made? Hugging herself, Trixie hunched toward the fire.
