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scattergun could have been meant for me,” Dodge remarked worriedly, as he started the motor.
    â€œOr for us,” Frank said.
    As the helicopter rose and soared toward the Bitterroot mountain range, Frank told Dodge of their being kidnapped in Chicago.
    â€œWhat is the case Dad is working on for you?” Joe asked.
    â€œI’ve been running an armored-car service for ten years,” the big man explained. ”Recently one of my trucks was hijacked and a money shipment stolen. Both guards aboard were shot. The money was insured, of course, but I wanted those hijackers caught to avoid any future holdups, so, knowing your father’s reputation for tracking down hijackers, I engaged him to investigate. My men’s safety is important to me. The police have worked on the case, too. They and your father managed to recover the money and catch two of the gang, but the others escaped. Someone reported seeing them in Canada.”

    Boo-o-om! The blast knocked the boys off their feet
    â€œThen why has Dad stayed here?” Frank asked.
    â€œBecause he believes the leader of the gang, Big Al Martin, is still in this area. Your father refuses to leave until he is found.”
    â€œHow did Dad get hurt?” Joe questioned.
    â€œHe was thrown from a horse yesterday afternoon,” Dodge replied, “while chasing a fellow he thinks is one of Big Al’s men.”
    â€œAnd now Dad wants us to try to find the outlaws,” Frank surmised.
    â€œYes,” Dodge said, “and the sooner the better. Big Al’s dangerous—he belongs behind bars. The police know he has henchmen in other cities.”
    As Dodge spoke, the helicopter shook and rattled in the wind. Below them, the boys saw wild, rugged country. Snow-covered buttes stood like gaunt sentinels overlooking heavily wooded valleys.
    Presently Dodge shouted, “It won’t be long now!”
    Ahead, in a mountain cleft, the pilot pointed out the tiny town of Lucky Lode. “Over to the left is Windy Peak—the highest in the range.”
    â€œHave you been flying long, Mr. Dodge?” Joe asked.
    â€œI started taking lessons a couple of years ago and it came easily to me.”
    â€œHave you always lived in the West?” Frank asked, but Dodge did not reply.
    â€œHere we go!” he said, and began setting the helicopter down. Frank wondered if Dodge had not heard his question or did not want to discuss his past.
    The pilot landed expertly in a clearing at one end of Lucky Lode. Then he helped the boys lug their gear to Hank Shale’s cabin at the foot of a steep hill on the outskirts of the town.
    When Frank knocked, the door was opened by a tall, skinny man with thinning red hair. His wrinkled face split into a grin when he saw the trio.
    â€œCome in and thaw out!” he exclaimed. “I’m Hank Shale. Your pa and I’ve been waitin’ for you!”
    The boys entered to find their father seated before a roaring fire. Fenton Hardy was a trim, athletic-looking man. His keen eyes lighted up when he saw his sons.
    â€œHello, boys,” said the detective, and moving carefully, shook hands with them. “Thanks for giving up your camping trip.”
    â€œWe’d rather work with you any day,” Joe said, grinning.
    Mr. Hardy smiled and turned to Dodge. “I appreciate your bringing my sons.”
    Hank announced that he was going to the kitchen and rustle up some grub.
    â€œI’ll help you,” Dodge volunteered. “The three detectives can sit by the fire and exchange news.”
    In low voices the boys told their father all that had happened since they had left Bayport.
    Mr. Hardy looked grave. “I agree with you that someone here must have informed Al’s Chicago henchmen that you were coming. But who?” He glanced toward the kitchen and called, “Hank!”
    When the red-haired man appeared in the doorway, Mr. Hardy asked him, “Who was in