The Mystery of the Death Trap Mine - M. V. Carey [8]
“We were up at five this morning,” Bob reminded her.
“So was I,” said Allie. “Tell you what. I’ll get out the chessboard and—”
“No thanks!” Jupe interrupted. “I have decided that according to my own official clock, which is inside my head, it is ten-thirty. I am going to bed.”
“Me, too.” Pete started for the stairs. Bob yawned and went after him.
“Spoilsports!” Allie taunted.
“That Allie can be a pain in the neck,” Pete complained, when the boys were upstairs and getting into bed. “She never runs out of steam.”
Jupe stretched out and put his hands behind his head. “I’m not so sure,” he said.
“Listen.”
Bob and Pete were silent. They heard the muted sound of the television being turned off. Harrison Osborne’s voice came to them, low and sleepy. A door closed and water ran in a shower. Then another door closed.
“Allie’s going to bed, too,” said Jupe.
He turned over on his side and turned off the bedside lamp. The room was dark, except for the moonlight which came through the open windows and threw cold squares of light on the floor.
Jupiter closed his eyes. In a second he was asleep. He slept deeply, not stirring, until he was jarred awake by a noise that came from outside — a muffled roar that echoed and rumbled and then died away.
Instantly alert, Jupe sat up. He concentrated, listening for a repetition of the sound.
In his bunk, Pete groaned. “Magdalena,” he mumbled. “Shooting at the dog again.”
“No.” Jupe got out of bed and went to the window. “It sounded like a shot, but it wasn’t Magdalena. Too far away.”
Jupiter looked out over the moonlit fields of Christmas trees stretching away from the house. To his right, he could see Mrs. Macomber’s house and the abandoned dwellings that made up her little domain. Straight ahead, Wesley Thurgood’s property was fully visible on the rising slope of land. A small, boxy-shaped truck was parked near the mine entrance. A shadow moved next to Thurgood’s cabin, and the guard dog prowled to the end of his chain, lifted his head, and howled.
A light went on in the little house across from Uncle Harry’s gate. A door opened and Jupe saw Mrs. Macomber come out in a dressing gown. She stood on the porch and looked up toward Thurgood’s place.
There were voices in the living room below. Uncle Harry was up, and so was Magdalena.
“It was not me,” the boys heard the housekeeper say. “I did not shoot the gun.”
Bare feet thudded on the stairway, and there was a pounding at the door. “Hey, you guys!” It was Allie. “Did you hear that?”
The Three Investigators got into robes and went out on the landing. Allie was kneeling at the window there with her elbows on the sill. “It’s Thurgood!” whispered Allie. “I’m sure that shot came from Thurgood’s place. And look!”
Pete went to the window. “What is it?” he asked.
Allie pointed across to Mrs. Macomber’s house. The woman on the porch turned, went inside, and shut the door.
“The sound woke Mrs. Macomber,” Allie pointed out. “And it woke the dog. He barked. And it woke us. But it didn’t wake Thurgood. At least he didn’t put on any lights and he didn’t go out to calm the dog down. I’ll bet it was him shooting!”
“Allie!” Harrison Osborne’s voice came from below. “What are you doing up there?”
“Just seeing what I can see,” called Allie. She got up and went to the top of the staircase. “Uncle Harry, I’m sure that was Wesley Thurgood shooting.”
“Allie,” said her uncle wearily, “you’re getting to be a nut about Thurgood. It was probably somebody out hunting jack rabbits or coyotes.”
“Who?” demanded Allie. “From here I can see all the way to the hills. There isn’t anybody out. Besides, if there’s a coyote around, wouldn’t he be trying to get at our chickens?”
“Not if somebody shot at him first,” said Uncle Harry. “Now you come down here and go back to bed, and let the boys get their sleep.”
“Oh, blast!” exclaimed Allie.
She had started down the stairs when Jupe suddenly called her back to the window.
Thurgood had appeared in the clearing near his cabin. A shotgun was cradled in his arms. The boys saw him gaze at the hills