The Blue Ghost Mystery: A Rick Brant Science-Adventure Story

CHAPTER VII

The Frostola Man

Rick Brant was filled with cold anger. It showed in the determined set of his lips as he swung Dr. Miller's car around the turn leading to the bridge across the creek. He was no longer content to wait for developments. After last night's episode, he and Scotty intended to take the war to the enemy – for war it had become, the moment the Blue Ghost had led them on the wild-goose chase ending with Rick in a deep quarry.

It was pure luck that Rick had not been hurt by the drop into the quarry. True, the ghost had led them to the side that dropped sheer into the water, but impact with the water after a fifty-foot drop was enough to cause damage if one landed in the wrong position. Rick had hit feet first, simply by chance.

Scotty looked at him as the car turned toward the picnic grounds. "Aren't we going to town?"

"Sure. But I want another look at the landscape."

"What do you expect to see?"

"I don't know," Rick admitted. "I'm just hoping for an idea."

He drove through the trees, across the picnic ground, and came to a stop before the mine shaft. There was no one in sight, and the grounds were just as they had left them.

Rick studied the scene, searching for anything offbeat, any anomaly. There was nothing, except for the iron pipe from which spring water flowed. That bothered him. Dr. Miller's explanation might be the right one, but he didn't really think so. If tailings from the mine had been dumped there, the hill would not be so steep or so regular. The years would have weathered the rock debris, but not to such a natural-looking formation.

"If they didn't dump the tailings there," he thought aloud, "where did they dump them?"

"Tailings?" Scotty prompted.

"Rock from the mine. Stuff with no ore in it, or such low-grade stuff that it was worthless."

"I see. Well, they didn't dump it in sight. But they couldn't have dumped it far from here. It wouldn't be sensible to cart worthless rock away any distance."

They hadn't used the tailings for roads around the mine. The roads were natural dirt, with good drainage and no sign of rock ballast. Rick tried to imagine another use, but couldn't, until Scotty spoke.

"Suppose they used up all the rocks throwing them at the Yankee soldiers?" Scotty asked whimsically.

The question started a train of thought that gave Rick the answer in a few seconds. "You've hit it. They didn't throw the rocks, but they used them against the Yankees. I'll bet on it. Come on."

He got out of the car and led the way through the trees to where the creek flowed on its quiet way. There were low embankments a few yards back from the water's edge. "There are the rocks."

"Where?" Scotty couldn't see them. "I don't see nary a rock."

"In the embankments, covered with dirt. See? There's a place where the dirt cover has been washed away by the rain. I've seen defenses like this before. They used rocks as a base, filled in the cracks with clay, then put dirt on top and planted grass to hold it. That gave them a permanent earthwork."

"Why plant grass?" Scotty wanted to know.

"To fool enemy reconnaissance, I guess. I can't think of any other reason, except to prevent erosion. In those days scouting was done by cavalry, and from the other side of the river these look like natural grassy banks."

Inspection of the embankment disclosed that Rick had guessed right. Scotty inspected the place where the rain had washed the topsoil away, probably because some careless picnicker had ruined the grass in that spot. The rocks were clearly of the kind in the mine.

Suddenly Scotty bent lower and began to pry at something. "Rick, there's something buried here."

Rick hurried to help out, and in a moment they had lifted away enough rocks to disclose a considerable amount of moldy cloth.

Scotty took a piece and shook it, then chuckled. "The answer is in the writing on the bag. Wilbur's Premium Portland Cement." He grew serious. "Only where was it used? I've seen no construction around here."

"Maybe someone brought picnic supplies in the bags and buried them with the garbage," Rick said.

"I doubt it. You can't get all the cement out of a bag, because the powder sticks in the fabric. If you try to wash it out, it only sets the cement."

Rick thought his pal probably was right. No one would use a cement bag for supplies, now that he thought about it. He looked up suddenly as a sound came through the trees. It was a motor, but a small two-cycle kind, like a scooter or a small motorcycle.

"Someone coming," he said. "Let's go see who it is."

Scotty held onto the bag. They walked back through the trees and into the camping ground in time to see a lanky, white-clad individual on a three-wheeled motor scooter – the kind where the driver sits on a cargo box – come to a stop. On the box were blue letters, dripping with white frost, that spelled FROSTOLA. Underneath the letters was a list of products: cream pies, frozen cones, cream sandwiches, icicles, and quarts and pints.

Although Rick had never heard of Frostola, it was immediately clear that this was an ice-cream vendor, of the kind that appears in swarms in warm weather with ringing bells and tooting horns, in trucks, on scooters, and even on bicycles.

The Frostola man gave them a cheery wave and tilted his white cap to the back of his head. "Hi! Where's the crowd?"

"We're it," Scotty answered. "Were you expecting more?"

"Wasn't expecting anything," the man retorted. "It's a nice day for a swim, so I thought I'd come sell refreshments to the swimmers."

"They're afraid of ghost fish," Rick said. "The place is haunted."

The man grinned. "I heard about the ghost. If he shows up I'll sell him a cream pie."

"Sell me one," Rick invited, and Scotty echoed the thought.

"Pleasure." The man got off the seat and Rick saw that he was over six feet tall, and built like a sapling. The boy also saw that he wasn't as young as he at first appeared. That was odd, because the peddlers on scooters were usually either very young or old.

The Frostola man opened the seat box and the boys looked in, at neat stacks of ice cream packaged in various ways. The stuff was kept frozen by slabs of dry ice wrapped in brown paper.

The cream pies were on a stick, and coated with chocolate, butterscotch, and vanilla with coconut. Rick paid for his selection and Scotty's, then commented, "It's a long way out here from town."

"Sure. But I enjoy the ride. It's a chance to get away from howling mobs of kids."

A strange comment from one who made most of his sales to kids, Rick thought. He noticed that the peddler was eying the bag Scotty had picked up, and was trying to be surreptitious about it. Anyone would be curious about someone carrying a moldy bag, but why try to conceal that curiosity? On impulse, Rick said, "There's a trash can, Scotty. Throw the bag away and let's go." To the peddler, he added, "We're doing our bit to keep the place clean."

"Good thing to do," the man admitted.

The boys got in the car. Rick turned it around and headed for town. The rear-view mirror told him that the Frostola man watched them until the trees hid them from view.

Rick said thoughtfully, "If you were anxious to make your fortune selling Frostola, where would you go to do it?"

Scotty grinned. "My thought exactly. I'd go where there are people. I'd either go up streets ringing my bell, or I'd park at an intersection where cars could stop. I wouldn't go to a deserted picnic ground – if I knew it was deserted."

"If he didn't know, he's a stranger here. Could he be a new man?"

Scotty shook his head. "A new man wouldn't know the way out here, and if he asked, he'd be told that people are staying away because of the ghost."

"True. Your thoughts are as lucid as Costin's Creek, ol' buddy. Also, he is not the typical ice-cream salesman, and he's not from around here. He's a little old for riding a scooter cart, and the look on his face and the way he carries himself are wrong. He doesn't fit the part. Besides, his speech isn't local. He's no more a Virginian than you are."