The Alaskan Adventure by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

go ask him,” Frank suggested.
    They were nearly to the store when Joe spottedJake down by the river, standing next to a weird, rickety-looking machine. “There he is,” he said.
    He and Frank walked down the path to the riverbank. When they were a few yards away, Joe called out, “Hi, Jake.”
    The storekeeper jumped, then turned to face them. “Hello,” he said. “You startled me. I didn’t hear you coming.”
    Frank nodded toward the machine. “What on earth is that thing?” he asked.
    Jake glanced over his shoulder. “That’s a fishwheel,” he said. “Come summer, the river current turns the paddlewheel, and those chicken-wire baskets dip down, scoop salmon out of the river, and drop them into a slatted box. Whole thing works automatically.”
    â€œThat’s pretty clever,” Joe said. “Is it yours?”
    â€œNo, no,” Jake said. “It belongs to Ralph Hunter. I came down here because I thought I saw somebody lurking around it. After what happened to Ralph’s boat the other day, I wasn’t going to take any chances.”
    â€œDid you see who it was?” Joe asked.
    Jake hesitated, then said, “I didn’t get a good look, but I had a feeling it was Lucky Moeller.”
    Joe and Frank spent a few moments studying the fishwheel, then walked back to the store with Jake and asked him about dynamite.
    â€œI haven’t sold any since fall,” he said, givingthem a shrewd glance. “You boys are thinking about that shed of mine, aren’t you? I doubt it was dynamited. You wouldn’t have seen anything left big enough to make toothpicks. No, I’d say it caught fire somehow, and one of those jerricans I was storing blew up.” He went up onto the porch, then turned and said, “Still, it could have been dynamite.”
    As the Hardys walked up the hill toward their cabin, Joe said, “I don’t see how Lucky could have gotten from his mine to that fishwheel in time. He would have had to pass us on the trail. Maybe we haven’t solved this case yet, but we’re not dumb enough to miss someone running past us on a deserted road!”
    â€œJake must have been mistaken,” Frank replied. “Unless . . . it’s no secret that he and Lucky dislike each other. Maybe Jake made it up, to get Lucky in trouble.”
    â€œBut he was down at the fishwheel,” Joe objected. “Why would he leave his store and traipse down there if he didn’t see someone acting suspiciously?”
    â€œSomeone,” Frank said emphatically. “There’s no proof it was Lucky. And we know one thing—it wasn’t Curt. We were talking to him at the time Jake must have spotted the intruder.”
    From around a bend in the trail, Joe heard frantic barking and “Hike, hike!” Seconds laterGregg’s dogteam came racing around the curve. Joe and Frank stepped to the side, just off the packed-down part of the trail. Frank raised his hand, signaling Gregg to stop before he reached them.
    Gregg called out again, “Hike, hike!” The powerful dogs increased their speed and kept running straight down the trail toward Joe and Frank.
    The lead dog, teeth bared in threat, was only yards away when Joe realized the trail was too narrow.
    The sled was going to crash into them.

13 The Process of Elimination
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    Frank swept out his left arm and pushed Joe off the trail, then jumped back himself. Joe tripped on a chunk of ice and tumbled into the snow, but Frank stayed on his feet.
    â€œGregg!” he shouted. “We need—”
    Gregg’s answer was to aim his gloved fist at Frank’s face as he went by.
    Frank snapped. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed Gregg’s wrist with both hands and twisted. Taken by surprise, Gregg flew off the back of the dogsled and landed hard in the middle of the trail. His team, alerted by the sudden change in their payload,