Chet Morton heard Joe cry out.  He knew something had gone terribly wrong and he had very little time to react.

Chet realized that it was practically a miracle that he and Joe weren’t seriously hurt the first time they tumbled down this shaft.  He was afraid his friend might not be as lucky this time. Chet hurried to the center of the pit and prepared himself.  He knew he couldn’t catch Joe, but he might be able to cushion his friend’s fall.

Joe Hardy tried to prepare for the inevitable impact.  His body was tense, unlike the first fall down the pit.  That time, he and Chet had both been knocked unconscious by their kidnappers first.  Unconscious, they were relaxed when they hit the bottom of the hole and a relaxed body was less likely to get seriously injured.

‘Not so lucky this time,’ Joe thought as his body hurled down the shaft.

“Ah-h-h!”

“Umph!”

“C-Chet?”

“I think you broke my ribs, Joe!”

Joe shifted his weight and rolled off of his friend.  He hissed through his teeth as the movement intensified the pain shooting up his arm.

“S-sorry, Chet,” Joe said softly as he gripped his wrist and leaned back against the wall of their prison.

In the waning light, Chet could barely make out Joe’s features, but he could see a sheen of sweat covering the younger Hardy boy’s face.

“Joe, I was joking about my ribs,” Chet said, “but buddy, I think you’re hurt. Is your arm broken?”

Joe closed his eyes and tightened his jaw.  The pain was incredible.  ‘I’m a dead man,’ Joe thought.  He knew climbing out of the hole was their only chance to get out of this mess and he had failed.  Now they would both die because of him.

“I-I’m sorry, Chet,” Joe said sadly. “I messed up. I panicked and I b-blew it.”

Chet frowned. Messed up? By falling?  “Because you fell?  No way, Joe; we both knew it was risky.  I don’t blame you for falling.”

“Should’a s-stayed s-still,” Joe muttered.

“Joe, dude, you’re freaking me out here,” Chet moved closer to his friend. “What exactly are you talking about?”

“S-snake,” Joe replied quietly.

“Snake? Where?”

“Up on t-top,” Joe answered. “I s-slipped.  Panicked and the s-snake bit me.”

“Joe…what kind of snake was it?”

“A c-coral snake.”

“Oh no,” Chet leaned back beside his friend. 

* * *

“It is definitely Joe’s watch,” Fenton Hardy examined the timepiece.  “They were in this alley sometime this afternoon.”

“They might have been questioning someone about the lighter,” Sean Prescott suggested.

“Possibly,” Fenton agreed, “but my gut tells me Joe left this here on purpose for us to find.”

“But they could have been taken any time today,” Chester Morton’s voice was strained with fear.  “They could be miles away by now!”

Frank quietly walked the length of the alley, shining his flashlight over the unpaved surface.  There were several sets of footprints, but hardly any tire tracks.

“Dad,” the young sleuth called out, “check this out.”

Fenton and the other three men walked up to where Frank was standing.  “What do you see, Frank?” Fenton asked.

Frank quickly pointed out the footprints and the two sets of tire tracks.  “These foot prints could be Joe’s.  He was wearing his Converse running shoes this morning.  The other set of sneaker treads are probably Chet’s.”

“These other prints look like boots,” Sam suggested, crouching down closer to the dirt, “but it’s impossible to tell how many pair.”

“At least two,” Fenton said, studying the ground, “but possibly more.”

“What about the tire tracks?” Sean asked.

“These are similar to the tread on our van tires,” Frank replied.

“The other tread-marks are from a smaller vehicle, a car most likely,” Sam said, standing up.

“Wait!” Mr. Morton suddenly cried out.  “We saw them, Frank! We saw a van and car pull out of here today!”

Realization dawned on Frank and his eyes grew wide. “That’s right! How stupid of me not to remember!”

Fenton shook his head and put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, “Don’t worry about it. The important thing is that we have our first real clue in finding Joe and Chet.

“What do you remember about the two vehicles?”

“There was an old Impala, green I think,” Frank closed his eyes and tried to picture the entrance to the alley in the afternoon sun earlier that day.  “Older model, maybe from the seventies.”

“The van was a grayish blue color,” Chester added.  “It didn’t have any windows except in the front.”

“Any idea what make or model?” Sam questioned.

Frank shook his head in frustration.  “I wasn’t really paying attention.  We were heading into the gift shop to talk with Mr. Boyle about the lighter.”

“It’s all right Frank,” Fenton said with confidence.  “We’ve got two vehicles to track down. We’ll split up and search this town end to end until we find them.”

“I think, as much as I hate to say it,” Sean said, “that it’s time to call in the police.”

“Do you really think they’re going to help us?” Chester asked.

“Probably not,” Sean nodded, “but I might be able to use their resources to track down the ownership of the van and the Impala.”

“Good idea,” Fenton agreed.  “Frank and I will start looking around this end of town. Sam, take Chester with you and drive to the far end of town. Keep in touch by cell-phone.”

The five men parted ways and the search was on.