The Mystery at Bob-White Cave

Wamatosa? Well, isn’t that Lake Wamatosa right down there below us? And doesn’t it say that a representative of the magazine will be in White Hole Springs within a week or so? What’s to keep us from going after those fish and presenting him with the three specimens he wants, and —” Trixie paused for effect—“collecting the five hundred dollars for the station wagon fund? If it would only stop raining!”
    “What do you mean, ‘stop raining’?” Mart asked.
    ‘When you were pointing out that window to Lake Wamatosa, you didn’t even see that the sun is shining.”
    “Then let’s start hunting for those fish!”
    Mrs. Moore had been working quietly in the dining end of the big lodge living room, putting lunch on the table. Linnie, who had been helping her, had just brought in a bowl of salad.
    “I think you’d better wait,” Mrs. Moore said. “Why?” Trixie asked, surprised.
    “Because your Uncle Andrew isn’t here.”
    “Don’t you think he’d want us to go and hunt for the fish, Mrs. Moore?”
    “I don’t know. Exploring caves can be dangerous. Linnie knows that, don’t you, Linnie?”
    “It is likely to be risky,” Linnie admitted reluctantly, “if you don’t know anything about exploring caves.”
    “We do, though,” Trixie said. “There’s a cave in Honey’s father’s woods.”
    Honey laughed. “That old thing! We know every inch of it. There’s certainly no danger there.”
    Mrs. Moore seemed worried. “Caves round about here have sinkholes in them. They have dangerous ledges and falling rocks. You could run into a wild animal or a snake. You probably would be perfectly safe, but I’d much rather you’d talk it over with your Uncle Andrew first. He’ll be home for dinner tonight.”
    “All right. We’ll wait till morning,” Brian said. Brian was the conservative, dependable Belden. “Another few hours won’t make much difference. You act as though you could walk right into a cave, Trixie, take the fish out with a dip net, and pocket the money. It couldn’t be that simple, or they wouldn’t be offering a five-hundred-dollar reward. We’ll wait, won’t we, gang?”
    “I wish we didn’t have to waste a whole day!” Trixie said.
    “You are on a rebellious kick,” Mart said. “Why don’t we go fishing after lunch? I’m dying to try out this reel. You bet me a dollar you’d catch the first fish. Don’t forget that, Trix. If you don’t go along, it’ll cost you a dollar, because I’m going to get a bass. See if I don’t.” —
    “Oh, all right,” Trixie agreed reluctantly. Then a thought struck her. A mysterious smile crept round her lips. It could be that they just might find a cave, and if they did....
     
    Uncle Andrew’s lodge was built of logs. It was located deep in the Missouri Ozarks, where life was still quite primitive, but he had managed to have some comforts brought to his mountain home.
    A great rough stone fireplace dominated one end of the big living room. The comfortable chairs and divans were of peeled hickory and had been made by the mountain people. Woven rag rugs covered the floors. From high above the lodge, clear, cold spring-water flowed by force of gravity through pipes to the kitchen and shower room. Hanging oil lamps provided mellow light for reading.
    Uncle Andrew’s bedroom was on the first floor in back, and stairs led from the living room to two large dormitories, equipped with comfortable bunk beds, on the second floor.
    Through the wide-paned windows, where Trixie had watched the rain so impatiently, a glorious vista opened. Limestone ledges made a serrated pattern down to Ghost River, which emptied into the huge basin of Lake Wamatosa. Pines, walnuts, hickories, butternuts, papaws, dogwoods, redbuds, and wild crab apple trees tangled, in dense clumps, with wild grapevines and spiraling woodbines.
    In a cleared place just beyond the lodge, Mrs. Moore’s cabin stood. She had known no other home. Her grandparents had built the two-room log house when they migrated from Kentucky years before. After Linnie was born, Mrs. Moore and her husband, Matthew, had added a third room. From year to year, they had managed to clear a little more ground for gardening.
    Ten years before, when Linnie was only four years old, Matthew Moore had gone on a fishing and hunting expedition. He never came back.
    The evening before, after the Bob-Whites had unpacked and had dinner and Mrs. Moore and Linnie had gone to their own cabin,