Mystery at Devil's Paw (6 page)

“Chet! What's wrong?” Frank cried out.

The boy was on his feet, trembling. “S-s-something came at me out of the darkness!”

“You mean an animal?” Tony asked.

“No—men! A whole gang of them! They tried to club me, but I fought them off!”

“What?”
Tony stared at him. “You must have been dreaming! There's no one around here but us!”

“But I saw them, I tell you!” Chet insisted, still shaking with fright. “Masked men!”

Frank and Joe quickly scouted the ground around the camp. But there were no footprints or other trace of intruders.

“Exactly where did all this happen?” Frank inquired calmly.

“Right here,” Chet replied. “I was sitting with my back against this tree, and all of a sudden—”

“You fell asleep,” Joe broke in, chuckling, “and had a nightmare!”

To reassure their friend, the Hardys and Tony took lanterns and made a thorough search. Finally
Chet agreed that he must have dreamed the whole incident.

“Go ahead and hit the sack,” Frank told him with a grin. “It's almost time for my watch.”

At breakfast the next morning Joe and Tony ribbed Chet about his wild dream. He took their jokes good-naturedly, adding, “At least these flapjacks are real. Slip me a few more, Frank!”

Breakfast over, they busied themselves with their morning chores. Soon after they finished washing up, the helicopter arrived from Juneau.

“I'm Robbie Robbins,” the pilot said. He was a pleasant young man, sandy-haired, about twenty-two years old.

The boys shook hands and explained why they had sent for him. Then Frank showed him the crude map which the Hardys had found in the knapsack. “Ever seen a place like this?”

Robbins studied the map and shook his head. “Not that I recall. But there are so many lakes and streams around here that I wouldn't want to say for sure. We'll keep our eyes open.”

The helicopter had seats for three besides the pilot, but Chet elected to stay on the island with Tony. “You do the exploring,” he told Frank and Joe. “I feel safer on the ground!”

Robbie and the Hardys climbed aboard, and the helicopter took off. Soon the Kooniak appeared as a ribbon of blue winding among the
evergreens. The pilot headed northward, working back and forth in widening sweeps across both sides of the river.

“I don't see any place that looks like this map,” Joe remarked.

“No sign of a camp, either,” Frank said as he scanned the terrain with binoculars.

Several hours later the boys noticed a cluster of huts about a mile west of the Kooniak. “It's a Haida village,” Robbie told the Hardys. “They're one of the Alaskan Indian tribes.”

“Could we land and question them?” Frank inquired. “I'd like to find out if they've seen any strangers lately.”

“Okay. But you may not find them very talkative,” Robbie warned.

The helicopter descended slowly to the village clearing. Instead of running to meet their visitors, the Indians gathered to watch from a distance. Their dark, slanted eyes, set in coppery faces, stared impassively at the newcomers.

“They don't look very friendly,” Joe muttered.

“Do they speak English?” Frank asked the pilot.

“Most of them do, although they may not admit it. Often they use the Chinook trading jargon in talking to strangers.”

The Indians made no move so the pilot stepped forward.
“Klahowya!”
he said in a loud voice. Several men of the village returned his greeting.

“We're looking for some white men,” Frank
told them. “Have you seen any strangers around here?”

The Indians merely shrugged and shook their heads. “Looks as though we're not going to get much out of them,” Robbie murmured.

“Let's circulate around the village,” Frank suggested. “Maybe they'll open up a bit after they get used to us.”

Robbins agreed, so the trio strolled around, peering at the Indian dwellings. Though crude, the houses were stoutly built. Near each one stood wooden racks, with strings of fish drying in the sun.

Frank and Joe were intrigued by a number of small log structures, poised on stilts as high as a man's head. There was one beside each house, with a ladder going up to the entrance.

“What are those things?” Joe puzzled. “Oversized birdhouses?”

Robbie Robbins grinned. “No, they're caches,” he explained, “for storing food out of reach of wild animals.”

Several Indian children trailed around behind the white visitors, watching them curiously. Finally one teen-age boy grew bold enough to speak.

“I'm Fleetfoot,” he said to Frank.

“Glad to know you.” Frank offered his hand, hoping to make friends with the boy. “I'm Frank Hardy. This is my brother Joe, and this is Robbie Robbins.”

After pumping each one by the hand, the Indian youth continued, “You ask about strangers?”

“That's right,” Frank said. “Have you seen any recently?”

“
Nowitka!
Yes,” Fleetfoot replied. “One day I went to the river to fish. Saw two white men drift downstream in a big canoe. They talked a lot.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?” Joe asked eagerly.

The Indian boy paused, furrowing his brow as if trying to remember the exact words. “I heard one man say, ‘They protect the salmon. The salmon protect us.' Then the other man said something in strange lingo—not like American talk. I didn't understand it.”

Joe shot an excited glance at his brother, who said, “Fleetfoot, will you do something for us?”

“Maybe.” The Indian boy smiled and shrugged. “What do you want?”

“Next time you see those men, or any other strangers, trail them to their camp—but keep out of sight, so they don't see you. Then come and tell us. We'll be staying on the island at the mouth of the river.”

The boy looked uncertain.

“Maybe we can do something for you. What would you like?” Frank asked.

A broad grin spread over the young Indian's face. “I'd like to ride in the whirlybird.”

Robbie Robbins chuckled. “Okay, it's a deal, Fleetfoot.”

Satisfied with the results of their visit to the Indian village, Robbie and the Hardys took off again in the helicopter.

“Frank, it looks as though our guess was right,” Joe said excitedly. “If one of those men spoke a strange language, we must be up against foreign agents!”

“It sounds that way,” Frank agreed. “But I sure wish we knew what they're after. Let's hope Fleetfoot delivers on his end of the bargain!”

Continuing northward, the helicopter soared above the rolling foothills of the Alaskan coastal range. Beyond the timberline, the rocky slopes towered up to snow-capped peaks. One of the mountains drew Frank's attention by its strange contours.

“Gosh, look at that,” he remarked, pointing out the unique formation to Joe. “Those peaks stick up just like four fingers and a thumb.”

“A good description,” Robbie put in. “The Indians call it Devil's Paw, and you can see why.” He added, “That whole range up ahead forms the international boundary between Alaska and British Columbia. Guess we'd better turn back.”

On the return trip, Robbie circled over an enormous tongue of ice, seventeen miles long. Glittering blue-white in the sunshine, it trailed
down from the mountain snowfields almost to the coast.

“Mendenhall Glacier,” the pilot told Frank and Joe. “It's actually a river of ice.”

The boys gaped at the spectacle. “A river?” Joe echoed. “You mean it flows?”

“Yes, but so slowly you could never tell by the naked eye,” Robbie replied. “I guess
creeps
might be a better word.”

Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “Go lower, Robbie! I think there are two people down there!”

The helicopter swooped toward the glacier. “You're right!” Joe cried. “A man and a woman! They must be stranded!” The tiny figures signaled frantically, waving their arms. They appeared to be seated on the ice.

“Can we rescue them?” Frank asked the pilot.

“We'll sure try!” Hovering into position above the two people, Robbie told the boys to unreel a rope ladder which he carried in the rear of the helicopter's cabin.

At sight of the ladder, the man on the glacier shook his head and signaled with his arms.

“He wants someone to climb down and help them,” Frank said. “I'll go!”

T
HE
helicopter hovered lower over the ice as Frank prepared for the rescue. Easing himself out of the cabin, he groped for a footing on one of the metal rungs. The ladder swayed sickeningly as he climbed down. But Frank kept a steady grasp. Finally he reached the glacier. The middle-aged couple, dressed in hiking garb, greeted him with anxious relief.

“Sorry to put you to so much trouble. We're certainly grateful that you responded to our signals!” The man, although he seemed to be in pain, flashed a smile. “My wife and I had an accident. Our name's Turner. I'm an engineer.”

Frank introduced himself, and Mrs. Turner, a pleasant-faced woman, added her thanks.

“We've had a nasty fall on the ice,” she explained. “I'm afraid my husband's leg is broken, and I seem to have sprained my arm quite badly. Could you possibly take us aboard?”

“Of course, Mrs. Turner.” Frank smiled reassuringly. After studying the situation, he removed two rungs of the ladder and improvised a splint for Mr. Turner's leg. Then he lashed first the woman, then the man, to the ladder and had them lifted aboard.

“There won't be room for all of us,” Joe told the pilot. “Suppose I keep Frank company on the glacier while you take Mr. and Mrs. Turner to the hospital?”

“I guess that's the best plan,” Robbie agreed. He reached into a storage locker and took out two pairs of steel cleats. “Here. You and Frank fasten these to your shoes. They'll help you keep your footing on the ice. I'll be back pronto to pick you up.”

“Okay, thanks.” Joe pocketed the cleats, and after wishing the Turners a speedy recovery from their injuries, climbed down the ladder. Then Robbie reeled it back aboard. The two boys waved as the whirlybird took off toward Juneau.

“This is a chilly-looking spot, all right,” Frank remarked, gazing around at the vast expanse of ice. “What a nasty place to have an accident!”

“You said it!” Joe replied. “Which reminds me—we'd better put these on before we take a spill ourselves!”

He handed Frank one set of cleats, and they sat down on the ice to attach them to their shoes. Feeling a bit more sure-footed, they decided to do
a little exploring while they waited for Robbie's return.

“Let's have a look farther up the gorge,” Frank suggested.

“Suits me—if we can make it.” Joe took a couple of trial steps, moving as gingerly as a man walking on eggs. “Boy, it's a good thing Robbie gave us these cleats, or I'd be flat on my back by now!”

Frank chuckled. “Keep your fingers crossed. It could still happen!”

In appearance, the glacier was more like a mountainous ridge than a river. Its surface was humped and uneven, as well as split with cracks and fissures. The boys made their way along slowly, enjoying the majestic view of the mountain slopes that rose on either side of the glacier.

Suddenly Frank let out a yell as he lost his footing. “Joe! Help!”

Joe threw himself flat on the ice and caught his brother by the arm in the nick of time. An instant later Frank would have slid into a yawning crevasse!

“Whew!” Frank lay panting for a moment after Joe had pulled him to safety. “That was too close for comfort! I didn't even notice that downslope till I hit the skids!”

“Maybe we'd better head for shore,” Joe suggested. “This berg is too tricky to navigate.”

“Second the motion!”

By the time they reached the timbered slope on the nearest side of the valley, a chill wind had sprung up. Blowing down from the mountains, it rustled the branches of the tall evergreens.

“I'm glad these fir trees act as a wind screen,” Frank remarked with a shiver.

“Right now, I'd prefer the kind of furs we could wrap around us!” Joe retorted wryly.

As the moments of waiting dragged by, both boys began to feel hunger pangs from having missed lunch.

“Could I go for a square meal!” Joe groaned.

“Don't look now, but here comes someone with the same idea!” Frank pointed to a huge prowling bear which had just appeared among the underbrush, a hundred yards away.

“Oh—oh!” Joe turned pale. “I suddenly lost my appetite! Come on! We'd better return to the glacier!”

The Hardys hastily retraced their steps. After peering in their direction for a while and sniffing the air hungrily, the bear ambled off into the timber. The boys heaved sighs of relief.

“Think it's safe to go back?” Joe asked.

“Let's not tempt him!” Frank cautioned.

“W-w-what's keeping Robbie?” Joe muttered, his teeth chattering from the cold. More than an hour had passed.

“Search me,” Frank replied. “It's not a long
run to Juneau. Maybe he was delayed at the hospital.”

Both boys were chilled to the bone and ravenously hungry when the drone of a plane's motor finally reached their ears. Shading their eyes against the dazzling sun glare, they saw a small single-engine craft wing into view. It flew in low above the treetops and circled overhead.

“The pilot's signaling us!” Joe cried cut.

The Hardys waved back.

“He's going to drop something,” Frank said as they saw the cabin door open. The pilot shoved out a large package, and it plummeted to the ice a short distance away.

The boys rushed to examine it. “Let's hope it's food!” Frank exclaimed.

Frank cut the twine with his jackknife and tore off the heavy wrapping paper. Inside were a pair of sheepskin coats rolled around a cardboard box. The box, warm to the touch, proved to contain roast-beef sandwiches, two Thermos bottles of coffee, and a note from Robbie Robbins, which said: