Read The Sign of the Crooked Arrow Online

Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

The Sign of the Crooked Arrow (10 page)

BOOK: The Sign of the Crooked Arrow
4.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads
Frank was eager to report to his father, and put in the call to home. When Mr. Hardy answered, his voice sounded strong and clear. He said he was feeling better and asked how things were at Crowhead.
Frank and Joe took turns in relating the mysterious happenings. When Frank told of the crooked arrow marker cut in the timber, and the sign carved in the stone, the boy could sense that his father was astonished.
“Did that arrow and the one you saw from the air point in the same direction?” he asked.
“Yes, Dad,” Frank replied.
“Then keep looking for more clues in those woods. But be careful, and don't go far without someone trustworthy from Crowhead.”
“Right.”
After the boys had finished their story, Mr. Hardy brought them up to date on the mystery from the Bayport angle. The car in Slow Mo's garage was still unclaimed. Tobacco Shop Jenk remained silent. No more telltale wrist watches had been located. But the police lab had found that the Arrow cigarettes contained a methane derivative which was highly toxic.
“Sam Radley and government agents,” Mr. Hardy said, “have arrested several peddlers of Arrow cigarettes in the Bayport area and in other sections of the country. But they haven't yet nabbed the ringleader.”
“Maybe he's Arrow Charlie,” Frank suggested.
“We have a trap set for him if he shows up here,” the detective said. “But he may show up out there. Watch your step!”
The boys promised they would, and the conversation ended. Frank, Joe, and Chet spent the rest of the evening near the corral and the bunkhouse but learned nothing. No riders came in or went out and Pete did not return. Finally at midnight they decided to go to bed.
They were up early the next morning. Frank and Joe noticed that Chet did not eat his usual heavy breakfast.
“What's the matter, Chet?” Joe needled as the Hardys were about to leave the table. “Lost your Eastern appetite?”
“No more third helpings for me,” the boy declared.
Frank grinned. “Aren't you afraid of starving to death?”
“No,” Chet declared sheepishly. “I'm afraid of feeling too full to ride, and missing out on all the fun!”
Nevertheless, he finished his second stack of flapjacks before he joined his friends in a stroll around the ranch buildings. As they neared the bunkhouse, a cheerful voice called out the doorway.
“Mornin'. Come in. I got somethin' to show yo'.”
It was Terry. He held the door open for them to enter.
“There 'tis,” he said, pointing.
A long pine table stood in the middle of the cowboys' quarters. On it lay three piles of range riding clothes.
“Some o' the men kinda got an apology to make,” he said. “Leastways to Frank an' Joe. We found out from Pye yo' sure can ride. So a few of us got together some gear for yo'.”
“That was mighty nice!” Frank exclaimed. “Thanks.”
“Swell of you,” Joe cried, examining the bright shirts and bandannas.
“We had a little trouble gettin' pants to fit yore friend here.” Terry smiled, glancing at Chet.
The boys got into their new outfits enthusiastically. Chet pulled a wide-brimmed hat rakishly to the side of his head.
“Gimme my six-shooters!” he cried, spreading his feet wide apart and slapping his hips.
“Yahoo!”
The cowboys hooted, and the visitors thanked Terry for his pals' generosity, adding they had not expected such treatment from Hank.
“Hank don't know about this,” Terry replied, “or his pals Muff and Jed. Just keep it under yore hat, will yo'? Better go. Here comes Hank now.”
Chet and the Hardys hastily departed from the bunkhouse. Nearing the corral, Chet suddenly wheeled around.
“Gosh, I forgot my bandanna!” he exclaimed. He hotfooted back to the bunkhouse. Terry had gone. The bandanna lay on the floor beside the table.
As Chet leaned down to pick it up he heard Hank's voice. The foreman was talking on a telephone in an alcove of the bunkhouse. Chet could not help but overhear the conversation.
“Not till those guys from Bayport leave,” the dour cowboy said.
He hung up and turned to go out. Seeing Chet approaching the door, Hank became furious.
“What yo' doin' sneakin' in here?”
“I c-came for my bandanna,” Chet stammered.
“Likely story,” Hank snarled. “Yo're eavesdroppin'!”
This was too much for Chet. “What were you saying about us?” he demanded hotly.
“None o' yore business!” Hank barked.
He strode toward Chet and grabbed him by the shirt front. Twisting his fist, he lifted him nearly off the floor.
Suddenly Chet remembered the armlock grip that Russ Griggs had taught him. With a quick movement, he grasped Hank's left wrist with his right hand. The foreman, caught off balance, relaxed his hold on Chet's shirt.
With another lightninglike move, Chet thrust his left hand under Hank's shoulder, using it as a fulcrum. An agonizing look of pain came over Hank's face as Chet bent his arm back. With a flip, Chet hurled the man across the room. Hank teetered backward on his heels, then crashed onto a cot in the corner of the bunkhouse.
Hank quickly regained his feet, roaring, “I'll throw yo' blasted nuisances off this place!”
Just then two hulking cowboys strode into the building.
“Muff! Jed! Grab that guy!” Hank ordered, pointing to Chet.
Hank's friends advanced on Chet, pinning his arms to his sides.
“What'll we do with him?” one of them asked.
“Tie him to a steer's tail!” Hank thundered.
CHAPTER XIII
A Poisoned Point
“LEMME go!” Chet cried. “Help! Frank! Joe!”
“Shut up, blubberhead!” Hank growled.
Suddenly the door of the bunkhouse burst open. Frank and Joe rushed in, followed by Terry.
“What's going on here?” Frank shouted as he saw his friend held captive by the two burly cowhands.
Hank wheeled around. “Yo' stay out o' this!” he snapped. “This is between me and yore fat friend!”
“Leave him alone, Boss,” Terry pleaded.
“Mind yore own business.” The foreman glowered. “These kids got no right in the bunkhouse.”
“Yeah!” growled Muff. “Let's throw them out!”
Muff's right hand lashed out at Frank. But before it could find its mark, the boy grasped his wrist in a viselike hold.
In a split second the place was in an uproar. Hank rushed at Joe. As Jed unloosed his hold on the stout boy, Chet tangled with him.
Arms and legs flew as the Hardys and Chet put their judo lessons to practical use.
Moments later, Hank was draped over a cot. The other two sat on the floor, reclining on their elbows, their legs stretched out V-shaped in front of them.
“A mighty funny sight,” drawled Terry.
Hank and his friends pulled themselves to their feet and limped toward the back door of the bunkhouse. As Hank left, he turned around and pointed a finger at the boys.
“I'll get yo' for this!” he muttered. “I'm boss around here!”
Terry looked worried. “Hank's a bad actor when he's got a grudge,” he said. “Be careful.”
Suddenly the singing cowboy's mood changed. He reached for his guitar and broke into a broad smile. “Listen to this.” He grinned, struck a few chords, then raised his head and burst out:
“Thar was a city slicker
Dared fight with foreman Hank.
Now the city kid was quicker.
He had his wits to thank.
 
“So foreman Hank went flyin'
Right clean through the air.
I'll remember till I'm dyin'
His sad look of despair.”
“A mighty funny sight!” drawled Terry
“Swell!” Joe exclaimed, laughing. “Only better not let Hank hear it!”
Terry nodded and said that it was time he started on his chores. The boys walked as far as the corral gate with him, then went toward the house.
“That sure was nice going, Chet,” Frank said, slapping his pal on the back. “Maybe Hank won't bother us for a while.”
“What started the whole mess, anyway?” Joe asked.
Chet told about the telephone conversation he had overheard. Frank and Joe scowled.
“Wonder what it is he can't do while we're around,” Frank remarked grimly.
“There's sure something fishy going on,” commented Joe.
“You don't have to remind me, especially after yesterday's adventure,” Frank said. “By the way, we ought to track down that clue.”
“Which clue?” Joe asked.
“The arrow,” Frank replied. “The one that nearly hit me in the woods!”
“What are you going to do with it?” Chet asked.
“I think we should take a close look at the tip,” Frank replied. “Come on. Now's as good a time as any.”
Joe and Chet followed him to the brothers' room where Frank had cached the white-feathered arrow. He dipped the tip in a saucer of water for a few seconds, then carefully carried the saucer down onto the porch.
A fly buzzed around the water, then settled down to investigate. When it touched the liquid, the insect struggled briefly and died.
“Just as I thought!” Frank declared. “Poison! But to make sure, let's take the arrow to Santa Fe and have it analyzed.”
Frank told Cousin Ruth what he had in mind, then put in a long-distance call to the young pilot who had flown them to Crowhead. Winger happened to be free and promised to come for them at once.
At noon the drone of a plane was heard over the ranch. Winger landed alongside the house and the boys walked over to meet him.
Frank got in, carrying the arrow wrapped in waxed paper. His brother and Chet followed.
Hank saw them from a distance. A queer smile tugged at the corners of his hard mouth.
“There they go,” he drawled to a cowboy standing nearby. “I hope for good!”
When the boys landed in Santa Fe they went directly to a chemist recommended by Ruth Hardy. Frank asked him to analyze the arrow tip.
“I'll have the report ready in about an hour,” the chemist said, “if you care to come back.”
“Sure will.”
The boys left the arrow and strolled down the street.
“How about some lunch?” Joe suggested.
“Best idea yet,” Chet agreed. “I'm starved.”
They saw a drugstore nearby and went in. On a chance, Frank went over to the man behind the prescription counter and asked in a low voice:
“Have you any Arrow cigarettes?”
The druggist looked quizzically at the boy. “Arrow cigarettes?” he echoed. “Never heard of them.”
Frank, feeling the man was telling the truth, rejoined the others at the soda fountain. After the boys had finished eating, they paid their bill and returned to the laboratory.
When the chemist appeared, Frank hurried over to him. “What did you find?” he asked excitedly.
“This arrowhead is poisoned,” the man replied gravely. “Had the arrow penetrated the skin it might have proved fatal!”
Frank paid the man and the three left the lab.
“Let's make some more inquiries about Arrow cigarettes,” Joe suggested.
They stopped at one place after another, but none of the proprietors had ever heard of them.
“What I want to find out now,” Frank said, “is something more about
real
arrows.”
He spoke to a policeman, who suggested a museum a short distance away.
The trio spent nearly an hour looking over the collection. Finally Joe remarked:
“Funny thing. Every one of these arrows is longer than the white-feathered arrows.”
“And they're not so thick,” Frank added. “Whoever shot at Dad and me must make his own.”
After leaving the museum, the boys went back to the airport. Winger was standing near his plane.
“All set?” he asked, smiling. After they were in the air, he said, “Well, did you find any more crooked arrows?”
“Not one,” Chet replied, “but we're still looking.”
That evening after supper the boys joined Ruth Hardy on the porch. She told them that there had been more trouble at the ranch. “Another cowboy disappeared while you were in Santa Fe,” she said. “He took his saddle and all his clothes, just as the others did.”
With their cousin's permission, the Hardys and Chet went to the bunkhouse after dinner and questioned the cowboys. The ranch hands, as usual, could give no explanation for the latest disappearance. Hank watched the proceedings with slitted eyes, and gave terse answers to all the questions.
BOOK: The Sign of the Crooked Arrow
4.16Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

What Love Sees by Susan Vreeland
Playing With Matches by Suri Rosen
Charbonneau by Win Blevins
Smarty Bones by Carolyn Haines
Stories Of Young Love by Abhilash Gaur
4 City of Strife by William King