The Sign of the Crooked Arrow (13 page)

The group returned to their ponies. Just as they were about to mount, the sound of an airplane sifted down through the dense trees. The boys peered up but could see nothing.

“Give me your glasses, Chet,” Joe said.

He looped the strap of the binoculars around his neck and made for a tall tree nearby. Shinning up to the first branch, he quickly climbed to the top limb and scanned the countryside.

Presently a small white plane came into view. It looked like the same one the boys had seen before. Dangling from it was a long rope which reached nearly to the tops of the trees as the plane skimmed along.

At the end of the rope was a small package. As Joe glued his eyes to it, the plane dipped out of sight behind the upland forest. Joe climbed down to report what he had seen.

“Do you suppose the plane was dropping the package?” Frank asked excitedly.

“Either that, or picking it up,” Joe replied.

“That proves the smoke did come from a camp-fire,” Terry said. “An' it can't be far away.”

“Let's go!” Joe cried, eager to be off.

“On foot!” Pye advised. “Our enemy may be plenty smart.”

“An' split up,” Terry said. “It'd be too bad if we all got caught at once.”

Heeding his advice, the five hobbled their mounts and set off separately toward the spot where Joe had seen the plane. They agreed to return to the ponies in two hours.

Frank crept along furtively. After going several hundred yards, he stopped to listen. A noise came from his left. “Probably Chet,” he thought. But to play it safe, he hid behind a large log and waited.

Presently a tall, grim-faced blond man stepped from behind a tree.

The winner of the archery contest at the Circle
O! Frank's heart thumped wildly.

The man clutched a bow in his left hand; five white-feathered arrows poked from the quiver slung over his back.

In a panic Frank wondered where his friends were. Would they spot the archer before he let his deadly arrows fly?

THE blond man stopped, as if detecting someone's presence, and carefully scanned the area. When he failed to see anyone, he stalked on through the woods.

Frank wriggled from his hiding place and followed stealthily.

Abruptly the man wheeled around. Frank ducked behind a bush. The archer looked left and right. Then, apparently reassured, he set off again, this time at a ground-covering lope.

Frank matched the wiry man's powerful strides. When they had gone about a mile, a trail seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“I wonder where this leads,” the boy thought.

The runner slowed down and emerged into a clearing. Frank, breathing heavily from the long run, concealed himself behind a tree.

Directly ahead lay a small Indian village! Adobe huts rimmed an open space, where a dozen Indians sat at several workbenches. The man Frank had tracked entered one of the huts.

“Boy!” Frank said to himself. “This is some surprise! No Indian reservation is supposed to be within a hundred miles of Crowhead!”

Creeping around the edge of the camp, the boy tried to see what the Indians were doing.

As Frank moved closer, he noticed that one Indian, seated on the ground beside a low bench in the shade of the trees, appeared to be the boss of the workers. Now and then he left it to walk over to the other worktables, carrying back articles to examine.

Frank watched for a chance to get nearer. When the man walked again to the middle of the clearing, the youth quickly stole to his bench.

On it lay leather belts, watch straps, a silver-cased wrist watch, and several crooked arrow tie clasps!

Frank stared in amazement. Had he found the headquarters of the gang?

This must be the reason Arrow Charlie and Silver had not wanted Mr. Hardy or the boys to come to Crowhead! Did these Indians have a direct connection with the knockout cigarettes?

Frank scurried into hiding seconds before the lone Indian returned. Then he hurried back toward the place where the searchers had agreed to meet.

As he neared the point where he had hidden behind the log, he heard a noise in the underbrush. Had he been followed? Peering from behind a tree, he let out a low gasp.

“Chet!” he called softly. “For crying out loud be quiet!”

Chet looked up, startled at the voice.

“Wh-where did you come from?” he puffed.

“I heard you kicking around,” Frank chided. “You'd better watch it. Silver's on the prowl, and there are Indians in these woods!”

“Indians!” Chet exclaimed. “First a bear, and now
Indians!”

“A bear?” Frank retorted.

“Well, whatever just chased me looked an awful lot like one!” said Chet, mopping his brow.

In a hushed voice Frank told him about the hidden Indian camp. Chet's eyes bulged.

“Let's get out of here!” he cried. “Wh-where's my pony? I'm going!”

Despite Frank's efforts to restrain his friend, Chet broke away in a run.

“Stop!” Frank demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Someone may have trailed me!”

Hardly had he uttered this warning when two Indians appeared. One was the same tall man whom Frank had seen working alone in the clearing. They ran toward Chet. Apparently they had not seen Frank, who now dashed forward to help his pal.

The men gave a cry on seeing Frank, and the taller one leaped toward him.

Frank braced himself for the onslaught. The Indian, his muscles bulging, grabbed him in a viselike grip.

In a split second Frank broke the hold with judo. His amazed attacker hesitated for a moment, just long enough for the boy to clamp a terrific headlock on him. The Indian struggled as Frank applied more and more pressure.

Chet, meanwhile, had been thrown to the ground. His opponent leaped astride him like a cowboy on a bucking bronc. Taking a thong from his belt, he tied Chet's hands behind him, then went to the aid of his companion.

Frank had pinioned his adversary and was watching every move of the oncoming attacker. When he was nearly upon him, Frank let the first Indian go and threw the newcomer over his shoulder. The man landed with a thud, then bounded up and flung himself at the boy.

In the ensuing struggle Frank fought like a tiger. It took both Indians to overpower him, but finally they managed to tie Frank's hands, then led him to where Chet was lying.

Chet's teeth were chattering. “S-sorry I 1-let you down, old boy,” he apologized.

“Forget it,” Frank replied. Then, turning to the Indians, he said, “What are you guys up to?”

The taller man glared at him. “You'll see,” he replied gruffly. “Come on!”

Walking in single file, with one Indian in front and the other behind, the boys were led through the forest to the camp. When they appeared in the clearing, the workers excitedly crowded around.

“Watch this guy,” the big Indian said, pointing to Frank. “He's strong!”

As the men gazed at their captives, Frank demanded, “What's the meaning of this?”

A stony look was the only reply.

The men then led the boys a short distance into the woods on the other side of the camp. In a small clearing stood a well-built sapling stockade. Frank and Chet were shoved in. The door was slammed quickly and latched.

As the Indians left, the boys heard one say:

“The boss'll be here soon. He'll fix them!”

Frank and Chet looked at each other, panic-stricken. Just who was the “boss,” and what judgment would he pass on them?

“Maybe it's Arrow Charlie,” Chet said. “I hope he won't let Silver use us for target practice!”

“We'll soon find out,” Frank remarked gloomily.

About an hour later someone approached the stockade door and lifted the latch. A stooped old woman entered, carrying two bowls, one filled with water and the other with beans. She set them on the ground, then untied Chet's bonds. Motioning for him to free Frank's she slipped out. The Indian guard outside secured the door.

With his hands finally free, Frank joined Chet in a simple, but welcome meal. Their unspoken thoughts dwelled on the fate of Joe and their Crowhead companions.

Hardly had the boys finished eating when footsteps sounded again outside the stockade. The tall, grim-faced Indian flung open the door and beckoned to them.

As Frank and Chet stepped out they were surrounded by an escort of six Indians, who marched them silently to a ramshackle hut.

Stooping to enter the low doorway, the boys found themselves in a dim, candlelighted room. When their eyes had become accustomed to the darkness they uttered gasps of astonishment. There, standing before them, was a brawny, bushy-browed man whom the boys recognized at once. He had slugged Slow Mo and escaped on the train, had quizzed Chet on the farm back home, and was the same fellow Chet had seen with Silver at the airport!

Frank's brain raced to piece together the clues of this puzzle. Following a strong hunch, he said defiantly:

“You're C. B. M., aren't you? Otherwise known as Arrow Charlie.”

The big man's evil eyes showed surprise. Recovering quickly, he managed a twisted smile.

“Yes,” he said, “I'm Charlie Morgan. You seem to be well acquainted with my alias. Likewise, I'm well aware of your identities.”

The boys exchanged troubled glances as Morgan continued, his voice growing louder.

“I know all about you meddling Hardys. Your fat friend here was kind enough to tell me about your proposed trip to Crowhead.”

Arrow Charlie laughed raucously. Chet winced, but Frank retaliated.

“Don't think we don't know about
you!”

“A lot of good that'll do you now,” Morgan gloated. “Silver's out looking for your pals now. You're all going to stay here—as my guests—for a long, long time.”

“Not when Dad knows we're missing,” Frank retorted. “He'll find us!”

“So you think,” Morgan shouted. His face flushed in anger at the mention of Fenton Hardy. “I've already discouraged your father from interfering in my business!”

“So you're the one who shot him!” Frank said.

Arrow Charlie smiled evilly. “No, I didn't,” he said, “although I'm not a bad shot myself.”

“Silver, then?” the boy demanded.

“Silver's the greatest archer in the world. Nothing but the best for Arrow Charlie! Right now I have a couple of friends I'd like you to meet.” He spoke briefly to one of the Indians, who then left the shack.

The big man was reveling in the situation. Frank quickly decided to make the most of his bragging.

To lead him on, Frank said, “Your Arrow cigarettes were a clever stunt.”

“You like the idea, eh?” Arrow Charlie asked. “Nobody would suspect a cigarette of containing knockout gas.”

The shack echoed with Arrow Charlie's guffaws. “But they'll never find out where I make 'em,” he boasted. “And if Fenton Hardy thinks he'll keep on looking—well, another poisoned arrow for him!”

“You wouldn't dare!” Frank said hotly.

“Oh, wouldn't I? ” Charlie sneered.

At that point a man and a woman entered the shack. Frank and Chet immediately recognized Bearcat—the henchman they had tangled with in Bayport. Charlie introduced the couple as the chief distributors of his product.

Frank scrutinized the woman, noting her Indian features.

“Did you leave a black sedan at Slow Mo's garage in Pleasantville?” Frank questioned.

Bearcat looked at his wife with a start, but said nothing.

“Who took off the plates and filed off the engine number?” the boy persisted.

The man looked at his wife, then blurted out, “I dunno. Not me!”

“Why didn't you come back for your car?” Frank went on.

“I did,” Bearcat answered, “but Slow Mo was talking to a state trooper and pointing to the car, so I thought they were on to us. So what with losing the watch and—Well, I didn't want to take any chances.”

“But Morgan thought differently, didn't he,” Frank asked.

“I would've gotten the car, too, if it hadn't been for you Hardys,” Arrow Charlie growled.

“How come you lost the watch?” Chet asked the Indian woman.

She said that while driving one day, it had dropped off. She had put the watch in her purse, and her husband later had picked up the other piece of strap and put it into the glove compartment.

Chet, proud of his friends' cleverness, blurted out the whole story of the watch strap. Arrow Charlie was thunderstruck at first, but when the full impact of how valuable a clue the strap had been began to dawn on him, he became furious.