Read The Sign of the Crooked Arrow Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Sign of the Crooked Arrow (9 page)
“I hardly think so. Hank just doesn't like what he calls âcity dudes.' I'm sure you can grow to be friends, though.”
“I hope so,” Frank said. But he was still suspicious that the foreman might be mixed up in some way with the strange disappearance of the
Crowhead cowboys.
Crowhead cowboys.
Soon their cousin excused herself from the table and the boys continued the discussion.
“You know,” Frank began, “no matter how confident Cousin Ruth is about her foreman, I think we'd better keep our eye on him.”
“Right,” Joe agreed. “Let's get started looking for clues.”
Chet swallowed hard. “If you're going anywhere on horseback, I think I'll take a rain check. Guess I ate too much Western breakfast.”
Frank and Joe let out a hearty laugh.
“Okay, dude,” Joe quipped. “Meet you back here after we take a look around Crowhead.”
The Hardys walked to the corral, eager to ride over the meandering acres of the ranch. When they asked the foreman for horses, Hank lifted the corral bar and went inside. He returned with two lively mounts.
“Saddle 'em yoreselves,” he said gruffly.
The animals pranced and pawed, but finally the boys got the saddles strapped in place. Hank looked on amazed as they swung themselves easily onto the horses' backs.
At that moment a figure raced toward them. It was Pye.
“Get off!” he shouted excitedly. “They're bad horses!”
Hank glared at the Indian. “Stay out o' this!” he ordered.
As he spoke, Joe's horse reared. The next instant the mount did a sunfish, tossing Joe off his back into the dust!
CHAPTER XI
A Second Chance
HANK guffawed at Joe's bad spill but made no attempt to subdue the rearing horse.
It was Pye who rushed in and grabbed the animal's bridle, yanking him away from the boy.
Frank had dismounted and rushed to his brother. But Joe picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his jeans.
Hank's laughter suddenly turned into an angry frown as he saw Terry, the singing cowboy, approaching with two other horses.
“Who told yo' to bring 'em?” he shouted.
The little cowboy grinned, at the same time letting forth in a high tenor voice:
“Yo' can't ride a bronc
The very first day.
Yippee-aye-o,
Yippe-aye-yay!”
The very first day.
Yippee-aye-o,
Yippe-aye-yay!”
“Shut up!” Hank bellowed. “Yo're not gettin' paid for singin'.”
“I'm only tryin' to make the boys feel at home,” Terry said.
“Leave that to Mrs. Hardy,” the foreman declared. He turned to Pye, who had led the horses back into the corral.
“Look here!” he snapped. “Get those tenderfeet to work ridin' fence!”
“Yes, sir!” Pye grinned.
The foreman strode off, leaving the boys with the Indian. He offered to saddle the new mounts, but Frank and Joe cinched their own. Then Pye mounted a little pinto and the three started for the fences.
“Hey, you're pretty good riders,” Pye said, surprised at the ease with which the Hardys handled their mounts.
“We've done some riding back home,” Frank replied.
“Nice pinto you've got there, Pye,” Joe said admiringly. Pye and his horse moved in perfect rhythm.
“He's a fine horse,” the Indian said proudly. “And he knows two languagesâEnglish and Navaho.”
With that he spoke an Indian word. The pinto stopped and dropped to his forelegs. Then Pye spoke in English and the pony rose.
Pye looked at the boys gleefully. “See?” he said. “That pony's smart. And he never went to school, either.”
The boys laughed. “What's his name?” Frank asked as they cantered along.
“Cherry,” the Indian replied. “The cowboys make fun of me sometimes. Call me and my horse Cherry Pye.” He grinned until his eyes almost disappeared.
The country over which the three rode was rough and scrubby. Here and there a few cattle grazed on the green patches dotting the terrain.
Pye's admiration of the boys' horsemanship was unbounded. Finding that they showed no signs of fatigue, he urged them toward the northern fence line of the ranch.
“Nice up there,” he said. “A long time ago Indians used to live up that way.”
As they neared the boundary, Frank thought he heard the distant hum of a motor. He called his brother's attention to it.
“Sounds like a plane,” Joe remarked, scanning the sky.
They realized that occasionally a transport might pass over the area, flying at a very high altitude. But this one was low.
“There it is,” Pye declared, pointing over a wooded section a few miles ahead of them. A small white plane suddenly appeared and skimmed over the treetops.
“Joe!” Frank cried. “Isn't that the same oneâ?”
“Sure looks like it,” Joe put in. “The one that followed us from El Paso yesterday!”
Pye regarded them curiously. “I've seen that plane many times,” he said finally. “It always flies low over those trees.”
Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it in some way connected with the mystery at Crowhead?
Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Look, Frank!” he cried excitedly. “The plane's coming down!”
The three watched as the craft banked and disappeared behind the trees.
“Do you suppose it's in trouble?” Joe asked his brother.
“Could be,” Frank replied. “But it looked to me as if the pilot meant to land.”
“Let's find out,” Joe declared.
But hardly were the words out of his mouth when the plane zoomed sharply into the air.
“It didn't land after all,” Joe commented. “What do you make of that?”
“Maybe he's just having fun,” Pye suggested with a grin.
“Why would a pilot fool around out here?” Frank queried. “He'd be in serious trouble if he crashed. This country is too wooded to try any hopping.”
As the plane flew off, Frank spotted something in the cockpit that confirmed his belief the pilot was not on a playful junket. The sun's rays were reflected in the lenses of what was probably a pair of binoculars!
Joe saw it at the same time. “He's looking for something, Frank.”
“And that something may be
us,”
his brother replied with a frown.
us,”
his brother replied with a frown.
By this time the trio were close to the woods. Pye hesitated, asking if the Hardys wanted to ride into it. Eager to learn where the pilot had planned to come down, they nodded.
As they entered the dark stillness, Frank felt a peculiar sensation. The trees, although not the tallest he had seen, appeared to stretch their limbs grotesquely toward the riders. Their gnarled branches, disfigured by wind and storm, seemed to beckon the boys into a trap which nature itself had devised.
“This sure is a spooky place,” Joe remarked.
“Very bad,” Pye said. “Cowboys sometimes get lost in here. But I know my way around pretty well.”
Buoyed by the Indian's confidence, the boys entered the woods, ducking low-hanging branches along a faintly marked trail. Suddenly the pinto whinnied and stopped.
“Someone's coming!” Pye warned.
The three dismounted, leading their animals off the trail. As they did, a young cowboy, panting as if he had run for miles, came stumbling along the path. A sudden look of recognition came over the Indian's face.
“Pete!” he shouted at the tall, redheaded youth. The runner was apparently one of the men from Crowhead. He stopped, a wild look in his eyes.
“Where are you going?” Frank asked him.
“Ch-chasin' my pony,” Pete replied. “Heâer âran away.”
“We didn't see him,” Pye said. “He didn't come this way.”
“Here,” Frank offered, “climb up and ride back of me. We'll take you back to the ranch. It's a long way.”
“No,” the redhead replied. His shifting eyes looked right and left into the woods. “I'll keep on lookin' for him.”
With that he started off again along the trail and disappeared into the woods.
“I'm going to follow him,” Frank said presently. “This looks mighty suspicious.”
“Pye and I'll stay here awhile and see if anyone else comes along,” Joe said. “Pete may have been running to meet somebody.”
Frank wheeled his horse around and headed after the disappearing Pete. When he was out of sight of Joe and Pye, Frank glanced around, hoping to pick up some clue to Pete's strange behavior. What he saw sent a quiver of excitement racing down his spine.
At the base of a nearby pine tree lay a large, smooth rock. Carved on its face was a crooked arrow!
Frank bent low in his saddle to get a better look at it. As he did so, an object whizzed past him. It sounded like the buzz of a giant bee.
An instant later something sang closer to the boy's head. It was followed by a zinging thud. An arrow had embedded itself in a tree trunk directly in front of him!
Another loud zing! Frank fell to the ground!
CHAPTER XII
Bunkhouse Brawl
FRANK lay motionless. The whizzing arrow had barely missed his shoulder. He remained flattened to the ground to make himself as inconspicuous a target as possible for his unseen assailant.
Minutes went by. There were no more shots. Frank raised his head slightly to look through the brush.
Not ten feet away lay a short arrow. Near its nock were three white feathers.
“The same kind of arrow that injured Dad!” Frank thought in amazement.
He pulled himself along the ground and grasped the shaft. No doubt of it. This arrow was a duplicate of the one that had wounded his dad. Perhaps it had come from the same quiver! Had the archer traveled from Bayport to New Mexico?
Cautiously Frank arose and looked around. He saw no one. Then he wrapped the weapon in his kerchief and tied it to his saddle.
Frank spotted another arrow embedded in a tree a few yards away. From its position, he figured approximately the point from which the missile had been shot.
Keeping his eyes open for any movement among the trees, Frank skirted the direct line of attack and approached the place from the rear. But when he reached the small clearing where the assailant must have stood, it was deserted.
As he returned to his horse, Frank mulled over the strange turn of events. The giant crooked arrow cut in the timber, the crooked arrow chipped into the rock, and the white-feathered shafts seemed to fit into the same eerie pattern. But the mystery remained as deep as the woods in which Frank stood.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of crackling twigs and hoofbeats. Perhaps Pete was returning. Or even the mysterious archer!
Frank quickly led his horse into a gully, then dived into a tangle of underbrush to wait.
To his relief, he saw Joe and Pye emerge from among the trees. Frank startled them when he sidled into their path.
“You're stealthy as an Indian,” Pye said, grinning.
“You'd be quiet too,” Frank replied, “if somebody had been taking potshots at you with a bow and arrow!”
Joe and the cowboy looked puzzled as Frank told his story.
“Nobody at Crowhead uses arrows,” Pye said, frowning.
“Is there an Indian reservation near here?” Frank queried.
For a moment the man was thoughtful. “No,” he said finally. “The nearest one is over a hundred miles away.”
“Then there wouldn't be any Indians wandering around these woods,” Joe reasoned.
Frank nodded. “Let's go back to the place where I was attacked,” he suggested, and led the way to the stone into which the crooked arrow symbol had been cut. He watched Pye's expression intently. It reflected utter amazement, just as Joe's.
“Ever see anything like this before?” Frank asked.
Pye shook his head. “Never. Indians don't make crooked arrows, never have. White men might!”
“What do you mean?”
The cowboy shrugged. “You seem to think that arrows are exclusively used by Indians. It just isn't so. It's true that they were our only weapons a long time ago, but not crooked ones like this!”
“I guess you're right,” Frank said.
After the analysis of the wrist-watch strap, they had assumed that an Indian was involved. But perhaps the archer was a white man trying to mislead the Hardys into thinking Indians were the culprits!
“Let's have some food and turn back,” said Pye. “It's a long ride.”
After eating the sandwiches they had packed in their saddlebags, and drinking water from their canteens, the three headed home. There was little conversation on the way. After several hot, tedious hours on horseback, they reached the inviting coolness of the shaded ranch.
Frank went straight to the bunkhouse to find Hank. The foreman eyed the boy suspiciously.
“What's the matter now?” he asked. “Yo' got good horses, didn't yo'?”
“I'm looking for Pete,” Frank said, ignoring the question. “Did he get back? We saw him in the woods some time ago. Said he had lost his horse and was looking for it.”
“Pete's been gone since early morning,” Hank scowled. “Now don't bother me again.”
Later, as the boys enjoyed a hearty meal of pot roast and oven-browned potatoes, they chatted with Chet and Cousin Ruth about the details of the day's adventures.
The evening wore on, and still Pete had not returned. Frank and Joe learned that the cowboy's horse had trotted back, but without a saddle.
Ruth Hardy was very upset. Pete was one of her best hands. According to the other men, he had seemed happy at Crowhead. “I can't understand it,” she said to Frank. “You see what happens? One day a cowboy is here, the next he's goneâwith no explanation.”
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