Mystery at Devil's Paw (14 page)

“Watchdog!” Frank yelled.

The fugitive sprang to his feet and rushed forward in headlong flight. As Frank and Joe converged upon him, Watchdog tripped on a root and fell to the ground with a thud.

“Got you!” Frank cried. He grasped Watchdog's arms and held them behind his back.

Then, just as suddenly, Frank sprang off his prisoner. “Whew!” he exclaimed, sniffing. “Skunk!”

In spite of the gravity of the situation, everyone except the prisoner, who lay half stunned and gasping for breath, burst out laughing.

“There comes our friend!” Fleetfoot pointed to the cave entrance. A small black animal with a white streak down his back poked his nose out into the underbrush.

“Mr. Polecat deserves a medal!” Joe said, doubling over with mirth.

“But what about Watchdog?” Ted grinned. “How can we travel with a smell like that?”

“A bath will help,” Frank said. He and Joe led Watchdog to a nearby creek.

“Jump in,” Frank ordered, unable to suppress a wry smile. “Clothes and all.”

Watchdog obliged. He dived into the water and splashed about, at the same time emitting uncomplimentary remarks both about the skunk and his captors.

“I'll get even for this.” Watchdog glowered as he stepped from the creek and wrung the water from his clothes.

Mr. Sewell could not suppress a grin. “You certainly picked the wrong hiding place!”

Frank then turned to their prisoner. “Just to
see that you don't try any tricks, we'll keep you close to us!”

“Hey, not too close,” Joe begged as Frank pulled off his belt and tied Watchdog's hands securely behind him.

“Now listen,” Frank told Watchdog sternly, “we'll travel single file. You stay five paces behind me. Joe, you keep about the same distance behind this guy.”

Anxious not to lose any more time, the group proceeded to the river at a brisk pace. Here the canoes were uncovered and reloaded. Frank retrieved his belt while Joe rebound the prisoner's hands with rope. Then he was placed in the bottom of one of the canoes and covered with a piece of tarpaulin, in case other members of his gang should appear along the way.

“We ought to report what's happened,” Joe said. “Do you think we can raise Juneau on the radio?”

Frank set to work immediately, but after hoisting the aerial, he could get only static over his headset.

“Terrific interference,” he told Joe. “Sounds as if there's some electrical device here in the woods.”

“Like what?” Ted asked.

“Perhaps someone else has a powerful radio,” Mr. Sewell put in.

Joe winked at his brother. “Maybe a dentist has an office nearby,” he said.

Frank gave his brother a thump on the arm. “Stow the corny jokes, Joe!”

The lighthearted attitude of the Hardys continued after they had launched their canoe into the stream. With Ted and his father paddling alongside them, Frank and Joe fairly shot along with the current.

“Boy, this is what I call fun!” Joe exulted as they sped through the foaming rapids.

They crossed the boundary line at a fast clip and mile after mile went by under the swift stroke of their paddles. At seven o'clock they beached their canoes long enough to eat supper.

“Frank,” Joe said, “you can hand-feed Skunkie Boy over there. I wouldn't advise untying him again.”

“I caught him, so I guess I'm stuck with him.” Frank grinned and moved over to where the prisoner lay in the canoe.

“Sit up,” Frank said. “I'll feed you your beans. Watch your manners.”

Watchdog chewed glumly as he ate his supper.

“If you want room service during the night,” Frank jested, “push the button.”

The sinister outline of Devil's Paw looming in the distance, however, brought the boys back to awareness of their grim situation.

“Are we going to camp here tonight?” Ted queried.

After a hasty conference, both the Hardys and Mr. Sewell decided against such a move.

“We ought to get our prisoner back to Juneau as soon as possible,” the woodsman suggested.

Frank and Joe agreed. “Suppose you and Ted take him along,” Frank said.

“And leave you here?”

“The three of us will be safe enough,” he assured the Sewells.

Joe declared that they should at least stop at the enemy's camp long enough to see whether Robbie had returned to the helicopter.

“All right,” Mr. Sewell acceded. “Ted and I will go on and report everything that has happened, but be careful.”

It was still daylight by the time the adventurers re-embarked and reached the point on the west bank of the river near the trail which led to the camp at Devil's Paw. Here the Hardys made another attempt to get in touch with Juneau by radio. This time the static was even louder.

“Boy! This is a real mystery!” Joe removed his headphones. “We're getting interference from something mighty powerful.”

The Sewells stopped along the riverbank to say good-by, then paddled out of sight along the foaming river. After they had gone, Frank, Joe, and Fleetfoot turned their attention to the job
of caching the two remaining canoes and their supplies.

Joe suggested that they also check on the fuel cans which they had hidden earlier. They found them still in place and Fleetfoot reported no footprints were in evidence nearby.

Once again the three companions followed the beaten trail up the mountainside to the camp. Dodging behind the trees and peering from beneath the bushes, they silently approached the area. Nobody was in sight.

Suddenly Joe clutched his brother's arm. “Look over there,” he said.

“What do you know about that? Robbie's sweater!”

The three boys stepped forward to examine it. It was a blue garment with red trim. The way it lay on the ground, however, made Frank suspect that it had not been dropped accidentally.

“Look!” he said, and indicated the left arm of the sweater. “See how the sleeve is pointing, Joe.”

“That was done on purpose!” Joe exclaimed.

“Of course. Robbie put this here to give us directions.”

Fleetfoot spoke up approvingly. “Robbie is like a good Indian. He gave a sign.”

The sweater arm pointed southwest over an area of rock and shale. The ground was too hard to reveal any footprints.

Frank and Joe left the sweater untouched as
a safety precaution, in case they lost their way and wanted to find the trail again. Then they set off with Fleetfoot. Gradually the ground sloped away to a heavily wooded valley. Just before the edge of the timber, Fleetfoot's keen eyes noted several sets of footprints leading in the direction they were going.

“We are on the right track,” he said.

With extreme caution, the three boys pushed their way among the pines and underbrush. The forest was wrapped in a brooding silence. The setting sun shone blood red over the hills.

The Hardys and Fleetfoot continued on through the towering trees. Frank was the first to step out into a small clearing. Silently he beckoned to the others.

“What's the matter?” asked Joe.

Frank pointed. “There, next to that leaning pine tree.”

Joe shielded his eyes with his hands to keep out the sun's glare.

“By golly, Frank, that's a thunderbird!”

The figure stood out above the tall grass, and when Fleetfoot saw it, he said, “That's the top of a totem pole.”

Advancing cautiously, the boys came upon a ten-foot post, with angry-looking faces of salmon, bears, and sea otters with bared fangs.

At the top of the totem, a thunderbird leered down at them with outspread wings. Though
badly weather-beaten, the pole still showed traces of red, yellow, and blue paint.

“Could the pole be a landmark?” Joe asked.

“I'm sure it's more than that,” Frank reasoned, “because the footprints led directly to it. This thunderbird totem must be of some special importance.”

The Indian boy's hands were moving over the carved images. He turned to grin at his two companions. “Sometime totem pole hide important messages.” Fleetfoot next felt around the indented mouth of the salmon.

“No message here,” he said, disappointed.

Joe glanced up. “What about the thunderbird? Could that have a message in it?”

Fleetfoot shrugged. Whereupon Joe said, “Come on, Frank, give me a boost. I'll take a look for myself.”

Frank cupped his hands together waist-high, and Joe placed his right foot in the hand stirrup.

“Up you go!” Frank gave Joe a strong boost.

Joe deftly put a foot on either of his brother's shoulders. He was now high enough to reach the thunderbird.

“Look in the beak,” Fleetfoot said.

“False alarm,” Joe reported. “The bird doesn't have a message and—Hey! Watch it, Frank. Don't wriggle like that!”

Frank had moved slightly to slap at a mosquito, and in doing so had thrown Joe off balance. He
pitched to one side, brushing against the right wing of the thunderbird. It fell off.

“Look out below!” Joe cried. He hit the ground with a thud. The wing just missed his head.

“You hurt?” Fleetfoot asked.

“I'm all right,” Joe said, getting up and rubbing his thigh. “But look at the totem pole. I guess I ruined it.”

The three boys glanced up to the place where the wing had been ripped off the towering figure.

Fleetfoot whistled. “That was meant to come off! See? There's a hole in the totem pole.”

“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Let's investigate!”

This time Frank was hoisted to the shoulders of Joe and the Indian, who stood side by side. Tense with excitement, he reached up into the opening.

“Hey, fellows!” he cried out. “Something's in here!”

J
OE
and Fleetfoot stared upward as Frank withdrew his hand from the opening in the totem pole.

“What did you find?” Joe called.

“A canvas sack. And is it heavy!”

When Frank had pulled the large sack free of the hole, he leaped nimbly to the ground with it. Then, quickly unloosening the drawstring, he dumped the contents onto the ground.

“Look at that!” Joe cried out. “More treasure!”

“From grave houses!” Fleetfoot declared instantly. He picked up several of the ornaments and examined them curiously.

Frank spoke up. “Joe, this stuff must be priceless! I'll bet there's nothing like it, even in the Alaska Historical Museum!”

Joe reflected for a moment. “Do you suppose
Robbie pointed the sweater sleeve this way to lead us to the thunderbird's cache?”

“I don't think so,” Frank said. “He was probably interested only in where he was going—or being taken.”

“Treasure or no,” Joe said, “Robbie's safety is more important. But, meanwhile, what'll we do with this?”

“Same thing we did before,” Fleetfoot said. “We'll bury it, just like the other stuff. But first we must put back the thunderbird's wing.”

Standing on Frank's shoulder, Joe quickly replaced the wing, covering the opening. Fleetfoot had found a cleft between two rocks which he thought might be a good hiding place for the treasure. The boys laid the canvas sack in the depression, and covered it with a layer of brush, then a rotted tree limb which lay nearby.

After the artifacts were concealed, they trekked on, following the same direction as before. They scanned the ground and their surroundings for any other clue Robbie might have left, but found nothing.

All of a sudden, about ten minutes later, Frank stopped short.

“Fleetfoot, Joe! Look here!” He pointed to a sapling. A branch, close to the ground, was freshly broken.

“A marker!” Fleetfoot said, examining it closely.

“You think Robbie did that to indicate a change in the direction?” Joe asked.

“Looks that way,” Frank said. “It points over there, to the right.”

“Let's follow it,” Fleetfoot said. “You see the sap still oozing from the branch? It was only broken a little while ago, and I'm sure Robbie did it. He was on his toes, all right.”

“But we'd better be quiet,” Frank warned.

The boys alternated in taking the lead through the dense underbrush. As they topped a low rise of ground, Fleetfoot motioned the Hardys to stop and listen. They put their ears to the ground.

“Someone's walking up ahead,” Frank whispered.

“Yes. Many feet,” the Indian said. “We must be careful.”

Creeping forward on hands and knees, the boys inched to the top of the knoll. There, completely hidden by foliage, they looked down into a small ravine. Below them was a group of men going through mysterious motions!

“One, two, four—six of them,” Joe counted to himself.

In their hands all of the men held long poles which they were moving back and forth over the ground and bushes.

Frank leaned close to his brother. “Detecting equipment!” he exclaimed in a whisper.

“No wonder our radio's been full of static!”
Joe whispered back. “These birds must have been pretty close to us all the time.”

Frank touched Fleetfoot on the shoulder and motioned for him to withdraw. The three boys ducked below the brow of the hill. In an undertone Frank quickly explained the situation to Fleetfoot.

“They're looking for the rocket, all right,” he said, “and it's not dark yet. They must be getting desperate to find it.”

“But where's Robbie?” Joe whispered. “You don't suppose they've—?”

“I don't think they'd harm him,” Frank said. “Robbie is their ace in the hole—they might need him in case they have to escape by helicopter.”

“We'd better take a closer look,” Joe suggested.

“Follow me,” Fleetfoot said.

Depending on their Indian friend's acute sense of direction, the boys hunched low and crept after him in a circuitous route which led down to one end of the ravine. Then darting from tree to tree in the deepening evening shadows, the three approached nearer to the six men.