Read The Sign of the Crooked Arrow Online
Authors: Franklin W. Dixon
The Sign of the Crooked Arrow (11 page)
“Do you suppose Hank told them not to tell us anything?” Joe whispered to Frank.
“No,” Frank replied. “Cowboys don't talk much, anyway. I really think they don't know what happened to the guy.”
Joe stepped into the middle of the room and addressed the men.
“You fellows ought to know that the disappearance of your buddies is a serious matter,” he said. “The men may be in big trouble.”
A buzz of conversation among the men revealed that they had thought the cowboys had left of their own volition to take jobs at some other ranch, and had said nothing to Mrs. Hardy because they did not want to hurt her feelings.
“I'd advise you to stick to Crowhead,” Joe went on, “and if you value your lives, stay away from the north woods.”
At that admonition Hank arose from his cot and glared at the Hardys.
“Now hold on!” he roared. “I'll not let a couple o' coyotes come in here an' give advice to my men. I'm runnin' the affairs of Crowhead an' I don't need any help from tenderfeet!”
To avoid another fracas, the visitors left. Chet thumped Joe on the back.
“Good sermon, Parson Hardy,” he said. “Only Old Stoneface in there didn't like it. Say,” he added seriously, “do you think Hank's mixed up in all this?”
“He's either guilty,” Frank answered, “or else he's the meanest straight guy I've ever met.”
“Right,” said the other boys in unison, and Joe added, “I've got an idea. Let's find out how much these fellows know about archery.”
“Now you're talking,” Frank agreed. “We could make a bow and some arrows tomorrow, and let the men prove their innocence!”
“I get it!” Chet said eagerly. “Maybe that archer's right here at Crowhead.”
The following morning the boys obtained a piece of seasoned hickory from the ranch workshop, and spent several hours on their project.
Frank shaped a bow from it, while Joe and Chet fashioned a couple of arrows.
“We don't need sharp arrowheads,” Frank said. “Just make the ends blunt.”
For the rest of the day, the boys helped with some urgent chores around the ranch. That evening, after the cowboys had completed their work, the visitors mingled with them outside the bunkhouse. Frank casually mentioned arrows and offered to let the men use the bow the boys had made. A quiet indifference met their suggestion. As one cowboy put it:
“I ain't never had a bow an' arrow in my hands. I'll stake my chips on an old six-shooter any time.”
“Well,” said Frank, discouraged by the futile attempt to wangle a new clue, “I guess I'll try shooting this thing myself.” He strung the bow, inserted an arrow, and drew the string back.
Just as he was about to let the shaft fly in the direction of the shed, Pye rushed up, shouting:
“Don't shoot! Don't shoot!”
CHAPTER XIV
A Familiar Face
PYE's warning not to shoot the arrow was followed by a fearful snorting and bellowing. Frank whirled to see a mad bull, which had jumped the fence of a shipping pen, charging directly at him and the other boys.
Quick as lightning, Pye grabbed the bow and arrow from Frank's hands. With one deft, continuous movement, he strung the shaft, drew the bowstring, and let the arrow fly!
The blunt arrow caught the animal directly between the eyes. He went down in a heap, stunned by the crashing blow.
“Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Some shot!”
“You s-saved our lives,” Chet stammered.
Frank, though grateful, was not so jubilant as the others. The episode raised a serious doubt in his mind about Pye's innocence.
The Indian looked sheepish as he handed the bow back to Frank. “I didn't realize I could shoot straight any more,” he said, grinning.
“You look as if you had plenty of practice recently,” Frank commented.
Pye looked at him in surprise. “I haven't had a bow in my hands since I was a boy!” Then suddenly he realized what Frank meant.
“Now look. I didn't shoot that arrow at you in the woods!”
“That's right,” Joe spoke up. “Pye was with me every minute on our ride.”
“I'm sorry I doubted you, Pye,” Frank apologized.
One of the men who was preparing to drag the bull away looked up. “What are you all talking about?” he asked in alarm.
Before the Hardys could stop Pye, the little Indian excitedly told what had happened to Frank in the woods. The cowboys stared in amazement, then turned their eyes on Joe.
“I see what yo' were drivin' at yestiddy,” one of them said. “I sure won't show my face in the north woods!”
There was a murmur of agreement.
As the Hardys and Chet said good night and walked off toward the ranch house, Frank remarked, “We didn't learn much, but because those woods have something to do with the missing cowboys, the rest of the men certainly will stay away from that area!”
Next morning the Hardys would have liked to take Pye and Terry and follow the trail of the mysterious archer in the woods, but Hank ordered his men to ride fence. The only concession he would make was to permit the visitors to go with their favorite cowboys.
“We'll meet yo' at the corral,” Terry said.
Pye picked out good ponies for the three boys and they mounted quickly. Then the five riders set off at a tireless trot.
They had not gone far before Terry reached to the left side of the saddle, under his rope, and pulled out a small stringed instrument.
“What's that?” Frank asked in surprise.
“My range gee-tar.” Terry smiled. “Regular one's kinda big to tote on horseback. I made this here little fella myself.”
Terry strummed out a melody which kept time with the rhythmic cadence of the trotting pony.
They rode on all morning, the men's checkup of the cattle bringing them close to the woods where the arrows had nearly hit Frank.
After a brief stop for lunch the riders remounted and set off again.
Suddenly Frank reined in his horse.
“What's that sound?” he asked.
“Yo' got good ears,” Terry replied. “It's just a bawlin' dogie lost in the woods. Want to give him a hand?”
Frank turned his mount into the woods, heading toward the cries of the calf.
“I'll be right back,” he called.
The boy rode a hundred yards, then halted. The bawling of the dogie had ceased, but as Frank sat listening, he spotted something that made his heart leap. Some distance ahead, mounted on a white-faced sorrel in the shadow of a big tree, sat a hefty cowboy. His big Stetson was pulled low over his face.
Frank quelled his first impulse to ride up to the man. Recalling his father's warning, and sure that the cowboy was not from Crowhead, he turned his horse around quietly, hurried back to his friends, and reported what he had seen.
“Suppose you fellows surround the area,” Frank said, “while I question the man. If he has no business on Crowhead property, we'll find out what he's up to.”
With the four at their separate stations, Frank rode back into the woods again to the place where he had seen the stranger. He was gone!
The boy made his way to the big tree. The hoofprints of the intruder's horse were in clear view. And so was something elseâa package of Ramiro cigarettes, gaily wrapped in gold, blue, and yellow.
Suddenly Frank was startled by the sound of hoofbeats near the far end of the woods. He sprang to his horse and galloped off in pursuit of the unseen rider.
In a few minutes he reached the edge of the woods. He could hear the horses of two of his companions, who had taken up the chase. Off to his right, he saw Joe and Terry racing across the range as if they were trying to break a record. But presently they stopped, wheeled around, and came back.
“He got away,” Joe reported as his horse shook foamy perspiration from its neck.
A distant cloud of dust attested to the fact that the rider, whoever he was, had made his escape on a speedy horse. Further attempts at pursuit would be futile.
Pye came riding up. “Must have wanted to get away bad,” he said simply.
“I sure wish I'd got a better look at him,” Frank remarked.
“Where's Chet?” Joe asked suddenly.
“Over there,” the Indian answered.
He pointed far to the right of the group, where their friend was seated on his pony, holding both hands to his eyes. Presently he trotted over to them. In his right hand he held binoculars.
“I saw him!” Chet exclaimed jubilantly.
“What did he look like?” Joe asked.
“He looked like the same bushy-browed guy that came to the farm in Bayport and asked me all those questions!” Chet declared. “And he was at the El Paso airport with the tall blond. Remember?” Chet looked admiringly at the binoculars and added, “Good thing I asked your cousin if I could borrow these. Thought I might see something interesting!”
“You sure did!” Joe exclaimed.
“It doesn't leave much doubt,” Frank said, “that the person who's making the trouble at Crowhead and the one who's in league with the Bayport thieves is the same man!”
“But what's the connection?” Joe queried. “Do the Arrow cigarette peddlers hide out in this area?”
“Maybe their headquarters are in the woods,” Chet suggested. “That plane we saw may drop the food.”
“And Ramiro cigarettes,” Frank said. He showed his brother and Chet the pack he had found.
“We're coming back to investigate this place,” Joe determined, “and soon!”
The boys started back toward Crowhead. Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I didn't get that dogie!”
The party headed into the woods again and Frank located the calf, which had started bawling again. The boy found him mired in a water hole, and pulled him out. Frank laid the animal across the front of his saddle.
Terry and Pye rode back toward the ranch house, with Joe, Frank, and Chet bringing up the rear. The boys, talking over the actions of the man in the woods, found themselves a long distance behind the others.
Suddenly, as if by magic, a black cloud appeared on the horizon. The next moment a torrent of rain was lashing the range.
“We'd better get over this gully onto higher ground,” Frank warned.
He led the way into the twisting gulch, on the other side of which was a high knoll. But just when they reached the bed of the gully, a terrifying sound brought them up short. It was a swirling, swishing noise, which grew to thunderous proportions as it roared down upon the riders.
The boys were caught in a flash flood!
CHAPTER XV
The Galloping Archer
THE torrent struck the three riders like a gigantic ocean wave.
Frank, choking and spluttering, clung to his mount. The pony struggled with all the rugged strength of a Western animal. Finally, its forehoofs beat a tattoo on the bank of the now-raging stream, then pulled up to higher ground.
Frank looked around. The dogie had fled in panic. Farther down the gully Joe was scrambling out of the water, leading a bedraggled pony.
“Where's Chet?” Frank called to him in alarm.
Joe pointed around a bend where he could see a figure bobbing in the water. A hand reached out and grabbed a jutting rock. Then Chet hauled himself slowly to the bank.
The stout boy looked forlorn when the others reached him. Pye and Terry had raced back. The storm had ceased as abruptly as it had started, but the water still raged along the arroyo.
“My pony,” Chet said, “ran off. Guess he was plenty scared.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Terry said sympathetically. “Reckon he'll turn up back at the ranch. Lucky none of yo' was hurt, though.”
“You can ride back with me, Chet,” Joe offered. “My horse is hefty.”
Chet looked ruefully at the stream, which had begun to subside. Then he cried out. “Look!”
“What's the matter?” Joe asked.
Chet pointed.
All eyes turned upstream to see a white Stetson floating down, spinning in the current.
Instantly Pye reached to his saddle and grasped his lariat. After a few deft turns of the wrist, he swung the rope out over the water and dropped a loop over the Stetson's crown. Pye quickly pulled the lassoed hat to shore, where Frank picked it up.
Suddenly he started in amazement. “The crooked arrow!” he exclaimed.
“Where?” Joe cried excitedly.
“In the hatband,” Frank replied.
The other boys scrutinized the familiar crooked arrow skillfully burned into the leather.
“And look at this!” Joe added. “The initials inside are
C. B. M.”
C. B. M.”
“C. B. M.”
Frank echoed. “You don't suppose the
C
stands for CharlieâArrow Charlie?”
Frank echoed. “You don't suppose the
C
stands for CharlieâArrow Charlie?”
“I'll bet he was the stranger on horseback we just saw in the woods!” Joe cried.
The same thought suddenly struck Frank and Joe. It was possible
C. B. M.
had drowned in the deluge! Silently the group rode along the bank for some distance, but found neither the man nor his horse.
C. B. M.
had drowned in the deluge! Silently the group rode along the bank for some distance, but found neither the man nor his horse.
“Guess he escaped,” Frank said finally. “And tomorrow I'm going to find out where to!”
When the riders reached Crowhead, the boys went to their rooms to wash up.
After enjoying a delicious Mexican-style dinner, Frank asked his cousin if she knew anyone with the initials
C. B. M.
C. B. M.
“I can't think of anybody offhand,” she replied. “But I can call the sheriff.”
She went quickly to the telephone. The sheriff told her that he could not think of anyone either, but offered to check with the motor vehicle bureau.
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