"With this load," Frank shouted, "we won't make much better time than they will in the pickup, even if we are cutting cross-country."
Joe nodded. The ground below them was rapidly losing its landmarks in the darkness. Here and there a light patch of sandy dune stood out. The moon still hung low on the horizon. Somehow, those three strings of red lights straight ahead gave Joe a lot of comfort. Then, after a little while, he saw the caprock cliff below, a long, chalk-white thread that wound across the darkness below. From five thousand feet, it looked tiny - nothing at all like the frightening cliff they'd climbed just that afternoon.
At that moment Frank pulled back on the throttle. The engine cut off, leaving a high-pitched ringing in Joe's ears. The only other sounds were the rush of air over the surface of the wings and the eerie whistle of the wind through the struts.
"Here goes." Frank banked the ultralight to the right, heading south.
Now they were slipping effortlessly through the darkness, losing altitude in a long, smooth glide. Frank leveled the wings. "Five minutes to touchdown," he said. "Watch for the shack - and keep your eyes peeled for a good landing zone."
So this is what the glider troops in World War Two felt like, Joe thought. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach and his mouth was dry. He remembered reading that some of those night operations had been real disasters - gliders piling up against trees and fences. He'd always trusted his brother to get them out of tight spots - but this was a killer!
They were near enough to the ground so that Joe could begin to make out surface features in the dim moonlight. There were open areas which appeared to be covered with grass, broken with shadowy spots that might be mesquite. Occasionally, the shadowy splotches seemed very dense. Joe shuddered as he thought of those mesquite thorns, sharp as needles, hard as nails.
"Lawson's Bluff coming up," Frank said, pointing ahead and to the right, where the caprock jutted out. It was bare and open but not level enough for a landing, Joe saw. On its far side was the line traced by a barbed wire fence. Briefly, he wondered what the Native Americans would have thought, the night of the raid, if a strange machine like this one had dropped in on them from the sky.
"Hey, a light!" Joe exclaimed, pointing to a single pinprick of yellow, two hundred yards ahead of them. Then, in the moonlight, he began to pick out the structures - a small cabin, with corrals and a shed behind it.
"We need a landing spot, in a hurry," Frank said, his voice grimly urgent.
Joe was suddenly aware that every inch of ground beneath them was covered with dense growth and the shadows it cast.
Off to the left he spotted a patch of what looked like open pasture. "How about there?" he said, pointing.
Frank banked the ultralight and headed for it. But then Joe could see that the shadows were lengthening out ahead of them. The open patch had disappeared behind clumps of brush and trees.
Frank's voice was tight. "We're not going to make it."
Chapter 16
The dark, scrawny shapes of bushes seemed to rush up at them. "Hang on tight," Frank said. "We're going in!"
As they began to slice through the feathery tops of the mesquite, Frank pulled back on the controls. The nose of the ultralight rose, almost hanging in front of them. Then the craft seemed to drop out from underneath them. Joe felt it shudder as the limbs caught at it, then gave way under its weight, crackling sharply. The front tire hit the ground, but the steel tube that supported it bent. They thumped to the ground.
Joe was tossed forward to bounce against his seat belt. The ultralight leaned crazily, its rear wheels still caught in the bushes. The shotgun fell out.
"You all right?" Joe asked, turning to Frank.
"Somebody said any landing you can walk away from is a good landing," Frank replied, undoing his seat belt. "Let's see about that."
As Joe gingerly climbed out, he stubbed his toe against something. He looked down to find the missing shotgun. Its butt stock was snapped at the neck. The gun was worthless.
The Hardys made their way through the mesquite to the clearing where they'd seen the light. A shadowy figure stood on the rickety front porch, looking toward them. At that moment, a bull in the pasture behind them gave a loud bellow. The figure on the porch turned back into the house.
"Think he heard anything?" Joe whispered.
"Probably. But he must have thought it was the cattle, crashing through the brush." Frank shrugged. "I guess we're lucky there's a lot of mesquite between here and where we landed."
They waited a couple of minutes, but there was no move from the cabin. The sounds of country and western music drifted out of a window into the cool night air.
"Well, if we want something to happen, looks like it's up to us to make it happen," Frank whispered. "Here's what I suggest."
Joe listened, then nodded. "Gotcha."
A moment later Frank darted across the dusty, rock-littered yard, keeping low and in the shadows. He reached the porch and crouched down.
"Hey, Jerry!" he heard Joe shout, from his concealed position.
The radio suddenly clicked off and the light went out. Frank heard the sound of heavy feet running across a wooden floor and a screen door screeching open and slamming shut. Footsteps pounded the porch and the wooden steps as a figure with a drawn revolver charged past.
Frank lunged in a diving tackle. Smashing into the guy, he was a little surprised - Oscar Owens was fairly short. The figure that toppled to the ground was huge. At least the gun flew from the guy's hand to land with a thud in the soft dust several feet away.
The man made a quick recovery, scrambling to his feet to face off against Frank. It was Nat Wilkin! Frank froze in an instant of surprise - and Nat took advantage of it. A giant fist came like a pile driver toward Frank's jaw. Frank managed to divert the blow but not the momentum of the charging figure behind it. Nat ran full into Frank, knocking him flat on his back, then he crashed down on top of him.
A blow from that iron fist slammed into the side of Frank's head. He shook his head, trying to clear his eyes - and wished he hadn't. A large hunk of limestone in two giant hands hovered over his head. Nat knelt over him with an evil grin, ready to smash the rock into his face. Frank could hardly move, much yet fend him off.
"Freeze!" The command seemed faint, far away.
But the rock hesitated over him.
"Don't even think about it." The voice came closer. "Put it down. Very gently." The voice was harsh. "This is no time for a mistake."
The rock came to rest on the ground, inches from Frank's face.
Now Frank saw the barrel of a very large pistol jabbing Nat just behind his right ear. The pistol was held in Joe's strong, steady grasp.
"Lace your fingers behind your head," Joe commanded. "Get up - slowly."
Nat was red-faced with rage. "I'll have you punks tossed into the pen!" he snarled, glaring at Joe. "Trespassing and assault!"
Joe faced him calmly. "I'll see that and raise you two counts of kidnapping and three counts of attempted murder."
"That wasn't my idea!" Nat whined. Then he checked himself.
Frank got to his feet. "Maybe you'd like to tell us whose idea it was," he suggested, brushing himself off.
"I bet you'd like that," Nat growled. "But the game's not over."
Frank nodded. "The rest of the players haven't shown up yet, have they?" He stepped onto the porch. An ancient bell hung there - rusty, but loud enough when he gave the warning signal.
Bong! Bong! Bong! The three deep notes reverberated through the still night air.
"Let's have a look inside." Joe prodded Nat forward at pistol point.
Frank turned on the light inside the door. A young man lay on a bunk, his eyes glazed. Frank knelt beside the bunk to check Jerry's pulse. "What did you do to him?" he demanded.
"Hey, nothing," Nat said, shifting nervously away from Joe. "Nothing a little sleep won't cure, anyway." He shuddered. "Be careful with that gun, kid. It's got a hair trigger."
Frank heard the sound of the two vehicles coming up, and glanced out the window. "Here comes our reinforcements," he confirmed to Joe. Two pairs of parking lights bounced swiftly through the pasture to the east. In the moonlight Frank recognized the yellow pickup, leading a squad car. He stepped to the porch and waved.
"Frank! Where's Joe?" Barbara called, jumping out of the truck even before it rolled to a stop.
"He's inside." Frank grinned. "Keeping tabs on Nat Wilkin, of all people. And we've got Jerry, too," he added as Dot came running up. "I think he's going to be okay."
Dot was followed by a stern-faced Sheriff Clinton. "What's going on here?"
"Kidnapping, for starters," Frank told him.
The sheriff stepped past Frank, into the room. While Joe still kept the prisoner covered, Clinton pulled Nat's hands down, one at a time, and deftly handcuffed them behind his back.
"What about Roy?" Dot asked worriedly.
"We haven't seen him," Frank said. "What about you? Did you see anything out there?"
"Not a thing." Dot sounded scared. "Oh, Frank, what if Roy's already - "
"Well, Nat," the sheriff said, pushing Wilkin out onto the porch. "What have you got to say for yourself?"
Nat didn't reply. He seemed to be listening. Then an unpleasant smile spread over his face.
Barbara turned, looking toward the west. "What's that sound?" she whispered, as Joe came out onto the porch behind her.
They all heard it now - a roaring rumble like a monster engine, protesting under a heavy load. The sound came from below the cliff.
"I'd say," Frank remarked, "that it's a very large truck, in very low gear."
The noise grew rapidly louder, and the engine wound itself into a high-pitched whine. A squat, heavy shadow lumbered like a tank over the edge of the cliff. Frank recognized it immediately - it was the giant Mack truck cab that had nearly driven them off the road. Its lights were off. The moonlight reflected off the broad windshield and tall chrome grill. Then the headlights flashed twice and the engine was switched off.
"That must be some kind of signal," Joe said to Frank. "He must be expecting a countersign. But what?"
"The bell, maybe?" Frank replied.
They all turned to look at Nat. He just grinned at them.
"Well, now," he drawled. "It looks like you boys have run smack into a Mexican standoff!"
Chapter 17
Nat squared off against them. In spite of the handcuffs on his wrists, he acted as if he were holding all the aces.
"Look, Sheriff, be reasonable," Nat said smoothly. "There's no point in anybody getting hurt, is there? We can do a deal here - you get Roy, and my friend and I get on our way."
"No way," Joe snapped.
"If anybody gets hurt," Frank said grimly, " you're an accomplice."
Their voices were drowned out as the truck engine started up, bringing the cab closer. Sheriff Clinton brought up a six-cell flashlight, shining it toward the truck.
"Wilkin! What do you think you're doing?" a furious voice came from the truck cab. Then everyone on the porch was blinded as the truck's huge lights came on, dazzling them.
"Looks like you really fouled things up, huh, Nat? Sheriff, you've got Nat, and as far as I'm concerned, you can keep him. I just want to get out of here."
"What makes you think we'll let you get away?" the sheriff shouted.
The voice chuckled. "Because I've got insurance, that's why." The truck door slammed open. "His name is Roy Carlson!" Against the glare of the high beams, they saw the shadowy form of a tall man, hands crossed in front of him. A shorter, stockier figure prodded him along with a long-barreled weapon.
"That's Roy!" Dot whispered. "What are we going to do?"
Nat spit into the dust. "That no-good double-crossing snake," he muttered. "I knew he was crazy, but I thought I could trust him."
Abruptly, the short, stocky man pushed Roy forward a few paces. Roy stumbled and caught himself.
"Look, people, what's it going to be?" the voice demanded. Against the lights, they saw the rifle come up. "You've got ten seconds! Let me go, or I'll blast good old Roy!"
Frank and Joe stared at each other helplessly. Silence hung over the scene, while the crescent moon cast long, strange shadows over the pasture, the corral, and the bluff beyond.
"One," the shadowy figure called out. "Two - three - "
"You think he means it?" Sheriff Clinton asked Nat.
"He's got nothing to lose," Wilkin said worriedly. He'd just realized that he was the one who'd be paying if Roy got killed.
"Five - six - seven," the gunman's voice counted out.
Beside them, Dot Carlson began to whimper.
"Eight - "
"Stop it! Stop it!" Dot screamed. "Let my husband go!"
Clinton looked helplessly from Dot to the two figures outlined against the lights.
"Nine - te - "
The voice cut off as another sound broke in - a rattling that was quiet, but grew louder. The stocky figure in front of the truck whirled around.
"Hey-hey-hey-ya! Hey-hey-hey-ya!" A thin, wavering chant rose rhythmically into the moonlight, bone-chilling, bloodcurdling. Beyond the truck, on the other side of the fence that ran beside the promontory of Lawson's Bluff, a skeletal apparition rose up, arms extended to the open sky. "Hey-ya-hey-ya-hey!" The apparition turned several times, bending and bowing in a slow dance.
"You there! You stop that!" the stocky man commanded. He stepped toward the dancer, his attention momentarily diverted from Roy and the group on the porch.
"Come on," Joe . whispered, grabbing Frank's arm. "Let's circle around behind the corral!" The two boys slipped into the cover of the shadows and began making their way silently toward the corral.
"Hey-hey-hey-ya!" The thin, tuneless chant came again, fading, then growing louder.
"That's got to be Charlie out there," Frank whispered. "Boy, he sure turns up at the weirdest times."
Charlie's chanting was obviously getting on the stocky man's nerves. "Knock it off!" he yelled, backing that demand up with a wild shot.
The boys reached the corner of the corral and peeked around it. The stocky man had turned his back on Roy. He was concentrating on the dancing figure, now beginning to circle on the rock, with a slow, shuffling step.
The pitch of the chant rose and the speed picked up as the figure swayed and turned, faster and faster. Joe had to admit that the dance was eerie, frightening. It was like a ghost dancing out there - the ghost of the long-dead Native Americans who had once ruled this cliff, this desert.
"Hey-hey-hey, hey-hey-hey, hey-ya, hey-ya!"
"Stop!" The stocky man had vaulted the fence that separated him from Charlie. He was advancing on the dancer, the barrel of his gun pointed menacingly.
Roy took advantage of his captor's distraction, stumbling as he ran for the safety of the corral.
"Over here, Roy!" Frank called, in a low voice. In a second Roy was beside them and they were untying his hands.
"Boy, am I glad to see you guys," Roy said, rubbing his wrists. "That guy - the guy driving the truck - he's nuts. I thought I was a goner for sure." He peered in the direction of the dancer. "What's going on out there?"
They were close enough to make out the scene clearly. Charlie was moving faster and faster, his chant rising in a wild wail. His long hair was woven into braids, and he held something in his hand, something that twisted and writhed.
"It's a snake!" Joe gasped. "He's got a live snake out there!"
Frank shook his head. "Risky business, if you ask me."
"Hey-ya-hey-ya-HI!"
Facing the man with the gun, Charlie suddenly stood tall and flung his arms wide.
"Get it away!" the man shouted, his gun sailing as he leaped away. A second later, he was on his knees. "My leg! Help! I've been snake bit! A rattler got me!"
In an instant Frank and Joe were over the fence. They seized the man and dragged him to his feet, searching him quickly. He had no weap
ons, but in his pocket Frank found a handful of blasting caps.
"Like to play with these, huh?" Frank murmured.
"I need a doctor," the man said. There was panic in his voice. He looked down at his leg. "I need a doctor, bad!"
Frank and Joe sat him down. Joe removed one of his shoe laces and began tying it tight around the leg, just above the bite. "You'll live," he said. "Probably."
Frank nudged Joe. "Hey," he said, "he's done it again."
Joe straightened up, pulling the stocky man upright. "Who?"
"Charlie."
Frank pointed. All of Lawson's Bluff lay still and empty. Charlie and his snake had vanished.
Chapter 18
"Barbara's late," Joe complained with a look at his watch. He was sitting on the tailgate of the old yellow pickup, parked in front of the Circle C ranch house.
Frank stood beside their luggage. "I can't believe you're in such a big hurry to get out of here." He grinned at Joe. "I thought you'd miss Barbara."
Joe shrugged, a little embarrassed. "You've got to admit she was pretty nice, offering to drive us all the way back to Lubbock Airport."
"It was the least she could do," Frank pointed out, "after we sweated all morning in the mesquite, changing Tinkerbell's radiator." He laughed. "We saved Barb a humongous towing bill - and Tinkerbell a very uncomfortable trip."
Roy Carlson came out of the ranch house, a happy smile on his face. "Sorry I wasn't able to say goodbye before. I was on the phone to the hospital - just talked to Jerry, and he sounds super. The doc doesn't think he'll suffer any permanent effects from that stuff those guys doped him with. But he wants to keep an eye on him for a couple of days."
"How about Nat and his partner?" Frank asked. "Have they started talking yet?"
"It's amazing how a night in jail - or in the hospital - can make a fella talk," Roy said. "I got an earful from Bobby Clinton while you boys were out fixing Barbara's jeep."
"Do we know who that guy in the truck was?" Joe asked.
"His name is John Hicks," Roy said. "That sidewinder bite made him pretty sick - and scared. He told Bobby his whole life story. Apparently, Hicks worked for a few oil companies, long enough to pick up some of the basics about oil exploration. He learned how to handle explosives in the army."
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