Mystery at Devil's Paw

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “You said it!” Joe replied. “Which reminds me—we’d better put these on before we take a spill ourselves!”

  He handed Frank one set of cleats, and they sat down on the ice to attach them to their shoes. Feeling a bit more sure-footed, they decided to do a little exploring while they waited for Robbie’s return.

  “Let’s have a look farther up the gorge,” Frank suggested.

  “Suits me—if we can make it.” Joe took a couple of trial steps, moving as gingerly as a man walking on eggs. “Boy, it’s a good thing Robbie gave us these cleats, or I’d be flat on my back by now!”

  Frank chuckled. “Keep your fingers crossed. It could still happen!”

  In appearance, the glacier was more like a mountainous ridge than a river. Its surface was humped and uneven, as well as split with cracks and fissures. The boys made their way along slowly, enjoying the majestic view of the mountain slopes that rose on either side of the glacier.

  Suddenly Frank let out a yell as he lost his footing. “Joe! Help!”

  Joe threw himself flat on the ice and caught his brother by the arm in the nick of time. An instant later Frank would have slid into a yawning crevasse!

  “Whew!” Frank lay panting for a moment after Joe had pulled him to safety. “That was too close for comfort! I didn’t even notice that downslope till I hit the skids!”

  “Maybe we’d better head for shore,” Joe suggested. “This berg is too tricky to navigate.”

  “Second the motion!”

  By the time they reached the timbered slope on the nearest side of the valley, a chill wind had sprung up. Blowing down from the mountains, it rustled the branches of the tall evergreens.

  “I’m glad these fir trees act as a wind screen,” Frank remarked with a shiver.

  “Right now, I’d prefer the kind of furs we could wrap around us!” Joe retorted wryly.

  As the moments of waiting dragged by, both boys began to feel hunger pangs from having missed lunch.

  “Could I go for a square meal!” Joe groaned.

  “Don’t look now, but here comes someone with the same idea!” Frank pointed to a huge prowling bear which had just appeared among the underbrush, a hundred yards away.

  “Oh—oh!” Joe turned pale. “I suddenly lost my appetite! Come on! We’d better return to the glacier!”

  The Hardys hastily retraced their steps. After peering in their direction for a while and sniffing the air hungrily, the bear ambled off into the timber. The boys heaved sighs of relief.

  “Think it’s safe to go back?” Joe asked.

  “Let’s not tempt him!” Frank cautioned.

  “W-w-what’s keeping Robbie?” Joe muttered, his teeth chattering from the cold. More than an hour had passed.

  “Search me,” Frank replied. “It’s not a long run to Juneau. Maybe he was delayed at the hospital.”

  Both boys were chilled to the bone and ravenously hungry when the drone of a plane’s motor finally reached their ears. Shading their eyes against the dazzling sun glare, they saw a small single-engine craft wing into view. It flew in low above the treetops and circled overhead.

  “The pilot’s signaling us!” Joe cried cut.

  The Hardys waved back.

  “He’s going to drop something,” Frank said as they saw the cabin door open. The pilot shoved out a large package, and it plummeted to the ice a short distance away.

  The boys rushed to examine it. “Let’s hope it’s food!” Frank exclaimed.

  Frank cut the twine with his jackknife and tore off the heavy wrapping paper. Inside were a pair of sheepskin coats rolled around a cardboard box. The box, warm to the touch, proved to contain roast-beef sandwiches, two Thermos bottles of coffee, and a note from Robbie Robbins, which said:

  Dear Frank and Joe:

  The copter is laid up for repairs but here’s something to keep you going. After you’ve eaten, start walking toward the mouth of the glacier. I’ll send a car to meet you.

  Robbie Robbins

  Frank read the note with a slight frown. “Tough break,” he commented.

  “Never mind, let’s eat!” Joe said cheerfully. “My mouth’s watering!”

  The boys waved their thanks to the pilot, still circling overhead. He rocked his wings in response and flew off. Frank and Joe donned the sheepskins gratefully, then tackled the sandwiches with gusto. Their spirits rose with every bite.

  “Man, those tasted wonderful!” Joe said as he swallowed the last mouthful. “Almost as good as Mom’s or Aunt Gertrude’s!”

  Frank agreed and finished his coffee. “Let’s get going. We’ve got a long trip to the mouth of the glacier.”

  Greatly invigorated, the Hardys began their trek. At first they enjoyed the rugged grandeur of the mountain scenery. They were snug in their warm sheepskins, and the brisk wind blowing down from the glacier made their blood tingle.

  “When summer vacation started, I never thought we’d wind up hiking on ice!” Joe remarked with a chuckle.

  “We should have brought skates,” Frank added with a grin.

  As the afternoon wore on, however, the boys began to feel the effects of the dangerous journey. Their leg muscles ached from the constant strain of keeping their footing on the ice.

  “What say we try it over on the side of the valley again?” Frank suggested. “That bear’s probably found himself another snack by now.”

  “We hope!” Joe quipped. “But okay. It can’t be any worse than this.”

  Back on dry land, the boys found the going easier, in spite of the tumbled rocks and heavy underbrush. Nevertheless, the hours of steady trudging proved a grueling ordeal. By the time they reached the gravel road connecting with the Glacier Highway that led to Juneau, the Hardys were exhausted.

  “Joe, hold it a minute. My foot hurts,” Frank said. “I think I’ve got a whopper of a blister.” He took off his shoe and examined his foot.

  “Whew! What’d I give to be hitting the sack right now!” Joe groaned, sprawling full length on the ground.

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to wait too long for that car,” Frank said, with a glance at his wrist watch.

  “What time is it?” Joe asked.

  “Eight minutes before seven.”

  By nine o’clock the car promised by Robbie had not arrived, and the boys were getting cold.

  “Joe, it’ll be dark in two more hours,” Frank said uneasily. “I think we should start walking toward town. Doesn’t look as though that car is going to show up.”

  “Okay. But I’d sure like to know what’s behind the delay!”

  Wearily the boys set out. The sun went down and gradually dusk began to gather. A plane droned overhead, followed by a weird bird screech from the forest. Otherwise, the Alaskan wilderness seemed wrapped in silence. On and on the boys trudged, with the same harrowing thought in mind:

  Had Robbie fallen victim to the Hardys’ enemies, bent on preventing their rescue?

  CHAPTER VIII

  Salmon Raid

  THOUGH becoming more tired and footsore every minute, Frank and Joe plodded on toward Juneau. Finally they reached the outskirts of the city, where they flagged a taxi.

  “You fellows look bushed,” the driver remarked as they climbed in. “Where to?”

  “The seaplane base,” Frank said.

  At the dock they questioned a guard about Robbie Robbins. He told the Hardys that both the pilot and his helicopter were gone. “Robbie took a passenger with him,” the man reported. “Told me he was going to pick up two boys on Mendenhall Glacier.”

  “But we were told the copter was laid up for repairs!” Joe exclaimed. “A plane dropped us a note to that effect.”

  “Robbie did have some trouble with his copter,” the guard conceded, “but that was five hours ago. Say, are you the two fellows he was talking about?”

  “That’s right,” Frank declared. “The note said that he’d send a car for us, but it never showed up. Neither did the copter.”

  “How’d
you get to Juneau?”

  “We walked.”

  The dock guard shoved back his cap and scratched his forehead. “That’s funny.” A troubled frown spread over his weather-beaten face. “Hanged if I can figure it out! Didn’t you sight his copter on the way?”

  The boys shook their heads, and Joe asked, “Who was his passenger?”

  “A man,” the guard replied, “but I didn’t get much of a look at him, only from a distance. By thunder, I hope nothing’s happened to Robbie! He may have had an accident!”

  The Hardys were equally concerned, although they refrained from mentioning their fears of foul play. “Any chance of sending out a plane to look for him?” Frank asked.

  “Sure! The bush pilots around here always keep a search plane on standby.” Much perturbed, the dock guard bustled into his booth and made a phone call to arrange a take-off early in the morning.

  Realizing there was nothing more they could do, the Hardys hurried to the Baranof Hotel and checked in for the night. Too tired even to think of food, they tumbled into bed.

  The next morning Frank and Joe returned to the seaplane base. To their dismay, there was still no news of Robbie, nor had his helicopter been sighted.

  “We’d better notify the police,” Frank decided. “Then I vote we head back to the island.”

  At police headquarters Detective Grant jotted down the details of their story and promised to send out an alert to all authorities in the state. “We still have no lead on that gang who ambushed you at the dock,” he added. “But if Robbins has met with foul play, it may be the work of the same group.”

  After promising to keep in touch, the boys left headquarters, pausing outside to discuss their plans. “We’ll have to get ourselves a motorboat,” Joe decided.

  “And a canoe, too,” Frank suggested. They had little difficulty renting a trim-looking craft. The owner also provided a sturdy canoe, which they attached by a towline to the motorboat. They embarked and headed down the Gastineau Channel. Eager to reach the island, Frank ran the boat at full power for most of the trip.

  As they neared the mouth of the Kooniak, the distant sound of gunfire reached their ears.

  “Shots!” Joe exclaimed. “Tony and Chet must be in trouble!”

  Frank nodded grimly. Jerking the throttle wide open, he sent the motorboat roaring ahead through the choppy water. Its bow leaped clear of the waves, showering the Hardys with spray.

  As they rounded a point and turned into the river, another rifleshot cracked—then another! Frank and Joe stared in dismay. A man, in a small speedboat piloted by a companion, was sniping at the occupants of the island. Tony and Chet had apparently dodged for cover among the trees. Meanwhile, three boatloads of fishermen were hauling in wriggling masses of salmon with huge nylon seines.

  “Those crooks!” Joe gritted between clenched teeth. “They couldn’t bribe Tony, so now they’re using bullets to keep him out of action while they pull off their salmon raid!”

  “Even those seines they’re using are against the law!” Frank added. Suddenly he whipped the boat around in a fast turn.

  Joe, startled, exclaimed, “Hey, what’s the idea?”

  “We can’t stop them single-handed,” his brother pointed out, “but perhaps we can get help. I don’t think they have spotted us yet.”

  “We can’t go all the way back to Juneau,” Joe said.

  “No, but I’m hoping this boat may be equipped with a radio. Take a look in the rear locker!”

  Joe did so and let out a jubilant yelp. “You’re right! A two-way set! I’ll warm her up!”

  In a few moments he had the set sputtering and crackling. Not knowing the proper frequency for either the Juneau police or the Fish and Wildlife Service, Joe left the tuning untouched while he issued a few trial calls over the microphone. Almost immediately a ham operator responded.

  “This is Luke Burton near Ketchikan,” the voice said. “Come in, please.”

  Joe explained the situation, and Burton replied, “Poachers, eh? Just stand by and I’ll raise Juneau in a hurry. They’ll have the law down there so fast those guys won’t know what hit ’em!”

  The boys cruised out of sight beyond the point to await developments. Burton was as good as his word. Presently the drone of aircraft was heard, and two seaplanes came swooping down to a splash landing in the mouth of the river.

  Joe gave an exuberant whoop. “Let’s get in there and watch the fireworks!”

  Grinning, Frank steered the boat back into the Kooniak. Armed enforcement agents were already covering the poachers with carbines and barking out orders through megaphones. Sullenly the fishermen emptied their seines, then brought their boats alongside the waiting planes.

  The speedboat, hemmed in between the waterfall upstream and the patrol planes at the mouth of the river, was also forced to surrender. An agent went aboard each of the fishing craft, and the speedboat was taken in tow.

  “Are you the fellows who radioed the alarm?” the officer in charge asked the Hardys as Frank maneuvered within speaking distance.

  “We contacted a ham near Ketchikan,” Joe explained through cupped hands. “He relayed word to Juneau!”

  “Nice work!” the man called back. “Come on ashore and we’ll see what these poachers have to say for themselves!”

  As the Hardys approached the island, they were relieved to see Tony and Chet running to greet them.

  “You guys all right?” Frank asked as he and Joe climbed out on the little wooden dock.

  “Sure, thanks to you two!” Tony replied. “But things were getting mighty hot with those bullets kicking up dirt around us!”

  “I thought it was curtains for us!” Chet gasped, still shaking with excitement.

  “Why didn’t you radio for help when those men first showed up?” Joe asked.

  “I tried to,” Tony explained, “but another radio kept jamming my signal. I judge it was a powerful set and not far away. After that, the snipers started shooting at us and we headed for the trees. I didn’t get another chance to send.”

  Meanwhile the enforcement agents were herding the poachers ashore for questioning. There were nine in the group, including the two from the speedboat. The men were unshaven and rough-looking. They faced their captors with sullen expressions.

  The agent in charge, who knew of the previous attempt to fish the Kooniak, asked Tony, “Have you ever seen any of these men before?”

  Tony studied them with an uncertain frown. “No. Sorry, but I don’t recognize any of them.”

  One hulking fellow, evidently the ringleader, spoke up. “You can’t pin anything else on us! This is the first time we ever fished around here!”

  “Your last time, too!” the agent snapped. Then he advised the prisoners of their rights.

  “What about those bullets which were fired at Tony’s tent?” Frank put in. “Maybe we can make a ballistic comparison,” he suggested, hoping that one of the group might be panicked into confessing.

  But the sniper snorted scornfully. “Go ahead and compare! Them bullets won’t fit my gun!”

  The poachers also denied having any part in Robbie Robbins’ disappearance, or in jamming Tony’s transmitter. The latter claim seemed borne out by the fact that there was no radio equipment in any of their boats capable of jamming a broadcast signal.

  After the prisoners and agents had left, the four boys gathered around the campfire to talk over the events of the past two days.

  “I’ll make us some hot dogs,” Chet volunteered. “A fellow needs something to keep up his strength after an experience like that!”

  “At least it hasn’t affected your appetite,” Joe teased. “Not that anything could!”

  Tony reported that he and Chet had had no trouble up to the time the raiders appeared. Then Frank and Joe told about their visit to the Haida village, their adventure on the glacier, and their forced trek into Juneau. Their two friends listened with keen interest. Tony was especially intrigued to learn about the Indian b
oy’s report of seeing two strange white men in a canoe.

  “Those fellows must be mixed up with the gang,” Tony remarked, “because they never showed themselves in the open around here.”

  “Maybe they didn’t come this far downriver,” Chet put in.

  “Where else would they be going?” Joe argued. “Frank and I didn’t spot any camp between here and the Indian village. And we looked hard!”

  “What puzzles me is that short-wave jamming,” Frank mused. “Try your set now, Tony, and see if you get a clear signal.”

  Tony did so, and was able to contact Juneau without any difficulty. After the boys had finished their hot dogs, they strolled toward the north end of the island.

  “I’d sure like to know if those salmon poachers had anything to do with the jamming,” Frank went on.

  “They had no equipment,” Joe reminded him.

  Frank admitted this, adding, “But I’m sure it just wasn’t a coincidence that the jamming occurred at the same time as their raid.”

  Conjecturing broke off suddenly as Tony yelled, “Look!” and pointed upstream.

  A lone figure, standing upright in a canoe, was about to plunge over the falls!

  CHAPTER IX

  Fleetfoot’s News

  IN seconds the foaming rapids would sweep the canoeist to disaster!

  “His boat will be swamped!” Joe gasped. “Come on! Let’s help him!”

  The boys raced to the dock to launch their canoe. But they halted in amazement as the other craft took the plunge over the falls like a graceful sea bird!

  “Hold it!” Frank called out. “That fellow doesn’t need help!”

  “It’s Fleetfoot!” Joe exclaimed.

  Balancing himself with his paddle, the Indian boy shot through the spray and landed, still upright, at the foot of the falls. Then he paddled toward the island.

  The boys hurried down to the shore. “You really gave us a scare, Fleetfoot,” Frank told him.

  The Indian grinned. “Don’t worry. White water is fun! Sometime I’ll teach you how.”