Mystery at Devil's Paw

by Franklin W. Dixon

  In spite of the ease with which he had shot the falls, Fleetfoot seemed to be bursting with inner excitement. “I have a message and have come for the whirlybird ride!”

  “I’m sorry, Fleetfoot,” Frank explained. “You may have to wait for your ride. The copter is missing, and so is the man who owns it.”

  The Indian lad’s face darkened with disappointment. “You mean—you break your promise?”

  “Now hold on, Fleetfoot,” Frank said gently. “I’m speaking the truth. Yesterday, after we left your village, Robbie, the pilot, went to Juneau and picked up another man. All we know is that he flew away and never came back.”

  Fleetfoot stared first at Frank, then at Joe, as if trying to read their minds. He said nothing.

  “We’d like you to help us find him,” Joe urged.

  This seemed to convince Fleetfoot. “All right,” he said slowly. “I believe you.” After a short pause, he added, “I saw the whirlybird yesterday.”

  “You mean you saw it again, after we left your village?” Frank asked eagerly.

  “It flew over the village. Went that way,” the Indian said, pointing northeast.

  Joe looked at his brother and whistled. “Toward the Canadian border!”

  “Wherever they went, I’ll bet Robbie didn’t fly there willingly.” Frank frowned. “His passenger may have forced him deep into British Columbia. They even may have crashed in the wilderness.”

  Joe mulled this over. “I think your first guess is right, Frank,” he conceded. “This gang we’re up against probably doesn’t dare take any chances on the police catching up with them. I’ll bet they’re holding Robbie prisoner.”

  Frank snapped his fingers. “Do you suppose Mr. Sewell is being held prisoner too—by the same gang?”

  “I’ll bet you’re right,” put in Tony. “From what I hear, Mr. Sewell was an experienced woodsman. A tenderfoot might have run into trouble in the wilderness, but not an expert who’s been working here for years.”

  Frank went on thoughtfully, “If this gang is a foreign group looking for that lost rocket, they could probably use a guide.”

  “Could be,” Joe spoke up. “But for all we know, Robbie’s passenger might have been a United States scientist who hired him to make an aerial search for the rocket; or a detective or FBI agent trailing the gang.”

  Suddenly Frank remembered that Fleetfoot had come with a message. Turning back to the Indian boy, he asked, “What is the news you have for us?”

  Fleetfoot smiled proudly. “I saw the same two men on the river again last night.”

  “Did you follow them?”

  “Part way,” the boy said. “They went upriver past Devil’s Paw into British Columbia. I cannot go there without identification. That is against the law. I think maybe those men broke the law. Maybe they stole something and ran away.”

  The Hardys received this new information with keen interest. Frank patted the Indian boy on the shoulder. “Many thanks, Fleetfoot. You’ve done good work. If you find out anything more, please let us know. And I promise you’ll get that whirlybird ride as soon as Robbie shows up!”

  The Indian grinned. “If I find out more, I’ll be back!” He shoved his canoe into the water, leaped aboard nimbly, and waved farewell. “Klahowya!”

  The boys watched as Fleetfoot paddled across to the mainland, beached the canoe, and hoisted it for the portage around the falls.

  As the Hardys headed back to camp they considered their next move. “We sure can’t cover all this bush country without a helicopter,” Frank said. “Our best bet is to return to Juneau to see if we can line up another whirlybird. Maybe the Fish and Wildlife Service can help us.”

  Joe agreed, “There might be some news about Robbie, too.”

  The Hardys left their canoe on the island and started back to Juneau in the rented motorboat. The skies, which had been blue and clear when they embarked, gradually darkened with scudding storm clouds.

  “We’re in for a blow,” Joe observed.

  “Maybe we can outrun it,” Frank said, increasing speed. However, as they left Admiralty Island astern, the wind grew to gale force. It lashed the waves into breakers, hurling spray high into the air. The Hardys’ boat, battered by wind and water, was almost swamped.

  Joe bailed frantically. “Can we make shore?”

  “Not a chance!” Frank replied as he fought to keep the boat on course. “If we try leaving the channel, we’ll pile up on the rocks for sure!”

  The rain held off for almost half an hour. Then lightning flashed and a peal of thunder seemed to split the heavens wide open, sending the rain down in a torrent.

  The boys, soaked to the skin, redoubled their efforts to keep the boat from swamping. They bailed in shifts, one taking a turn at the wheel while the other scooped out buckets of water.

  The storm pursued them up the Gastineau Channel, but gradually abated as they neared Juneau. Both boys were shivering and exhausted when they finally tied up at the dock. By this time it was past ten P.M. and almost pitch dark.

  “Guess we may as well check in at the hotel,” Frank advised. “We can’t do anything before morning.”

  The Hardys’ boat was almost swamped.

  The boys had a hot supper in their room at the Baranof, then turned in and slept until seven the next morning. After a hasty breakfast of bacon and eggs, they hurried down to the seaplane base. When they learned that there was still no news of Robbie Robbins they were disappointed.

  “Is there any other copter around here beside Robbie’s?” Frank asked the dock guard.

  “Not in Juneau,” the guard informed them.

  “Let’s query the Fish and Wildlife Service,” Frank suggested. “Perhaps they can get us a whirlybird from Ketchikan or Skagway.”

  Their visit to the government office, however, proved to be futile.

  “Nearest copter’s at Anchorage,” the agent said. “We tried to charter it ourselves, but the pilot’s tied up for the next three weeks.”

  Before returning to the island, Frank and Joe also checked with Detective Grant at police headquarters. The Hardys told him they planned to search the upper reaches of the Kooniak for traces of the foreign gang, as well as for Sewell and Robbins. “Will we need permission from the Canadian government?” Frank asked.

  “Yes,” the detective replied, “but I can arrange it.” He called the Canadian consulate and quickly got an okay. Their permission was extended to include Fleetfoot, as well as Ted Sewell and Chet, in case the latter two decided to accompany the expedition.

  “Thanks a lot,” Frank told the detective as they shook hands. “Can you give us any tips about traveling in British Columbia?”

  “Never been up that way myself,” Grant replied, “but I’ll tell you someone who should know. He’s an old-timer named Jess Jenkins. You’ll find him at the Alaskan Pioneers’ Home in Sitka.”

  The boys boarded a small commercial plane and within an hour were on the lawn that surrounded the Pioneers’ Home in the former Russian capital of Alaska. They found Jess Jenkins sunning himself in front of the building.

  The old fellow proved to be a lean, bewhiskered sourdough who had mined gold in both Canada and Alaska.

  “Sure,” Jenkins said, when questioned by the young sleuths, “I know what’s up there in British Columbia! But I warn you, it’s even more dangerous than a hoppin’-mad Kodiak bear!”

  CHAPTER X

  The Sourdough’s Clue

  FRANK and Joe seated themselves on either side of the old sourdough so as not to miss a word of his warning.

  “Ah, them was great days,” Jenkins reminisced. “We figgered it might pan out almost as rich as Joe Juneau’s strike.”

  The Hardys flashed each other puzzled glances. “What would pan out?” Frank asked.

  “Why, this gold strike I’m tellin’ ye about,” Jess replied. “Over into Canady, it was. Seems two fellers come down the Kooniak, luggin’ full bags. Pretty soon the story spread around about them stumblin
’ on these gravel bars, up some little crick, where the color was runnin’ forty dollars to the pan!”

  “When was this?” Joe put in.

  “Well, let’s see. More’n fifty years ago, I reckon.” The old sourdough fell silent for a moment. Finally he went on, “Anyhow, folks in Juneau got all het up, hearin’ about this new strike. So a bunch o’ us boys hightailed it over into British Columbia to stake out claims.”

  “What happened?” Frank pressed curiously.

  “Trouble, that’s what happened!” Jess retorted. “An’ that’s what I’m warnin’ you boys about. We found the spot, an’ then got chased right out again by a bunch o’ wild Indians!”

  “Why?” Joe asked.

  “’Cause this crick, where the gold was supposed to be, run right past a sacred Indian burial ground. Seems as how all their ancestors had been buried there. They knew we’d start sinkin’ shafts all over the place, an’ they didn’t take to that idea. So naturally we had to clear out.”

  “You never went back?” Frank asked.

  “Nope. We figgered we’d rather hang onto our scalps for a while. But some o’ our boys got a peek at one o’ them graves.”

  “You mean they dug one up?” Joe asked.

  “Well, no. What I mean is they got a peek at one o’ the grave houses. Little bitty log houses, they are, ’bout six by ten feet. That’s where they stored the Injun’s weapons an’ other gear over his grave.”

  The old sourdough rambled on, talking about his experiences in the wilds of British Columbia, the Yukon, and Alaska. The Hardys listened attentively. When they finally said good-by, Jess told them, “Come again any time, boys,” and gave each a hearty handshake. “Always glad to talk about the old days!”

  Frank and Joe walked away thoughtfully from the Pioneers’ Home. “Was there really a gold strike up there?” Frank mused. “And Indians? I wonder if they’re still there.”

  Frank frowned as they walked toward the seaplane basin. “Maybe those two men didn’t really strike gold after all. They could have looted the grave houses of valuable Indian jewelry and ornaments.”

  “And then traded them off for gold?” put in Joe, sensing the drift of his brother’s reasoning.

  “Yes, and when rumors started about how they made their haul, it touched off a gold rush.”

  “I’ll bet you’re right!” Joe said enthusiastically. “That might explain the jade trinket we found in the knapsack!”

  “Exactly,” Frank agreed. “Furthermore, someone may have recently stumbled on the burial ground and unearthed more treasure.”

  They had a half-hour wait for the return flight to Juneau, so Frank and Joe sat on a bench at the base of a huge totem pole that overlooked Sitka Harbor.

  “There’s one thing that doesn’t fit in with your theory,” Joe said after a few minutes of silence.

  “What’s that?”

  “Where would those old Indians have obtained jade? It comes from Asia, mostly.”

  “True enough,” Frank said. He added, however, that many scientists believe the Indians came originally from Asia. If so, they might have brought their tribal treasures with them.

  “In that case,” Joe exclaimed, “the jade ornament may be valuable scientific evidence!”

  Joe’s exuberance was interrupted by the distant drone of motors. A plane was arriving from Juneau and would soon take off on the return trip.

  Minutes later the plane was air-borne. It skimmed over the mountainous islands of the coast and landed on Gastineau Channel. The Hardys hastened to the hotel for their belongings, then purchased a large quantity of fresh supplies. They hauled them down to the dock, loaded them into the motorboat, and headed back to the island.

  Upon arriving, Chet and Tony said that they had been frantic with worry during the night.

  “We were afraid you might have cracked up in the storm!” Tony said.

  “Besides, we had a scare of our own!” Chet added.

  “What happened?” Frank asked.

  Tony explained that they had heard the sound of paddling close to the island shortly after the storm abated. Tony had flashed his searchlight but failed to pick out any canoeists.

  Joe grinned. “Are you sure you weren’t hearing things?”

  “We weren’t sure then, but we are now,” Chet retorted firmly. He ducked into the pup tent for a moment, and came out holding a well-worn paddle. “Take a look at this. We found it on the beach this morning.”

  The paddle had obviously been hand-carved. “Indian workmanship,” Frank speculated. “Perhaps Fleetfoot can identify it.”

  Then Joe went on to tell of their plan to explore farther along the Kooniak. “We feel sure that the gang must be operating somewhere upriver,” he said. “I’m hoping we can locate Robbie and Mr. Sewell, too.”

  “That could be plenty dangerous,” Tony pointed out. “Suppose you run into another ambush?”

  “They’re not apt to lay a trap for us unless they know we’re coming,” Frank replied. “If we watch our step and keep our eyes open, we may be able to spot their camp without being seen.”

  “Especially since we’re taking Fleetfoot with us,” Joe put in.

  “Too bad Ted Sewell isn’t here,” Frank remarked. “We figured he might want to come along to hunt for his dad.”

  “Stick around for another twenty-four hours,” Tony urged. “Ted ought to show up pretty soon.”

  The Hardys agreed to wait at least until the following morning. The delay proved worthwhile because Ted arrived on the island that evening.

  As the boys sat around the campfire, Ted reported glumly that he still had had no word on his father. He was amazed to hear about the latest developments, and when Frank told about their plans, he eagerly agreed to go.

  “I’ve always wanted to take a trip into British Columbia!” Ted said. “We’ll need rifles and ammunition, though. That’s bear country!”

  Though Frank and Joe had been carefully trained by their father in the proper use of firearms, they never carried weapons when working on detective assignments. However, since they already had had two brushes with bears they could see the wisdom of Ted’s advice.

  “I guess you’re right,” Frank agreed. “But Joe and I don’t have guns.”

  “I have a Springfield that I bought from Army surplus,” Ted informed them. “Makes a swell hunting rifle! Maybe that’ll do for the bunch of us. But you fellows should have some practice before we leave.”

  After supper the boys set up a row of empty cans on rocks. Ted then brought out his rifle, which he carried in his boat, as well as several clips of ammunition. To his amazement, both Frank and Joe proved to be excellent marksmen, drilling their target cleanly on every shot.

  “You don’t need practice!” Ted exclaimed.

  Frank grinned. “Our dad’s a pretty good teacher.”

  The rest of the evening was spent in discussing the details of their river trip. It was decided that after picking up Fleetfoot at the Haida village, they would follow the Kooniak at least as far as the Indian grave houses.

  The next morning Tony insisted that he would be all right alone on the island. But Chet decided to stay with him. “In case there are any more gun-happy fish poachers around, you’d better have company,” he declared.

  Then Chet suggested they pick some blueberries for breakfast. The others agreed eagerly. While Tony heaped wood on the campfire and started the bacon frying, the Hardys, Chet, and Ted hiked across the island. On the way Chet suddenly let out a cry of delight.

  “Hey, look! Wild celery!” He reached down, pulled up one of the leafy green stalks, and started to bite into it.

  Ted paled. “Chet! Stop!” he yelled.

  CHAPTER XI

  A Fiery Missile

  WITH a lightning grab, Ted yanked the stalk out of Chet’s mouth before his teeth could sink into it.

  “Hey! What’s the big idea?” Chet protested.

  “That stuff isn’t celery,” Ted explained. “It’s deadly pois
onous water hemlock!”

  “Poisonous!” Chet gulped and clutched his throat.

  “Don’t let it spoil your breakfast,” Joe comforted him. “We’ll pick those blueberries and do some real eating.”

  Chet cheered up at this appetizing prospect, and the boys soon returned to camp with a fine haul of berries. After breakfast Tony radioed the Fish and Wildlife Service for news of Robbins and Sewell.

  “No word on either of them yet,” Tony reported as he took off his earphones. “But the operator passed on a message from the Bayport police.”

  “What is it?” Joe shouted.

  “They’ve learned that Romo Stransky has a twin brother named Remo—and he’s a spy too!”

  “Hear that?” Chet crowed triumphantly. “I told you I wasn’t seeing things! Remo must be the one I saw at Seattle-Tacoma airport!”

  “He probably followed us to Juneau, too,” Joe declared. “What’s more, he may have left those star-and-circle heelmarks here on the island.”

  Frank went even further with a deduction. “I’ll bet Remo was Robbie’s passenger!” The others agreed. As they prepared for the trip upriver, Frank went on, “You know, fellows, if we’re lucky enough to find the helicopter, we might be able to fly it back.”

  “Not if the gas tank’s empty!” Joe cautioned.

  “It most likely will be,” Tony said. “But you could carry enough fuel in the canoe to get the copter back to Juneau.”

  Ted Sewell looked doubtful. “The canoe will be plenty loaded as it is, with all our duffel.”

  “You’re right,” Frank agreed. “We’d need an extra canoe.”

  “Which means another trip back to Juneau,” Joe pointed out.

  In spite of further delay, Frank’s companions realized his suggestion was a wise one. “Okay,” Ted said after a short discussion. “We’re all in favor. Let’s draw straws for the job.”

  The task fell to Ted and Joe. They embarked in the Hardys’ motorboat and headed up the coast. When they arrived in Juneau, the boys purchased as many tins of gasoline as they thought could be safely carried.

  On Ted’s suggestion, they also stopped at a sportsmen’s outfitting store and bought two rifles for Frank and Joe. After the supplies had been loaded aboard, Joe rented another canoe which he fastened to the stern of the motorboat.