Mystery at Devil's Paw

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “How about the camp up there?” Joe asked. “Any signs that the gang might be coming back?”

  Ted shook his head. “Not so far. But you know, there’s one thing I can’t figure out.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How come the fuel tank is completely empty? Robbie couldn’t have figured out beforehand how much he’d need to fly here.”

  “No doubt the gang drained off the gas to keep anyone from flying the chopper away,” Frank said. “Maybe there’s a can of it hidden around here somewhere.”

  They searched the brush and examined the ground for any sign of digging, but all in vain.

  “Well, what’ll we do with the copter?” Joe asked finally. “Gas it up and try flying it to Juneau?”

  “Not yet,” Frank decided. “We’ve more sleuthing to do before we crack this mystery. If the gang found the whirlybird gone, they’d be on the alert. I vote we go upriver a bit and pick up the copter on our way back.”

  The others agreed to this plan. They returned to their canoes, unloaded the fuel cans which they had brought along, and quickly buried them. Then they embarked once more and continued their journey upriver.

  As they paddled along, the four watched both shores like hawks, alert for the slightest sign of movement. But the wilderness lay steeped in brooding silence.

  “Anyone have a suggestion about where to spend the night?” Joe finally asked as evening approached and dusk fell.

  “How about the Hilton a little farther upstream?” Ted quipped.

  “Suits me,” Joe said and yawned.

  “There’s a good spot over there,” Frank suggested. “It seems quite sheltered by the firs and the tall brush.”

  “Okay, we’ll skip the Hilton and rough it,” Joe said with a sigh.

  They beached their canoes and made camp in the spot designated by Frank. On Fleetfoot’s suggestion they did not light a campfire. After a cold supper of canned meat loaf and potato salad, they chose watches, then everyone prepared to turn in.

  Some time later Frank, Joe, and Ted were quietly awakened by Fleetfoot. Except for a glimmer of moonlight through the evergreens, the river lay shrouded in darkness. A chilly night breeze was blowing down from the mountains.

  “What’s up, Fleetfoot?” Frank asked, instantly alert.

  The Indian youth put his finger to his lips, then whispered, “Look over there—across the river.”

  The Hardys and Ted stared intently, their hearts pounding with excitement.

  Lights flickered on the opposite shore!

  CHAPTER XVI

  An Eerie Sight

  “THE gang!” Ted gasped as the four stared at the moving lights across the river.

  “Sure aren’t fireflies!” Joe stated tersely. “How about it, Frank? Should we paddle over and see what they’re up to?”

  Frank pondered the situation with a worried frown. “If we try it, we may give ourselves away,” he pointed out.

  “We have rifles,” Ted said.

  Frank shook his head. “We want to avoid any shooting.”

  “Suppose we go back downriver where they can’t spot us, and cross over?” Joe suggested. “Then we could sneak up on the other side and take them by surprise.”

  “It might work,” Frank admitted.

  “Unless they hear us hauling the canoe,” Ted cautioned.

  The boys conversed in low tones, discussing various plans. Fleetfoot finally settled the question by saying that he could paddle silently across the stream and scout the area without being detected. Knowing the young Indian’s skill at canoeing and woodcraft, the boys agreed.

  “Don’t worry,” Fleetfoot whispered. “When an Indian doesn’t want to be seen, no one sees him. I’ll be back soon!”

  “Don’t take any chances!” Frank told him.

  The Hardys and Ted watched Fleetfoot creep through the underbrush. Keeping low, he reached the river’s edge and slid his birchbark canoe noiselessly into the water. Then he slipped aboard and paddled out into midstream with smooth, silent strokes. In a few moments his ghostly figure melted from view in the darkness.

  Tense moments passed. “He should be there by now,” Frank whispered.

  Suddenly the twinkling lights vanished as if turned off by a master switch. “Leapin’ catfish!” Joe muttered. “They must have spotted Fleetfoot!”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Frank said calmly. “Perhaps the gang moved farther into the woods.”

  Joe and Ted alternately worried about whether Fleetfoot had been captured. Frank tried to allay their fears with a jest. “That would leave us up the creek without an Indian,” he whispered.

  Twenty minutes later, however, Frank began to feel a growing concern. The situation would certainly be more perilous than ever without Fleetfoot.

  Suddenly, just as silently as he had left, the Indian reappeared at the side of his companions. Ted jumped with surprise and stared at him openmouthed.

  “Boy! It’s good to see you,” Frank said. “What happened?”

  “I saw four men,” the Indian youth reported. “They were walking around with lights. Must have been searching for something.”

  “The lost rocket!” Joe exclaimed excitedly.

  “Could be,” Frank agreed. “Did you have a chance to hear what they were saying, Fleetfoot?”

  The Indian shook his head. “Nothing. They were quiet, did not say a word. I think they must sleep in the daytime, and hunt only at night. That way they run into no danger from bears.”

  “You’re probably right,” Frank said. “Do they have a boat?”

  “No boat,” Fleetfoot replied. “I searched all along the shore.”

  “How about Robbie Robbins, the man who flies the whirlybird?” Joe asked. “Was he with them?”

  Again Fleetfoot shook his head. “No. Robbins is young and tall. The men I saw were shorter and older.”

  “Then my dad couldn’t be one of them, either,” Ted put in quietly. “He’s six-foot-two.”

  Excited by the events of the past hour, the boys were too wide awake to think of crawling back into their sleeping bags. For the next few minutes they discussed the mysterious goings on across the river.

  Frank and Joe’s conviction grew stronger that the ghostly search party might be looking for the rocket.

  Finally Fleetfoot suggested that they break camp and push on upriver.

  “Why?” Ted queried. “Do you think those men suspect we are over here?”

  Fleetfoot shrugged. “I don’t know. But even if they don’t suspect it now, they might find out in the morning. And then we’d be in big trouble.”

  “Fleetfoot’s right,” Frank agreed. “It’ll be safer to clear out now before they get wise to us.” He stood silent for a minute, lost in thought. Then he said, “Come on! Let’s head for those Indian grave houses. I have a hunch that’s where we’ll find the real key to this mystery!”

  The others nodded. They put on their clothes and rolled up their sleeping bags, then they quietly piled their gear back in the canoes.

  Ted had already heard the story of Jess Jenkins about the ancient Indian burial ground, but Fleetfoot had not been clued in yet. As the Hardys were getting ready to shove off, they passed the information on to their Indian friend.

  “I’ve heard about that place,” Fleetfoot said. “And I would certainly like to see it. I’ll help you find it.”

  “You’ve already helped us a lot,” Frank said gratefully, clapping the Indian youth on the back.

  Once again Fleetfoot broke into his infectious grin. “You’re right,” he agreed proudly. “I sure am a skookum Indian.”

  The four now carefully covered all traces of their camp with leaves and brush. Suddenly Frank stood up straight. “Sh!” he warned.

  Everyone froze and listened. A twig crackled behind Frank. Again. Then a small animal scurried by within ten feet.

  “Wow!” Frank said. “That little bugger had me scared.”

  “I think it was a rabbit,” Fleetfoot
said.

  Relieved, the boys launched their canoes and quickly climbed in. Soon they were paddling upriver through the darkness at a brisk clip.

  Dawn found the canoeists many miles farther up the Kooniak. Halting for breakfast, they decided to refresh themselves first with a swim.

  “Br-r-r! It’s a regular ice bath!” Joe shuddered, after diving in.

  “What’s the matter? Can’t you take it?” Frank joked, splattering him with a sheet of water.

  Ted Sewell roared with laughter as the taunt developed into a water duel between the two Hardys. Fleetfoot, meanwhile, was plunging and darting like an otter, coming up every now and then to shake his long, black hair out of his eyes.

  Shortly all of the boys were glad to hurry to dry land, where they toweled themselves to a brisk glow. After dressing, they ate a quick meal. Then they continued their journey.

  An hour later Fleetfoot paused in his paddling and pointed to stone boundary markers on both banks of the stream. “Now we’re in Canada,” he told the others. “This is where the redcoats live.”

  “I guess you mean the Royal Canadian Mounted Police,” Frank replied.

  “That’s right,” Fleetfoot said.

  The boys scanned the forest with eager interest. Though now in mountain country, they were again entering an area of dense wilderness. Both banks of the river were heavily timbered and overgrown with tangled green underbrush.

  “Guess they don’t need an immigration office at a wilderness place like this,” Joe remarked with a smile.

  Several miles east of the boundary markers, the boys saw a screaming horde of birds wheeling and circling over the right bank of the river. Gulls, terns, and grebes filled the air with their raucous cries.

  “Hey, there’s a blue heron!” Joe exclaimed as the graceful creature rose above the treetops, flapping its wings.

  “Why all the birds?” Frank wondered aloud.

  “Must be a salmon spawning ground near,” Ted conjectured.

  “That’s right,” Fleetfoot said. “We’ll see it very soon.”

  Presently they reached a point where the right bank of the river opened into a shallow cove. The backwater was swarming with salmon. Trout and walleyes, too, could be seen darting among the shallows.

  “Wow! A fisherman’s paradise!” Joe gasped. “Chet should be here!”

  Every few moments one of the birds flocking overhead would swoop down and seize a fish in its beak.

  “Birds eat young salmon,” Fleetfoot explained. “Other fish eat salmon eggs, too.”

  “It’s a wonder they survive,” Frank remarked.

  “They do, though—millions of them,” said Ted. “Old Mother Nature sees to that.”

  “Mother Nature and the Fish and Wildlife Service!” Joe remarked wryly.

  The river became more and more shallow as they continued upstream. Soon the canoes scraped the gravel bars that stretched from bank to bank.

  “We’ll make portage,” Fleetfoot announced. “We’re near the headwaters now.”

  “Wait a minute,” Frank said slowly. He was gazing at what seemed to be a dried-up creek bed, branching off to the west. “Joe, do you remember those two bends in the river we passed back a ways?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “I believe this may be the spot shown on the map in the knapsack we found. That had a line branching off above two loops, just like that dry creek over there.”

  Joe’s eyes widened with recognition. “You’re right, Frank!” he said excitedly. “I’ll bet this is the place! And maybe this is the creek Jess Jenkins was talking about that leads to the grave houses!”

  “Let’s find out,” Frank replied.

  After beaching the canoes, the boys unloaded their gear and covered everything carefully with stones and brush. Then they struck inland. Much of the creek bed was filled with reeds and waist-high grass. Heavy timber lined both banks.

  A mile of walking brought them to a wide clearing which was becoming overgrown.

  “Look! There they are!” Joe cried out.

  The grave houses which Jess had described stood at scattered points about the area.

  “This is it, all right,” Frank declared, grinning. “The Indian burial ground!” Most of the small log structures were half-rotten and falling apart with age.

  “Come on! Let’s see what’s inside them!” Joe exclaimed. He ran to a rickety structure and stepped inside. “Oh!” he whispered. “Look at that!”

  Frank, Ted, and Fleetfoot also stopped short and stared at the macabre spectacle. Gray, crumbling bones lay scattered beside a shallow open grave in the dirt floor. Fleetfoot stared at them fearfully. Then his eyes roved to a moldy wooden chest, which stood open nearby. It had apparently been lifted off the grave.

  Joe glanced inside the chest and announced that it contained only a stone knife and a few small trinkets.

  “Someone’s been here before us,” Frank muttered.

  “Maybe this is one of the grave houses the prospectors looted back in Jess Jenkins’ time,” Joe suggested.

  Frank shook his head. “I’m sure the grave hasn’t been open that long.”

  One by one, they checked the other grave houses in the area. All had been rifled.

  “Guess we’re too late.” Ted Sewell sighed.

  “Maybe not,” Joe said hopefully. “There’s another one over there, among the trees. The door hasn’t even been opened. Let’s take a look.”

  The boys hurried over to inspect it, and found that the door gave easily to the first blow from a rifle butt. Inside, the dirt floor was untouched, and on it was a wooden chest, similar to the first, falling to pieces with age. A few streaks of blue and red paint still clung to its rotting surface.

  “Hurry! Open it!” Ted blurted out.

  Frank whipped out his knife. As he inserted the blade under the lid, the others watched breathlessly, wondering what they would find inside.

  CHAPTER XVII

  Buried Treasure

  THE lid of the old chest creaked as Frank pried it open. Then Joe let out a whistle of awe.

  “Jumpin’ fishhooks! Will you look at that!”

  The chest was heaped with jade necklaces, copper arm bands, delicate ivory figures carved from walrus tusks, and Oriental bowls fashioned of hammered metal. The boys’ eyes bulged as Frank scooped out piece after piece and held it up for inspection.

  “I’ll bet this stuff’s worth a fortune!” Ted gasped.

  “Museums would probably pay plenty for it,” Frank agreed.

  “Look!” Joe seized one of the jade trinkets. “It’s the same bird that was carved on the piece we found in the knapsack.”

  “I guess that clinches our deduction about the treasure,” Frank said, after carrying the piece out into the daylight so he could examine it more carefully. He added wryly, “We started out on this case as sleuths. But what with that dinosaur bone you spotted, Joe, and the ancient treasure, this seems to be turning into a scientific expedition!”

  Fenton Hardy had often impressed on his two sons their responsibility for safeguarding any valuables which turned up during a case. Remembering this, Joe asked, “Frank, what are we going to do with this stuff? We can’t just leave it here.”

  “I agree,” Frank said. “If we do, it may be stolen before the authorities can pick it up.”

  “Why not take the chest with us?” Ted asked.

  “We might be robbed,” Joe objected. “There’s too much danger of a brush with the gang.”

  “Besides,” Frank pointed out, “I doubt if we have the right to carry such treasure out of British Columbia, even if we planned to turn it over to the Canadian authorities later.”

  After discussing the problem from every angle, the boys decided to bury the chest somewhere away from the grave houses. Then, at the earliest possible opportunity, they would notify the Canadian Mounted Police of their find.

  Both Joe and Frank still were concerned about the code message they had intercepted in the singing wilderne
ss. In case any of the gang might be spying on them, they insisted on combing the trees and brush around the burial ground. Even Fleetfoot’s keen eyes, however, failed to detect any trace of an enemy.

  Satisfied that no one but themselves had seen the treasure, Frank chose a tall cedar as a marker for their cache.

  “This should be easy to find again,” he said. “It’s much taller than any of the other trees around here.”

  “Okay,” said Ted. “Let’s get the chest.”

  Joe and Fleetfoot, meanwhile, had started back to the canoes to fetch a camp spade and some oilskin. When they returned, the boys dug a hole alongside the cedar, wrapped the chest in oilskin, and after burying it, carefully replaced the earth. This they covered with brush.

  Before leaving, Ted suggested that they make a final search of the area to be certain there was no grave house which they might have overlooked.

  “Good idea,” Joe said eagerly. “We might find more treasure.”

  Fanning out on both sides of the creek bed, the boys forced their way through the heavy thickets and peered among the dense groves of evergreens. A low call from Joe brought the others hurrying to his side. He was standing near a spot where the forest thinned out into an area of swampy land.

  “Look!” He pointed to the ground. In the soft earth was a clear trail of footprints made by several men. Two sets of prints showed the same circle-and-star heelmarks which the Hardys had seen before.

  “The gang’s been here all right,” Frank said in a low voice.

  Not far away was a trampled area which looked to the young sleuths as if it might have been the scene of a meeting. From this spot, most of the prints led back toward the river. One set of prints, however, headed off in a different direction.

  “Let’s follow this set,” Frank suggested.

  The boys proceeded cautiously, alert for any danger. Beyond the swamp area, the wilderness thickened again, with tangled underbrush pressing so close on every side that walking single file became necessary.

  Taking the lead, Joe pushed on through the dense thickets. Behind him came Fleetfoot, then Ted and Frank.