“We think someone tampered with the plane,” Frank reported gravely. “Winger-says a couple of guys were hanging around while he was getting gas and checking her out.”
“Those two I saw talking!” Chet exclaimed.
“Then we’re lucky to be safe!” Joe cried out.
“Did you fellows find anything?” Frank inquired.
“No,” Joe reported, “but from the cuts on the stumps, it’s a safe bet those trees were felled on purpose.”
“Whoever did it surely went to a lot of trouble,” commented Winger as he tightened a coupling in the fuel line. “Maybe it’s a landing field, but the pilot would have to be pretty good to get in and out of here!”
A few minutes later he added, “We’re ready to go. The really tough job is ahead—to take off!” He eyed the length of the clearing. “Well, I guess we can make it,” he said. “But I wish we could throw off some excess weight.”
Joe eyed Chet slyly.
“Oh, no, you don’t!” the stout boy protested with a broad grin.
They climbed back into the plane, and Winger took his place at the controls. He taxied to the end of the clearing and turned, taking advantage of every inch of ground. He applied the brakes until the engines roared, then zipped down the natural runway.
The boys held their breath as the plane sped toward the trees at the far end of the open space. Suddenly, with a bound like a high jumper, the craft nosed up sharply. Boughs scratched the underside of the fuselage, but the ship soared into the sky unscathed. Winger was perspiring as he leveled off.
“That was great,” Frank praised him, and the others added their congratulations.
It was late afternoon when the plane landed at Crowhead. Frank had identified the ranch from the layout of the buildings, and Winger set the wheels down on a big field alongside the house.
Chet eyed his surroundings with suspicion, but everything seemed to be peaceful. Several cowhands came to the plane. After greetings and introductions were made, the men helped unload the luggage and two of them took it into the house. The boys paid Winger, thanked him, and said good-by.
Two other cowhands escorted the boys to a wide vine-covered porch encircling three sides of the large ranch house. Cousin Ruth was there at the door and greeted them warmly.
“It’s a shame about your father,” she said, “but I’m grateful to you for coming out here to help me.”
The boys introduced Chet to their cousin, who had changed considerably since they had last seen her. Her hair, once blond, was now streaked with gray, and her face was careworn from the ordeal of her husband’s death and the responsibilities of the ranch.
After the visitors had brought Cousin Ruth up to date on the news from home, she showed them to two comfortably furnished bedrooms. Then they were treated to a sumptuous Western meal. Chet was in his glory.
“Golly,” he cried, seeing the platter of juicy charcoaled steaks, “Bayport was never like this!”
When the meal was over, the boys excused themselves and walked around the ranch. It was not until dusk had fallen that Ruth Hardy joined them again and broached the subject they were so eager to hear.
They had gathered in the attractive, dark-beamed living room with its massive rough-stone fireplace. The widow closed the door, glanced furtively out the window, then launched into the story of the difficulties at Crowhead. The boys leaned forward attentively.
“One by one my best cowhands have been disappearing,” she began. “They leave very suddenly, taking all their belongings with them.”
“And don’t they tell you they’re going?” Frank asked.
“They tell no one. As a result, my foreman hasn’t been able to get all the ranch work done.”
“Can’t you hire new hands?” Joe spoke up.
“They won’t work here. We’ve advertised, but the story has gotten around that Crowhead is—well—jinxed. Because nobody has heard from the men who disappear.”
“What do the police say?” Joe asked.
“The sheriff has done all he can to try to solve the mystery, but the men keep vanishing into thin air.”
As their cousin talked, night dropped into the valley. She switched on the living-room lights and said, “You boys must be exhausted. Perhaps you had better go to bed. We get up very early here at Crowhead.”
“And I’d like to do some investigating in the morning,” Frank declared. “How about it, fellows?”
As he rose from his chair he happened to glance out the window. A pair of unfriendly eyes was peering into the room. Then, almost instantly, the image vanished.
CHAPTER X
A Suspicious Foreman
“SOMEBODY is spying on us!” Frank thought.
He sidled over to the window, but whoever had been peering through it had disappeared from view. Excusing himself, Frank went into the kitchen and out the back door, hoping to take the spy by surprise.
He made his way quietly around the building. Nobody was near the window, and it was too dark to check for footprints.
As Frank listened for a noise to indicate the eavesdropper’s whereabouts, he heard the sound of hoofbeats. They came from the direction of the corral, then rumbled off in the distance like the muffled beat of a drum.
“He sure got away in a hurry,” Frank thought in disgust.
When he went inside, his cousin asked him what had happened. Not wishing to worry her, he merely said he was investigating a noise he had heard.
Frank kept his discovery secret until he and Joe were alone in their room. Chet had already tumbled into bed and was sleeping soundly.
“We’d better not alarm Cousin Ruth,” Frank said when he had completed his story. “But there’s something I’d like to ask her before we turn in. Be right back.”
Seeing a light still on in the living room, he went to find his cousin. She was reading.
“Oh,” she said in surprise, “would you boys like a snack or something? I forgot to ask.”
“No, thank you,” Frank replied. “Joe and I were just wondering exactly how many horses are in the corral.”
“We have twenty-five now,” Mrs. Hardy said, a note of sadness in her voice. “We used to have many more, but I had to sell them.”
After chatting a while longer, Frank said good night again and went to his room. He suggested a plan to Joe.
Instead of undressing, the Hardys turned out their light and waited. A few minutes later their cousin went to her bedroom. Half an hour later Crowhead Ranch was cloaked in stillness, broken only by the chirping of crickets and the occasional mournful howl of a far-off coyote.
“Okay,” Frank whispered. “Let’s go!”
The boys tiptoed downstairs to the kitchen, opened the back door, and made their way to the corral. The horses stirred slightly as they sensed the presence of strangers.
“Hope they don’t rouse anybody.” Frank said. Just then the moon, whose ghostly light had been concealed behind a mass of somber clouds, broke into the open sky. In the dim glow cast over the corral, Frank and Joe could see the horses.
“We’ll both count them,” Frank said.
After a moment of silence, Joe whispered, “Twenty-four!”
“That’s what I get!” Frank replied.
“There’s one missing,” Joe said excitedly.
“That might mean,” Frank declared, “that the person who looked in the window and rode off works for Crowhead!”
“Listen!” Joe warned suddenly.
The boys held their breath.
“I hear it!” Frank said hoarsely. “It’s a rider. Maybe the same one coming back!”
They raced into the shadow of a shed which stood near the corral, and waited. The hoofbeats grew closer. A few minutes later a cowboy reined in his mount at the corral gate and dismounted. After quickly unsaddling, he lifted the bar, slapped his horse on the rump, and the animal bounded inside.
All the while Frank and Joe craned their necks to get a glimpse of the man. But the dark shadow thrown b
y his broad-brimmed hat concealed his face.
The boys noted that he was tall and rangy, but so were many other cowboys. If only they could get a good look at him!
The man hastened toward the bunkhouse. As he neared the Hardys’ hiding place, Frank and Joe flattened themselves against the side of the building. Their hearts beat like trip-hammers.
When the cowboy passed them, he suddenly whipped off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. The moon shone full on a stern face with a thin nose and jutting jaw.
He hurried on, and soon the boys heard the bunkhouse door shut lightly after him. When all was quiet again, they made their way silently to the house.
“We’ll spot him in the morning,” Frank whispered. “Something’s up!”
They opened the back door, which they had left ajar. Then, taking off their shoes, they crept back up to their room.
In the morning the brothers were awakened by a brilliant sunrise.
“Swell country,” Joe commented.
“Sure is. We’ve got to see to it that Cousin Ruth doesn’t lose this ranch,” Frank declared.
The Hardys roused Chet, who rolled sleepily from bed.
“Hi, it’s time to get up,” Joe said as he prodded his friend.
“Lemme sleep,” Chet protested.
“You’re going to miss breakfast,” Frank teased. “They don’t serve it in bed, you know.”
At the mention of food, the stocky boy quickly shook off his drowsiness and dressed. Ruth Hardy greeted them in the living room.
“Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet,” she said. “Suppose we go outside and I’ll introduce you to the men.”
They stepped onto the rambling porch, then walked toward the bunkhouse. A group of cowboys, some of whom the Easterners had not seen the day before, were getting ready for their day’s work.
“I’d like you to meet my two cousins Frank and Joe and their friend Chet,” the widow said pleasantly, approaching the cowboys. “They’re from Bayport and are spending a little vacation with us.”
“Howdy,” said the men, shaking hands with the trio.
Ruth Hardy introduced them one by one. Presently she stopped beside a little fellow with shiny black hair. His leathery face was as weather-beaten as a mountain rock, but the crinkly expression around his eyes indicated a keen sense of humor.
“I know you’ll like Crowhead’s Pye,” their cousin said, turning to the boys.
“Pie?” Chet returned enthusiastically. “For breakfast?”
A few of the cowboys laughed.
“No.” Mrs. Hardy smiled. “This is Pye. P-y-e. His real name is Pymatuno, and he’s the best Indian cowhand in all of New Mexico!”Then she looked around, as if she had missed somebody.
“Where’s Hank?” she asked. Turning to her visitors, she explained, “He’s my foreman.”
As she spoke, the bunkhouse door slammed and a tall man emerged. The Hardys stared in amazement. He had a thin nose and jutting jaw—the same as the mysterious rider of the night before.
When he approached the group, Ruth Hardy introduced him.
“Howdy,” he said, extending a long, bony hand and showing no enthusiasm at the meeting. “Up purty early for city kids, ain’t yo’?” He looked at the trio with a poker face.
The boys resented the remark, especially Joe, who was not endowed with the same even temper as his older brother.
“It seems to me,” he said pointedly, “that certain cowboys stay out at night as late as city folks!”
Hank tensed. The muscles on his lean cheeks bulged in and out.
“Sometimes,” he snapped, “a cowboy has to run off coyotes.”
Just then the mellow strum of a guitar was heard. A pint-sized cowboy, wearing a bright-red shirt, walked from the bunkhouse.
“That’s Terry,” Ruth Hardy said with a smile. “He’s a lot of fun, but an awful tease.”
“He’s mighty fleet-fingered with the gee-tar,” one of the men spoke up.
The singing cowboy grinned, showing a set of white teeth. He strummed a few chords, greeted the visitors from Bayport, then broke into song.
‘Ef yo’ wanna be a cowman
Yo’ gotta find a frisky hoss
In this rough-and-tumble land,
And ride to beat the band.
“But take a soft old city lad
Ah, how his hoss will fuss
It sure will be a pity
When his rider hits the dust!”
Terry gaily twanged out an extra chord as the group roared with laughter.
At that moment the ranch-house bell rang. Ruth Hardy and the somewhat embarrassed “city kids” went off to breakfast. When they had finished the hearty meal of flapjacks and sausage, they lingered at the table.
Finally Frank addressed his cousin. “You know,” he said, “I don’t mind being razzed because I’m from the city, but it seemed to me that your foreman Hank wasn’t kidding. Is he always like that?”
“Oh, Hank’s all right,” Ruth Hardy assured the boys. “He’s a little dictatorial, but I think he means well.”
“Seems mighty unfriendly to me,” Joe said with a worried frown. “Maybe your men are leaving on account of him.”
“I hardly think so. Hank just doesn’t like what he calls ‘city dudes.’ I’m sure you can grow to be friends, though.”
“I hope so,” Frank said. But he was still suspicious that the foreman might be mixed up in some way with the strange disappearance of the Crowhead cowboys.
Soon their cousin excused herself from the table and the boys continued the discussion.
“You know,” Frank began, “no matter how confident Cousin Ruth is about her foreman, I think we’d better keep our eye on him.”
“Right,” Joe agreed. “Let’s get started looking for clues.”
Chet swallowed hard. “If you’re going anywhere on horseback, I think I’ll take a rain check. Guess I ate too much Western breakfast.”
Frank and Joe let out a hearty laugh.
“Okay, dude,” Joe quipped. “Meet you back here after we take a look around Crowhead.”
The Hardys walked to the corral, eager to ride over the meandering acres of the ranch. When they asked the foreman for horses, Hank lifted the corral bar and went inside. He returned with two lively mounts.
“Saddle ’em yoreselves,” he said gruffly.
The animals pranced and pawed, but finally the boys got the saddles strapped in place. Hank looked on amazed as they swung themselves easily onto the horses’ backs.
At that moment a figure raced toward them. It was Pye.
“Get off!” he shouted excitedly. “They’re bad horses!”
Hank glared at the Indian. “Stay out o’ this!” he ordered.
As he spoke, Joe’s horse reared. The next instant the mount did a sunfish, tossing Joe off his back into the dust!
CHAPTER XI
A Second Chance
HANK guffawed at Joe’s bad spill but made no attempt to subdue the rearing horse.
It was Pye who rushed in and grabbed the animal’s bridle, yanking him away from the boy.
Frank had dismounted and rushed to his brother. But Joe picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his jeans.
Hank’s laughter suddenly turned into an angry frown as he saw Terry, the singing cowboy, approaching with two other horses.
“Who told yo’ to bring ’em?” he shouted.
The little cowboy grinned, at the same time letting forth in a high tenor voice:“Yo’ can’t ride a bronc
The very first day.
Yippee-aye-o,
Yippe-aye-yay!”
“Shut up!” Hank bellowed. “Yo’re not gettin’ paid for singin’.”
“I’m only tryin’ to make the boys feel at home,” Terry said.
“Leave that to Mrs. Hardy,” the foreman declared. He turned to Pye, who had led the horses back into the corral.
“Look here!” he snapped. “Get those tenderfeet to work ridin’ fence!”
“Yes, sir!” Pye grinned.
The foreman strode off, leaving the boys with the Indian. He offered to saddle the new mounts, but Frank and Joe cinched their own. Then Pye mounted a little pinto and the three started for the fences.
“Hey, you’re pretty good riders,” Pye said, surprised at the ease with which the Hardys handled their mounts.
“We’ve done some riding back home,” Frank replied.
“Nice pinto you’ve got there, Pye,” Joe said admiringly. Pye and his horse moved in perfect rhythm.
“He’s a fine horse,” the Indian said proudly. “And he knows two languages—English and Navaho.”
With that he spoke an Indian word. The pinto stopped and dropped to his forelegs. Then Pye spoke in English and the pony rose.
Pye looked at the boys gleefully. “See?” he said. “That pony’s smart. And he never went to school, either.”
The boys laughed. “What’s his name?” Frank asked as they cantered along.
“Cherry,” the Indian replied. “The cowboys make fun of me sometimes. Call me and my horse Cherry Pye.” He grinned until his eyes almost disappeared.
The country over which the three rode was rough and scrubby. Here and there a few cattle grazed on the green patches dotting the terrain.
Pye’s admiration of the boys’ horsemanship was unbounded. Finding that they showed no signs of fatigue, he urged them toward the northern fence line of the ranch.
“Nice up there,” he said. “A long time ago Indians used to live up that way.”
As they neared the boundary, Frank thought he heard the distant hum of a motor. He called his brother’s attention to it.
“Sounds like a plane,” Joe remarked, scanning the sky.
They realized that occasionally a transport might pass over the area, flying at a very high altitude. But this one was low.
“There it is,” Pye declared, pointing over a wooded section a few miles ahead of them. A small white plane suddenly appeared and skimmed over the treetops.
“Joe!” Frank cried. “Isn’t that the same one—?”
“Sure looks like it,” Joe put in. “The one that followed us from El Paso yesterday!”
The Sign of the Crooked Arrow Page 6