The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  Pye regarded them curiously. “I’ve seen that plane many times,” he said finally. “It always flies low over those trees.”

  Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it in some way connected with the mystery at Crowhead?

  Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Look, Frank!” he cried excitedly. “The plane’s coming down!”

  The three watched as the craft banked and disappeared behind the trees.

  “Do you suppose it’s in trouble?” Joe asked his brother.

  “Could be,” Frank replied. “But it looked to me as if the pilot meant to land.”

  “Let’s find out,” Joe declared.

  But hardly were the words out of his mouth when the plane zoomed sharply into the air.

  “It didn’t land after all,” Joe commented. “What do you make of that?”

  “Maybe he’s just having fun,” Pye suggested with a grin.

  “Why would a pilot fool around out here?” Frank queried. “He’d be in serious trouble if he crashed. This country is too wooded to try any hopping.”

  As the plane flew off, Frank spotted something in the cockpit that confirmed his belief the pilot was not on a playful junket. The sun’s rays were reflected in the lenses of what was probably a pair of binoculars!

  Joe saw it at the same time. “He’s looking for something, Frank.”

  “And that something may be us,” his brother replied with a frown.

  By this time the trio were close to the woods. Pye hesitated, asking if the Hardys wanted to ride into it. Eager to learn where the pilot had planned to come down, they nodded.

  As they entered the dark stillness, Frank felt a peculiar sensation. The trees, although not the tallest he had seen, appeared to stretch their limbs grotesquely toward the riders. Their gnarled branches, disfigured by wind and storm, seemed to beckon the boys into a trap which nature itself had devised.

  “This sure is a spooky place,” Joe remarked.

  “Very bad,” Pye said. “Cowboys sometimes get lost in here. But I know my way around pretty well.”

  Buoyed by the Indian’s confidence, the boys entered the woods, ducking low-hanging branches along a faintly marked trail. Suddenly the pinto whinnied and stopped.

  “Someone’s coming!” Pye warned.

  The three dismounted, leading their animals off the trail. As they did, a young cowboy, panting as if he had run for miles, came stumbling along the path. A sudden look of recognition came over the Indian’s face.

  “Pete!” he shouted at the tall, redheaded youth. The runner was apparently one of the men from Crowhead. He stopped, a wild look in his eyes.

  “Where are you going?” Frank asked him.

  “Ch-chasin’ my pony,” Pete replied. “He—er —ran away.”

  “We didn’t see him,” Pye said. “He didn’t come this way.”

  “Here,” Frank offered, “climb up and ride back of me. We’ll take you back to the ranch. It’s a long way.”

  “No,” the redhead replied. His shifting eyes looked right and left into the woods. “I’ll keep on lookin’ for him.”

  With that he started off again along the trail and disappeared into the woods.

  “I’m going to follow him,” Frank said presently. “This looks mighty suspicious.”

  “Pye and I’ll stay here awhile and see if anyone else comes along,” Joe said. “Pete may have been running to meet somebody.”

  Frank wheeled his horse around and headed after the disappearing Pete. When he was out of sight of Joe and Pye, Frank glanced around, hoping to pick up some clue to Pete’s strange behavior. What he saw sent a quiver of excitement racing down his spine.

  At the base of a nearby pine tree lay a large, smooth rock. Carved on its face was a crooked arrow!

  Frank bent low in his saddle to get a better look at it. As he did so, an object whizzed past him. It sounded like the buzz of a giant bee.

  An instant later something sang closer to the boy’s head. It was followed by a zinging thud. An arrow had embedded itself in a tree trunk directly in front of him!

  Another loud zing! Frank fell to the ground!

  CHAPTER XII

  Bunkhouse Brawl

  FRANK lay motionless. The whizzing arrow had barely missed his shoulder. He remained flattened to the ground to make himself as inconspicuous a target as possible for his unseen assailant.

  Minutes went by. There were no more shots. Frank raised his head slightly to look through the brush.

  Not ten feet away lay a short arrow. Near its nock were three white feathers.

  “The same kind of arrow that injured Dad!” Frank thought in amazement.

  He pulled himself along the ground and grasped the shaft. No doubt of it. This arrow was a duplicate of the one that had wounded his dad. Perhaps it had come from the same quiver! Had the archer traveled from Bayport to New Mexico?

  Cautiously Frank arose and looked around. He saw no one. Then he wrapped the weapon in his kerchief and tied it to his saddle.

  Frank spotted another arrow embedded in a tree a few yards away. From its position, he figured approximately the point from which the missile had been shot.

  Keeping his eyes open for any movement among the trees, Frank skirted the direct line of attack and approached the place from the rear. But when he reached the small clearing where the assailant must have stood, it was deserted.

  As he returned to his horse, Frank mulled over the strange turn of events. The giant crooked arrow cut in the timber, the crooked arrow chipped into the rock, and the white-feathered shafts seemed to fit into the same eerie pattern. But the mystery remained as deep as the woods in which Frank stood.

  His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sounds of crackling twigs and hoofbeats. Perhaps Pete was returning. Or even the mysterious archer!

  Frank quickly led his horse into a gully, then dived into a tangle of underbrush to wait.

  To his relief, he saw Joe and Pye emerge from among the trees. Frank startled them when he sidled into their path.

  “You’re stealthy as an Indian,” Pye said, grinning.

  “You’d be quiet too,” Frank replied, “if somebody had been taking potshots at you with a bow and arrow!”

  Joe and the cowboy looked puzzled as Frank told his story.

  “Nobody at Crowhead uses arrows,” Pye said, frowning.

  “Is there an Indian reservation near here?” Frank queried.

  For a moment the man was thoughtful. “No,” he said finally. “The nearest one is over a hundred miles away.”

  “Then there wouldn’t be any Indians wandering around these woods,” Joe reasoned.

  Frank nodded. “Let’s go back to the place where I was attacked,” he suggested, and led the way to the stone into which the crooked arrow symbol had been cut. He watched Pye’s expression intently. It reflected utter amazement, just as Joe’s.

  “Ever see anything like this before?” Frank asked.

  Pye shook his head. “Never. Indians don’t make crooked arrows, never have. White men might!”

  “What do you mean?”

  The cowboy shrugged. “You seem to think that arrows are exclusively used by Indians. It just isn’t so. It’s true that they were our only weapons a long time ago, but not crooked ones like this!”

  “I guess you’re right,” Frank said.

  After the analysis of the wrist-watch strap, they had assumed that an Indian was involved. But perhaps the archer was a white man trying to mislead the Hardys into thinking Indians were the culprits!

  “Let’s have some food and turn back,” said Pye. “It’s a long ride.”

  After eating the sandwiches they had packed in their saddlebags, and drinking water from their canteens, the three headed home. There was little conversation on the way. After several hot, tedious hours on horseback, they reached the inviting coolness of the shaded ranch.

  Frank went straight to the bunkhouse to find Hank. The foreman eyed the boy suspiciously.

  “What�
�s the matter now?” he asked. “Yo’ got good horses, didn’t yo’?”

  “I’m looking for Pete,” Frank said, ignoring the question. “Did he get back? We saw him in the woods some time ago. Said he had lost his horse and was looking for it.”

  “Pete’s been gone since early morning,” Hank scowled. “Now don’t bother me again.”

  Later, as the boys enjoyed a hearty meal of pot roast and oven-browned potatoes, they chatted with Chet and Cousin Ruth about the details of the day’s adventures.

  The evening wore on, and still Pete had not returned. Frank and Joe learned that the cowboy’s horse had trotted back, but without a saddle.

  Ruth Hardy was very upset. Pete was one of her best hands. According to the other men, he had seemed happy at Crowhead. “I can’t understand it,” she said to Frank. “You see what happens? One day a cowboy is here, the next he’s gone—with no explanation.”

  Frank was eager to report to his father, and put in the call to home. When Mr. Hardy answered, his voice sounded strong and clear. He said he was feeling better and asked how things were at Crowhead.

  Frank and Joe took turns in relating the mysterious happenings. When Frank told of the crooked arrow marker cut in the timber, and the sign carved in the stone, the boy could sense that his father was astonished.

  “Did that arrow and the one you saw from the air point in the same direction?” he asked.

  “Yes, Dad,” Frank replied.

  “Then keep looking for more clues in those woods. But be careful, and don’t go far without someone trustworthy from Crowhead.”

  “Right.”

  After the boys had finished their story, Mr. Hardy brought them up to date on the mystery from the Bayport angle. The car in Slow Mo’s garage was still unclaimed. Tobacco Shop Jenk remained silent. No more telltale wrist watches had been located. But the police lab had found that the Arrow cigarettes contained a methane derivative which was highly toxic.

  “Sam Radley and government agents,” Mr. Hardy said, “have arrested several peddlers of Arrow cigarettes in the Bayport area and in other sections of the country. But they haven’t yet nabbed the ringleader.”

  “Maybe he’s Arrow Charlie,” Frank suggested.

  “We have a trap set for him if he shows up here,” the detective said. “But he may show up out there. Watch your step!”

  The boys promised they would, and the conversation ended. Frank, Joe, and Chet spent the rest of the evening near the corral and the bunkhouse but learned nothing. No riders came in or went out and Pete did not return. Finally at midnight they decided to go to bed.

  They were up early the next morning. Frank and Joe noticed that Chet did not eat his usual heavy breakfast.

  “What’s the matter, Chet?” Joe needled as the Hardys were about to leave the table. “Lost your Eastern appetite?”

  “No more third helpings for me,” the boy declared.

  Frank grinned. “Aren’t you afraid of starving to death?”

  “No,” Chet declared sheepishly. “I’m afraid of feeling too full to ride, and missing out on all the fun!”

  Nevertheless, he finished his second stack of flapjacks before he joined his friends in a stroll around the ranch buildings. As they neared the bunkhouse, a cheerful voice called out the doorway.

  “Mornin’. Come in. I got somethin’ to show yo’.”

  It was Terry. He held the door open for them to enter.

  “There ’tis,” he said, pointing.

  A long pine table stood in the middle of the cowboys’ quarters. On it lay three piles of range riding clothes.

  “Some o’ the men kinda got an apology to make,” he said. “Leastways to Frank an’ Joe. We found out from Pye yo’ sure can ride. So a few of us got together some gear for yo’.”

  “That was mighty nice!” Frank exclaimed. “Thanks.”

  “Swell of you,” Joe cried, examining the bright shirts and bandannas.

  “We had a little trouble gettin’ pants to fit yore friend here.” Terry smiled, glancing at Chet.

  The boys got into their new outfits enthusiastically. Chet pulled a wide-brimmed hat rakishly to the side of his head.

  “Gimme my six-shooters!” he cried, spreading his feet wide apart and slapping his hips. “Yahoo!”

  The cowboys hooted, and the visitors thanked Terry for his pals’ generosity, adding they had not expected such treatment from Hank.

  “Hank don’t know about this,” Terry replied, “or his pals Muff and Jed. Just keep it under yore hat, will yo’? Better go. Here comes Hank now.”

  Chet and the Hardys hastily departed from the bunkhouse. Nearing the corral, Chet suddenly wheeled around.

  “Gosh, I forgot my bandanna!” he exclaimed. He hotfooted back to the bunkhouse. Terry had gone. The bandanna lay on the floor beside the table.

  As Chet leaned down to pick it up he heard Hank’s voice. The foreman was talking on a telephone in an alcove of the bunkhouse. Chet could not help but overhear the conversation.

  “Not till those guys from Bayport leave,” the dour cowboy said.

  He hung up and turned to go out. Seeing Chet approaching the door, Hank became furious.

  “What yo’ doin’ sneakin’ in here?”

  “I c-came for my bandanna,” Chet stammered.

  “Likely story,” Hank snarled. “Yo’re eavesdroppin’!”

  This was too much for Chet. “What were you saying about us?” he demanded hotly.

  “None o’ yore business!” Hank barked.

  He strode toward Chet and grabbed him by the shirt front. Twisting his fist, he lifted him nearly off the floor.

  Suddenly Chet remembered the armlock grip that Russ Griggs had taught him. With a quick movement, he grasped Hank’s left wrist with his right hand. The foreman, caught off balance, relaxed his hold on Chet’s shirt.

  With another lightninglike move, Chet thrust his left hand under Hank’s shoulder, using it as a fulcrum. An agonizing look of pain came over Hank’s face as Chet bent his arm back. With a flip, Chet hurled the man across the room. Hank teetered backward on his heels, then crashed onto a cot in the corner of the bunkhouse.

  Hank quickly regained his feet, roaring, “I’ll throw yo’ blasted nuisances off this place!”

  Just then two hulking cowboys strode into the building.

  “Muff! Jed! Grab that guy!” Hank ordered, pointing to Chet.

  Hank’s friends advanced on Chet, pinning his arms to his sides.

  “What’ll we do with him?” one of them asked.

  “Tie him to a steer’s tail!” Hank thundered.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A Poisoned Point

  “LEMME go!” Chet cried. “Help! Frank! Joe!”

  “Shut up, blubberhead!” Hank growled.

  Suddenly the door of the bunkhouse burst open. Frank and Joe rushed in, followed by Terry.

  “What’s going on here?” Frank shouted as he saw his friend held captive by the two burly cowhands.

  Hank wheeled around. “Yo’ stay out o’ this!” he snapped. “This is between me and yore fat friend!”

  “Leave him alone, Boss,” Terry pleaded.

  “Mind yore own business.” The foreman glowered. “These kids got no right in the bunkhouse.”

  “Yeah!” growled Muff. “Let’s throw them out!”

  Muff’s right hand lashed out at Frank. But before it could find its mark, the boy grasped his wrist in a viselike hold.

  In a split second the place was in an uproar. Hank rushed at Joe. As Jed unloosed his hold on the stout boy, Chet tangled with him.

  Arms and legs flew as the Hardys and Chet put their judo lessons to practical use.

  Moments later, Hank was draped over a cot. The other two sat on the floor, reclining on their elbows, their legs stretched out V-shaped in front of them.

  “A mighty funny sight,” drawled Terry.

  Hank and his friends pulled themselves to their feet and limped toward the back door of the bunkhouse.
As Hank left, he turned around and pointed a finger at the boys.

  “I’ll get yo’ for this!” he muttered. “I’m boss around here!”

  Terry looked worried. “Hank’s a bad actor when he’s got a grudge,” he said. “Be careful.”

  Suddenly the singing cowboy’s mood changed. He reached for his guitar and broke into a broad smile. “Listen to this.” He grinned, struck a few chords, then raised his head and burst out:“Thar was a city slicker

  Dared fight with foreman Hank.

  Now the city kid was quicker.

  He had his wits to thank.

  “So foreman Hank went flyin’

  Right clean through the air.

  I’ll remember till I’m dyin’

  His sad look of despair.”

  “A mighty funny sight!” drawled Terry

  “Swell!” Joe exclaimed, laughing. “Only better not let Hank hear it!”

  Terry nodded and said that it was time he started on his chores. The boys walked as far as the corral gate with him, then went toward the house.

  “That sure was nice going, Chet,” Frank said, slapping his pal on the back. “Maybe Hank won’t bother us for a while.”

  “What started the whole mess, anyway?” Joe asked.

  Chet told about the telephone conversation he had overheard. Frank and Joe scowled.

  “Wonder what it is he can’t do while we’re around,” Frank remarked grimly.

  “There’s sure something fishy going on,” commented Joe.

  “You don’t have to remind me, especially after yesterday’s adventure,” Frank said. “By the way, we ought to track down that clue.”

  “Which clue?” Joe asked.

  “The arrow,” Frank replied. “The one that nearly hit me in the woods!”

  “What are you going to do with it?” Chet asked.

  “I think we should take a close look at the tip,” Frank replied. “Come on. Now’s as good a time as any.”

  Joe and Chet followed him to the brothers’ room where Frank had cached the white-feathered arrow. He dipped the tip in a saucer of water for a few seconds, then carefully carried the saucer down onto the porch.

  A fly buzzed around the water, then settled down to investigate. When it touched the liquid, the insect struggled briefly and died.