The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Just as I thought!” Frank declared. “Poison! But to make sure, let’s take the arrow to Santa Fe and have it analyzed.”

  Frank told Cousin Ruth what he had in mind, then put in a long-distance call to the young pilot who had flown them to Crowhead. Winger happened to be free and promised to come for them at once.

  At noon the drone of a plane was heard over the ranch. Winger landed alongside the house and the boys walked over to meet him.

  Frank got in, carrying the arrow wrapped in waxed paper. His brother and Chet followed.

  Hank saw them from a distance. A queer smile tugged at the corners of his hard mouth.

  “There they go,” he drawled to a cowboy standing nearby. “I hope for good!”

  When the boys landed in Santa Fe they went directly to a chemist recommended by Ruth Hardy. Frank asked him to analyze the arrow tip.

  “I’ll have the report ready in about an hour,” the chemist said, “if you care to come back.”

  “Sure will.”

  The boys left the arrow and strolled down the street.

  “How about some lunch?” Joe suggested.

  “Best idea yet,” Chet agreed. “I’m starved.”

  They saw a drugstore nearby and went in. On a chance, Frank went over to the man behind the prescription counter and asked in a low voice:

  “Have you any Arrow cigarettes?”

  The druggist looked quizzically at the boy. “Arrow cigarettes?” he echoed. “Never heard of them.”

  Frank, feeling the man was telling the truth, rejoined the others at the soda fountain. After the boys had finished eating, they paid their bill and returned to the laboratory.

  When the chemist appeared, Frank hurried over to him. “What did you find?” he asked excitedly.

  “This arrowhead is poisoned,” the man replied gravely. “Had the arrow penetrated the skin it might have proved fatal!”

  Frank paid the man and the three left the lab.

  “Let’s make some more inquiries about Arrow cigarettes,” Joe suggested.

  They stopped at one place after another, but none of the proprietors had ever heard of them.

  “What I want to find out now,” Frank said, “is something more about real arrows.”

  He spoke to a policeman, who suggested a museum a short distance away.

  The trio spent nearly an hour looking over the collection. Finally Joe remarked:

  “Funny thing. Every one of these arrows is longer than the white-feathered arrows.”

  “And they’re not so thick,” Frank added. “Whoever shot at Dad and me must make his own.”

  After leaving the museum, the boys went back to the airport. Winger was standing near his plane.

  “All set?” he asked, smiling. After they were in the air, he said, “Well, did you find any more crooked arrows?”

  “Not one,” Chet replied, “but we’re still looking.”

  That evening after supper the boys joined Ruth Hardy on the porch. She told them that there had been more trouble at the ranch. “Another cowboy disappeared while you were in Santa Fe,” she said. “He took his saddle and all his clothes, just as the others did.”

  With their cousin’s permission, the Hardys and Chet went to the bunkhouse after dinner and questioned the cowboys. The ranch hands, as usual, could give no explanation for the latest disappearance. Hank watched the proceedings with slitted eyes, and gave terse answers to all the questions.

  “Do you suppose Hank told them not to tell us anything?” Joe whispered to Frank.

  “No,” Frank replied. “Cowboys don’t talk much, anyway. I really think they don’t know what happened to the guy.”

  Joe stepped into the middle of the room and addressed the men.

  “You fellows ought to know that the disappearance of your buddies is a serious matter,” he said. “The men may be in big trouble.”

  A buzz of conversation among the men revealed that they had thought the cowboys had left of their own volition to take jobs at some other ranch, and had said nothing to Mrs. Hardy because they did not want to hurt her feelings.

  “I’d advise you to stick to Crowhead,” Joe went on, “and if you value your lives, stay away from the north woods.”

  At that admonition Hank arose from his cot and glared at the Hardys.

  “Now hold on!” he roared. “I’ll not let a couple o’ coyotes come in here an’ give advice to my men. I’m runnin’ the affairs of Crowhead an’ I don’t need any help from tenderfeet!”

  To avoid another fracas, the visitors left. Chet thumped Joe on the back.

  “Good sermon, Parson Hardy,” he said. “Only Old Stoneface in there didn’t like it. Say,” he added seriously, “do you think Hank’s mixed up in all this?”

  “He’s either guilty,” Frank answered, “or else he’s the meanest straight guy I’ve ever met.”

  “Right,” said the other boys in unison, and Joe added, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s find out how much these fellows know about archery.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Frank agreed. “We could make a bow and some arrows tomorrow, and let the men prove their innocence!”

  “I get it!” Chet said eagerly. “Maybe that archer’s right here at Crowhead.”

  The following morning the boys obtained a piece of seasoned hickory from the ranch workshop, and spent several hours on their project.

  Frank shaped a bow from it, while Joe and Chet fashioned a couple of arrows.

  “We don’t need sharp arrowheads,” Frank said. “Just make the ends blunt.”

  For the rest of the day, the boys helped with some urgent chores around the ranch. That evening, after the cowboys had completed their work, the visitors mingled with them outside the bunkhouse. Frank casually mentioned arrows and offered to let the men use the bow the boys had made. A quiet indifference met their suggestion. As one cowboy put it:

  “I ain’t never had a bow an’ arrow in my hands. I’ll stake my chips on an old six-shooter any time.”

  “Well,” said Frank, discouraged by the futile attempt to wangle a new clue, “I guess I’ll try shooting this thing myself.” He strung the bow, inserted an arrow, and drew the string back.

  Just as he was about to let the shaft fly in the direction of the shed, Pye rushed up, shouting:

  “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

  CHAPTER XIV

  A Familiar Face

  PYE’s warning not to shoot the arrow was followed by a fearful snorting and bellowing. Frank whirled to see a mad bull, which had jumped the fence of a shipping pen, charging directly at him and the other boys.

  Quick as lightning, Pye grabbed the bow and arrow from Frank’s hands. With one deft, continuous movement, he strung the shaft, drew the bowstring, and let the arrow fly!

  The blunt arrow caught the animal directly between the eyes. He went down in a heap, stunned by the crashing blow.

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Some shot!”

  “You s-saved our lives,” Chet stammered.

  Frank, though grateful, was not so jubilant as the others. The episode raised a serious doubt in his mind about Pye’s innocence.

  The Indian looked sheepish as he handed the bow back to Frank. “I didn’t realize I could shoot straight any more,” he said, grinning.

  “You look as if you had plenty of practice recently,” Frank commented.

  Pye looked at him in surprise. “I haven’t had a bow in my hands since I was a boy!” Then suddenly he realized what Frank meant.

  “Now look. I didn’t shoot that arrow at you in the woods!”

  “That’s right,” Joe spoke up. “Pye was with me every minute on our ride.”

  “I’m sorry I doubted you, Pye,” Frank apologized.

  One of the men who was preparing to drag the bull away looked up. “What are you all talking about?” he asked in alarm.

  Before the Hardys could stop Pye, the little Indian excitedly told what had happened to Frank in the woods. The cowboys stared in amazemen
t, then turned their eyes on Joe.

  “I see what yo’ were drivin’ at yestiddy,” one of them said. “I sure won’t show my face in the north woods!”

  There was a murmur of agreement.

  As the Hardys and Chet said good night and walked off toward the ranch house, Frank remarked, “We didn’t learn much, but because those woods have something to do with the missing cowboys, the rest of the men certainly will stay away from that area!”

  Next morning the Hardys would have liked to take Pye and Terry and follow the trail of the mysterious archer in the woods, but Hank ordered his men to ride fence. The only concession he would make was to permit the visitors to go with their favorite cowboys.

  “We’ll meet yo’ at the corral,” Terry said.

  Pye picked out good ponies for the three boys and they mounted quickly. Then the five riders set off at a tireless trot.

  They had not gone far before Terry reached to the left side of the saddle, under his rope, and pulled out a small stringed instrument.

  “What’s that?” Frank asked in surprise.

  “My range gee-tar.” Terry smiled. “Regular one’s kinda big to tote on horseback. I made this here little fella myself.”

  Terry strummed out a melody which kept time with the rhythmic cadence of the trotting pony.

  They rode on all morning, the men’s checkup of the cattle bringing them close to the woods where the arrows had nearly hit Frank.

  After a brief stop for lunch the riders remounted and set off again.

  Suddenly Frank reined in his horse.

  “What’s that sound?” he asked.

  “Yo’ got good ears,” Terry replied. “It’s just a bawlin’ dogie lost in the woods. Want to give him a hand?”

  Frank turned his mount into the woods, heading toward the cries of the calf.

  “I’ll be right back,” he called.

  The boy rode a hundred yards, then halted. The bawling of the dogie had ceased, but as Frank sat listening, he spotted something that made his heart leap. Some distance ahead, mounted on a white-faced sorrel in the shadow of a big tree, sat a hefty cowboy. His big Stetson was pulled low over his face.

  Frank quelled his first impulse to ride up to the man. Recalling his father’s warning, and sure that the cowboy was not from Crowhead, he turned his horse around quietly, hurried back to his friends, and reported what he had seen.

  “Suppose you fellows surround the area,” Frank said, “while I question the man. If he has no business on Crowhead property, we’ll find out what he’s up to.”

  With the four at their separate stations, Frank rode back into the woods again to the place where he had seen the stranger. He was gone!

  The boy made his way to the big tree. The hoofprints of the intruder’s horse were in clear view. And so was something else—a package of Ramiro cigarettes, gaily wrapped in gold, blue, and yellow.

  Suddenly Frank was startled by the sound of hoofbeats near the far end of the woods. He sprang to his horse and galloped off in pursuit of the unseen rider.

  In a few minutes he reached the edge of the woods. He could hear the horses of two of his companions, who had taken up the chase. Off to his right, he saw Joe and Terry racing across the range as if they were trying to break a record. But presently they stopped, wheeled around, and came back.

  “He got away,” Joe reported as his horse shook foamy perspiration from its neck.

  A distant cloud of dust attested to the fact that the rider, whoever he was, had made his escape on a speedy horse. Further attempts at pursuit would be futile.

  Pye came riding up. “Must have wanted to get away bad,” he said simply.

  “I sure wish I’d got a better look at him,” Frank remarked.

  “Where’s Chet?” Joe asked suddenly.

  “Over there,” the Indian answered.

  He pointed far to the right of the group, where their friend was seated on his pony, holding both hands to his eyes. Presently he trotted over to them. In his right hand he held binoculars.

  “I saw him!” Chet exclaimed jubilantly.

  “What did he look like?” Joe asked.

  “He looked like the same bushy-browed guy that came to the farm in Bayport and asked me all those questions!” Chet declared. “And he was at the El Paso airport with the tall blond. Remember?” Chet looked admiringly at the binoculars and added, “Good thing I asked your cousin if I could borrow these. Thought I might see something interesting!”

  “You sure did!” Joe exclaimed.

  “It doesn’t leave much doubt,” Frank said, “that the person who’s making the trouble at Crowhead and the one who’s in league with the Bayport thieves is the same man!”

  “But what’s the connection?” Joe queried. “Do the Arrow cigarette peddlers hide out in this area?”

  “Maybe their headquarters are in the woods,” Chet suggested. “That plane we saw may drop the food.”

  “And Ramiro cigarettes,” Frank said. He showed his brother and Chet the pack he had found.

  “We’re coming back to investigate this place,” Joe determined, “and soon!”

  The boys started back toward Crowhead. Suddenly Frank exclaimed, “I didn’t get that dogie!”

  The party headed into the woods again and Frank located the calf, which had started bawling again. The boy found him mired in a water hole, and pulled him out. Frank laid the animal across the front of his saddle.

  Terry and Pye rode back toward the ranch house, with Joe, Frank, and Chet bringing up the rear. The boys, talking over the actions of the man in the woods, found themselves a long distance behind the others.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, a black cloud appeared on the horizon. The next moment a torrent of rain was lashing the range.

  “We’d better get over this gully onto higher ground,” Frank warned.

  He led the way into the twisting gulch, on the other side of which was a high knoll. But just when they reached the bed of the gully, a terrifying sound brought them up short. It was a swirling, swishing noise, which grew to thunderous proportions as it roared down upon the riders.

  The boys were caught in a flash flood!

  CHAPTER XV

  The Galloping Archer

  THE torrent struck the three riders like a gigantic ocean wave.

  Frank, choking and spluttering, clung to his mount. The pony struggled with all the rugged strength of a Western animal. Finally, its forehoofs beat a tattoo on the bank of the now-raging stream, then pulled up to higher ground.

  Frank looked around. The dogie had fled in panic. Farther down the gully Joe was scrambling out of the water, leading a bedraggled pony.

  “Where’s Chet?” Frank called to him in alarm.

  Joe pointed around a bend where he could see a figure bobbing in the water. A hand reached out and grabbed a jutting rock. Then Chet hauled himself slowly to the bank.

  The stout boy looked forlorn when the others reached him. Pye and Terry had raced back. The storm had ceased as abruptly as it had started, but the water still raged along the arroyo.

  “My pony,” Chet said, “ran off. Guess he was plenty scared.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” Terry said sympathetically. “Reckon he’ll turn up back at the ranch. Lucky none of yo’ was hurt, though.”

  “You can ride back with me, Chet,” Joe offered. “My horse is hefty.”

  Chet looked ruefully at the stream, which had begun to subside. Then he cried out. “Look!”

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

  Chet pointed.

  All eyes turned upstream to see a white Stetson floating down, spinning in the current.

  Instantly Pye reached to his saddle and grasped his lariat. After a few deft turns of the wrist, he swung the rope out over the water and dropped a loop over the Stetson’s crown. Pye quickly pulled the lassoed hat to shore, where Frank picked it up.

  Suddenly he started in amazement. “The crooked arrow!” he exclaimed.

  “Where?” Jo
e cried excitedly.

  “In the hatband,” Frank replied.

  The other boys scrutinized the familiar crooked arrow skillfully burned into the leather.

  “And look at this!” Joe added. “The initials inside are C. B. M.”

  “C. B. M.” Frank echoed. “You don’t suppose the C stands for Charlie—Arrow Charlie?”

  “I’ll bet he was the stranger on horseback we just saw in the woods!” Joe cried.

  The same thought suddenly struck Frank and Joe. It was possible C. B. M. had drowned in the deluge! Silently the group rode along the bank for some distance, but found neither the man nor his horse.

  “Guess he escaped,” Frank said finally. “And tomorrow I’m going to find out where to!”

  When the riders reached Crowhead, the boys went to their rooms to wash up.

  After enjoying a delicious Mexican-style dinner, Frank asked his cousin if she knew anyone with the initials C. B. M.

  “I can’t think of anybody offhand,” she replied. “But I can call the sheriff.”

  She went quickly to the telephone. The sheriff told her that he could not think of anyone either, but offered to check with the motor vehicle bureau.

  “It’s too late to try now,” he remarked, “but I’ll do it first thing tomorrow.”

  When Mrs. Hardy related the conversation to the boys they nodded, and Chet yawned audibly.

  “Guess I’ll hit the hay, if you don’t mind.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’ve had enough riding to last me a week!”

  “Since there’s nothing we can do until tomorrow morning,” Frank put in, “I think I’ll go to bed early, too.”

  “Good idea,” Joe agreed, and the boys said good night to their hostess.

  The sheriff’s call the next morning was disappointing.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hardy, but I can’t help you,” he reported. “Nobody in New Mexico—that is, nobody who drives a car—has the initials C. B. M.”

  When she gave the news to her cousins, Joe said with a sigh:

  “Another blind alley. Just when we think we have a hot clue, it fizzles out.”

  “I still think C. B. M. might be Arrow Charlie,” Frank insisted. “And probably he’s the person who wounded Dad and tried to shoot me!”