The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  In a split second Frank broke the hold with judo. His amazed attacker hesitated for a moment, just long enough for the boy to clamp a terrific headlock on him. The Indian struggled as Frank applied more and more pressure.

  Chet, meanwhile, had been thrown to the ground. His opponent leaped astride him like a cowboy on a bucking bronc. Taking a thong from his belt, he tied Chet’s hands behind him, then went to the aid of his companion.

  Frank had pinioned his adversary and was watching every move of the oncoming attacker. When he was nearly upon him, Frank let the first Indian go and threw the newcomer over his shoulder. The man landed with a thud, then bounded up and flung himself at the boy.

  In the ensuing struggle Frank fought like a tiger. It took both Indians to overpower him, but finally they managed to tie Frank’s hands, then led him to where Chet was lying.

  Chet’s teeth were chattering. “S-sorry I 1-let you down, old boy,” he apologized.

  “Forget it,” Frank replied. Then, turning to the Indians, he said, “What are you guys up to?”

  The taller man glared at him. “You’ll see,” he replied gruffly. “Come on!”

  Walking in single file, with one Indian in front and the other behind, the boys were led through the forest to the camp. When they appeared in the clearing, the workers excitedly crowded around.

  “Watch this guy,” the big Indian said, pointing to Frank. “He’s strong!”

  As the men gazed at their captives, Frank demanded, “What’s the meaning of this?”

  A stony look was the only reply.

  The men then led the boys a short distance into the woods on the other side of the camp. In a small clearing stood a well-built sapling stockade. Frank and Chet were shoved in. The door was slammed quickly and latched.

  As the Indians left, the boys heard one say:

  “The boss’ll be here soon. He’ll fix them!”

  Frank and Chet looked at each other, panic-stricken. Just who was the “boss,” and what judgment would he pass on them?

  “Maybe it’s Arrow Charlie,” Chet said. “I hope he won’t let Silver use us for target practice!”

  “We’ll soon find out,” Frank remarked gloomily.

  About an hour later someone approached the stockade door and lifted the latch. A stooped old woman entered, carrying two bowls, one filled with water and the other with beans. She set them on the ground, then untied Chet’s bonds. Motioning for him to free Frank’s she slipped out. The Indian guard outside secured the door.

  With his hands finally free, Frank joined Chet in a simple, but welcome meal. Their unspoken thoughts dwelled on the fate of Joe and their Crowhead companions.

  Hardly had the boys finished eating when footsteps sounded again outside the stockade. The tall, grim-faced Indian flung open the door and beckoned to them.

  As Frank and Chet stepped out they were surrounded by an escort of six Indians, who marched them silently to a ramshackle hut.

  Stooping to enter the low doorway, the boys found themselves in a dim, candlelighted room. When their eyes had become accustomed to the darkness they uttered gasps of astonishment. There, standing before them, was a brawny, bushy-browed man whom the boys recognized at once. He had slugged Slow Mo and escaped on the train, had quizzed Chet on the farm back home, and was the same fellow Chet had seen with Silver at the airport!

  Frank’s brain raced to piece together the clues of this puzzle. Following a strong hunch, he said defiantly:

  “You’re C. B. M., aren’t you? Otherwise known as Arrow Charlie.”

  The big man’s evil eyes showed surprise. Recovering quickly, he managed a twisted smile.

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m Charlie Morgan. You seem to be well acquainted with my alias. Likewise, I’m well aware of your identities.”

  The boys exchanged troubled glances as Morgan continued, his voice growing louder.

  “I know all about you meddling Hardys. Your fat friend here was kind enough to tell me about your proposed trip to Crowhead.”

  Arrow Charlie laughed raucously. Chet winced, but Frank retaliated.

  “Don’t think we don’t know about you!”

  “A lot of good that’ll do you now,” Morgan gloated. “Silver’s out looking for your pals now. You’re all going to stay here—as my guests—for a long, long time.”

  “Not when Dad knows we’re missing,” Frank retorted. “He’ll find us!”

  “So you think,” Morgan shouted. His face flushed in anger at the mention of Fenton Hardy. “I’ve already discouraged your father from interfering in my business!”

  “So you’re the one who shot him!” Frank said.

  Arrow Charlie smiled evilly. “No, I didn’t,” he said, “although I’m not a bad shot myself.”

  “Silver, then?” the boy demanded.

  “Silver’s the greatest archer in the world. Nothing but the best for Arrow Charlie! Right now I have a couple of friends I’d like you to meet.” He spoke briefly to one of the Indians, who then left the shack.

  The big man was reveling in the situation. Frank quickly decided to make the most of his bragging.

  To lead him on, Frank said, “Your Arrow cigarettes were a clever stunt.”

  “You like the idea, eh?” Arrow Charlie asked. “Nobody would suspect a cigarette of containing knockout gas.”

  The shack echoed with Arrow Charlie’s guffaws. “But they’ll never find out where I make ’em,” he boasted. “And if Fenton Hardy thinks he’ll keep on looking—well, another poisoned arrow for him!”

  “You wouldn’t dare!” Frank said hotly.

  “Oh, wouldn’t I? ” Charlie sneered.

  At that point a man and a woman entered the shack. Frank and Chet immediately recognized Bearcat—the henchman they had tangled with in Bayport. Charlie introduced the couple as the chief distributors of his product.

  Frank scrutinized the woman, noting her Indian features.

  “Did you leave a black sedan at Slow Mo’s garage in Pleasantville?” Frank questioned.

  Bearcat looked at his wife with a start, but said nothing.

  “Who took off the plates and filed off the engine number?” the boy persisted.

  The man looked at his wife, then blurted out, “I dunno. Not me!”

  “Why didn’t you come back for your car?” Frank went on.

  “I did,” Bearcat answered, “but Slow Mo was talking to a state trooper and pointing to the car, so I thought they were on to us. So what with losing the watch and—Well, I didn’t want to take any chances.”

  “But Morgan thought differently, didn’t he,” Frank asked.

  “I would’ve gotten the car, too, if it hadn’t been for you Hardys,” Arrow Charlie growled.

  “How come you lost the watch?” Chet asked the Indian woman.

  She said that while driving one day, it had dropped off. She had put the watch in her purse, and her husband later had picked up the other piece of strap and put it into the glove compartment.

  Chet, proud of his friends’ cleverness, blurted out the whole story of the watch strap. Arrow Charlie was thunderstruck at first, but when the full impact of how valuable a clue the strap had been began to dawn on him, he became furious.

  “Take these kids away!” he roared to the Indians who had brought them. “And if they try to escape, I’ll throw you and them together into the hissing crack!”

  The Indians nodded stoically and pushed the boys through the door.

  Frank and Chet were led back to the stockade. The door swung shut and the bolt was thrown. The Indians padded away in the darkness.

  Alone in the solitude of their prison, the boys discussed Arrow Charlie.

  “If I ever get out of this,” Chet wailed, “I’ll never talk to strangers again, that’s for sure!”

  “Skip it,” Frank said. “If you hadn’t told Arrow Charlie where we were going, he’d have found out some other way. We’ve got to get out of here and find the others,” he added. “Everyone’s in danger—even
Dad!”

  “How can we get out of this place now?” Chet asked dolefully.

  Frank hoped that daylight might bring a solution to their predicament. But with the dawn came another unpleasant surprise. As they ate the sparse breakfast left by the old woman, they could hear the snapping and growling of dogs close to the stockade.

  Then suddenly the noises grew louder and more fierce, as if the dogs had been released.

  “They must be after someone,” Frank decided. “But who?”

  “What about Joe and the cowboys?” Chet asked anxiously. “Maybe the dogs have been turned loose on them!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  A Grim Story

  MEANWHILE, after a somber dawn breakfast, Joe and Pye sat at the designated meeting place in the forest discussing their desperate situation.

  “What are we going to do about Frank and Chet?” Joe asked worriedly.

  The Indian stared thoughtfully at the pine needles which blanketed the ground.

  “They seem to have disappeared from the face of the earth,” he said. “There’s no trail anywhere.”

  “And now Terry’s gone, too!” Joe said, his voice tense.

  When Frank and Chet had failed to show up the night before, Joe, Pye, and Terry had set out to look for them. Then Terry had suddenly dropped out of sight.

  A frightening thought came to Joe. “I wonder if Terry and the boys disappeared like the other cowboys!”

  “They must have been captured by someone,” Pye replied. “Terry wouldn’t leave just like that.”

  “We’ve just got to search again,” Joe said, getting to his feet.

  He reached into his saddlebag and drew out a pad and pencil. After writing a note to his brother saying they would return, he tucked one end of it under the saddle of Frank’s pony. Then he and Pye set out, this time skirting the forest.

  After they had ridden some distance, the trees became sparser, giving way to a bald clearing at the foot of a cliff. Before the eyes of the riders, a gruesome scene unfolded.

  From the top of the cliff a fleeing lamb came hurtling down toward them. It landed in a broken heap near the frightened ponies. Pye got off to examine the dead animal.

  “There are no wild sheep here,” he remarked, looking up at Joe. “Men must have chased it. We’ve got to find them!”

  With that he picked up the lamb and flung it over his saddle. “It’ll make a good meal later,” he said, mounting. “Let’s use the trees for cover and go as quietly as possible.”

  Entering the forest again, Joe and Pye scanned the dense timberland for any sign of Frank, Chet, or Terry.

  Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Something moved ahead,” he said.

  “We’d better go on foot now,” Pye suggested.

  They dismounted, tied their horses, and set off quietly. Presently the sound of a harsh voice could be heard. Peering from behind a thicket, they saw a rider on a white-faced sorrel.

  Joe, not more than thirty feet away, recognized him immediately. He was the big man he had chased from Slow Mo’s garage! And there, standing in front of the rider, was Pete, one of Crowhead’s missing cowboys! The mounted man was giving the tall, redheaded youth a tongue-lashing.

  “You left Crowhead of your own free will,” he thundered. “But you’re not going back. Nobody that works for Charlie Morgan double-crosses him and gets away with it!”

  “It’s Arrow Charlie!” Joe whispered to Pye.

  “I won’t tell nothin‘,” Pete whined. “I only want to get back to cowpunchin’. I warn’t made to work in no factory!”

  “You know our bargain!” Morgan shouted. “I’ll give you one more chance to change your mind.”

  “Listen, Charlie,” Pete said, holding his hands out pleadingly, “what’ll happen to me if the sheriff catches up with us!”

  “Don’t worry about sheriffs, or city cops either,” Charlie sneered. “They’re a bunch of fools. Fenton Hardy tried to find out about my racket.” The burly criminal guffawed loudly. “One of his sons and his fat friend are my prisoners right now!”

  Joe shot a startled glance at Pye.

  “Yo’re doin’ an awful thing,” Pete retorted.

  Morgan looked down at Pete contemptuously. “Well, have you made up your mind?”

  “Sure,” Pete replied. “I’m goin’ back to Crowhead.”

  “That’s an unfortunate decision,” Morgan growled. “Just you try to get back there! My dogs will take care of that!”

  “Yore dogs!” Pete exclaimed.

  “Yeah!” Morgan returned. He jerked his reins, digging his heels into the sorrel’s ribs. The animal galloped off into the woods.

  When the hoofbeats of Morgan’s horse faded, Joe and Pye rushed up to Pete. The cowboy’s jaw dropped in disbelief.

  “Pye!” he cried out. “How’d you git here?”

  “We’ll tell you later,” Joe put in, leading Pete to their horses. “Quick! Jump up in back of me!”

  The cowboy did so and the group galloped off in the direction of Crowhead. As the three neared the north boundary of the ranch they heard howling.

  “What’s that?” Joe cried out.

  “Charlie’s dogs!” Pete gasped.

  “They’re wild!” Pye shouted.

  The fearful howls grew louder. Turning in his saddle, Joe could see the leader of the pack, his fangs bared, bounding toward them.

  “We can’t outrace those killers!” Pete moaned.

  The Indian’s face was determined. “I’ll fool ’em,” he said.

  Joe and Pete tensed, wondering what Pye planned to do. In a lightninglike movement the Indian pulled a knife from his belt. He grasped the dead lamb slung behind his saddle, severed one hind leg, and tossed it to the snapping dogs. The pack skidded to an abrupt halt, taking time to tear the meat to pieces. Then they renewed their savage pursuit.

  Again and again Pye cut pieces from the carcass to delay the dogs. Their yelping faded as the horses gained. When Pye had but one piece left, he shouted to Joe:

  “Wait for me at the fence!”

  Swerving his horse, Pye galloped off at a tangent, heading for higher ground. The dogs tore after him.

  From the distance, Joe and Pete watched spell-bound. Pye urged his pony up a steep, stony butte as the dogs pursued. Then he galloped to the far side of the bluff and tossed the last piece of lamb to the very edge of the cliff. Meanwhile the dogs had scrambled to the top of the butte. Their jaws flecked with froth, the charging beasts bounded toward the meat.

  Too late to check their momentum, half of them tumbled into the abyss below, crashing onto jagged rocks. The others seized the piece of lamb. A brutal scrimmage followed, with the largest dog finally shaking the fragment of meat from the rest of the pack and loping off. But his victory was short-lived. The infuriated pack set upon him, then upon one another.

  “What a fight!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Only three left now,” Pete said in relief.

  The survivors limped down the slope and stole off into the forest, licking their wounds. Pye rode into sight a few minutes later.

  “You saved our lives!” Joe cried.

  The Indian grinned. “Mine, too,” he said. “Now let’s rest a minute.”

  He, Joe, and Pete sprawled out on the grass.

  “Tell us what happened to you, Pete,” Joe urged.

  Pete breathed deeply and began. One day, while he had been riding the range near the woods, a big man had approached him on a white-faced sorrel and beckoned him into the woods.

  “Arrow Charlie, no doubt,” Joe interjected.

  Pete nodded.

  “You’re a fool to work at Crowhead,” the man had told him. “Hank pushes all you guys too hard. How’d you like to work for me? I’ll pay you twice as much as you’re getting, and it’s easy work.”

  Pete had been interested in the proposition. The extra money would come in handy. “What kind of work is it?” he had asked.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” was the answer. “And
before long you can leave here with your pockets bulging.”

  Arrow Charlie had had still another argument to clinch the deal.

  “Some of your Crowhead buddies are working for me,” he had added. “You don’t think they’d stay on if they didn’t like it, do you?”

  “Okay,” the youth had agreed. “When do I start?”

  “Tomorrow. Bring all your stuff. But don’t tell anyone why you’re leaving, or where you’re going.”

  The young redhead had ridden to the outskirts of Crowhead with his gear and unsaddled his pony. With a slap on its rump, Pete had sent the animal back toward the ranch house, and started off on foot to a spot designated by Morgan.

  “Where was it?” Joe asked.

  “Deep in the pine forest,” Pete replied, “at a rock with a crooked arrow on it.”

  That was the place Frank had stumbled upon—a rendezvous for Arrow Charlie and the deserting cowboys of Crowhead Ranch!

  “When we saw you running in the woods,” Joe said, “you were afraid to tell us where you were going?”

  Pete looked sheepish. “I wanted to work for Morgan, an’ he’d warned me not to tell anyone ‘bout it, ’cause Hank would make trouble.”

  “So Hank had nothing to do with the disappearance of his men or with Arrow Charlie?”

  “No.”

  A sense of relief swept over Joe. “What happened when you reached the crooked arrow rock?”

  Pete said that Charlie had brought two horses and had taken him farther into the woods.

  “Finally we came to a big cave. My friends were inside, but they didn’t look very happy.”

  “Why?”

  “They were virtually captives of Arrow Charlie, an’ they were making phony cigarettes!”

  “Arrow cigarettes?” Joe asked excitedly.

  “Yo’ know about ’em?” Pete asked in surprise.

  Joe nodded, then asked the cowboy how much he knew about the Arrows and their distribution.

  “Most everythin’, I guess. An’ I’m cure glad to be out o’ that mess.”

  Pete went on to say that the plastic tubes were brought to the “factory” and filled with sleep-producing gas. The cigarette paper also was brought in, but the tobacco, a cheap, wild variety was grown near the “factory.” Part of the cowboys’ work was curing it.