The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Every mornin’ Charlie or his skinny friend Silver,” Pete continued his story, “went to the hissing crack an’ got some o’ the stuff.”

  “Hissing crack? What stuff?”

  “Yo’ know, the gas they fill the tubes with.”

  Suddenly Pye gasped.

  “What’s the matter?” Joe asked.

  “There’s an Indian legend about a strange gas coming out of a rock,” Pye replied. “I never thought it was true. It’s poisonous and is supposed to have killed hundreds of people long ago!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Thundering Posse

  JOE looked at the Indian in surprise. “Tell us more about it, Pye,” he said finally.

  At first the cowboy was reluctant to speak about what he knew only as a legend. The crack was located on the side of a sheer rock. From it came a hissing gas that brought instant slumber and eventual death to anyone who inhaled too much of it.

  “If that is true, Morgan must wear a mask,” Joe mused. “But how did he stumble onto the whole thing?”

  “He might have heard the story from an Indian,” Pye suggested.

  Joe nodded. “No wonder he made this area his headquarters and tried to keep us out of those woods.” He turned to Pete. “What else do you know about Charlie’s operations, Pete?”

  The cowboy ran his fingers through his hair and continued.

  “Both Silver an’ Arrow Charlie are pilots. They take turns bringin’ in food an’ supplies an’ contactin’ their ring of thieves who use the Arrow cigarettes.”

  “And Bearcat?” Joe asked.

  “He acts as distributor, once the gang gets operatin’ on a large scale in a certain area,” the cowboy explained.

  “Charlie flies him around?”

  “Sometimes. Him an’ his Indian wife. Bearcat’s a pilot too.”

  “Has Bearcat been using a black sedan in the East?” Joe asked, recalling the Indian’s watch strap found in the car at Slow Mo’s garage.

  “I wouldn’t know anythin’ about that,” Pete answered. “But it was from Bearcat’s wife that Charlie first learned about the Indians livin’ here.”

  “Indians?” Pye was astonished.

  “Not more’n a dozen,” the redhead said. “Been holin’ up in these woods an’ caves for years—livin’ like vagrants, near as I kin figure. Charlie reckoned they’d make good cheap labor for his cigarette factory. An’ seein’ how the place is so isolated, he knew he could operate here safely.”

  “He didn’t count on my dad getting wise to the whole setup,” Joe said.

  “Or his detective sons,” Pete added. “Morgan’s racket was bad enough, but when I found out he was tryin’ to harm you boys, I decided to run away an’ tell what I know about him.”

  “You took a big chance,” Pye grunted.

  All three were weary and their muscles ached from their exhaustive ride, but they could not afford to take more time to rest. Frank and Chet had to be found quickly.

  “Let’s go,” Pye said, squinting into the rising sun.

  Just then they heard the sound of a plane starting its engines.

  “That’ll be Charlie or Silver goin’ out on their errands,” Pete remarked. “They’ve got a small airstrip on the other side of the woods.”

  “A clearing marked with a crooked arrow!” Joe put in. “We spotted it from the air on our way to Crowhead.”

  Suddenly Joe flung himself upon his pony. “What if they’re taking Frank and Chet away?”

  But Pye and Pete dissuaded him from racing in the direction of the aircraft.

  “We’ll have to get the sheriff,” the Indian insisted. “Three of us won’t stand a chance.”

  A moment’s thought convinced Joe that Pye was right. Pete hopped on behind him, and the three moved over the hot stretch of grassy land toward Crowhead.

  Joe’s hopes mounted as they drew closer to the ranch. Perhaps Chet and Frank were still prisoners in the woods. If so, they would soon be rescued by the local lawmen. But there was one of their group still unaccounted for. Terry. Where was he?

  “We’ll be at the house soon,” Pye said, sensing Joe’s anxiety.

  They ascended a long grade toward the top of a hill beyond which lay the ranch. Reaching its brow first, Joe gazed at the far-off buildings, then gasped in horror.

  Together the three watched in disbelief as black smoke billowed up in the distance.

  The ranch house was ablaze!

  “Probably Morgan’s fiendishness!” Joe thought, his jaws set in rage. “Come on, fellows,” he shouted, “before it’s too late!”

  By the time the galloping ponies reached Crowhead, the place was an inferno. Cowhands were running a hose to the ranch house, but the stream suddenly dribbled and stopped. The fire had disabled the water pump.

  Joe rushed up to Cousin Ruth, who stood back from the scorching heat of the blaze. Hiding her face in her hands, she sobbed bitterly at this final, crushing blow.

  “Joe!” she cried when she saw the boy.

  “I’m so sorry. I—”

  “It doesn’t matter—you’re safe!” She embraced him hysterically. “I thought when you didn’t come back last night something terrible had happened!”

  The distraught woman apparently did not realize that Frank and Chet were not with him. Joe decided not to tell her about them now and ran to help the men fight the fire.

  The loyal cowhands were working frantically. When the pump had failed, they had formed a bucket brigade and were passing pails of water from a well to put out the blaze.

  The man standing nearest the fire was Hank. He looked fierce with his eyebrows singed, his face blackened by the smoke, and his shirt torn. But he worked like a demon.

  Joe dashed up to Pye and Pete. The three formed a new bucket line, and worked on a wing of the house which was still intact.

  Finally the fire burned out. Only the small wing had been saved. Their backs and arms aching, and their bodies scorched by the heat, the cowhands flopped to the ground.

  Hank came up to Joe, their eyes meeting for a long moment. “Good work,” the foreman said, offering his hand.

  Joe shook it. “Hank,” he said, “anybody who fights for Cousin Ruth as you did is okay. I’m sorry I ever doubted your loyalty.”

  “Forget it.”

  “There are a couple of things I’d like to clear up, if you don’t mind. What about the mysterious telephone call Chet overheard in the bunkhouse?”

  “Oh, that.” Hank grinned. “My brother down in Albuquerque wanted me to come inspect some cattle, but I didn’t want to go until yo’ left. Kinda figgered yo’ might get into trouble.”

  “And the first night, when we arrived, did you look into the living-room window?”

  “Like I said,” Hank replied, “I had to chase some coyotes off. Wanted to make sure Mrs. Hardy was safe in her house.”

  Joe told Hank about Frank, Terry, and Chet.

  “Better phone the police right away,” the foreman advised. “Go ahead. I’ll tell yore cousin.”

  The telephone was in the undamaged wing of the ranch house, but the line was dead. Joe soon discovered the reason. The pole on which the wires were strung had burned to the ground.

  There was only one alternative. Joe offered to ride to the nearest town for the sheriff.

  “Yo’ won’t go without me!” Hank declared.

  But no sooner were he and Joe in the saddle than a thundering of hoofs sounded in the distance. Soon a group of about thirty riders galloped up.

  Leading them was Terry, the singing cowboy! Beside him rode the sheriff!

  “Terry!” Joe shouted. “Boy, are we glad to see you!”

  “Say, what’s goin’ on here?” the cowboy cried, seeing the smoldering ruins. Then he added, “That’s what Charlie Morgan must ’a’ meant ’bout gettin’ rid of everythin’ at Crowhead. Wal, he sure can’t get away with this!”

  Suddenly he spied Pete, and stared dumbfounded. Quickly stories were exchanged. Terry, while in the wo
ods, had almost run into Arrow Charlie.

  “He was talkin’ to some skinny blond guy he called Silver. They was tryin’ to decide what to do with Frank and Chet. I vamoosed pronto to look for you, but I got lost in them woods. Then I headed straight for the sheriff.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Hank shouted. “Come on, men!”

  Just as the posse and ranch hands were about to gallop off, an engine sounded in the distance. Joe’s eyes focused on a speck in the sky. It was coming from the direction of Morgan’s Indian camp!

  A sickening fear seized Joe. Could it be Arrow Charlie’s plane? Perhaps it was armed! The posse would be a perfect target for an aerial strafing!

  Joe shouted a warning, and the riders took cover.

  Presently Pye called out, “It’s a whirlybird!”

  “That engine’s pretty rough,” Joe observed. “Sounds like it’s about to fall apart.”

  Soon a small helicopter swooped low over the smoking house, sounding like a hundred popping machine guns. The craft dropped sharply and came in for a landing. As the door of the copter swung open, Fenton Hardy and a state policeman stepped out.

  “Dad!” Joe shouted, jumping from his horse and running over to his father’s side.

  Mr. Hardy greeted his son warmly. “I’m glad to see you’re safe,” he said in relief. “Ruth phoned me you were missing.”

  The police pilot spoke up. “I thought we’d be missing, too. This copter’s had it.” He said the rotors were vibrating dangerously. “I can’t leave here until I have it repaired, which will take several hours. What are your plans, Mr. Hardy?”

  “I don’t know yet,” the detective replied and took in the assemblage of riders who had appeared from cover. His face became grave.

  “Where are Frank and Chet?”

  “We don’t really know,” Joe said, trying to conceal his concern. “Hopefully they’re still nearby.” He told his father the latest events and why the posse had been organized.

  Ruth Hardy, who had come out and greeted the detective warmly, went to get a map. Joe unfolded it. Pete pointed out Morgan’s hideout and the arrow-marked clearing.

  “Let’s go!” Mr. Hardy exclaimed.

  A horse was saddled for him, and the party set out, leaving the state policeman and a few of the hands to stay with Ruth Hardy. As they raced across the range, Mr. Hardy brought Joe up to date on his investigations.

  The archer who had shot him was the same man who had tried to steal the car from Slow Mo’s garage, after Frank and Joe had prevented Arrow Charlie from taking it.

  “His name’s Silver,” Joe said, and told what he knew about the man. “But what about the license plates and the defaced engine number?”

  His father said that one of the men working for Bearcat in the cigarette distribution was the culprit. He had stolen a car. Since he knew about the sedan left at Slow Mo’s garage, he went there one night, helped himself to the plates to use on the stolen car, and filed off the engine number to forestall its identification.

  Many miles passed beneath the flying hoofs of the posse as Pete lead the party toward the Indian camp by a shortcut.

  The going was slower in the woods, but after a while the trees thinned out, giving way to the clearing of the compound. The riders dashed among the adobe huts and workbenches.

  But not a sound issued from the camp. They searched every hut. Bare! The stockade was empty and the whole place was totally deserted!

  CHAPTER XX

  Final Roundup

  THE Indian village showed unmistakable signs of a sudden evacuation. Ashes of a cooking fire were still warm, and a few implements were strewn about the workbenches.

  “Must have been tipped off we were coming,” the sheriff declared.

  “The chopper!” Joe declared. “They must have figured we’d come looking for Frank and Chet.”

  “Maybe they’ve gone to the caves,” Pete spoke up. “Since Charlie reckons his dogs got me, he’d feel safe that no one knows about that hideout.”

  The posse headed up the side of the pine mountain after Pete’s pony. The way became tortuous as the woods thinned out near the timberline, and Joe noticed fresh hoofprints in the stony ground. Finally Pete stopped the posse.

  “The caves are up there,” he said, pointing to a winding path, which disappeared around a bend in the mountain.

  “We’d better go on foot the rest of the way,” the sheriff suggested.

  Once around the bend, the posse glimpsed the formidable redoubts of Arrow Charlie’s band. A sheer rock loomed high into the sky. At its base a series of deep caves opened up like the sunken eye sockets of a skull.

  “We’ll go in an’ shoot ’em out!” the sheriff declared gruffly.

  “No, wait,” urged Mr. Hardy. “A ruse might work and be a lot safer!”

  The detective never used a gun if there was an alternative. He had gained his reputation by clever strategy, taking his prisoners alive and unhurt.

  “I have some gas here,” he went on. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a couple of gas bombs that were no larger than ballpoint pens.

  “They pack a lot of tear gas,” he explained, “and I think it’s time Charlie and his gang did a little weeping!”

  “That might work in some o’ the caves,” Pete put in. “But one of ’em has two openings.”

  The cowboy told how Morgan’s men had spent many days working on an escape route, if ever an occasion such as this should arise. They had blasted a tunnel from one of the caves right up to the flat top of the big rock. From there, Morgan could command the trail with rifles until his plane, especially equipped for ground pickup, could snatch him up and away from any pursuers.

  Upon learning this, Mr. Hardy, the sheriff, Joe, and Pete planned the attack. “We must rescue Frank and Chet first,” the detective said. “I’ll sneak in alone. The rest of you can cover my advance.”

  “I’m going with you!” Joe declared.

  His father tried to talk him out of it, but Joe was adamant. “Frank’s in trouble,” he urged, “and two of us are better than one!”

  They advanced cautiously. When they reached the tall butte, they flattened themselves out against it. Hearing nothing, they entered the first cave. It was damp and cold. A large stone stood upright in the middle.

  Suddenly the sound of muffled scuffling came from behind it. Joe and Mr. Hardy listened, then crept forward. Joe peered around the big stone.

  “Frank!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Chet!”

  Mr. Hardy rushed to Joe’s side. On the ground in front of them, trussed with strong ropes, were the two captured boys. Handkerchiefs were fastened tightly across their mouths.

  Frank and Chet gasped in relief as their bonds Were untied. They rose from their cramped positions and told in low tones how at the sound of the helicopter they had been hustled from the stockade and dragged to the caves.

  The sound of footsteps came from somewhere deeper in the cave. The group tensed as a tall, lean blond man ran out, a bow in hand.

  Slung over his back was a quiver. Protruding from it were half a dozen white feather-tipped arrows!

  Silver stood transfixed for a moment. Then, seeing the detective, he gave a start.

  “Fenton Hardy!” he shouted unbelievingly.

  “Silver!” exclaimed Joe.

  “You’re the one who shot me!” the sleuth cried out.

  “Yo’ can’t prove it!”

  “We sure can!” said Frank.

  Silver hastily backed off, yelling, “I’ll fix you meddlers!”

  He reached for an arrow, but before he could draw one out, Mr. Hardy lunged forward and grasped Silver’s wrist, twisting it with such force that Silver fell flat on his back.

  Silver lashed out with his boots, but Frank grasped his left foot and flipped the man face down. Then he knelt on Silver’s back while Joe tied the prisoner’s hands with the rope that had bound Frank.

  “Now get up, you skunk!” Joe said, and dragged Silver to his feet.
r />   Morgan’s men had heard the fracas and came running from every direction.

  Mr. Hardy hurried to the entrance of the cave and gave a signal to the posse. They rushed forward, grappling with the men and Indians who swarmed from the caves like ants.

  The cowboys who had run away from Crowhead to join Morgan gave up without a struggle, glad to be freed from the threat of Arrow Charlie. But the Indians fought hard. When the dust had cleared, Charlie Morgan was nowhere in sight.

  “I know where he is,” Pete volunteered, and led the Hardys and the sheriff to the farthest cave. It was the one with the tunnel that led to the top of the big flat rock.

  “Come out, Morgan!” the sheriff roared into the cave.

  “Come and get me!” a voice replied, echoing hollowly through the rocky chamber.

  Mr. Hardy slipped inside. As he did, a rifle cracked, and a bullet ricocheted off the stone wall. The detective ducked, at the same time throwing a tear-gas bomb into the interior.

  A coughing noise reverberated in the cave, then fleeing footsteps sounded through the tunnel. Mr. Hardy could not follow immediately because of the strong fumes.

  Soon Arrow Charlie appeared, high on the flat top of the butte. When the men saw the rifle in his hands they ducked for cover. He took a couple of potshots, then sneered from behind a rock:

  “Thought you had me, eh? Well, you won’t get me. I’ve radioed Bearcat. He’ll be here with the plane to pick me up! And this butte will make a dandy emergency field.”

  As he spoke, there came the sound of an engine. Frank and Joe listened intently. Was it Morgan’s private plane, coming to snatch him up?

  “The helicopter!” Frank exclaimed.

  The craft flew close and began to descend. Morgan raised his rifle, but before he could fire a shot, a machine gun from the copter sent a burst that nicked the rock a few feet from him.

  Arrow Charlie knew he was licked. He dropped his rifle and held his hands high as the chopper landed near him and the state policeman hopped out. Mr. Hardy, Frank, and Joe raced through the tunnel to greet him.

  “Swell job, Mr. Hardy,” said the officer.

  The detective smiled. “The credit should go to my sons.”