The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Good night!” cried Chet. “Now you expect me to tangle with kidnappers who push people over cliffs?”

  “Suit yourself,” said Frank. “The thing that bothers me is how we can ever trail these kidnappers without a single clue.”

  Joe suggested, “If the mountain area is the place where Senor Tatloc was kidnapped, he was taken some distance away. But we might pick up some kind of lead to the place where he’s being held.”

  “You’re right,” Frank agreed. “If searchers are still looking for him in the canyon, we’ll probably have a better chance of picking up an un-trampled clue on the mountain.”

  Once more the boys consulted their map. The region in the newspaper account lay in a north-easterly direction from Oaxaca. The Hardys and Chet set off in the car and soon found themselves on a narrow, twisting road which led higher and higher up the mountain, its peak lost in the clouds. There was a scattering of native huts.

  Now and then the boys caught glimpses far below of a rushing stream which they assumed was the one into which Señor Tatloc was supposed to have fallen. Near the base of the mountain, tall evergreens grew thickly, but higher up these thinned out and gave way to shrubs and bare rocks.

  “If Senor Tatloc was around here, there must be ruins,” Chet remarked.

  “It doesn’t mention any on the map,” Joe pointed out. “But he may have made a discovery.”

  “Could be,” Frank conceded.

  For some time they had passed no more mountain huts and in a little while the road ended.

  “Now what?” Chet asked.

  Frank again studied the map. Then he said that the spot for which they were aiming was directly above them. “From here I guess we climb.”

  Chet groaned loudly. “What’s the use of all of us going?” he asked. “If there are kidnappers around, somebody ought to guard the car.”

  “Okay, you do it.” Frank grinned. “I’ll turn this bus around, so it’s heading down. Chet, if you hear us give our special birdcall whistle, drive back to town fast, and get the police.”

  “Suits me,” the stout boy agreed.

  Frank and Joe started up the craggy mountainside, each wondering if they were on a futile mission. The brothers were beginning to doubt that Senor Tatloc would have come to this spot. Also, it occurred to the Hardys that they might be walking into a trap! They stopped for several minutes to discuss the matter.

  “Dad suggested this trip,” Frank argued, “and we have a job to do.”

  This thought spurred the boys on, and they began to climb faster. Chet, watching from below, lost sight of his friends as the clouds enveloped them.

  “It’s chilly up here,” said Joe, “and visibility’s poor.”

  “That should keep us from being spotted,” Frank remarked.

  The Hardys finally reached the summit, which was flat for several hundred yards. They crossed it and looked down into the canyon. Through spaces between the drifting clouds they could see the almost barren mountainside with the rushing stream below.

  “Nobody could have survived a tumble down there,” said Frank. He shuddered slightly.

  The boys walked around the plateau but could see nothing to give them a clue. They kept walking for some distance along the top until they came to a place where it started sloping downward.

  Suddenly Joe grabbed Frank’s arm and pointed at the earth. “Footprints! And all mixed up!”

  “Must have been a scuffle here!” Frank stated.

  The Hardys, excited, followed the prints. They found some indicating that a man evidently had been dragged away!

  “These prints are easy to follow,” said Joe. “Come on!”

  He and Frank slipped and slid on the treacherous gravelly soil through which a natural path dipped and rose. At an especially slippery, jagged section the footprints disappeared completely. Nevertheless, the boys climbed over the huge outcropping and came to the path again. Here the footprints resumed.

  Instinct warned the Hardys to become more cautious. They almost tiptoed along, keeping a sharp lookout for any signs of the presence of human beings.

  About a hundred yards farther on, the boys suddenly stood stock-still. Just ahead of them was a crude thatched-roof structure built close against the mountainside.

  “Imagine living here!” said Joe in a whisper.

  “That crude hut looks newly constructed,” his brother observed. “We may have reached the end of our trail, Joe!”

  Moving with extreme caution, the young detectives proceeded. Since no one seemed to be around, they moved up to the hut and looked through the open doorway.

  Inside, on the floor, lay a man bound and gagged!

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Vaquero Attack

  ALTHOUGH the face of the prisoner in the hut was distorted by the gag in his mouth, Frank and Joe were sure he was the man they were seeking.

  The Hardys hastened inside. Joe quickly untied him, and as Frank pulled out the gag he asked, “You are Senor Maxli Tatloc?”

  The lean, gray-haired man sat up and nodded, apparently unable yet to speak. Joe noticed a gourd hanging at the back of the hut. “Maybe there’s water inside,” he thought, and dashed over to get it.

  Returning to the archaeologist, he said, “Perhaps a drink of this will help.”

  The man, with a grateful look, drank thirstily. Then Senor Tatloc heaved a great sigh and with the boys’ help stood up.

  “Gracias,” he said weakly. “Thank fortune you have come.”

  “Are you sometimes called the Aztec warrior, Senor Tatloc?” Frank asked.

  The archaeologist looked startled. “Yes, I am. How do you know? Who are you?”

  “Frank and Joe Hardy. We’ve come to help you,” Frank told him.

  “Then get me away from here as quickly as possible,” Senor Tatloc said in a stronger voice. “We must all get away from here before those bandits return!”

  Frank and Joe were eager to question the man further, but realized that this was not the time to do it—he was barely able to walk or talk. Explanations on both sides must wait.

  Though the Hardys chafed at the necessary delay, they said no more. Supporting the archaeologist between them, the trio started back along the ridge, intending to follow the natural trail down the mountainside.

  They had not gone a hundred feet when three tough-looking Mexican men they had never seen before appeared from behind an outjutting rock. At the same instant, three lassos snaked out toward Frank, Joe, and Senor Tatloc!

  Two of the lariats landed around the shoulders of Frank and the archaeologist, and were quickly drawn tight. Joe managed to dodge the one meant for him, and put up a game fight against the man who had just tried to capture him. The two rolled over and over on the ground as Frank and Tatloc’s captors roared loudly with laughter.

  Frank was on the point of giving the whistle signal, but stopped himself. Right now it might only lead to further danger for him and the others. He struggled violently to get free, but, with both arms pinioned tightly to his sides, his efforts were futile. He was infuriated to see the stranger getting the better of his brother, but the Mexican was apparently a trained fighter. In a few minutes he overpowered Joe and tied him up with the lariat.

  The strangers, who avoided calling one another by name, soon had all their prisoners tightly roped. The men kept laughing raucously, and finally one said in Spanish:

  “We are vaqueros, but not roping cattle this time. We came to get this prize fish.” He indicated Senor Tatloc. “When we saw you two boys climbing up the mountain, we went back to our car for our ropes in case we needed them. Lucky we did.”

  “Why do you want to capture us?” Frank demanded.

  The vaquero laughed. “In your country do you not punish anyone who tries to take a prisoner away?”

  “But you have no legal right to be holding this man,” Joe spoke up angrily.

  “That is a matter of opinion,” came the quick reply. The man shrugged. “I thought you two boys were lit
tle fish, but I believe now maybe you are a big fish too. And we caught you with something better than a butterfly net. You cannot get away!”

  The vaquero stopped speaking, called his friends to his side, and talked in whispered tones. The boys could not distinguish any of the conversation. From the men’s scowls, however, it was evident they were having an argument. Finally the leader announced, “We have decided to take only the biggest fish with us. You boys will remain in the hut.”

  Frank and Joe gritted their teeth in desperation. They were so tightly roped that even though they might eventually free themselves, precious time would be lost and Senor Tatloc probably would have been taken far away!

  “At least we could go to the police and give a description of these vaqueros,” Frank thought.

  His hopes waned a moment later when the boys were told that the man with whom Joe had fought would remain as guard.

  “I’m going to try our whistle,” Joe decided in desperation. “If Chet can hear me, he’ll go for the police.”

  But before Joe could whistle, the guard came up to the Hardys, whipped handkerchiefs from his pocket, and gagged the brothers. Frank and Joe were pulled into the hut, while the archaeologist was led off by the two vaqueros.

  The Hardys writhed in anger and discomfort. Now they could neither move nor talk! All they could do was consider their predicament and try to figure out a method of escape. Also, they were greatly worried about Señor Tatloc.

  The boys’ thoughts also turned to Chet. What was he doing? When the Hardys did not return, or signal within a reasonable time, surely he would become extremely concerned. Would he drive off and get the police?

  In a little while the guard came over to where Frank lay on the earthen floor and stared down at him. “If you do not yell out, and answer my questions,” he said, “I will remove the gag.”

  Without waiting for a response, he yanked out the handkerchief and asked, “Where is the Aztec warrior?”

  “Why, you just took him down the mountain,” said Frank.

  “Oh, I don’t mean that old fossil,” the guard replied. “You know well what I mean. Where is the valuable item you boys are going to turn over to Tatloc?”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Frank could have yelled for joy. The gang not only had not found the Aztec warrior object but did not know that it probably was still in the States.

  “I wish we knew,” Frank replied coolly. “Suppose you tell me how you and your friends happen to know about this warrior business.”

  “That is none of your affair,” the man answered. “You and your father are very clever, I’ll admit. You have hidden that Aztec treasure well, but we’ll find out where it is.” Suddenly the man’s eyes grew fiery. “We’ll worm the information out of that crazy archaeologist!”

  “How—if he won’t talk?” Frank asked.

  The guard laughed. “That old man prides himself on being a direct descendant of an Aztec warrior. Well, we’ll try some of those ancient Indians’ torture methods on him. He’ll talk!”

  With that, the guard thrust the handkerchief back into Frank’s mouth. The Hardys exchanged frantic looks. Their own situation was bad enough, but Señor Tatloc was in real danger! Somehow they must get free, and rescue him!

  The hours wore on and dusk began to fall. From his pockets the guard pulled out a couple of tortillas and a bottle of water. He sauntered outside, leaving the door open. He seated himself in front of the hut, leaning back wearily against it.

  The man ate the food greedily and drained the contents of the bottle. From where the Hardys lay, they could watch him clearly. Suddenly the man’s head dropped forward and within seconds he was snoring loudly.

  At once Frank and Joe began working vigorously to loosen the lariats. The knots were tight, however, and the boys’ efforts proved futile. Exhausted, they lay back to catch their breaths. Suddenly the Hardys saw a stout figure glide into the hut.

  Chet!

  The brothers’ hearts pounded excitedly. Chet tiptoed over to them and yanked out their gags. Then he produced a pocketknife and quickly cut the knots and unwound the lariats.

  Frank and Joe could have hugged him for joy, but there was no time to take one extra moment for anything but escape. The three boys rapidly wound the ropes around the still-sleeping guard. As the man started to wake up, Frank gagged him with a handkerchief. By this time, the man was fully awake, but could do nothing except glare malevolently at his captors as they dragged him inside the hut.

  “I brought a couple of flashlights,” said Chet, pulling them from a pocket. “Frank, lead the way!”

  “Chet,” said Joe, “in return for rescuing us, I promise not to needle you again—”

  “Ever?” asked Chet.

  Joe grinned. “Well, not until tomorrow anyway.”

  Frank called over his shoulder, “Chet, you really came through in the clutch. My reward to you will be a dinner with all the food you can eat!”

  “It’s a deal.” Chet grinned.

  The brothers’ hearts pounded excitedly

  As the boys carefully picked their way down the mountainside, Chet explained that he was sure something had gone wrong. “I didn’t want to take time going for the police, so when I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer, I grabbed flashlights and started up here. Boy, what a climb! Did you find out anything about Senor Tatloc?”

  When Chet was told what had happened, he whistled in dismay. “You found him and then before you could question him those vaqueros ruined your chance of solving the case!”

  “I don’t think our chances are ruined,” Joe spoke up. “When the police get hold of that guy up in the hut, I’ll bet he’ll talk.”

  The boys returned to Oaxaca as quickly as they dared drive on the winding roads. Though disheveled and dirty, they went at once to police headquarters and reported what had happened. The officer in charge promised to send police out to the mountain spot at once and bring in the vaquero.

  “You young men had better go to the hotel and get some rest now,” he said kindly. “Tomorrow morning I’ll let you know what the prisoner reveals. In the meantime, please do not say anything about the fact that Senor Tatloc is alive. It must have been the gang that captured you who gave out the false report about the archaeologist’s death. If they are not aware that we know the truth, it may be easier to round up these criminals.”

  The Hardys and Chet promised to keep the information to themselves and went to a restaurant. Ravenous, they ate a hearty meal. Then they walked directly to the hotel and dropped into bed, exhausted.

  The next morning Frank, awake first, greeted the others with the remark, “I think I know where Señor Tatloc was taken!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Island Prisoner

  “WHERE?” Joe and Chet exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Lake Patzcuaro!” Frank told them excitedly. “Remember the reference those vaqueros made to butterfly nets? That’s what the fishermen there use.”

  “You’re right!” Joe declared. “Let’s go!”

  Chet too was eager for the trip. “Even if Senor Tatloc isn’t there, I’d like to see those fishermen who use nets different from any others in the world.”

  Patzcuaro was a long way from Oaxaca in a northwesterly direction. The boys decided to start out early and stop for lunch at Taxco, which was on the way. At eight they phoned the police. The guard at the hut had been jailed but refused to answer any questions. There was no other news.

  By nine o’clock they were on the road. They reached Taxco around lunchtime and parked in the large, tree-shaded zócalo. Cobblestone streets rose up the steep mountainsides surrounding it. Facing the public square was a very handsome old stone cathedral. The other three sides were lined with attractive shops and restaurants.

  As the boys walked around before selecting a place to eat, they noted that many of the shops sold silverware. “Taxco is noted for its silver mines and skilled silversmiths,” said Frank as they paused before one window. “Boy,
look at that figure!” On display was the statue of an Indian carrying a large pouch from which he was sowing a handful of corn seeds.

  As the boys walked on, they saw several artists, seated on canvas stools, painting the scenes around the zócalo. The boys stopped to watch a red-bearded man who was wearing a bright-blue smock. He was sketching a little boy pulling a tiny burro.

  The artist looked up at the visitors and smiled. “You are from the States?” he asked in English. When they nodded, he went on, “I lived there once myself, but I found so many fascinating things down here to paint I never went back!”

  “Do you specialize in figures?” Joe asked him.

  “Pretty much,” the artist replied. “By the way, my name is Don Hawley.” The boys shook hands and introduced themselves.

  Mr. Hawley continued talking as he went on with his sketching. “I don’t believe this picture will be much good. I am feeling sad. I read in the newspaper that a man whose portrait I painted was killed.”

  Mr. Hawley added that the man was a great archaeologist. Hearing this, Frank asked quickly, “Was he, by any chance, Señor Tatloc?”

  “Why, yes. I guess you read the account, too.”

  “We did,” Frank replied, then asked, “Where is the portrait of Senor Tatloc?”

  “In my studio. It is a living likeness. Come, I’ll show it to you. I’m too upset to do any more work today.” He put a few pesos into the hand of his boy model and told him to return the next day.

  On the way to the studio, Joe asked Mr. Hawley about the archaeologist. The artist said that the man was an extreme contrast to his nickname. “Senor Tatloc was a very peaceful person, yet his friends at the university affectionately called him ‘the Aztec warrior.’ ”

  “Was his only hobby going on digs for relics?” Frank queried.

  “Just about,” the artist replied. “Señor Tatloc had one of the most extensive and enviable collections of Aztec weapons and other artifacts in the world. Many had been handed down through his family for hundreds of years. Upon his death he wished the pieces to go to the State Museum. They’re locked up in a bank vault since he had no permanent home.”