"Long ago," the old man said, "comancheros attacked settlers who came to live up there." He pointed to the caprock. "Near my people's sacred place. All the settlers but one died that night, when the moon was a ringed crescent, like now. You must leave and not come back!"
Outside, a cow bellowed. The sound distracted the Hardys, who turned to the window. As they turned back, they felt a swift, chill breeze. The room was empty.
"Let's go after him," Joe said, heading for the door. But outside, they saw no sign of the old man.
"Forget it, Joe," Frank told him. "That guy's got some vanishing act. If we go after him, they'll be looking for us in the morning."
"Okay," Joe agreed, as they stepped back inside. "What say we get some sleep?"
Joe woke well after midnight, stirring restlessly on his mattress. He'd heard something - no, felt something. It was like a clap of thunder, reverberating in his bones. Through the window he could see that the moon had moved far to the west in the cloudless sky. No thunder. He must have been dreaming.
When he awoke again, it was almost daylight. Frank's alarm watch was beeping.
"Give me a break." Joe sighed sleepily.
Frank was heading for the door. "I promised to check in with Roy on the CB at seven. After I do that, maybe we can check out some dead cattle."
After Frank finished on the CB, they set off to find the stock tank. A quarter mile south of the homestead, Joe slowed the truck and pointed to a dozen large black birds circling just ahead. "Buzzards?"
"Vultures, actually," Frank said. "Scavengers. That must be the place."
Just off the road, an earth dam had been pushed up across a dry stream bed. Most of the water in the tank had evaporated, and all that was left was a puddle of green water, thick with pond scum. The edge of the puddle had a thick white crust. Deep tire ruts filled with drifted sand led from the road to the tank.
Joe sniffed. Nearby, at the edge of the sagebrush, were the carcasses of several cattle. "I thought they got rid of the dead cattle. These must have been new customers."
Frank knelt beside the puddle. "Looks like salt, all right," he said. "Why don't you collect a sample of the crust, and fill a bottle with water. I'll have a look around."
While Joe collected the samples, Frank inspected the ruts and then walked around the tank, looking at the ground. Joe saw him pick something up, sniff it, and put it into a plastic bag. "What did you find?"
Frank handed him a plastic bag with three shiny rifle cartridge cases in it. "They're fresh."
"What kind of gun?"
"Can't tell. They've got military ordnance marks on the bottom - number forty-three. Probably the year of manufacture, not the caliber. I'd say they're World War II surplus." He examined them closely. "Weird looking. The base and the shoulder are unusually short, and the base has a lot of taper. I'd guess they're about thirty caliber."
"Maybe Roy or Rudy shot some of the cattle that were too far gone to save," Joe suggested.
"Maybe. We'll ask." Frank looked at the tire tracks. "I don't think there's any point in trying to make casts of the tracks - they're too badly eroded by the wind. But I think our major clue is the tank truck that left them. Let's head for the ranch house. I've got some questions for Roy."
As they drove up to the ranch house, Roy came out to greet them. He shook his head when he saw the cartridges. "We didn't shoot any cattle. But that tank attracts game and people hunt out there all the time."
"We were thinking of trying to find the truck that poisoned the tank. Can you give us some idea about where to look?" Joe asked, as Frank stuck the plastic bag with the cartridges back into the glove compartment.
"You can try the oil-drilling services in Armstrong," Roy said. "Plenty of those companies use trucks like that - probably too many to check out."
"Well, we'll give it a try," Frank said.
They drove to Armstrong, the county seat thirty miles to the southeast. The town was an odd mixture of western cow town and modern city. The outskirts housed companies supplying the relatively new oil and agricultural economy. But in the heart of town, the courthouse was surrounded by old stores that had gone up around the turn of the century.
"Let's start here," Frank said, pulling into the parking lot of the Acme Drilling Service Company. He parked beside a truck hitched to a huge tank trailer.
"Look at the size of those tires," Joe said, marveling.
"Big enough to fill the ruts at the stock tank," Frank said as they got out.
"Help you boys?" the man behind the counter asked.
"Are you the dispatcher?" Frank asked.
The man grinned. "Among other things."
"We're looking for a tank truck."
"We lease by the hour, the day, or the week. How long you need it?"
"What we need is information," Frank said. "The truck we're looking for was involved in illegal dumping."
"Registration number?" the dispatcher growled.
"We don't know," Frank admitted.
"What makes you think it was our truck?"
"We're just trying to figure out where it could have come from," Frank said. "How many companies lease trucks around here?"
The dispatcher barked a laugh. "At least three others I know of. Plus half a dozen independents."
"Nine companies, just in this town." Frank began to understand what Roy had meant. "Do these trucks keep any kind of a log?" he asked.
"Most don't. We've got better things to do with our time." The dispatcher scowled. "Like make a living."
"Do you know of any trucks working up near the town of Caprock?" Frank asked.
The dispatcher seemed to relax a little. "Nope. As far as I know, there's no drilling going on there." He eyed them. "What kind of dumping?"
"Uh, nothing, I guess," Frank said, tugging on Joe's arm. "Thanks for your help." They headed for the door.
"That didn't get us anywhere," Joe said grimly as they crossed the lot.
Frank shrugged. "I guess Roy was right. Let's head back to the ranch. Maybe they've heard something from Jerry."
The sky had been clear all day, but as they drove north, threatening gray clouds began to loom against the horizon, dark and heavy. Bright lightning flickered in all directions.
"Looks like we get to see one of those famous desert thunderstorms," Frank said.
As they drove into the approaching storm, the black clouds seemed to rise like a dark curtain, then lower behind them until the horizon at their backs was only a narrow, eerie strip of pale light. No wind stirred the oppressive layer of heat that blanketed the desert, but overhead the clouds were boiling and the black had turned to a peculiar violet-green.
"I don't like the looks of this," Joe muttered, pointing at a dark mass hanging below the cloud base.
Suddenly, less than a quarter-mile away, a long, dark finger reached out of the blackness and groped toward the ground.
It touched down, bounced up, then came back down beside a roadside sign. Joe stared as the billboard disintegrated, sucked up into the darkness.
"Did you see that?" Frank gasped, pulling onto the shoulder and stopping.
The tornado lifted up again, pulling a stream of dirt and dust after it. Then, with the roar of an immense freight train, the twister came directly at them!
Chapter 5
"Quick! Into the ditch!" Joe heard Frank shout, over the deafening roar.
It was so black that Joe could barely see the edge of the road as he jumped out of the truck and flung himself into the shallow ditch. He kept himself flattened against the ground as the wind worked hard to pry him loose. Minutes ticked by as the storm roared around them, the air thick with dirt and gravel and twisted shrubs. Finally the noise died down.
"You okay?" Frank asked, behind Joe.
"Yeah." Joe sat up, rubbing his shoulder. "Hey! Where's the truck?"
Frank was on his knees, looking a little gray. "I think that's it," he said, pointing. In a field several hundred feet away was a mass of crum
pled metal.
"Guess we can chalk up one truck to the storm," Joe grunted, getting to his feet. He shivered. The air, which had been like a blast from an oven only minutes before, now felt refrigerated. The storm had dropped the temperature at least forty degrees in just minutes. A few chilly drops of rain began to fall.
"Come on. Let's take a look," Frank said.
The truck lay on the driver's side. The top had caved in, with the passenger door wrenched off. The glove compartment was open and empty. Five minutes of searching didn't turn up the bag of cartridges.
"So much for our evidence," Joe sighed.
Think you'd recognize those cartridges if you saw them again?"
Frank nodded. "They were pretty unusual."
Joe took a last look at the truck. It was beginning to rain heavily now. "This thing's not going anywhere," he said. "Let's head back to the road. Maybe we can hitch a ride."
They had scarcely reached the road when they saw the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle approaching at high speed. The car - a highway patrol car - slowed as it neared them. The trooper pulled onto the shoulder and rolled down his passenger window.
"The weather service just put out a tornado bulletin. You guys better be on the lookout."
Joe laughed. "We've already seen as much of that tornado as we care to." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "It totaled our truck."
The trooper glanced toward the wreckage and let out a whistle of surprise. "Anybody hurt?"
Frank shook his head. "Nope. We hit the dirt just in time."
The trooper opened the door. "Come on in - you're getting wet."
The boys listened while the trooper got on the radio and made a report. When he finished, he turned to them. "Which way you headed?"
"North," Joe said. "To town - Caprock."
"That's my patrol," the trooper said. "I'll give you a ride."
The trooper eased the patrol car back onto the highway. After a while, he asked, "You guys from around here?"
"We're visiting Roy Carlson, on the Circle C," Frank replied.
"I picked up a missing persons report about a Circle C hand," the trooper told them. "Has he turned up yet?"
Joe shook his head. "Not yet," he said.
"Well, it's not surprising," the trooper told them. "Young guys pack up and leave all the time, most of them without notice. He'll show up somewhere, sooner or later."
"There's been some trouble out at the ranch - vandalism," Joe said. "Do you see much of that around here?"
The trooper looked surprised. "Not much," he said. "It's too far from town for the punks to come out."
Twenty minutes later the patrol car pulled up in front of the Caprock store. The Hardys thanked the trooper for the ride and climbed out.
"I'll call the ranch." Frank headed for the pay phone. "Somebody can come and pick us up."
"Good idea," Joe said, on his way into the store. "I need something to drink. How about you?"
"Sounds good," Frank replied, dialing the phone.
The inside of the old store was just what Joe had expected. A dusty front window was the only source of light for the small room. The walls were lined with homemade shelves of boards and plywood. Stacked on them were cans and boxes, their labels faded and peeling, and lots of miscellaneous hardware.
To the right of the door was a long wooden counter with a postage scale on it. Behind the counter stood a bank of boxes with numbered glass doors - Caprock's post office. In one corner stood an ancient soda machine filled with bottles. Joe fed it some coins, took out two bottles, and opened them.
"Roy's on his way," Frank said, coming into the store. He took the bottle Joe handed him.
"You boys the ones staying at the Carlson place?"
The question came from the frail, white-haired man behind the counter. Joe had felt his gaze since they walked into the store. Not too many people get dropped off here by the state cops, Joe thought, amused. "Yeah, we lost our truck in a tornado," he said. "The trooper gave us a ride."
The little man's eyebrows shot up. "I'd say you boys are born lucky," he said.
"We hope so," Frank said. "Say, do you know an old Native American guy who hangs out around here? He's got gray hair. I think he carries a straw bag."
"Oh, Charlie. Sure, I know him. He was here when I came and that's been - well, let's see." He calculated. "Better than forty years now."
"Where does he live?" Frank asked.
The white-haired man shifted uneasily. "Here and there. Mostly in a shack below the caprock. How come you want to know?"
"We've been staying at the old homestead on the edge of the sand hills," Joe replied. "He paid us a visit last night with a crazy story about a Native American raid under a crescent moon with a halo around it."
"Yep, that sounds like Charlie." The frail man got serious. "But that's no crazy story. About a hundred years ago, a bunch of renegades hit a homesteader's cabin out on the caprock one night. Killed every last soul they could find. Then they burned the place to the ground."
"Charlie said they were comancheros," Frank interrupted. "And the comancheros weren't all Native Americans, as I understand it. Some of them were Mexicans, others were renegade whites."
The little man shrugged. "Who cares nowadays? Only one person survived - and he died years ago."
"Charlie was talking about evil and danger," Joe told him. "Do you know what he meant?"
Now the storekeeper laughed. "I wouldn't worry if I were you. Charlie's always trying to scare folks with talk about evil." He grinned, showing one gold tooth. "I think he hopes we'll all get scared, pack up and leave. Then his people can come back to their sacred place."
"Sacred place?" Frank asked curiously. "Charlie mentioned that, too. What tribe does he belong to?"
The old man looked doubtful. "I really don't know - Kiowa, maybe. I've heard that their sacred place was near where they killed those settlers."
A truck stopped outside and Roy came in. "Afternoon, Matt," he said to the little man. "Hey, you guys okay?" he asked, frowning at the Hardys.
"We're fine," Frank assured him. "Sorry about the truck, though. There's not much left." He turned to the little man. "Thanks for the information."
"Don't mention it," Matt said.
On the way back to the ranch, the brothers described their narrow escape from the tornado, and then filled Roy in on their lack of success in Armstrong. As it turned out, Roy and Rudy hadn't been successful either. They had patrolled the tanks all day without finding a single sign of Jerry.
"We'll spend the night at the homestead," Frank said, as they neared the ranch house. "Maybe Charlie will pay us another visit."
Roy nodded. "Might be good if you could talk to him."
"Why? You don't think he's got anything to do with what's happened, do you?" Joe asked.
"Not directly," Roy replied, hesitating. "But there's not much that goes on around here that he doesn't know about. No telling what he's seen. He might just solve the whole riddle on the spot, if he's got a mind to it."
After dinner Frank and Joe returned to the homestead. The wind had picked up and there was a chill in the desert night.
"What say we try out that old iron stove?" Joe asked. Dot had made them a thermos of breakfast coffee, and he set it on the table.
Frank set up the lantern. "Charlie will see our light - so we don't have to worry about smoke signals."
Joe lifted one of the heavy, round stove covers. "Looks like somebody left this thing full of kindling," he said. "Did Roy give you any matches?"
Frank tossed over a pack of matches. Joe struck one, touched it to a piece of paper under the pile of wood splinters in the stove, and watched the flame grow. "That's funny," he said.
"What's that?" Frank asked, coming to stand beside him.
"This stuff is hissing like green wood - but it's burning fine. Not even any smoke."
Frank poked the kindling with a lid handle. It shifted slightly, to reveal what looked like a short
length of heavy cord, sizzling hotly.
Frank jumped back. "That's a blasting fuse!" he yelled. "They use it to set off dynamite!"
Chapter 6
"Let's douse it." Joe grabbed for the thermos of coffee on the table.
"Are you nuts?" Frank jerked his arm and towed him toward the door. "Run!" Joe sprinted through the yard just behind his brother. As he dove for cover behind a metal horse trough, a hot blast caught him from behind. Then he was sailing through the air.
A moment later Frank was shaking his shoulder. "Joe! Joe, are you all right?"
Joe opened his eyes. He lay facedown beside Frank, his mouth full of dust, his ears ringing. His right shoulder felt as if it had been hit by a sledgehammer when he struggled to sit up. Splintered cedar shingles fluttered down out of the night sky like a flock of wooden butterflies. Joe shook his head and began to laugh.
"What's so funny?" Frank demanded in a low voice, irritated.
"Oh, nothing." Joe gritted his teeth. Laughing hurt his shoulder and his chest. "I guess it's just good to be alive."
"You're right about that," Frank whispered. "But we'd better lie low, just in case whoever rigged that little surprise is still hanging around to check out the damage."
"They couldn't have done a better job on that cabin with an artillery strike," Joe whispered back. In the moonlight he could see that there was nothing left of the cabin. The walls and floor were scattered around the yard.
"We're lucky we didn't catch any cast iron from that stove," Frank said. "That blast must have sent pieces flying like shrapnel. Whoever's behind this just graduated from dirty tricks and suspected kidnapping to attempted murder."
"At least the blast blew out the fire," Joe said. "It would have been a real mess if it had started a brush fire, dry as it is around here."
They lay in silence as the crescent moon climbed over the caprock. The wind-blown mesquite branches painted moving shadows across the rough landscape, fooling the Hardys' eyes.
Finally Frank decided to get a reaction from anyone skulking around. He picked up a rock, tossing it at the old storage tank beside the abandoned windmill. The tank gave off a hollow boom, but that was the only sound they heard.
Without a Trace Page 3
