“Yes!” Frank replied, and added, “You speak English?”
“I do,” was the calm reply.
Chet moaned and his eyes rolled. “Please help me!” he pleaded. “Just don’t stand there and talk.”
Tico turned excitedly to the horseman. “Why did you drink from the poison cactus, senor?”
“The water is good,” the man said. “The plant looks like a poisonous kind. But it is not.”
They all sighed, and Chet blurted, “Are you sure?”
“I am,” the man answered.
Chet recovered quickly and got to his feet. “I— I guess I am all right, after all,” he said. “Boyl That was a bad scare! Thank you, Señor—”
“Alvaro Cortines Garcia,” the horseman announced with a courtly bow.
“How do you do, Señor Garcia?” Frank said. He introduced himself and the boys.
“We never expected to see anyone out here in the desert,” Joe remarked. “You certainly surprised us.”
“I am returning to my ranchero from the town of El Dorado,” Garcia said. “My hacienda is about six miles from here, near the village of La Brecha.”
Garcia told the boys that he bred horses and burros on his small ranch. He had gone to El Dorado to close a business deal involving the sale of some of his stock.
“I would like to offer you muchachos the hospitality of my home,” the horseman added. “You all look very tired.”
The boys did not have to be coaxed. They immediately accepted the offer.
By taking turns riding Señor Garcia’s horse, the travelers had time to rest their exhausted bodies. Nearly two hours later they arrived at the adobe-walled hacienda. It was set in a green patch of semidesert, surrounded by poplar trees nearly as high as the twirling windmill.
The dusty bovs hastened to a trough of sparkling clear water at the base of the windmill. After gulping handfuls of water, they splashed their arms and faces.
As they finished refreshing themselves, a pretty woman and a good-looking boy of about sixteen came from the house. Señor Garcia introduced them as his wife and son Alfredo.
Tico and Alfredo began to chatter in Spanish. The visitors were ushered past the corral and inside the cool hacienda. Here Señora Garcia asked a maid to set the dining-room table and prepare food for the visitors.
Garcia sat with the hungry boys while they were eating. Presently he said, “We must give a little fiesta tonight to celebrate my success in El Dorado!”
“Bueno!” declared Alfredo. “We will invite some of our amigos from the village.” His father turned to the boys. “And you, muchachos, must stay as my guests.”
“I’m all for that!” Chet exclaimed, beaming. “Muchas gracias!”
After a long nap, the Americans spent the rest of the afternoon watching preparations for the fiesta. They helped set up large wooden tables on the patio. Bananas, oranges, limes, and avocados were heaped on some of the tables. Food that was cooking gave off tantalizing odors.
“This will be a gastronomic adventure!” Chet exclaimed as he viewed the preparations hungrily.
Joe grinned. “We might never get Chet to leave this place!”
Guests from the village began coming shortly after sunset. As the festivities got underway, torches were lighted to illuminate the area. One man arrived leading a bull and put it in the corral. Many of the younger villagers swarmed around the enclosure to see it.
“What’s going on?” Chet asked Alfredo.
“Some of our amigos like to show their skills as matadors,” he replied.
“Bullfighting?” Joe asked.
“They are not real matadors,” Alfredo explained laughingly. “It is just a game. The bull does not have sharp horns, and he is not harmed in any way.”
The boys hurried over to the corral and saw that one young man had already leaped into the enclosure. He waved a muleta, a small red cloth draped over a stick, in front of the bull.
“Toro! Toro!” shouted the would-be matador.
The animal rushed toward him, but the young man side-stepped gracefully.
“Olé! Olé!” the spectators cheered.
The boys watched the fun for several minutes. Then as Frank and Joe walked back to the tables they suddenly became aware of Chet’s absence. “Toro! Toro!” came their chum’s voice from the corral.
“Oh, no!” Joe yelled. “Don’t tell me Chet’s playing matador!”
As the Hardvs ran back they saw their hefty pal inside the enclosure waving a muleta.
“Get out of there!” Frank shouted. “Or we’ll have to carry you out in pieces!”
At that instant the bull rushed toward Chet, who side-stepped. But he lost his footing and fell to the ground. The bull sped on past and turned to make another charge.
Chet scrambled to his feet, dropped the muleta, and began running. The bull raced after him and the spectators cheered.
“Head for the fence!” Frank yelled.
Chet did not hear. Instead, he kept running in circles with the bull in pursuit. Finally he made a dash for the fence and tried to force his way between the wooden slats, but he got stuck!
“Watch out for the bull!” Joe warned.
He flung himself over the fence, picked up the muleta, and attracted the animal’s attention away from the panting Chet. Several spectators leaped into the enclosure to help.
With the bull diverted, Frank and Tico pulled Chet loose. The only damage was a couple of buttons missing from his shirt.
“Do you still want to be a matador?” Frank asked with a frown.
“I’ll stick to football,” Chet muttered.
“That waistline of yours almost got you into real trouble with the fence,” Joe added.
“Yes, and now I’m hungry again,” Chet said. “Let’s have some chow.”
It was after midnight when the fiesta ended. After the villagers had left, the boys and their hosts sat on the patio of the hacienda to chat.
“We enjoyed the fiesta very much, Senor Garcia,” Frank said.
“Gracias,” the man replied. “And you are all welcome to stay here as long as you wish.”
“We’d like to,” Joe said apologetically, “but we must get back to Mazatlan as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry you cannot remain longer,” Garcia said. “But if you must leave, I will help you. There is an autobus which travels to the city along a road about fifteen kilometers east of here. I will furnish you with horses and take you there myself.”
“Thank you,” Frank said. “Could we leave in the morning?”
“Of course,” Senor Garcia replied.
“Senor, are you familiar with the Sinaloa coast near the spot where you found us?” Joe queried.
“Yes, I travel along it many times on my way to El Dorado,” Garcia answered.
“Have you ever seen a submarine in the area?” Joe continued.
“A submarino?” the man muttered with a quizzical expression on his face. “No, I have not.”
Frank grinned. “I know it sounds like a strange question, but we have good reasons for asking.”
“I do not think it strange,” Garcia assured the boys. “I am certain the navies of many countries sail into our waters from time to time. Why do you ask?”
“We’d rather not say at present,” Frank replied. “But we’re sure the submarine we asked you about does not belong to any navy.”
“This sub has a mysterious insignia painted on its conning tower,” Joe explained. He leaned down and outlined the symbol in the sand.
Señor Garcia studied it in the light of the flickering torches. Suddenly he leaped to his feet. “Caramba!” he cried, and an expression of fear spread across his face.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked, startled.
“You must leave here at once!” the man shouted.
“What do you mean?” Frank asked.
“I say you must go!” Garcia demanded. “You might have brought the curse of the symbol to my home!”
CHAPT
ER IX
The Trail to Baja
“CURSE of the symbol?” Frank blurted. “What do you mean?”
“I do not wish to talk about itl” Garcia snapped. “You must all leavel”
“But you can’t just order us out into the desert in the middle of the night,” Joe said angrily.
At that moment Garcia’s wife intervened. She pleaded with her husband to let the boys stay until morning and he reluctantly agreed.
The four companions were led to a jacal, a hut, which contained several empty bunks. Chet and Tico dozed off immediately, but Frank and Joe remained awake for some time discussing Garcia’s strange behavior.
“What could be bothering him?” Joe questioned. “He looked scared out of his wits when I outlined the symbol.”
“Obviously it has some connection with a fright he’s had,” Frank surmised. “I wish we could get him to tell us about it.”
“From his reaction, I’d say our chances are nil,” Joe said.
In the morning the Hardys were relieved to find that Senor Garcia had calmed down considerably. He even invited them and their friends to have breakfast with him.
“I must apologize for my behavior last night,” he said. “As I promised, I will guide you to the road where you can board the autobus to Mazatlan.”
After eating, Garcia and the boys started out on their journey. It was early afternoon when they arrived at their destination, a narrow, unpaved road stretching north and south through a lonely expanse of desert country.
“Only one autobus a day travels this road to Mazatlan,” Garcia explained. “It should pass this way within the next hour or two.”
While they waited, Frank decided to take another chance at questioning their host.
“Señor, I don’t want to upset you again,” he said, “but is there nothing you can tell us about the symbol?”
Garcia glared. “No! There is nothing!”
Then, without mentioning Marcheta by name, Frank described how the engineer’s son had been kidnapped. “He is about your own son’s age. And we suspect that there’s some connection between the symbol and the kidnapping. If you tell us what you know, it may solve this mystery.”
Garcia did not reply. He stared blankly into space for a long moment, then said, “I am a coward for not speaking. Perhaps I should have gone directly to the authorities.”
“What do you mean?” Joe queried.
“You must first promise that you will not reveal who told you what I am about to say,” the rancher declared.
The Hardys nodded.
“Several weeks ago,” Garcia continued, “I went to visit my cousin who lives in the village of Montaraz in Baja. But when I arrived there I was told that he had mysteriously disappeared the day before. Painted on the door of his hacienda was the symbol you described to me.”
“Did you speak to any of the villagers about your cousin’s disappearance?” Frank asked.
“Yes, I tried to. But they were all badly frightened and refused to speak.”
“What were they frightened about?” Joe asked.
“I learned that five other men in the village had also vanished in the same way,” Garcia answered. “And the symbol was painted on the doors of their haciendas!”
“Why didn’t you notify the police?” Frank questioned.
“I intended to do so, of course,” the man answered. “But there are no police in Montaraz. I therefore planned to go to the city of Ensenada the following day to notify the authorities. I went to my cousin’s to spend the night and the next morning found a message under the door.”
“What did it say?” Tico asked.
“It warned me that if I talked to the authorities,” Garcia said nervously, “the curse of the symbol would find me wherever I go!”
“Leaping lizards!” Chet exclaimed.
“I am not a cowardly man,” the rancher continued, “and it is not for myself that I am frightened. I fear for my family!”
“We understand,” Frank said sympathetically.
Soon the bus arrived. The boys thanked Señor Garcia for his hospitality, then boarded the bus for the bumpy, dusty ride back to Mazatlan. When they reached their hotel, the desk clerk handed the Hardys a telephone message. It read:Remaining with our friend for a while. Will contact you later. F.H.
“Dad’s staying with Senor Marcheta in Mexico City for a while,” Frank said as he handed his brother the message.
“I hope he’s not running into trouble,” Joe replied.
“I don’t think so,” Frank said. “He’s probably hoping to worm more information out of Marcheta.”
“When do we eat?” Chet interrupted.
Frank grinned. “Tell you what. The hotel has room service. Why don’t we have supper in our suite?”
“Good idea,” Joe agreed. He turned to Tico. “And you must join us as our guest.”
“Thank you,” the Mexican youth answered. “I would like to very much.”
The boys had a hearty dinner, after which Frank unfolded an air chart of Mexico.
“Here’s Montaraz, the village where Senor Garcia’s cousin disappeared,” Joe said eagerly. He inspected the map more closely. “Sure is rugged country. The desert area covers about six thousand square miles I understand.”
“And many of the mountains to the east are comparatively unexplored,” Tico added. “One could easily disappear in that area and, perhaps, never be found.”
Frank took out a pair of measuring dividers and calculated the distance to the village. “Hm! We might be on to something,” he said, and thought for a moment. “Let’s assume that the sub we saw in the cove maintained an average speed of twelve to fifteen knots. In twelve hours it would reach a point on the east coast of Baja not too many miles from Montaraz.”
“Wow!” Chet exclaimed. “This could be an important lead!”
“At least it’s worth checking out,” Frank concluded. “Why don’t we go there and see what we can find?”
“Too bad Dad’s plane is in Mexico City,” Joe remarked. “We could fly there in two hours.”
“There aren’t any airports near the village,” his brother observed as he examined the chart. “Anyway, it would be less conspicuous if we went by boat.”
“Maybe we can rent one,” Joe suggested.
“I can be of help to you,” Tico put in. “A friend of my father’s has a boat rental service. He can provide you with a small cabin boat. But you must let me come with you. I have some knowledge of the waters in the area.”
“It’s a deal!” said Frank.
Early the following morning the boys prepared for their trip. Before departing, the Hardys left a message for their father with the desk clerk. It read:Gone Fishing. Wish us luck. We should be back in two or three days.
Tico proved to be an excellent seaman and navigator, and they made the journey in record time. As the craft neared its destination, the boys scanned the craggy coastline for a place to land.
Joe examined a map. “Montaraz is about six miles inland from our present position. We’d better find a place to tie up around here.”
Just then Chet pointed toward the shore. “I see a little hut! And a small boat’s tied up to a dock in front of it!”
“There’s a man, too,” Joe said.
The boys headed toward the spot. As they drew nearer, they saw that the dock was in a run-down condition. The hut was also decrepit, and appeared undecided as to which way it was going to fall.
“Buenas dias, amigo!” Frank shouted to the elderly man who was resting against a cirio tree.
The old fellow raised the brim of his sombrero and peered at his visitors.
“Do you speak English?” Joe called out.
“He does not understand,” Tico observed. “I will talk to him.”
The Mexican youth chatted with the man for several minutes. He then returned to his friends. “The old man lives here by himself,” Tico ex plained. “He says we may use his dock for eighty pesos a day.”
“Did you ask him the way to Montaraz?” Frank inquired.
“Yes. There is a trail behind his hut which will take us to a road leading to the village. But I am afraid we will have to walk, since there is no transportation available.”
“Oh, no!” Chet bellowed.
The boys started off on their journey, taking with them an emergency kit of camping equipment, food, and water. It was almost sunset when they reached Montaraz. The village, consisting of about sixty adobe-walled houses, appeared quiet and peaceful.
Most of the structures surrounded a wide, circular piece of ground which served as the plaza. On the south side of the plaza was a sun-baked mud-brick building that served as a cantina and general store. There were no villagers in sight.
“Where is everybody?” Joe queried.
“I don’t know,” Frank muttered with a puzzled expression.
“Perhaps we will find someone in the cantina,” Tico suggested.
The boys strolled over to the structure and found two of the villagers inside. They were middle-aged men and wore sombreros and colorful sarapes. Tico conversed with them in Spanish. Then he turned to the Hardys and Chet.
“The men say that the people of their village all remain in their haciendas from sunset to sunrise,” the Mexican youth said. “It is because they fear Pavural”
“Pavura?” Joe questioned. “What’s that?”
“It means ‘terror,’ ” Tico said. “The men also say that we should leave because strangers are not welcome here. Anyway, there is no place for us to stay.”
“That’s hospitality for you,” Chet grumbled.
Tico tried to question the villagers further, but he and the other boys were ordered out of the cantina.
“It’s a cinch we’re not going back to Mazatlan without trying to get some information,” Frank said angrily.
“Why don’t we make camp for the night,” Joe suggested. “Maybe we’ll have better luck in the morning.”
The boys pitched their tent on the outskirts of the village, then prepared supper from a variety of canned foods included in the camping kit. Soon after eating, they all fell asleep. The following morning the young sleuths got ready to return to the village.
The Mark on the Door Page 5
