“These look like the same type of boxes we saw being loaded aboard the submarine in the cove,” Frank said.
Nearby were a number of small, wooden barrels with the word muestra painted on their sides.
“Muestra!” Joe remarked. “That means ‘sample’ in Spanish, doesn’t it?”
Frank nodded, then sniffed at one of the barrels. “Smells like crude oil to me,” he muttered.
“What a discovery!” said Chet. “Come on. Let’s look around some more.”
At the rear of the cave, Frank found a cavity in the wall. Its opening was covered by a door of metal bars.
“Looks like a prison cell,” said Joe.
At that moment Frank spotted a small fragment of paper on the floor. He picked it up. There was a single line of print:The practicability of the draco ...
“This must have been part of a page from a magazine,” he said, handing the fragment to his brother.
Joe examined it. “You might be right,” he agreed. “Too bad we don’t have the rest of it.”
“I’d like to see the complete spelling of the last word which begins with draco,” Frank commented. “Something about it rings a small bell! I‘m—”
“Listen!” Chet interrupted. “I hear something!”
The boys remained perfectly quiet for a moment.
“I hear it too!” Joe said finally. “Men talking!”
The three darted toward the entrance but halted abruptly when they saw the shadows of three men on the ground outside.
“Oh, oh!” Frank whispered. “It must be the guards!”
“And they’re armed,” Joe added. “It would be too risky to try and make a break for it now.”
“But we can’t stay here!” Chet whispered nervously. “That crowd of Indians might come back any time now.”
Chet’s fears were warranted. Soon many men could be heard approaching the cave entrance. The boys frantically searched for a place to hide.
“Quick!” Frank commanded, remembering the altar. “Follow me!” He pulled aside the broken fragment of stone at its base. “Inside! Hurry!”
The boys squeezed through the opening and into the hollow portion of the altar. A split second later the Indians poured into the cave.
“Fuego!” one of them shouted. “Fuego por Pavura!”
The boys were horror-stricken. The Indians were about to build a fire on top of the altar!
CHAPTER XII
The Search
“WE’LL be roasted alive!” Chet quavered.
“Quiet,” Joe warned, nudging Chet with his elbow.
Frank fully realized their desperate situation. If they left their hiding place—capture! Yet to remain—destruction!
The fire was started, and the boys waited tensely for the temperature to rise. But much to their surprise, the heat was not intolerable.
“Of course!” Frank said to himself. “The altar is made out of volcanic rock. It is radiating the heat of the fire too rapidly to get very hot itself!”
From outside came the same kind of weird chanting they had heard the previous night.
“They must be performing some kind of ceremony,” Joe whispered into his brother’s ear.
Suddenly the chanting stopped.
“Pavura! Pavura!” the Indians shouted in unison.
The deep voice of a man, obviously that of their leader, addressed them in Spanish.
“What’s he saying?” Chet hissed.
“I can only pick up a few words,” Frank whispered. “He thanks them for their work, and says they’ll be rewarded soon.”
After the ceremony the Indians left. Their footfalls faded away. Frank was about to push the broken stone aside when he suddenly stopped at the muffled voices of two men speaking in English.
“Why am I being treated like a prisoner?” one man asked.
“You tried to run away, Senor Tremmer,” the other replied. “Perhaps you go to the authorities. I do not like that.”
“You’re wrong, Vincenzo! I didn’t try to run away! Didn’t I come to Mexico with you of my own free will? I just went out for a walk and got lost.”
“Odd, then,” Vincenzo replied, “that my men find you more than a day’s journey from here. I do not believe you. However, I will give you one more chance. But if you run away again, I shall send my men after you with orders not to bring you back.”
“Don’t threaten me, Vincenzol”
“Ah, but I will. And do not speak my name in the presence of my men. To them I am known only as Pavura!”
Vincenzo and Pavura! One and the same! The boys quivered with excitement. And Vincenzo was the leader of the Indians, who worshiped him.
More footsteps. Then silence.
“They’ve gone!” Joe whispered.
The boys cautiously crawled from their hiding place, and edged toward the cave exit. Seeing no sign of the guards, they dashed across the clearing and headed back to their own camp. After eating and taking a short rest, the young detectives mulled over the situation and discussed a new plan.
“Tico, you take one of the burros and go back to Montaraz,” Frank instructed him. “Ask Senora Santos to help you get in touch with the authorities. Tell them what we’ve found out.”
“Si, I will do as you say,” the Mexican youth promised. “But what do you plan to do?”
“Chet will guard the camp, while Joe and I re connoiter the area,” Frank explained. “We’d like to find out what those Indians are up to.”
After Tico departed for the village, the Hardys began a systematic search of the surrounding territory. They carefully threaded their way across the difficult, lunar-like terrain.
“When the Indians leave the cave,” Joe said, pointing off to his right, “they go in that direction.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “But let’s stay close to this ridge. The rocks will give us good cover.”
Nearly an hour had passed before the boys heard sounds of activity somewhere ahead of them.
“What’s that?” Joe asked curiously.
“Sounds like men digging,” Frank replied.
The Hardys continued on slowly. Soon they came upon a startling scene. In a small clearing ahead, Indians were working busily. Some were digging with picks and shovels. Others carried heavy wooden crates.
“Looks like some kind of mining operation,” Frank said in a hushed voice.
The boys crept ahead for a closer look. They saw several Mexicans, not dressed as Indians, assembling various pieces of machinery. Nearby was a narrow-gauge railroad that stretched out of sight down an incline to the east. Resting on the track was an unusual-looking vehicle. It was an elongated wooden platform with sides that angled outwards and was set on eight small rail road-type wheels.
“What’s that?” Joe blurted.
“I’ve never seen anything like it used in mining,” Frank whispered. “It must be ninety feet long.”
“And about six feet wide,” Joe added.
“Let’s work our way around to the other side of the clearing. Be careful. We don’t want to run into any of these guys.”
The boys edged their way along, studying the scene with increasing interest. Then Frank began to sniff the air. “I smell crude oil.”
“I do, too,” Joe said.
Just then the Hardys heard a man shout from somewhere behind them. “Fare—Halt!”
The boys whirled to see an Indian with a rifle standing at the top of a knoll.
“We’ve been spotted!” Joe gasped.
A shot rang out, and the Hardys ran. More shots. A bullet ricocheted off a rock close by.
“Head for the ridge!” Frank cried.
By now the Indians in the clearing had dropped their tools and were racing off in pursuit of the boys.
Joe stumbled and fell. Frank stopped and yanked him to his feet. “Are you all right?”
“Yes—I’m okay! Let’s keep going!”
In the next instant the Hardys were startled to see several more Indians blocking the
ir path to the ridge.
“This way!” Joe shouted as he started down a slope to the right.
The boys zigzagged through the craggy terrain. After a grueling race, they gradually outdistanced their pursuers.
“We’re losing them!” Frank shouted.
Despite their exhaustion the boys forced themselves to maintain their rapid pace. But they had traveled only a little farther when they suddenly came to a halt.
“It can’t be!” Joe yelled, pointing directly ahead.
There was the clearing where they had spotted, the Indians.
The youths had run in a complete circle. Soon shouts began to come from all sides.
“We’re surrounded!” Joe cried out in dismay.
CHAPTER XIII
A Charging Donkey
As THE Hardys ran toward the clearing, Joe moaned, “We’re trapped!”
“Hold on!” Frank shouted. “We might have one chance—that railroad car! Maybe we can ride it out of here!”
Amid shots from their pursuers, the Hardys darted to the odd vehicle, which was anchored by two heavy chains. They quickly unfastened the car and pushed it down the slope with all the strength that they could muster. Once it had picked up momentum, the boys leaped aboard.
Bam! Bam!
Frank and Joe ducked as bullets thudded into the sides of the wooden platform. The car gained speed. Indians appeared along the sides of the track, shouting and waving their arms, but they were helpless to do anything. Soon the pursuers were left far behind.
The boys raised their heads to look about. They were traveling downhill at breakneck speed.
“Now how do we get off this thing?” Frank shouted. “We’re moving too fast to jump!”
Joe pointed ahead and gasped. “Look!” Farther down the slope the track came to an abrupt end. Fifty feet from there lay a stack of rusting rails, directly astride the car’s path.
“There must be a brake system somewhere on this!” Frank said.
The ground rushed by in a blur as the boys frantically searched for a way to stop the car. Joe stumbled to the rear and looked over the side. Spotting a long metal lever just within reach, he grabbed it and pulled upward with all his strength. The rear wheels of the car locked, throwing up a shower of sparks.
“I found it!” he exclaimed.
Frank discovered a similar lever on the right side and yanked up on it hard. The center wheels of the car locked, also producing a geyser of sparks.
Anxious moments followed as the car continued to coast down the slope, but slower and slower. Finally it came to a stop a few feet short of the track’s end.
“Whewl” Joe sighed. “That was close.”
Frank mopped his brow. “If we hadn’t found those brake levers, we’d have ended up in little pieces.”
The boys leaped out and trotted over to the stack of rails.
“Apparently they’re still in the process of building this road,” Joe observed. “I wonder where the track will lead when it’s finished.”
“That’s something we’ll try to figure out later,” Frank said. “Right now, we’d better get out of here. Those Indians are probably on their way!”
They set off at a brisk pace, and after about a mile, stopped to rest.
“Our camp shouldn’t be too far from here,” Frank commented. He took a compass from his pocket to estimate the direction they should head. “We’d better get back before Chet starts worrying.”
When they reached their camp the Hardys found Chet propped up against a rock, whittling a stick of wood. He appeared dejected.
“I’m bored,” muttered Chet. “When are you going to let me in on some action? I’m tired of playing baby sitter to a bunch of burros,” he complained.
Joe laughed. “We want to keep all you donkeys together.”
Moving like a charging lineman, Chet dropped his whittling and tackled Joe below the knees. The blond boy hit the ground with a thud, then rose grinning.
“I guess I asked for that,” he admitted ruefully, and added, “Chet, did you ever think of playing pro football?”
The horseplay lifted Chet’s spirits, and he listened eagerly as the Hardys told him about the runaway rail car. Then he opened some cans of food and they ate, seated on the ground.
“I hope Tico had luck contacting the authorities,” Joe remarked.
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” said Frank. “Meanwhile, we’ll stay here and keep an eye on the Indians.”
It was late afternoon when the Hardys crept back to the spot from where they could view the cave.
“Oh, oh! They have more guards,” Joe observed.
“Just a precaution,” Frank surmised. “Vincenzo isn’t taking any chances after his men reported a couple of outsiders in the vicinity.”
“One thing is sure,” Joe added, “we’re safe here. This is the last place they’d expect to find us.”
As darkness came on, the Hardys saw Tremmer emerge from the cave. He strolled casually around the edge of the clearing and sat down on a boulder.
Frank leaned close to his brother. “I’m going to crawl down there and try to speak to him.”
“But he might give you away.”
“I have a feeling he won‘t,” Frank said. “But if anything does happen to me, get back to our camp and wait for Tico to return.”
“Okay. Be careful!”
Frank crept cautiously toward where Trem mer was seated. He maneuvered himself into a position directly behind the boulder, checked to see if the guards were at a safe distance, then called out in a low voice.
“Elmer Tremmer!”
“Who—who’s that?” stammered the startled bookkeeper.
“Sh—I’m a friend,” Frank assured him.
“Qué pasa?—What is going on?” one of the guards shouted.
“Er—er—nothing! Nothing at all!” Tremmer answered, turning his head away from Frank.
The guard appeared satisfied and resumed his conversation with a companion.
“Who are you?” the bookkeeper whispered excitedly.
“My name is Frank Hardy.”
“Hardy? The Bayport detective?”
“I’m his son. My brother and I are here to help you.”
“Help me? How?”
“To escape.”
Tremmer shifted uneasily. “No! I don’t want to escapel” he said in a frightened voice.
“If you’re afraid to go back to the States,” Frank whispered, “don’t be. The authorities only want you to testify as a witness in the stock-fraud case.”
“But Vincenzo told me I’ll go to jail. I ...”
“Who is this man Vincenzo?” the young detective queried.
“He’s a very dangerous man,” the bookkeeper warned. “He leads these Indians under the name Pavura. They’re very superstitious and think he’s some kind of god. When I first met him, he used the alias Cardillo.”
The young detective was startled. Another alias! So Cardillo, Pavura, and Vincenzo were really one! Frank pushed himself closer to the boulder.
“What is he using the Indians for, Mr. Tremmer?”
“I—I can’t tell you. And I’m not going to try to escape again. If Vincenzo caught me ...” His words trailed off. He got up and walked toward the cave.
Greatly disappointed, Frank rejoined Joe.
“Any luck?” Joe whispered.
“I’m afraid not,” Frank answered, then told him about the conversation with Tremmer.
“He might go straight to Vincenzo and warn him about us,” Joe said worriedly.
“I don’t think he will. My guess is that Vincenzo scared him into coming to Mexico. He probably told Tremmer he’d go to jail with the rest of them if they were caught.”
“While all the time he just wanted to get Tremmer out of the way so he couldn’t testify,” Joe declared.
“Right!”
“Do you think he’ll stick with the gang?”
“I’ve given Tremmer reason to doubt Vincenzo,” Fr
ank said. “If he realizes he’s only wanted as a witness, he might come over to our side.”
The Hardys decided to return to their camp. It was dark when they arrived.
“Funny,” Frank murmured. “I’m sure this is where we had our campsite.”
The boys exchanged puzzled glances.
“Chet!” Frank called in a subdued voice. “Chet!” No response.
“Where are you?” Joe called louder.
“This has got to be the right spot,” Frank said in alarm. He pulled a pencil flashlight from his pocket and played its beam on the ground. “Look!” He quickly bent over and picked up a small object. “This is the stick Chet was whittling!”
“But there’s no sign of him or the burros and equipment!”
Joe spotted footprints in the soft dirt. Their pattern was scrambled, indicating that a struggle must have taken place.
Meanwhile, Frank made another discovery. Revealed in the bright, narrow beam of his light was a small heap of ashes. “Chet must have built a fire after we left,” he called out to his brother.
Joe felt the ashes with the palm of his hand. “Cold!” he declared. “This fire has been out at least a couple of hours.”
“That means it would still have been daylight.”
“But the smoke! The Indians must have spotted it!”
There was a hollow feeling in the pits of their stomachs. The boys knew that there was only one explanation for Chet’s disappearance. He was in the hands of Vincenzol
CHAPTER XIV
A Threatening Message
“WE MUST rescue Chet—and fast!” Joe exclaimed. “No telling what Vincenzo will do to him!”
“Simmer down. Let’s keep our heads,” Frank advised. “If we end up getting captured ourselves, we won’t be able to help anybody.”
“Okay,” Joe said. “But we can’t stay here without food, water, and equipment. I’d say our best chance is to start back to Montaraz as soon as it’s light. We might even meet Tico on the way.”
The boys cut some brush to improvise beds, and fell asleep. At dawn they began the long journey to the village. At one point they crossed a wide, parched stretch of desert plain. Their thirst became unbearable.
The Mark on the Door Page 7
