The Crisscross Shadow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “Yes.”

  “There was a report on the radio,” Joe went on, “that he’s working on a sabotage case in Chicago. Is that right?”

  As she was replying, Frank crowded into the booth with Joe. He could hear her answer plainly.

  “I heard the report too. I’m baffled by the whole thing. Your father can’t be in two places at once, and I just had a wire from him. It was sent from California!”

  Just then Chet sidled up to the boys. “We can stay at the Grand Hotel,” he reported. Joe passed the news along to his mother, then said, “I guess there’s nothing we can do about Dad. But keep us posted of any new developments.”

  “I will, and take care of yourselves.”

  “Okay. Bye now.”

  Despite the fact that Mrs. Hardy did not seem concerned about her husband, Frank was uneasy.

  “Let’s call his hotel in San Francisco,” he suggested. “That will clear up this whole business.”

  “Good idea,” Joe replied. “But we should register at the Grand first.”

  As soon as they were in their room Frank gave the operator the call. When the connection was made, he said:

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Fenton Hardy.”

  “One moment, please,” the operator at the hotel replied.

  Then a man’s voice broke in. “Who is it you want?” he asked.

  “Is Mr. Fenton Hardy there?” Frank repeated, leaning close to the receiver. “This is his son, Frank Hardy.”

  “I can’t tell you!” the man replied and hung up.

  Frank replaced the receiver, frowning thoughtfully.

  “‘Can’t tell you,’ ” he echoed slowly, after telling Joe and Chet the strange reply.

  “What did the man mean?” Chet asked, puzzled.

  “I’d say the hotel actually doesn’t know where Dad is,” Joe answered.

  “Or it could be that they’re obeying instructions from Dad not to disclose where he is,” Frank reflected.

  The boys began unpacking in their neat but simply furnished quarters. Frank and Joe would bunk together, with Chet in the adjoining room.

  “Boy, wouldn’t I give anything to go hunting or fishing up here,” Chet remarked. “But we have to find the treasure first.”

  “Not we,” Joe corrected. “Frank and I came here to follow up the key-case clue.”

  “Have it your own way,” Chet replied.

  The three put on warm, sturdy attire for their hike through the woods to the Ramapan village, then went downstairs and asked the clerk for directions. They were told that the trail through thick woods to the isolated community, which lay miles from any habitation, was a rough one.

  “I your friend,” said the Indian

  The clerk strongly advised them not to attempt it until morning.

  His words were not exaggerated, as the boys learned the next day. The trail to the Ramapans was narrow and twisting, making it necessary for them to walk single file. Occasionally the stillness of the forest was broken by the cry of an animal or the fluttering of a startled bird.

  Eventually the boys found themselves in a small clearing. Pausing to catch their breath which made white clouds in the crisp air, they heard a crackling in the underbrush in the woods beyond.

  Suddenly the branches on the other side of the clearing parted and an Indian stepped out to face them! No one spoke.

  The man was wearing suede pants and coat with fringes. Long, shiny black hair hung down over his shoulders.

  He broke the silence. “No be afraid. I your friend,” he addressed them in a strange accent.

  “You’re a Ramapan?” Frank asked him.

  The stranger did not reply. Instead, he said:

  “I give warning. You boys walk to bad country.”

  “What do you mean?” Joe demanded.

  “You come to unfriendly tribe. Very dangerous people.”

  “Dangerous?” Frank said skeptically. “What’s so dangerous about an Indian tribe these days?”

  “You listen to warning, paleface,” the man continued, anger in his tones. “Tribe guard deep secret. No want visitors.”

  With that he turned on his heel and disappeared among the trees. The boys looked at each other dumbfounded.

  Chet paled. “S-a-a-a-y, fellows,” he said shakily, “maybe we’d better take his advice and turn back.”

  “Not on your life,” Joe replied determinedly.

  Frank agreed, adding, “I’ll bet that fellow isn’t even a member of the tribe. That accent he had was too thick. No real Indian talks like that these days. I’m sure he’s a phony.”

  “You mean he faked everything—the Indian rig and the accent?” Chet demanded.

  “Sure.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “One of the gang we’re trying to track down.”

  “You’re right, Frank!” Joe exclaimed. “Quick! Before he gets away, let’s follow him!”

  CHAPTER X

  Tom-toms

  THE boys crashed through the thick brush in pursuit of the strange Indian.

  “Where’d he go?” Chet puffed.

  “Here are fresh footprints!” Frank exclaimed. “Come on!”

  They raced along, following the tracks Frank had observed. The narrow, rocky path wound deeper into the dim, silent forest.

  The trail suddenly twisted sharply to the right. Frank, still in the lead, held up his hand, signaling a halt.

  The trio stood still, looking intently for any indication of which way the man had gone. They came to the conclusion that he had jumped from stone to stone, losing his pursuers completely.

  “We may as well continue on to the Ramapan village after we have a snack,” Frank decided.

  The boys quickly ate sandwiches they had brought along and drank from a sparkling mountain spring.

  As they set off again, Chet cried out tensely: “Listen!”

  The Hardys paused. The sound that came to them was a muffled, regular beat.

  “Tom-toms!” Frank exclaimed.

  Chet turned pale and looked nervously about him. “S-a-a-a-y, fe-1-1-ows, those tom-toms—maybe that man we just met was right. What if those Indians are getting ready to attack us!”

  Frank and Joe broke into laughter.

  “Aren’t you young Chief Wallapatookunk?”

  Chet blushed furiously. “Come on,” he said with a sudden show of bravery. “Let’s go.”

  They moved along another quarter of a mile without further disturbance. Then a fawn loped swiftly across their path as if in frightened flight. As it disappeared, the reason became evident. An Indian boy about their own age came out of the woods. He stopped short upon seeing them.

  He was dressed in clothes similar to theirs, but had coppery skin and straight black hair.

  “Hello,” he said pleasantly. “What are you fellows doing so deep in the woods? Lost?”

  Neither Chet nor the Hardys answered at once. They were staring at the moccasins the boy was wearing. On each toe section was the mysterious R, outlined with multicolored beads.

  “No, we’re not lost,” Frank replied finally. “We’re heading for the Ramapan village.”

  The Indian noticed the boys’ eyes riveted on his moccasins. “What is it?” he asked with a puzzled air.

  “Where did you get those moccasins?” Joe questioned him excitedly.

  “Why, right here,” replied the youth. “We Ramapans make them.”

  “You are a Ramapan?” Frank asked.

  “Sure.”

  Joe seized the Indian’s hand joyfully. “Are we glad to see you! We’ve been trying for days to find out who makes those moccasins!”

  “Well, follow me, then,” the boy said, smiling. “I can show you plenty more like these. By the way, I’m Ted Whitestone. My father is Chief Oscar Whitestone of the Ramapans.”

  The Hardys and Chet introduced themselves. Then Ted turned in the direction of his village.

  “Quite a difference between Ted and that man we met on the trail,” Joe
whispered to his brother as Chet asked Ted questions about his tribe.

  “No, we don’t live in teepees,” the Indian boy replied with a smile. “Just regular houses like everybody else. And we don’t dress up in feathers and big war bonnets, either. I hope I’m not disillusioning you fellows,” he added with a grin.

  “But we heard tom-toms,” said Chet.

  “One of the men was practicing for our ceremonial dance that we always perform this time of year,” Ted explained.

  “And we saw an Indian dressed in fringed leather just a few minutes before we met you,” Chet told him. “He had a peculiar accent.”

  Ted’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s funny. I can’t imagine who it might be. Nobody in our tribe dresses like that or talks with an accent, except old Long Heart, and he’s all right. What did the man want?”

  Frank told him of the stranger’s warning about the Ramapans and how they would resent the boys’ presence because the tribe was guarding a secret.

  “That’s crazy,” Ted declared. “I can’t understand why a stranger would want to keep you from coming here. I’ll speak to my father about this.”

  The young detectives glanced at one another. Were they bringing trouble to the Ramapans, or were they running into some?

  “Here we are,” Ted announced as the path suddenly widened and opened into a spacious cleared area.

  The Ramapan village consisted of a main street with stores and several side roads with small, neat houses, most of them painted white. Off to one side stood a long, low building with many windows in it, and in the other direction was a large field which Ted said was used for athletics and tribal conferences.

  “This is my home,” Ted said, stopping before a small white house with green shutters.

  A tall, distinguished-looking man, whom the youth resembled, met them at the door.

  “Dad,” Ted addressed him, “I’d like you to meet Frank and Joe Hardy and Chet Morton.”

  The boys and Chief Oscar Whitestone shook hands, then smiling warmly, the man added, “Come in, boys. You’ve had a long hike. We don’t often see strangers this deep in the forest.”

  When Frank told briefly why they had come, Chief Whitestone was greatly interested.

  “We’ll show you the factory where we make our leather products,” he said.

  The boys followed Chief Whitestone and his son outside. As the group walked toward the factory, the villagers gave cheery greetings to the head of their tribe. Reaching the long, low building which the boys had noticed before, the chief led the way inside.

  “Here’s where we do our handicraft work,” Ted spoke up proudly, his arm encompassing the long room with a single broad sweep.

  As they walked down one of the aisles, Ted’s father explained the various kinds of work the craftsmen were doing. “This man is making moccasins,” he said.

  The visitors peered over the shoulder of an old Indian who was carefully molding strips of leather over a wooden block. They could see the outlines of the footwear taking shape.

  “Those workers over there are sewing key cases,” Chief Whitestone pointed out. The boys watched as one of them punched a hole in the leather with an awl and expertly drew the thread through.

  Frank produced the key case their mother had bought from Breck. “Ever see this before?” he asked Chief Whitestone.

  The Indian examined the leather article carefully. “Certainly. It was made right here,” he answered. He was about to hand it back when he took another look inside. “Just as I thought, Ted. This is made of that special leather we had. It was in that suitcase full of our work that was stolen a few weeks ago.” Turning to Frank, he added, “Where did you come across this?”

  The boy explained that they were amateur detectives and related the events of the past few days concerning Breck, who had sold the key case to Mrs. Hardy, Kamp his lawyer, and the man in the blue sweater who had tried to gain access to Mr. Hardy’s secret file cabinet.

  “I suppose you have no idea who took the suitcase, Chief Whitestone,” Joe said, unable to hide his disappointment.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t,” the chief replied. “You see,” he explained, “all our work is carried out of here in suitcases, since we can’t get a truck or car through the trail. Then it’s taken by train to Williamsville, where it’s turned over to a distributor. He markets everything for us.”

  The boys listened carefully as the chief went on, “A couple of weeks ago our messenger left a suitcase unguarded in the railroad station, and when he came back to get the bag, it was gone. That’s all we know about it.”

  “I’d say we ought to leave here at once and track down Breck,” said Frank, “if it weren’t for that strange man we met in the woods. He’s probably connected with this mystery. I think we’ll stay around Lantern Junction for a few days and try to find him.”

  “I wish you luck,” Chief Whitestone said. When they were outside again, he turned to face Frank and Joe.

  “So you’re detectives,” he remarked. “And you’re staying around here for a while.”

  “That’s right,” Frank replied, wondering what the chief was leading up to.

  Smiling at them, he asked, “How would you like to solve a mystery for me—an old mystery of the Ramapans?”

  CHAPTER XI

  A Jeweled Dagger

  ANOTHER mystery to solve!

  “We’ll do our best, Chief Whitestone,” Frank said.

  “And when he tells you that,” Chet spoke up, “it means they’ll solve it.”

  Ted and his father smiled as the young detectives blushed at the compliment.

  “When can we start?” Joe asked. “We’d like to begin right now because we’re due back at school in a week or so.”

  “Yes, and it depends a little on where we’ll have to go,” Frank added. “Is it far away?”

  “You can begin right here and now,” the chief replied. “In fact, you’ll have to solve the mystery in the next few days or else wait a whole year.”

  With this baffling introduction he invited the boys to go back to his home and hear the full story. Seated before an open fire in a cozy room filled with Indian relics, he began the strange tale.

  “We Ramapans are an old tribe. We were once a great and powerful nation, a leader among the Indians in this part of the country.

  “But as the years passed, and the white men spread out, our territories grew smaller. Our people became fewer in number as tribal warfare and sickness took their toll. Gradually the Ramapans’ power was so weakened that we were forced to move north. This was many generations ago.

  “Then, finally the wars stopped, and modem medicine cut down our death rate. We became prosperous, but still we were small and missed our former greatness,” he said with a faraway look.

  “The tribe carefully held on to its savings from fishing and trapping. Then fifty-nine years ago the leaders made a decision. With my father as chief, they decided to pool their resources and move down from the wild north country. The place they chose was this very acreage, the site where our ancestors had lived.”

  The boys had scarcely moved as the fascinating tale unfolded.

  “My father and the tribe bought this land from the estate of a man named York.”

  York! The name of one of the suspected gang!

  “Was his name Philip York?” Frank asked.

  “No,” Chief Whitestone replied. “It was Amos York. But after the tribe set up their new home, they didn’t find the peace and security they had expected.”

  “What happened?” Joe asked.

  The chief had paused to strike a match to his long pipe. He puffed a few times, then continued. “A neighboring tribe started to raid the Ramapans. They came every night, stealing and destroying our property and striking terror in the hearts of our people. But the Ramapans fought back even against heavy odds.

  “My father was fearful the enemy would steal our deed to the property, as well as other valuable tribal records. So he buried them s
ecretly, together with a jeweled dagger worth thousands of dollars that the Ramapans had had in their possession for generations. They had confiscated it after a battle with a French army two hundred years previously.”

  “Where did your father bury the papers and the dagger?” Frank asked him.

  Chief Whitestone shook his head. “That’s the mystery. Shortly afterward, he became ill and finally we realized he was dying.

  “According to the laws of our tribe, I would become chief. Everyone knew my father had buried the papers and the dagger, but the place was a secret. So I asked him where they were.

  “He was sinking rapidly, but he opened his eyes with great will power and whispered: ‘My son—my son—papers—dagger—buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon.”

  As the chief stopped speaking, there was complete silence for several seconds, then the Hardys looked at Chet. His face wore a smug look, as if to say: “There is a treasure buried in a crisscross shadow!”

  Chief Whitestone continued after a moment. “That was the only clue my father gave and I’ve never been able to find the place.”

  “It doesn’t sound like an easy task,” Frank remarked. “We—”

  “That’s not all,” Chief Whitestone interrupted. “Not long ago two strangers appeared in the village. They said they wished to buy our land and were prepared to offer a fair price.

  “ ‘No,’ I told them, ‘we wouldn’t sell for all the money in the world. This is our home. The tribe has grown and prospered here after many generations of hardship. Our land is not for sale.’ ”

  “But that didn’t end it,” Ted took up the story. “The men were insistent. Finally, one of them got mad and started to yell. ‘Look, Chief,’ he said to my father, ‘I’m warning you! You’d better sell to us if you know what’s good for you.’ ”

  “That’s right.” Chief Whitestone nodded. “ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked them.

  “ ‘Just this,’ the man replied. ‘This land isn’t yours.’

  “I laughed at that, but he said, ‘You think it’s funny, eh? Well, we can prove you haven’t got a clear title!’ Then they stomped out of the house and disappeared.