The Crisscross Shadow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “I’m afraid those men will find the deed before we do and steal it,” Chief Whitestone said. “Unfortunately we have no other proof of ownership. The courthouse where our deed was recorded burned a few years ago and the papers were lost.”

  “Then those men can make it very hard for you,” Joe said.

  “Yes. After the fire, ads were run in the papers for people to bring in their deeds and have them recorded again, but we couldn’t do that, of course.”

  “So it was easy for those men to find out your deed is missing,” Frank surmised. “Well, we’ll certainly try to find it for you.”

  “Haven’t you any protection?” Chet interposed.

  “Yes,” the chief said. “After sixty years of possession, the tribe will own the land automatically —even without a deed. It’s a state law. But we have several months to go before the time is up. Until then, we’re at the mercy of anyone who finds those papers! And we can’t be certain someone hasn’t already taken them, of course.”

  “I doubt it,” Frank commented. “If they had, either the papers would have been returned by honest people, or you would have had trouble before this with real thieves.”

  “How about those men who were here?” Chief Whitestone asked.

  “I don’t think that they would have offered to buy the land if they could have gotten it free.”

  “But I’ll bet they’re looking for the deed,” Joe remarked. “So it’s going to be a race. Let’s get started!”

  “I like your enthusiasm.” The chief smiled. “But first I suggest we have something to eat. And later, why don’t you move in here so you can be handy to your work?”

  “Thank you,” Frank replied. “We’ll do that. Along with solving your mystery, we’ll do some sleuthing on our own case.”

  By the time they had finished a meal of roast deer, corn bread, and fried apples prepared by Mrs. Whitestone, it had grown dark.

  “You’d better make do tonight,” Ted suggested. “You can go back and get your things at the hotel tomorrow.”

  The boys accepted Ted’s hospitality and slept on cots in his room.

  After breakfast the next morning, Joe said, “First thing we’ll have to do is move our belongings in from town.”

  “Right you are,” Frank agreed. “But there’s no need for all of us to go back. I’ll go and put all we need in one bag and check the others.”

  “Then Chet and I will start hunting around here for clues,” Joe declared.

  Chet went to question some of the older men of the tribe. Joe ambled along the street until he reached the leathercraft building. Nonchalantly he walked around it, to observe the layout of the structure.

  “Guess I’ll go inside,” Joe told himself. “Maybe if I talk with some of the workers—”

  The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. He stood motionless as he saw one of the craftsmen emerge from the rear entrance. Joe ducked behind a tree and watched as the man looked intently in every direction.

  “He acts as though he doesn’t want to be seen,” Joe thought.

  Abruptly the man turned and set out briskly through the forest. Joe trailed him noiselessly.

  Suddenly the Indian stopped and Joe concealed himself behind an evergreen. The man began stripping bark from a tree, all the while whistling in a carefree manner.

  Joe, puzzled, arose slowly from his hiding place. “If that’s all that guy came here for,” he mused, “why did he act so leery of being seen?”

  The next moment the Indian lighted a cigarette. After a few puffs he stamped it out and started back for the crafts building.

  Joe grinned as he recalled a No Smoking sign in the building.

  “So he just slipped out to have a smoke. He sure had me fooled.”

  Joe started walking back toward the village. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was that strange scraping noise behind him off to the right?

  He stealthily retraced his steps in the direction of the sound, which led him to a small clearing. Joe barely restrained an exclamation when he saw a man digging in the hard-packed earth.

  It was the stranger in the suede-fringed suit whom the boys had met the day before!

  Without hesitation, Joe approached the digger. “Now I’ll find out what his game is,” he was thinking when a twig snapped behind him.

  Joe looked over his shoulder in time to see a man leaping toward him, brandishing a stick.

  He tried to duck, but the man brought the stick smashing down on the boy’s head.

  Without uttering a cry, Joe crumpled to the earth!

  CHAPTER XII

  A Puzzling Telegram

  A QUARTER of an hour passed before Joe stirred. Opening his eyes, he was conscious only of a severe pain in the top of his head. Feeling the damp earth against his cheek, the young detective realized he was lying on the ground.

  With what seemed like a superhuman effort, Joe lifted himself on one elbow and saw the trees about him. Only then did he remember what had occurred. He put his hand to his head and felt a large bump.

  “I’d better get back to the Ramapan village,” he muttered. “Got to warn Chief Whitestone about those men.”

  His head throbbed. Swaying from side to side, Joe took a few uncertain steps. It was hard going but finally he reached the edge of the village. There he saw a familiar figure hurrying up the street.

  “Chet!” He tried to shout, but his words were barely audible and his friend turned a corner out of sight. Joe started for the Whitestone house, stopping frequently to rest.

  Suddenly he heard a cry behind him. “Joe! What happened?”

  “Ted! Oh, gosh, I’m glad to see you.”

  “Who hit you?” Ted exclaimed, seeing a huge, bloody lump on the top of Joe’s head.

  “Don’t know,” he gasped as the Indian boy steered him toward his house.

  As they reached the steps, Chief Whitestone came out. He helped Ted lift Joe and soon the injured youth was resting on a couch.

  Ted hurried for the village doctor. After a thorough examination the physician concluded that there was no skull fracture, but told Joe that he might have a headache for a few hours and to call him if anything else developed. He dressed the wound and left.

  A sigh escaped Ted’s lips. “Thought you were a goner when I saw you staggering down that street, Joe,” he said, and smiled in relief.

  But Chief Whitestone was not smiling.

  “That fellow tried to kill you!” he exclaimed. He clenched his pipe, the knuckles showing white against the dark bowl.

  “Ted,” he went on, “I’m very much concerned about this business. I want you to make inquiries around the village while Joe takes it easy.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Chief Whitestone,” Joe insisted. “We detectives are used to some roughing up now and then.”

  “Did you get a good look at the man who hit you?” Ted wanted to know.

  “Yes. But I’ve never seen him before. I couldn’t identify him,” Joe said ruefully.

  At that moment Chet hurried in, having heard from a child that the doctor had been calling on “the sick white boy.”

  “Joe!” he exclaimed, pale with fright. “What happened?”

  While Chet was listening to Joe’s story, Frank Hardy strode briskly down the forest trail and finally reached Lantern Junction. He went at once to the Grand Hotel.

  “We’re moving out,” he told the pleasant clerk.

  “Going home so soon?”

  “No. We’re staying with the Ramapans. If any messages come here, we’ll pay to have them delivered up there in care of the chief.”

  “Glad to oblige you,” the clerk said.

  After paying the bill, packing, and arranging for all the bags but one to be checked at the hotel, Frank decided to telephone his mother.

  She herself answered. “Frank? What a relief to hear from you!”

  “Anything wrong?” he wanted to know, detecting a note of agitation in Mrs. Hardy’s voice.

  “Ye
s. I was afraid those men might have been after you and Joe again. There’s been another attempted burglary of our house!”

  Frank grabbed at the mouthpiece. “Are you and Aunt Gertude all right? Did you see the burglar? Did he get anything?”

  “We’re all right,” Mrs. Hardy replied quickly. “But the burglar got away. I can’t tell you whether he stole anything or not. Chief Collig is working on the case right now.

  “There’s more news of your father,” his mother went on.

  “Is it good news?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Another case of sabotage,” Mrs. Hardy told him. “This time in St. Louis. A laboratory was swept by flames last night and the reports of secret experiments went up in smoke. Dad was reported on the scene.”

  “Good!” Frank exclaimed. “At least the investigation’s in capable hands.”

  “But I’m worried, son. I tried to get in touch with your father in St. Louis through the police, but the authorities there told me he had disappeared.”

  “Disappeared!” Frank repeated anxiously, then said, “Maybe he’s only gone underground to track down the gang.”

  “I don’t know what to think, Frank,” Mrs. Hardy replied. “Just a little while ago I got a message that has me completely baffled.”

  “Message from Dad?”

  “Yes. And it came from California! All the telegram said was ‘Detained in California. Will wire again.’ ”

  “But the report of the sabotage placed Dad in St. Louis.”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Hardy sighed. “I think the wire from California is a hoax!”

  “Something’s fishy, that’s sure,” Frank agreed. “But don’t worry. I have an idea. I’ll let you know when I learn something.”

  “All right, dear, and give my love to Joe.”

  Frank clicked the phone, then asked the operator to connect him with John Bryant in San Francisco. The man was a detective friend of Fenton Hardy and could be depended upon.

  “Hello, Frank. Glad to hear from you. Great things your father’s doing these days.”

  “That’s why I’m calling. We’re worried about reports that he’s in two places at once.”

  Mr. Bryant chuckled. “I didn’t think even a Hardy could do that.”

  Frank quickly explained the mystery of his father’s seemingly double appearances.

  “This is my plan,” he said, speaking guardedly. “Will you check on Dad at his hotel, and then wire the result to Sam Radley at the Bayport Hospital? It’s important that you send the message to Sam. One to us would probably be intercepted or tampered with. Mother’s been getting some, but she thinks they may be phonies.”

  Assuring Frank of his fullest cooperation, Mr. Bryant said good-by.

  “I’d better warn Sam Radley to expect a message from Mr. Bryant,” Frank thought, and hurried to a writing desk.

  After penning a few lines to his father’s injured operative, Frank folded the paper and inserted it in an envelope which he addressed in plain block letters to disguise his handwriting. He sealed the envelope, stamped it, and deposited the letter in a mailbox at the end of the lobby.

  “Nobody will dare tamper with Uncle Sam’s mails,” he told himself in satisfaction.

  Waving to the desk clerk, Frank walked out of the hotel with his suitcase. As he turned down the street that led to the Ramapan trail, he saw a familiar figure hurrying toward him. It was Chet Morton!

  Frank ran to meet Chet, who was gasping for breath from his exertions.

  “Raced most of the way,” he panted, “to tell you about—about Joe. Attacked by stranger—knocked out!” Chet heaved as he tried to regain his wind.

  “Knocked out! By whom? Tell me!” Frank shook Chet in his excitement.

  Sitting down on the curb, and pausing frequently to get his breath, Chet recounted Joe’s experience in the woods.

  “The doctor’s seen him. He’ll be okay. I came to town for the police.”

  “Go on,” Frank urged.

  Chet arose, his breathing restored. “Ted and I went to find Joe’s attacker,” he said.

  “Any luck?” Frank asked. He was seething at the thought of his brother’s being brutally assaulted.

  “We located the spot where the man attacked Joe,” Chet replied, “and searched the area. Finally we saw tracks leading to the main trail and followed them for a few yards until they were lost.”

  “Did you find any other clue?” Frank asked, disappointed that they had not caught Joe’s assailant.

  Chet grinned in satisfaction. “We found this.”

  Digging inside his jacket, he produced a package wrapped in cloth.

  “What is it?” Frank asked, puzzled.

  Chet unwrapped the cloth. “A piece of the stick used on Joe!”

  “Good work, Chet!” Frank cried.

  Carefully he examined the piece. One end was splintered, showing that it had been broken by a violent blow.

  “You’re taking this to the police?” he asked.

  “Sure. For fingerprints!”

  The boys went at once. Frank gave the desk sergeant their names and asked for the chief. The visitors were ushered into his office.

  “Frank Hardy, eh?” he greeted them. He was a short, plump man, who gave the boys a warm smile and told them to call him Mike. “Any relation to Fenton Hardy, the famous detective?”

  “His son. My brother’s at the Ramapan village.”

  “Well, well,” the officer said. “What brings you boys up to this neck of the woods? Some mystery?”

  Quickly Frank explained their mission to find a thief named Breck. When he told the officer what had happened to Joe, the police chief looked grave.

  “Any clues?” he asked.

  Chet produced the stick and told about finding it near the spot where Joe had been attacked.

  “I thought the fellow’s fingerprints might be on it,” he added hopefully.

  “It won’t take long to find out,” Mike replied, then carried the piece of wood into a back room.

  While he was gone, the boys talked over the various aspects of the mystery, and Frank whispered the latest news about his father.

  “Good night!” Chet exclaimed.

  A short while later the officer returned, a satisfied look on his face. In one hand he carried a Manila folder.

  “Well, Chet,” he said, “you hit the jackpot. We found a jailbird’s fingerprints on this stick!”

  A broad grin broke over the boy’s face. Frank congratulated him.

  “Whose prints are they?” he asked.

  Mike opened the folder and took out some papers. “Fellow by the name of Smirkis,” he told them. “About forty years old. Small-time crook. Got a year for robbery some months back. He was released a short time ago for good behavior. Lives right here in town.”

  “Smirkis, eh?” Frank mused. “I wonder if he’s connected with the gang we’re after.”

  “I couldn’t say. He wasn’t too bad a fellow, but he may have met someone in prison who put ideas in his head,” Mike said.

  “Where does he live?” Frank asked.

  “We just checked with the landlady of his rooming house, but she said he hasn’t been home in a couple of days. I’ve sent out an alarm for him.

  “We’ll need your brother to identify Smirkis as the assailant when we catch up with him. Meanwhile, take care of yourselves,” Mike warned.

  The boys thanked him, ate a light lunch, and then headed back to the Indian village. Frank was anxious to see Joe and was glad to find him feeling better.

  Next day, while Joe was recuperating, he discussed the clue to the missing papers and the jeweled dagger with Frank, Chet, and Ted. Chief Whitestone had gone to Lantern Junction on business.

  “ ‘Buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter’s moon,’ ” Chet mulled over the chief’s statement. “Wonder what made the crisscross shadow.”

  He and Joe made several suggestions that were immediately discounted by Ted because they did not jib
e with the legend.

  “The story goes this way. ‘And the chief buried the dagger of the many bright eyes and the papers of the paleface writing while at his hunter’s dwelling in the early moonrise.’ ”

  “Hunter’s dwelling!” Frank cried. “I have it!”

  CHAPTER XIII

  The Hunter’s Moon

  “WHAT?” Joe, Chet, and Ted chorused in surprise.

  “A hunter’s dwelling,” Frank explained, “could be a teepee. The crisscross shadow was made by the poles!”

  “Of course!” Ted exclaimed. “Why didn’t we Ramapans think of that?”

  “And the hunter’s moon is in October, isn’t it?” Chet asked.

  “Yes, it’s the full moon of October and it rises early just like the legend says,” Ted answered. “In October the angle the moon makes with the earth is very slight, so it rises as the full moon very soon after sunset.”

  “We’re going into the hunter’s moon right now,” Frank said. “That’s what your father meant, Ted, when he urged us to solve the mystery soon!”

  “Yes.”

  “First thing to do,” Frank went on, “is to find out where the chief’s teepee stood when he buried the treasure. Have you any idea where that was?” he asked Ted.

  “It was near where the tribe used to hold its ceremonials,” Ted replied. “The records say that the ceremonial rock was located where a stream, forked like a serpent’s tongue, cuts through the warrior’s place of honor.”

  “What does that mean?” Chet questioned.

  “Long ago, returning warriors were honored for a whole day by feasting and—”

  “Sounds good.” The stout boy beamed. “They probably had roast moose and—”

  “Let’s get going,” Frank interrupted.

  Ted led the way to the area where the old ceremonials had been held. He said that it had not been used in his lifetime.

  “Then we’re going to have a hard job locating the rock in this overgrown tangle,” Joe remarked, looking around.

  He had insisted upon going along but the others made him sit on the side lines and not exert himself. Disgusted, Joe sat down on a log which had fallen across what once had been the fork in the stream mentioned in the legend.