The Sign of the Crooked Arrow

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “If we could only nab him,” Joe said with determination, “then maybe we could solve this whole thing once and for all.”

  “I have it!” Frank exclaimed suddenly and snapped his fingers. “Let’s set a trap for Arrow Charlie to see if he is an expert archer!”

  “Sounds great,” Joe replied. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “Well,” Frank began, “I know there’s to be a rodeo at the Circle O Ranch. I saw a poster down in the bunkhouse.”

  “It starts next week,” Joe put in. “But what has that to do with Arrow Charlie?”

  “We can put up a prize for an archery contest—on horseback!”

  “Now I get it,” Joe said eagerly. “Arrow Charlie signs up and we move in for the kill.”

  “It might not be that easy,” Frank cautioned, “but we can give it a try. What do you think?” he asked his cousin.

  “It’s a fine idea,” she replied. “I’ll even put up the prize money!”

  Right after breakfast Frank rode to the Circle O Ranch to confer with the rodeo manager. After he had explained about the prize for the best horseback archer, the manager was agreeable. He promised to distribute circulars and posters advertising the extra event.

  The Hardys and Chet were impatient for the day of the rodeo to arrive. Finally it came, bright and cloudless. They reached the Circle O Ranch an hour before the contests were to start in the afternoon. Frank went directly to the manager and checked on the number of contestants entered in the archery event.

  “Only three so far,” came the reply. “Guess there ain’t many cowboy Robin Hoods.”

  None of them had the initials C. B. M., but Frank was fairly sure, if the man came at all, he would register under another name.

  Finally over the loudspeaker came the announcement of the archery contest. A ripple of excitement surged through the crowd.

  Chet scrutinized the three who entered the ring. Two were young cowboys, the third a middle-aged Indian man.

  “Any of these the one you saw on the white. faced horse?” Frank asked.

  “No,” he said with disappointment.

  After placing the target, which was a straw-filled dummy with a white paper heart sewed to the jacket, the announcer shouted:

  “The winner must pierce the heart, while riding at full gallop! Three shots for each contestant. Let ’er go!”

  The first cowboy trotted around the circle, guiding his mount with the pressure of his knees. In his hands he held a bow and slung across his back was a quiver.

  Gaining speed, he galloped toward the target taking careful aim. The bowstring zinged, and the arrow flew toward the dummy. It pierced the head as the crowd roared.

  The contestant’s next shot went wild. The third landed just below the heart.

  The next aspirant, the Indian, fared a little better. All his arrows hit the dummy, but none found the heart. The boys watched intently as the third contestant rode up.

  The cowboy strung his bow, bringing his horse to an easy gallop. He handled the bow like an expert, drawing the nock back slowly.

  Suddenly the crowd shrieked. Just as the arrow left the bow, the cowboy’s horse stumbled, throw ing the rider to the ground. The wild arrow embedded itself in a fence post.

  The cowboy was too shaken to continue. He limped away dejectedly.

  In the excitement that followed, few people noticed a tall, blond man, bow and arrow in hand, stride to the judges’ stand. The cowboy signed up for the event. He mounted a peppery chestnut pony and pranced around the circle.

  Chet watched him closely. There was something familiar about him. “Where have I seen him before?” Chet thought to himself.

  Now the rider, stringing his bow, galloped toward the target.

  Just then Chet got a good look at the contestant’s face. “Hey, Frank!” he shouted. “It’s the man from the airport!”

  “What?” Frank was incredulous. He stared at the stranger, who suddenly sprang upright, his feet firmly planted on a silver-trimmed saddle.

  With the ease of a circus rider, he stood erect on the galloping pony. While the crowd paid a roaring tribute to his feat, he aimed a white-feathered arrow and let it fly. With a thud it cut through the middle of the paper heart!

  “Three white feathers!” Joe gasped.

  “Come on,” Frank cried. “We’ve got to catch this guy!”

  He pushed his way through the cheering crowd, Joe and Chet at his heels. Chet tripped over someone’s foot and almost fell, but caught himself just in time. “Wait!” he panted, trying not to lose sight of his friends.

  Suddenly the boys froze in their tracks. The cowboy had dropped to the saddle, galloped directly to the judges’ stand, and scooped up the prize money, which a dumbfounded judge held in an envelope.

  Then, spurring his mount faster, he vaulted a low fence and disappeared over the shimmering prairie in a cloud of dust!

  CHAPTER XVI

  Mystery Smoke

  “WELL, I’ll be hog-tied!” Joe exclaimed as he watched the swirling dust in the distance. The mysterious archer had ridden off so swiftly that none of the boys could have overtaken him.

  “He’s gone,” Frank said disgustedly.

  “Let’s go over to the judges’ stand and see who he is,” Joe suggested.

  “Right.” Frank led the way to the platform. The registration form revealed that the archer’s name was A. Silver.

  “Probably phony,” Chet commented, after they had stepped down again.

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Come on. We’ll have a look at that arrow before the target’s taken away.”

  They elbowed their way through the raucous rodeo crowd to the spot where the straw-stuffed dummy lay grotesquely on the ground. The arrows protruded like porcupine quills.

  Frank bent down and pulled the winning shaft from the heart of the effigy. After examining it carefully, he turned to Joe.

  “It’s identical to the other white-feathered arrows.”

  “Which means,” Chet put in, “that Silver must be the man who shot at your father and at you in the woods!”

  “Then Arrow Charlie isn’t the archer,” Joe said.

  “Maybe he’s the bushy-browed fellow,” Frank observed. “We’ll soon find out.”

  “How do you figure to do that?” Chet countered.

  “We’ll go back to the woods,” Frank replied. “But this time we’ll make it an overnight expedition so we can investigate more thoroughly. I think the stone with the crooked arrow on it may be a meeting place of some kind.”

  “Maybe Pye and Terry can come along,” Joe said. “That is, if Hank will let them!”

  “I’ll ask him as soon as we get back,” Frank said.

  Upon reaching Crowhead, the boys rubbed down their horses, then Frank approached the foreman. He was standing alongside the corral smoking a cigarette. Frank told him that the boys wanted to go camping, and asked if Pye and Terry might go along.

  Hank shook his head determinedly. “Yo’ can’t take my ranch hands every time yo’ have a mind to do some sightseein’!” he barked.

  Frank realized it was useless to argue with the obstinate foreman. He quickly turned the subject of conversation to cigarettes and asked Hank what brand he smoked.

  “Ramiros,” he replied, and stalked off.

  “Yo’ sure look like a lost dogie,” a voice said behind Frank. “What’s on yore mind?”

  Turning, Frank saw Terry. On a hunch he asked the singing cowboy what he really thought of Hank.

  “Mighty ornery,” Terry replied. “But loyal to Mis’ Hardy, if that’s what yo’re drivin’ at.”

  “Thanks,” Frank said. “See you later.”

  He went straight to his cousin and brought her up to date on the progress in solving the Crowhead mystery. She backed up Terry’s opinion of Hank’s honesty. In view of her faith in her foreman, Frank remained silent about the telephone conversation Chet had overheard in the bunkhouse.

  “I’ll see what I can do about c
onvincing him to let Pye and Terry go with you on your ride. I don’t want you to be in those woods alone,” she told Frank.

  After dinner she summoned Hank. Half an hour later the two emerged from the living room, Hank’s expression sullen. As he strode out of the house, Mrs. Hardy came to the boys.

  “Pye and Terry will ride with you tomorrow afternoon,” she said, smiling. “Hank didn’t want to let them go, because he’s so shorthanded. But I told him a day’s work wouldn’t matter, if it would help clear up the mystery haunting Crowhead.”

  The following day shortly after lunch, Pye and Terry had finished their chores to Hank’s satisfaction. Both men were eager to start the trip as they helped Frank, Joe, and Chet with the canned foods and canteens of water. After a careful check of their gear, the five trotted off.

  As on the previous trip, the riders became silent once they had settled down to the long jaunt. When they neared the mysterious woods, they went straight to the spot where Frank had seen the strange rider.

  “He’s been back!” the boy cried, examining the fresh hoofprints. “Or at least someone has!”

  Marks of a horse were all around the area, indicating the animal had stood and pawed the ground. Had his master gone somewhere on foot? A search proved the rider had not dismounted.

  “Let’s see where the hoofprints lead,” Joe said. Picking their way carefully along a lightly blazed trail, the five approached an area of sparsely wooded ground, then emerged on the other side of the forest.

  “Here’s where he got away that time,” Chet announced.

  “And here’s where we lose him again,” Frank declared, scrutinizing the hoofprints.

  Traces of a horse’s hoofs became intermingled with the prints of cows. Soon they were lost in the welter of marks made by the roving cattle.

  But the group continued on, hoping to pick up the trail. Suddenly Pye stopped short.

  “What’s up?” Frank asked anxiously.

  “Look! Way over there!” the Indian cried in alarm.

  “It’s smoke!” Chet exclaimed.

  A blue curl spiraled into the cloudless sky some miles in the distance.

  “Forest fire!” Terry burst out.

  Fear gripped the searchers. If this were a forest fire, it might spread to the open prairie, consuming miles of pasture and timberland.

  “I’ll ride back and give the alarm,” Joe cried. “They can get a fire-fighting plane out here to help us.” He prepared to mount.

  “Wait!” Terry cried suddenly. Then he added, “What do yo’ think o’ this, Pye? Forest fire or campsite?”

  The Indian stared long and thoughtfully at the curling smoke. He watched for indications of spreading flames but saw none.

  “No forest fire,” he said.

  As all eyes focused on the smoke, it seemed to vanish, confirming Pye’s notion that the blaze was under control.

  “Would any Crowhead cowboys be camping there?” Frank asked Pye.

  “No. There’s no cattle out there,” the Indian answered. “Must be strangers.”

  “What are we waiting for!” Joe cried.

  The sun was low as they neared the forest, and the sky took on the vivid, darkening colors of sunset. There was no more smoke anywhere.

  “We’d better look for a campsite,” Frank suggested after another hour of searching.

  Joe and Terry scanned the area and found a rocky gulch protected from the wind. After tying their animals, the group built a fire in the bottom of the gulch, so it would not be seen by other campers.

  Frank unpacked the provisions, and soon tender slices of tomatoes and ham were sizzling over the open fire.

  “Hot diggidy!” Chet exclaimed, sniffing the savory odor. “Put me down for starved!”

  After they had eaten, the group arranged their sleeping bags in a circle around the fire and settled down for the night. They took turns standing watch, but the forest was peaceful all during the darkness.

  A red sun was peering over the horizon when Frank awoke. Pye and Terry were busy with breakfast. Frank shook Joe, then Chet, who sat up with a start.

  After the group had eaten, the horses were fed and watered. Camp was cleared in record time.

  “Let’s get going,” Frank urged, saddling up.

  “We’d better go slow and keep our eyes peeled,” Pye advised as the party advanced cautiously into the forest.

  Presently the Indian halted, and said that they should investigate further on foot. The group walked forward, listening and watching intently.

  But the search proved fruitless, and the going tough. Any campers had covered their tracks well.

  The group returned to their ponies. Just as they were about to mount, the sound of an airplane sifted down through the dense trees. The boys peered up but could see nothing.

  “Give me your glasses, Chet,” Joe said.

  He looped the strap of the binoculars around his neck and made for a tall tree nearby. Shinning up to the first branch, he quickly climbed to the top limb and scanned the countryside.

  Presently a small white plane came into view. It looked like the same one the boys had seen before. Dangling from it was a long rope which reached nearly to the tops of the trees as the plane skimmed along.

  At the end of the rope was a small package. As Joe glued his eyes to it, the plane dipped out of sight behind the upland forest. Joe climbed down to report what he had seen.

  “Do you suppose the plane was dropping the package?” Frank asked excitedly.

  “Either that, or picking it up,” Joe replied.

  “That proves the smoke did come from a camp-fire,” Terry said. “An’ it can’t be far away.”

  “Let’s go!” Joe cried, eager to be off.

  “On foot!” Pye advised. “Our enemy may be plenty smart.”

  “An’ split up,” Terry said. “It’d be too bad if we all got caught at once.”

  Heeding his advice, the five hobbled their mounts and set off separately toward the spot where Joe had seen the plane. They agreed to return to the ponies in two hours.

  Frank crept along furtively. After going several hundred yards, he stopped to listen. A noise came from his left. “Probably Chet,” he thought. But to play it safe, he hid behind a large log and waited.

  Presently a tall, grim-faced blond man stepped from behind a tree.

  The winner of the archery contest at the Circle O! Frank’s heart thumped wildly.

  The man clutched a bow in his left hand; five white-feathered arrows poked from the quiver slung over his back.

  In a panic Frank wondered where his friends were. Would they spot the archer before he let his deadly arrows fly?

  CHAPTER XVII

  Captured!

  THE blond man stopped, as if detecting someone’s presence, and carefully scanned the area. When he failed to see anyone, he stalked on through the woods.

  Frank wriggled from his hiding place and followed stealthily.

  Abruptly the man wheeled around. Frank ducked behind a bush. The archer looked left and right. Then, apparently reassured, he set off again, this time at a ground-covering lope.

  Frank matched the wiry man’s powerful strides. When they had gone about a mile, a trail seemed to appear out of nowhere.

  “I wonder where this leads,” the boy thought.

  The runner slowed down and emerged into a clearing. Frank, breathing heavily from the long run, concealed himself behind a tree.

  Directly ahead lay a small Indian village! Adobe huts rimmed an open space, where a dozen Indians sat at several workbenches. The man Frank had tracked entered one of the huts.

  “Boy!” Frank said to himself. “This is some surprise! No Indian reservation is supposed to be within a hundred miles of Crowhead!”

  Creeping around the edge of the camp, the boy tried to see what the Indians were doing.

  As Frank moved closer, he noticed that one Indian, seated on the ground beside a low bench in the shade of the trees, appeared to be the boss of the wor
kers. Now and then he left it to walk over to the other worktables, carrying back articles to examine.

  Frank watched for a chance to get nearer. When the man walked again to the middle of the clearing, the youth quickly stole to his bench.

  On it lay leather belts, watch straps, a silver-cased wrist watch, and several crooked arrow tie clasps!

  Frank stared in amazement. Had he found the headquarters of the gang?

  This must be the reason Arrow Charlie and Silver had not wanted Mr. Hardy or the boys to come to Crowhead! Did these Indians have a direct connection with the knockout cigarettes?

  Frank scurried into hiding seconds before the lone Indian returned. Then he hurried back toward the place where the searchers had agreed to meet.

  As he neared the point where he had hidden behind the log, he heard a noise in the underbrush. Had he been followed? Peering from behind a tree, he let out a low gasp.

  “Chet!” he called softly. “For crying out loud be quiet!”

  Chet looked up, startled at the voice.

  “Wh-where did you come from?” he puffed.

  “I heard you kicking around,” Frank chided. “You’d better watch it. Silver’s on the prowl, and there are Indians in these woods!”

  “Indians!” Chet exclaimed. “First a bear, and now Indians!”

  “A bear?” Frank retorted.

  “Well, whatever just chased me looked an awful lot like one!” said Chet, mopping his brow.

  In a hushed voice Frank told him about the hidden Indian camp. Chet’s eyes bulged.

  “Let’s get out of here!” he cried. “Wh-where’s my pony? I’m going!”

  Despite Frank’s efforts to restrain his friend, Chet broke away in a run.

  “Stop!” Frank demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Someone may have trailed me!”

  Hardly had he uttered this warning when two Indians appeared. One was the same tall man whom Frank had seen working alone in the clearing. They ran toward Chet. Apparently they had not seen Frank, who now dashed forward to help his pal.

  The men gave a cry on seeing Frank, and the taller one leaped toward him.

  Frank braced himself for the onslaught. The Indian, his muscles bulging, grabbed him in a viselike grip.