“All right. Let’s turn the tables,” Joe proposed eagerly. “We’ll set a trap.”
At that moment Mr. Miller returned, waving an ordinary postal card. “Here we are,” he called. “Doesn’t make much sense, though.”
Carefully Frank examined the smudged writing on both sides of the card. Then he handed it to his brother.
“Hmm—postmarked Denver, Colorado,” noted the young sleuth. “Addressed to Bill Gray.”
“Yes, but read the salutation,” Frank urged in excitement.
“Let’s see.” Joe squinted at the blurred scrawl. “It says ‘Dear Willard.’ This clinches it, Frank!”
“It’s the man you’re after, eh?” asked Mr. Miller. “What do you make of the rest of it, then?”
The entire message consisted of three letters, scrawled across the card in a heavy dark pencil and blurred by handling.
“Y—E—S,” Joe spelled, frowning. “Yes.”
“Yes—what?” the curious rancher wondered.
“I think I can answer that question, Mr. Miller,” said Frank suddenly. “But first, tell me, did you like Gray, or Grafton? Would you be willing to help him?”
“Best man with a Shetland pony I ever saw,” the rancher repeated emphatically.
Frank smiled. “Grafton’s not a cowboy, Mr. Miller. He’s an industrialist from Los Angeles. Not long ago he disappeared. We think he may have been kidnaped but escaped.
“For some reason, he hasn’t gone to the police but is trying to hide from his kidnapers. I believe we can find him, but the abductors are trailing us. Will you help us trap them?”
“I sure will!” Miller answered.
“Good. My brother has a plan.”
“Here it is, then,” Joe began as the others gave him their attention. “Slim and Curly have given me an idea. They’re young and they look a lot like Frank and me. Suppose we lend them our new outfits, and then after supper let them go to Yuma in our boat.”
“Any spies will think they’re us,” put in Frank. “Go on, Joe.”
“Meanwhile, we’ll go to Yuma by car dressed like a couple of cowboys from the ranch. If we time it right, your men should arrive about dusk —too dark for anyone to tell who they really are. We’ll be hiding nearby. Then, if we see anybody following the cowboys, we’ll nab them!”
“First rate,” Frank approved. “What do you say, Mr. Miller?”
The rancher was a step ahead of them. Already he had gone to the door and called to his wife, “Edith, ask Curly and Slim to step in here!”
After thanking the two cowboys who had rushed him to the ranch, Joe explained his plan.
“I’m game,” said Curly Jones, who resembled Frank. “Bill Gray was a good hombre.”
“Count me in,” Slim Martin added. “Sounds like fun.”
When the two cowboys had gone out again, Mr. Miller turned to Frank. “We’ll give you an early supper, and then you can go in to Yuma and get set.” He grinned. “But before you receive one mouthful to eat, you must explain to me what that postal card means!”
“Fair enough,” Frank answered, laughing. “Put yourself in Grafton’s place, Mr. Miller. He escapes out of Mexico with no money, nobody to go to for help, and perhaps kidnapers on his trail. He knows a lot about Shetland ponies. So he takes this job with you, to earn some money and to rest up. But then he starts worrying again—”
“Why?” the rancher questioned.
“Too close to Mexico,” Joe replied. “Too easy for the gang to find him.”
“Right,” Frank agreed. “He wants to get farther away. So he writes to a friend in Denver, telling some of his troubles and asking for a job.”
“And he tells the friend to address him as Bill Gray and just to answer yes or no!” Joe joined in excitedly.
“Right again.” Frank smiled. “But the friend was careless. He wrote ‘Dear Willard’ on the card. ”
Mr. Miller gave a whistle. “I think you’ve figured it out! So he left for a job in Denver. But what kind of job?”
“Mr. Miller, you said he was wonderful with ponies—really expert,” the young detective reminded him. “We’ll find him on a Shetland pony ranch not far from Denver, I’ll venture to guess!”
“I’ll bet you will, at that!” the rancher exclaimed with admiration. “Now, why couldn’t I figure that out myself?”
Shortly before sundown that night, two youthful figures, dressed in the Hardys’ new dungaree outfits, walked from the Miller pony ranch toward the Colorado River. Slim carried a rucksack on his back. When they reached the boat dock, the two walked directly to a red-and-white motorboat powered by twin outboard engines.
“Everything as we left her, Joe?” Curly Jones asked.
“Right, Frank!” his companion answered, throwing the rucksack aboard.
“So Grafton’s in a Yuma hotel,” said the other. His voice carried easily to the fisherman and men loafing along shore. “Well, let’s go!”
As the craft sped across the river toward the boat docks at Yuma, the young man steering her asked the other, “Well, how’d we do, Slim?”
“Pretty good, Curly. We make a good Frank and Joe Hardy!”
Two hours earlier a jeep had left the Miller ranch, throwing up a cloud of dust as it sped along the road to Yuma. At the wheel, wearing the big Stetson hat and checkered flannel shirt of the cowboy Curly, was Frank Hardy. Next to him was Joe Hardy, although from a distance he looked like the ranch hand Slim.
When the brothers reached Yuma police headquarters, they were not recognized by the desk sergeant who had been cordial to them a few days earlier. “What can I do for you fellows?” he asked gruffly.
“Let us see the chief. Tell him Frank and Joe Hardy are here.”
Startled, the sergeant looked closer. “Well, I’ll be ... I didn’t know you boys. What’s up?”
“We’re going to spring a little trap, Sergeant,” Frank answered.
A few minutes later Joe explained their plan to the chief, who nodded in approval. “Sounds good. I’ll send Wes Benton with you. He’s on our plain-clothes squad.”
Wes Benton turned out to be a tall, sturdily built man who had a great respect for Fenton Hardy as a detective. After briefing the man on the case, Frank and Joe set out with him for the water front.
The three took up a position on a bank overlooking the Yuma boat docks. Numerous small craft kept coming and going, churning up the water constantly. On the dock itself were a great many boat enthusiasts who, Benton said, went boating in the evening.
Among them, a Mexican instantly caught Frank’s attention. He was the only person on the dock who did not appear to be interested in some boat or other. The man stood fairly close to the three sleuths, and was peering across the water toward the other shore.
Just then Joe announced in a low whisper, “Here they come now.”
The Hardys’ red-and-white boat chugged into sight and headed straight for the dock. As the cowboys moored, Frank saw the mysterious Mexican stare at them intently. When Curly and Slim climbed the bank toward the street, the man followed.
Without a word, Frank pointed out the suspect to his companions. Then the trio also walked up the street, keeping as far behind the man as he kept behind the two ranch hands.
As Curly and Slim entered a hotel, the Mexican ducked into an alley. From there he edged up to the hotel window and peered inside.
“That’s our man, all right,” said Wes Benton gruffly as he closed in.
The Mexican was so intent on his spying that he did not notice the three come up behind him. Wes Benton seized his arm in a strong grip.
“You’re under arrest!”
Whirling, the man tried to run, but he found himself face to face with Frank Hardy. Joe blocked the other side, and at the same time the two cowboys burst from the hotel door. Hopelessly outnumbered, the Mexican went along quietly to the police station.
“His name is Rivera Acuna,” declared the chief, examining the man’s papers. “No record of legal e
ntry into the country. Book him as an alien, since he won’t talk, and put him in a cell.”
An officer led the prisoner away. Delighted with the capture, Curly and Slim shook hands with the Hardys, who thanked them for the impersonation.
“We’ll be headin’ back now in the jeep,” said Curly. “The boss will want to hear what happened.”
“Too bad you’ll miss the rest,” Frank replied.
“How’s that?”
“I have a strong suspicion our prisoner will escape from here in a very short while. What do you say, Chief?”
The officer grinned. “Yes. And if we let him go, he’ll take us right to his friends.”
“To bad we’ll miss it.” Slim and Curly shook their heads regretfully. “But we got to go.”
No sooner had the cowboys driven away than an officer hurried in to report: “He finally discovered the cell wasn’t locked and sneaked out the back way.”
“Let’s go!” said Wes, slapping his holster.
“No shooting when we find his companions,” pleaded Frank. “We want these men to talk.”
Slipping into the alley, the boys saw the Mexican disappear behind the corner of a building. Stealthily but swiftly, they followed. Wes and four officers came some distance behind.
The fugitive hurried through a series of back alleys, made his way to a little shack, and slipped inside. Fearing that the man might warn his friends, Frank and Joe made a rush for the entrance themselves.
“You’re all under arrest!” Frank cried out as they burst into the room.
Three startled Mexicans whirled to face the Hardys.
“Only two kids,” said the man who had escaped, advancing threateningly. “Get them!”
Ducking low, the boys met the rush of the three men head on. The only lamp was smashed instantly. In the pitch-dark room a wild and furious struggle began.
CHAPTER XV
An Important Discovery
SUDDENLY the beam of a powerful spotlight cut through the darkness of the little shack. Police whistles screeched outside. The three Mexicans scrambled to their feet and bolted for the door—straight into the arms of Wes Benton and the other officers!
The prisoners were hustled into two waiting police cars, one of which was carrying the spotlight. At the police station the Mexicans, sullen and bruised from the fight in the shack, would answer no questions.
“We want to go home,” Rivera Acuna repeated over and over in a dull voice.
“Nothing much we can do with them,” admitted the chief, disgusted. “They’re only small fry. I was hoping for bigger game.”
“Still, they won’t be following us any more,” Joe reminded him. “Now Frank and I can go ahead and find Grafton. We’ll go back to Blythe, pick up the plane. and fly to Denver.”
Bright and early the next morning the young detectives started back up the Colorado River. After portaging around the two huge dams, they ran with the throttle of their powerful engines wide open. Even so, the hundred miles of difficult, twisting river took them all dav to cover.
Around suppertime they reached Blythe. At the dock was the boat owner, whittling a stick unconcernedly.
“Reckon it was a good trip?” he asked. Carefully he folded the money Frank gave him and stuffed it into the watch pocket of his jeans.
“Reckon it was,” Frank answered with a straight face.
As the Hardys set off for the motel Joe grinned. “Reckon he was whittlin’ all the time we were gone.”
“Some people like a quiet life.” His brother laughed. “Wait’ll we tell Chet about our adventures!”
Chet Morton was not to be found, however. Nor did he show up at the motel. Finally the Hardys checked with the owner. Chet had phoned in a message that he was going on an overnight trip with Jim Weston. In the morning the brothers were forced to take off for Denver without him.
Flying almost directly northeast, Frank and Joe had soon passed over the state of Arizona. In the distance the high, rugged ridges of the Rockies thrust up against the blue sky.
“We’ll need altitude here,” Frank declared.
Below them, they could see the Rio Grande where it was still a swift mountain river. They crossed the Continental Divide near Pike’s Peak and then landed at Denver.
At the airport tourist information desk, the young sleuths obtained the name of the Redlands Shetland Pony Ranch nearby. “You can rent a car right here at the airport,” they were told.
Minutes later, the boys were driving through the mountainous country outside Denver.
“I can’t believe we’re so close to finding Grafton,” Joe said nervously. “Suppose this hunch doesn’t pay off?”
“Cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Soon the car entered the yard of the Redlands Ranch and stopped beside the house. As Joe got out, he caught a glimpse of a tall, slim, broad-shouldered cowboy entering a long, low building that looked like a stable.
“Guess we’d better ask here about Bill Gray,” Frank said, heading for the house.
“Never mind. Follow me!” Joe called. Astonished, Frank set off at a run behind his brother.
Joe entered the stable and paused for an instant to look around him. He saw a row of square stalls, all of them empty but one. In that one the tall ranch hand had just begun to currycomb a frisky-looking black-and-white pony.
“Sooo, girl,” crooned the man’s gentle voice.
As Frank and Joe came over, the pony’s big eyes rolled nervously, and she shifted about in the stall. Patiently the cowboy soothed her once more.
“Mr. Grafton?” Joe inquired tentatively.
The man’s head came up with a furious jerk. “What’s that?” he demanded, looking from Joe to Frank with startled, frightened eyes. “My name’s Gray—Bill Gray!”
“Don’t be afraid of us, Mr. Grafton,” Frank said kindly. “Your uncle, Clement Brownlee, asked us to find you. He’s been trying to locate you for months.”
“I—I mustn’t be found,” the man retorted, still alarmed. “It’s too dangerous for my family. Furthermore, I don’t know who you are. How can I believe your story?”
“I’m Frank Hardy and this is my brother Joe. We’re sons of Fenton Hardy, the private detective. We’re your friends, Mr. Grafton!”
“Friends?” The harried-looking man gave a sigh. “I don’t have any friends.”
“What’s become of your friend Clifford Wetherby?”
“My friend Wetherby,” repeated Willard Grafton with bitter sarcasm. “The one man I still had some respect for, and he played me for an easy mark. He sold me on going to Mexico. Said we’d have some adventures.”
“Wait a minute,” Joe interrupted. “You mean you and Wetherby went to Mexico together?”
Grafton nodded. “Yes. By boat and at night. We managed to sneak over the border without reporting to the authorities and joined his gang.”
Joe whistled. “So Wetherby is part of the gang!”
“Yes,” Grafton continued. “He set a guard over me, and threatened to harm my family if I escaped and reported him. I got away, but then I lost my courage because of the warning about my family. So I just disappeared. I hopped a freight and came across the border. I sent a letter to Wetherby under the name he used in Mexico, saying I wouldn’t squeal. But they’re after me just the same. They think I know too much.”
“Mr. Grafton, how did Wetherby talk you into the trip?” Joe asked.
“You wouldn’t understand.” Grafton shook his head hopelessly. “I’d just been double-crossed in business and felt very disillusioned. I wanted to get away for a while. Then Wetherby asked me to take a trip in my plane. We’d hardly started when Wetherby said he had a surprise and ordered me to land in the desert. Then he took me to a waiting boat. I thought Wetherby was a brave adventurer. It turns out he’s nothing but a crook!”
“Then it’s our job to bring him to justice,” Frank pointed out. “Only you can help us do that. What’s Wetherby’s game? What racket is he in?”
The frightened man was determined to reveal nothing more. “No.” He shook his head. “It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Look here, Mr. Grafton,” Frank began in a firmer tone. “You can’t hide away for the rest of your life. Too many people care about you. Everybody we’ve met on our search has had a good word to say about you. We visited Mrs. Grafton and your sons, too. I suppose I don’t have to say how they feel about your disappearance.”
At the mention of his family, the unhappy man burst out, “But what can I do? I can’t go home now!”
“Why not?” asked both boys.
“Wetherby would kill me,” Grafton wailed, “and he’d harm my family.”
“Tell your story to the police,” Joe urged.
Again Grafton shook his head hopelessly. “I can’t go to the police because I guess I’m a criminal now myself.”
“What do you mean?” Frank asked in amazement.
“Wetherby knows. I—I passed several bad checks for him.”
“Checks? What kind? United States government checks?” Frank caught him up sharply.
“No. Personal ones.”
With Grafton steadfastly refusing to go back to Los Angeles, Frank and Joe were in a quandary. But they elicited a promise from him that he would not run away and would think over their proposition. On the strength of this the brothers drove off to a highway restaurant where they could have supper and think the matter out. From the restaurant Frank put through a call to Chet at Blythe.
“Chet? This is Frank, in Denver, Colorado. I have news!”
“So have I!” cried the stout boy in high excitement. “I thought you’d never call. I’ve found a great new clue. I can’t tell you now—just get here as quick as you can! What are you doing way up at Denver, anyhow?”
“We’ve just found Grafton, that’s all.”
“What? No kidding!”
“Yes, but keep it quiet. We’ll be back as early as we can tomorrow.”
“I’ll keep my news until then,” Chet said, and a moment later Frank concluded the conversation.
Mystery of the Desert Giant Page 9
