Mystery at Devil's Paw Read online

  Presently the forest thinned out somewhat, and Joe halted in surprise. Just ahead, partly screened by the trees, stood a cabin.

  Apparently the noise of crashing through the underbrush had been heard by the occupants, for the cabin door suddenly opened and a man burst out, pointing a rifle in their direction.

  He had on the striped trousers and boots of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, but instead of the regulation brown tunic, he wore a checkered sports shirt.

  “Halt!” the man shouted. “Don’t move!”

  “Halt!” the man shouted.

  Just then a second man appeared in the cabin doorway. He was tall, bearded, and haggard looking. A chain was trailing from one of his ankles.

  “Dad!” Ted gasped. “That other guy’s no Mountie—he’s a phony!”

  In his excitement Ted would have rushed forward, in spite of the uniformed man’s leveled rifle. Joe, however, grabbed his arm and held him back.

  In a low whisper he called to Frank, who was still concealed from the view of the rifleman. “Sneak up behind him, Frank!”

  Without another word, the older Hardy dropped on his hands and knees, worked his way back to denser cover, and made a circle of the cabin. He approached it from the rear as the gunman barked:

  “Okay, you boy heroes! Move forward with your hands high!”

  By this time Frank was peering around the corner of the cabin. Joe walked slowly, giving his brother time to act.

  “Come on, there!” the man cried angrily. “I haven’t got all day!”

  Frank, meanwhile, tiptoed up behind him, hardly daring to breathe, lest he give himself away. Joe, Ted, and Fleetfoot looked on tensely as they approached, hands in the air.

  Frank was now directly behind the phony Mountie!

  “Ha-ha,” the thug jeered. “The boss said I might get company. Now step—Ugh!”

  The words were choked off as Frank crooked one arm around the man’s windpipe, and snatched the rifle away with the other. The man whirled and fought like a wildcat, but Frank wrestled him to the ground. Joe and Fleetfoot, rushing forward, quickly helped to subdue him.

  “All right! On your feet!” Frank snapped, stepping back and covering the prisoner with his own rifle. Muttering, the man obeyed.

  Ted, meanwhile, was having a joyful reunion with his father. “I can hardly believe it’s you, son!” Mr. Sewell said huskily as he and Ted hugged each other. “This is too good to be true!”

  “It is true, Dad! And we’ll soon have that chain off!”

  Frank ordered the impostor to surrender the key to Joe, who quickly unlocked the shackle from around Mr. Sewell’s ankle. The wildlife expert then told his story. He had discovered the same singing wilderness which the boys had come across the previous day.

  “I couldn’t figure out who was broadcasting,” Mr. Sewell related, “but I decided to report the matter to Juneau. Before I could do so, several men jumped me from behind. They brought me upriver in a boat, and then marched me inland to this cabin. I’ve been chained up here ever since.”

  Frank wanted to ask if Mr. Sewell had heard the gang mention anything about the lost rocket, but decided against it. “No sense letting our prisoner in on what we know,” he thought. Turning to Fleetfoot, he directed, “Take this fellow away from the cabin and keep him covered, will you?” The Indian nodded, borrowed Ted’s rifle, and herded the captive out of earshot.

  Then Frank turned back to Mr. Sewell. “We believe this gang may be led by foreigners, but that phony Mountie speaks like an American. Any idea who he is?”

  Mr. Sewell shook his head. “I don’t even know his name. The other men called him ‘Watchdog.’ However, from his accent, I’d say he comes from Chicago!”

  The Hardys gave Mr. Sewell a quick summary of the whole case to date, including their finding of the Indian treasure at the burial ground. The woodsman was astounded, but could offer no solution to the mystery.

  “The men who captured me were careful not to say anything which might give me a clue,” he explained. “However, I once overheard them mention the word ‘totem.’”

  “Meaning what, do you suppose?” Joe asked. “A totem pole?”

  “Probably so. Perhaps they’re using one as a landmark.”

  “It may mark the spot where they’ve cached the loot from the Indian grave houses,” Frank conjectured.

  “It’s possible,” Joe agreed.

  “We’d better get out of here before someone comes back and sees us,” Ted urged. “Dad, do you think you’ll be able to walk for a while?”

  Mr. Sewell nodded. “I have no choice. Rusty muscles or not. But listen, let’s take some food. There’s canned meat in the cabin, also bread and fruit.”

  Ted’s father had been fed little more than scraps during his captivity, and was obviously in need of nourishment. The boys, too, were growing very hungry and took whatever they could stuff into their pockets.

  Then they started back toward the river with their prisoner. Once during the trek Watchdog tried to escape, but the boys quickly forced him back on the trail.

  Mr. Sewell began to ache badly after a while. Even though he tried not to show it, Ted knew his father was weak and barely able to make it.

  “Let’s stop over there and eat,” he suggested. “It will give Dad a chance to recuperate a little.” He pointed to a secluded spot on the side of a rock.

  They sat down, covered from view by shrubs and trees, and quickly distributed the food.

  Ted produced a can opener. “I found this in one of the cabinets,” he said.

  “Sure comes in handy,” Frank said with a grin, and opened a can of ham.

  “This is the best meal I ever had,” Mr. Sewell said. “I’m starting to feel better already.”

  Soon they were finished and on their way again. Suddenly a shrill birdcall shattered the silence of the forest.

  “Hey! What was that?” Joe exclaimed as he and the others turned around, scanning the branches of the nearby trees.

  Mr. Sewell was particularly puzzled. “I’ve never heard a birdcall like that!” he declared. “I wonder—”

  His words broke off at a shout of dismay by Frank. “The prisoner! He’s gone!”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The Totem’s Secret

  THE boys glanced about in consternation. Watchdog had vanished as suddenly as the strange birdcall had stopped!

  Frank was now red-faced with anger. “After him!” he exclaimed.

  “But which direction did he take?” Ted asked. “He was so quiet we don’t know where he is. And it’s easy to hide here in the woods.”

  “We’ll split up! Let’s go!”

  Frank and Fleetfoot disappeared into the bushes on the right, while Joe and Ted searched the area on the left side. Discouraged after their ten-minute futile search, the four boys joined Ted’s father who had waited on the trail.

  “I just remembered that Watchdog is a ventriloquist,” he told them. “He used to practice at the cabin to pass away the time. He projected that birdcall, and while we were gawking around, he sneaked off!”

  Suddenly Fleetfoot pointed. “There are his footprints. I’ll find him now!”

  The youth started off at a quick lope, Frank and Joe following at his heels. Ted and his father hurried along behind them. The searchers moved quietly, every sense alert.

  Soon the Indian boy stopped and raised his right hand. The searchers came to a halt. Fleetfoot beckoned them forward and pointed to a massive rock formation which loomed up on one side of a creek bed. At the foot of it was a black, gaping hole, obviously the entrance to a cave.

  “How are we going to flush him?” Ted wanted to know.

  Frank was worried that the cave might have an exit as well. “I’ll scout around back of those rocks to see if there’s a way out.”

  He had gone only three feet when a hoarse cry emitted from the opening in the rocks!

  The weird cry issued forth again. Frank and Joe screwed up their courage and advanced closer t
o the black hole.

  All at once the head and shoulders of a man appeared. Crawling on all fours, he scrambled out of the cave like a beaten animal.

  “Watchdog!” Frank yelled.

  The fugitive sprang to his feet and rushed forward in headlong flight. As Frank and Joe converged upon him, Watchdog tripped on a root and fell to the ground with a thud.

  “Got you!” Frank cried. He grasped Watchdog’s arms and held them behind his back.

  Then, just as suddenly, Frank sprang off his prisoner. “Whew!” he exclaimed, sniffing. “Skunk!”

  In spite of the gravity of the situation, everyone except the prisoner, who lay half stunned and gasping for breath, burst out laughing.

  “There comes our friend!” Fleetfoot pointed to the cave entrance. A small black animal with a white streak down his back poked his nose out into the underbrush.

  “Mr. Polecat deserves a medal!” Joe said, doubling over with mirth.

  “But what about Watchdog?” Ted grinned. “How can we travel with a smell like that?”

  “A bath will help,” Frank said. He and Joe led Watchdog to a nearby creek.

  “Jump in,” Frank ordered, unable to suppress a wry smile. “Clothes and all.”

  Watchdog obliged. He dived into the water and splashed about, at the same time emitting uncomplimentary remarks both about the skunk and his captors.

  “I’ll get even for this.” Watchdog glowered as he stepped from the creek and wrung the water from his clothes.

  Mr. Sewell could not suppress a grin. “You certainly picked the wrong hiding place!”

  Frank then turned to their prisoner. “Just to see that you don’t try any tricks, we’ll keep you close to us!”

  “Hey, not too close,” Joe begged as Frank pulled off his belt and tied Watchdog’s hands securely behind him.

  “Now listen,” Frank told Watchdog sternly, “we’ll travel single file. You stay five paces behind me. Joe, you keep about the same distance behind this guy.”

  Anxious not to lose any more time, the group proceeded to the river at a brisk pace. Here the canoes were uncovered and reloaded. Frank retrieved his belt while Joe rebound the prisoner’s hands with rope. Then he was placed in the bottom of one of the canoes and covered with a piece of tarpaulin, in case other members of his gang should appear along the way.

  “We ought to report what’s happened,” Joe said. “Do you think we can raise Juneau on the radio?”

  Frank set to work immediately, but after hoisting the aerial, he could get only static over his headset.

  “Terrific interference,” he told Joe. “Sounds as if there’s some electrical device here in the woods.”

  “Like what?” Ted asked.

  “Perhaps someone else has a powerful radio,” Mr. Sewell put in.

  Joe winked at his brother. “Maybe a dentist has an office nearby,” he said.

  Frank gave his brother a thump on the arm. “Stow the corny jokes, Joe!”

  The lighthearted attitude of the Hardys continued after they had launched their canoe into the stream. With Ted and his father paddling alongside them, Frank and Joe fairly shot along with the current.

  “Boy, this is what I call fun!” Joe exulted as they sped through the foaming rapids.

  They crossed the boundary line at a fast clip and mile after mile went by under the swift stroke of their paddles. At seven o’clock they beached their canoes long enough to eat supper.

  “Frank,” Joe said, “you can hand-feed Skunkie Boy over there. I wouldn’t advise untying him again.”

  “I caught him, so I guess I’m stuck with him.” Frank grinned and moved over to where the prisoner lay in the canoe.

  “Sit up,” Frank said. “I’ll feed you your beans. Watch your manners.”

  Watchdog chewed glumly as he ate his supper.

  “If you want room service during the night,” Frank jested, “push the button.”

  The sinister outline of Devil’s Paw looming in the distance, however, brought the boys back to awareness of their grim situation.

  “Are we going to camp here tonight?” Ted queried.

  After a hasty conference, both the Hardys and Mr. Sewell decided against such a move.

  “We ought to get our prisoner back to Juneau as soon as possible,” the woodsman suggested.

  Frank and Joe agreed. “Suppose you and Ted take him along,” Frank said.

  “And leave you here?”

  “The three of us will be safe enough,” he assured the Sewells.

  Joe declared that they should at least stop at the enemy’s camp long enough to see whether Robbie had returned to the helicopter.

  “All right,” Mr. Sewell acceded. “Ted and I will go on and report everything that has happened, but be careful.”

  It was still daylight by the time the adventurers re-embarked and reached the point on the west bank of the river near the trail which led to the camp at Devil’s Paw. Here the Hardys made another attempt to get in touch with Juneau by radio. This time the static was even louder.

  “Boy! This is a real mystery!” Joe removed his headphones. “We’re getting interference from something mighty powerful.”

  The Sewells stopped along the riverbank to say good-by, then paddled out of sight along the foaming river. After they had gone, Frank, Joe, and Fleetfoot turned their attention to the job of caching the two remaining canoes and their supplies.

  Joe suggested that they also check on the fuel cans which they had hidden earlier. They found them still in place and Fleetfoot reported no footprints were in evidence nearby.

  Once again the three companions followed the beaten trail up the mountainside to the camp. Dodging behind the trees and peering from beneath the bushes, they silently approached the area. Nobody was in sight.

  Suddenly Joe clutched his brother’s arm. “Look over there,” he said.

  “What do you know about that? Robbie’s sweater!”

  The three boys stepped forward to examine it. It was a blue garment with red trim. The way it lay on the ground, however, made Frank suspect that it had not been dropped accidentally.

  “Look!” he said, and indicated the left arm of the sweater. “See how the sleeve is pointing, Joe.”

  “That was done on purpose!” Joe exclaimed.

  “Of course. Robbie put this here to give us directions.”

  Fleetfoot spoke up approvingly. “Robbie is like a good Indian. He gave a sign.”

  The sweater arm pointed southwest over an area of rock and shale. The ground was too hard to reveal any footprints.

  Frank and Joe left the sweater untouched as a safety precaution, in case they lost their way and wanted to find the trail again. Then they set off with Fleetfoot. Gradually the ground sloped away to a heavily wooded valley. Just before the edge of the timber, Fleetfoot’s keen eyes noted several sets of footprints leading in the direction they were going.

  “We are on the right track,” he said.

  With extreme caution, the three boys pushed their way among the pines and underbrush. The forest was wrapped in a brooding silence. The setting sun shone blood red over the hills.

  The Hardys and Fleetfoot continued on through the towering trees. Frank was the first to step out into a small clearing. Silently he beckoned to the others.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Joe.

  Frank pointed. “There, next to that leaning pine tree.”

  Joe shielded his eyes with his hands to keep out the sun’s glare.

  “By golly, Frank, that’s a thunderbird!”

  The figure stood out above the tall grass, and when Fleetfoot saw it, he said, “That’s the top of a totem pole.”

  Advancing cautiously, the boys came upon a ten-foot post, with angry-looking faces of salmon, bears, and sea otters with bared fangs.

  At the top of the totem, a thunderbird leered down at them with outspread wings. Though badly weather-beaten, the pole still showed traces of red, yellow, and blue paint.

  “Coul
d the pole be a landmark?” Joe asked.

  “I’m sure it’s more than that,” Frank reasoned, “because the footprints led directly to it. This thunderbird totem must be of some special importance.”

  The Indian boy’s hands were moving over the carved images. He turned to grin at his two companions. “Sometime totem pole hide important messages.” Fleetfoot next felt around the indented mouth of the salmon.

  “No message here,” he said, disappointed.

  Joe glanced up. “What about the thunderbird? Could that have a message in it?”

  Fleetfoot shrugged. Whereupon Joe said, “Come on, Frank, give me a boost. I’ll take a look for myself.”

  Frank cupped his hands together waist-high, and Joe placed his right foot in the hand stirrup.

  “Up you go!” Frank gave Joe a strong boost.

  Joe deftly put a foot on either of his brother’s shoulders. He was now high enough to reach the thunderbird.

  “Look in the beak,” Fleetfoot said.

  “False alarm,” Joe reported. “The bird doesn’t have a message and—Hey! Watch it, Frank. Don’t wriggle like that!”

  Frank had moved slightly to slap at a mosquito, and in doing so had thrown Joe off balance. He pitched to one side, brushing against the right wing of the thunderbird. It fell off.

  “Look out below!” Joe cried. He hit the ground with a thud. The wing just missed his head.

  “You hurt?” Fleetfoot asked.

  “I’m all right,” Joe said, getting up and rubbing his thigh. “But look at the totem pole. I guess I ruined it.”

  The three boys glanced up to the place where the wing had been ripped off the towering figure.

  Fleetfoot whistled. “That was meant to come off! See? There’s a hole in the totem pole.”

  “Wow!” Joe exclaimed. “Let’s investigate!”

  This time Frank was hoisted to the shoulders of Joe and the Indian, who stood side by side. Tense with excitement, he reached up into the opening.

  “Hey, fellows!” he cried out. “Something’s in here!”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Enmeshed

  JOE and Fleetfoot stared upward as Frank withdrew his hand from the opening in the totem pole.