The Firebird Rocket Read online

  The Hardys got up but Ponsley lay still. Joe leaned over and shook him by the shoulders. “Mr. Ponsley, are you all right?” he asked, worried.

  Ponsley groaned and stirred feebly.

  “He’s stunned,” Frank judged. “He’ll come around in a minute.”

  Salty hurried down the ship’s gangplank to join them. “Blimey, I’m sorry!” he panted. “Someone swung the ruddy boom too far out. The net’s not supposed to open till the operator presses the button. I don’t know what ‘appened. That bale might’ve ’urt you somethin’ terrible!”

  “It would have squashed us like beetles,” Frank said. “But we’re okay.”

  Ponsley sat up and opened his eyes. “Speak for yourself!” he cried. “I can hardly see! Good heavens, I think I’m going blind!”

  Joe noticed that Ponsley’s spectacles had been knocked off when he fell. The younger Hardy picked up the gold pince-nez, made sure the lenses had not been broken, and placed them back on Ponsley’s nose.

  “How’s that?” he asked.

  Ponsley adjusted the glasses with his thumb and forefinger. “Why, I can see again!” he said, relieved.

  “We’re not hurt, Salty,” Frank told the sailor. “But I don’t want to be in the way the next time your cargo net goes haywire.”

  Salty nodded and went back to the ship. Since Ponsley was more determined than ever to return to the hotel, they took a taxi to the Australian Arms.

  When they stepped into the Hardys’ room, they found it empty!

  “Where’s Chet?” Joe wondered.

  “We’d better find out—fast,” Frank replied tensely as he called the hotel desk. The clerk denied any knowledge of Chet’s whereabouts. “Perhaps he went out for a newspaper,” the man suggested.

  The Hardys and Ponsley waited for an hour to see if Chet would come back, but there was no sign of him. Finally Frank jumped to his feet. “Joe, what if Chet has been kidnapped?”

  “A dreadful thought!” Ponsley interjected.

  As they considered what to do next, a key scraped in the lock. Somebody was trying to get in without being heard!

  “It may be Chet’s kidnapper!” Frank whispered.

  The Hardys tiptoed across the room and stationed themselves on each side of the door, waiting for it to open.

  The knob turned and the door swung inward. The mysterious visitor stealthily entered the room.

  “Chet!” Frank and Joe cried in unison.

  Their rotund friend closed the door quietly. Placing a finger on his lips, he jerked his head in the direction of the window, and led them over to it. He motioned them to stand back so as not to be seen and pointed to a department store across the street.

  Two men were standing in front of it, watching the hotel. Another joined them and pointed at the boys’ window. He had a black beard and wore tinted glasses! When a policeman came along, the men pretended to look at the display of clothes behind the glass panels. When he had passed, they resumed their vigil.

  Chet tugged Frank’s sleeve and drew his friends away from the window. “I noticed them right after you left,” he reported.

  “Obviously they stayed here while Tinted Glasses shadowed us through Sydney,” Joe said.

  “Maybe we should call the police,” Chet suggested.

  Frank shook his head. “They can’t arrest these guys just because they’re standing down there watching us. Besides, Tinted-Glasses and his partners might not know where Jenson is. Their only job may be to keep us from finding him. If we get tied up in a hassle between these guys and the law, that may be just what they want. It’ll keep us from looking for Jenson.”

  Turning to Chet, Frank explained the clue they had just received, which pointed to Alice Springs as the next focus of their search.

  “Gosh, stop to think of it,” Chet said, “those lookouts may even be trying to find Jenson themselves—by shadowing us!”

  “That’s possible.” Frank agreed. “Either way, I think our best bet is to give ’em the slip.”

  “How?” asked Joe.

  His brother turned back to their chubby pal. “Does the hotel have a rear door?”

  “I checked that,” Chet replied. “Two more guys are out there in the alley. They look like they’re ready to jump us if we leave.”

  “The roof!” Joe said. “Maybe we can try that.”

  Chet shook his head. “I went up there. There’s a lookout on the opposite building. He’s watching the fire escape. And there’s no other exit.”

  “Then we’re trapped!” Ponsley exclaimed.

  “We are,” Chet agreed. “But I’ve worked out an escape route!”

  “How?” Frank asked.

  “Just grab an overnight bag with a change of clothes and come with me,” Chet said mysteriously. “Hurry up!”

  Ponsley went to his room and was back shortly. The boys had each packed a small bag and were ready. Chet motioned them out of the room and locked the door carefully. Then he led the way to the freight elevator. They took it down to the basement, and followed Chet to a storeroom.

  A tradesman was lifting empty crates into a truck backed up to the exit.

  “These are the friends I told you about,” Chet addressed him. “Since we left our belongings in our room, you know we’re not trying to gyp the hotel. We’re coming back.”

  “Righto,” the man replied. “You paid me. Now I’ll carry out my part of the bargain. Get into the truck, all of you, and lie low.”

  Chet climbed into the vehicle and edged his way toward the cab. Ponsley came next, then Frank and Joe. They crouched down behind the load of empty crates and the driver slammed the tailgate up. Then he went around to the cab, started the engine, and slowly moved the truck away from the hotel.

  Through a crack in the tailgate Frank could see the two men in the alley watching the back door of the hoteL

  “We outsmarted them after all!” he said with a chuckle. “They’ll be standing there forever!”

  The driver took them to George Street, where he stopped and let them off. “This is as far as you go,” he said. “Good-by and good luck!”

  The boys jumped out and thanked the man, then the truck sped away.

  “I saw the truck coming up to the back door when I was in the basement,” Chet revealed. “I figured the driver might make a deal with me, and he did.”

  “Good thinking, Chet,” Joe complimented him.

  Chet looked pleased. “What next?” he asked.

  After a council of war, they decided to go to the airport and spend the night at a motel. From there, they phoned Inspector Morell and asked him to have the bearded man and his cohorts picked up for questioning. But an hour later Morell called back to report failure. Apparently the crooks had discovered that the Hardy boys and their friends had gotten away, and had abandoned their stakeout of the hotel.

  Early next morning, the Hardys, Chet, and Ponsley took off for Alice Springs. The green areas around Sydney disappeared, and they found themselves flying deep into the Outback, where sand and huge stones extended to the horizon on all sides. Clusters of rocks ballooned from the desert floor into fantastic shapes.

  “If we were in the States,” Frank said, “I’d guess we were over Death Valley.”

  “Or the Dakota Badlands,” Joe added.

  “Well, it’s hot and dusty here, too,” the pilot pointed out. “There aren’t any rattlesnakes down below, but there are Australian brown snakes, which are nearly as deadly.”

  “You are not going to land, are you?” Ponsley asked, frightened.

  The pilot laughed. “Don’t worry. Landing in this part of the Outback is the last thing I want to do.”

  The plane crossed rivers where good farmland spread along the banks. Big cattle ranches occupied hundreds of square miles beyond the Macdonnell Ranges in Australia’s Northern Territory. Finally they landed at Alice Springs, and the four Americans got out. They stretched their muscles, cramped after the long flight, paid the pilot, and took a bus into town.
r />   They found Alice Springs crisscrossed by rows of hardy trees that managed to stay alive in the arid soil. The buildings were mostly small and roofed with tin. On Anzac Hill, a shining monument commemorated the Australians and New Zealanders who fell in two world wars.

  The boys stopped at police headquarters and asked about Jenson and Mike Moran. The officer on duty could supply no information on either, but gave the boys a list of hotels and guest houses where they could inquire.

  “Good thing this town isn’t big,” Frank said. “We won’t have too much trouble checking these out.”

  “Are they all within walking distance?” Chet asked.

  Frank had obtained a map of Alice Springs at the airport and looked at it. “I don’t know. Let’s start here and work toward the periphery of the town.”

  Checking with various hotels on the way, the four walked through Gorey’s Arcade, the shopping center of Alice Springs. They went along the streets past bars and hamburger joints, and noticed that many men wore cowboy hats, shirts, trousers, and boots. Some of the men were dark-skinned “abos.”

  “Those guys look like they came from Tombstone with Wyatt Earp after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral!” Chet commented.

  “Except that none of them carry six-shooters,” Frank added with a grin.

  They came to a fenced-in enclosure where a competition was being held. Cowboys lined the rails, waiting for their turn to rope steer and ride bucking broncos. Three judges on a raised platform judged the performances and awarded prizes.

  “A rodeo!” Joe exclaimed. “How about that!”

  “Let’s spread out and keep our eyes open,” Frank suggested. “There’s always an outside chance of spotting Mike or Dr. Jenson in the crowd. While we’re at it, we can chat with people, too, and find out if anybody has noticed an American answering either description. We’ll meet here in half an hour.”

  “Good idea,” Joe said, and the four separated and began buttonholing cowboys and spectators for information on the two missing men. None of the Australians had heard of them.

  They were on the way to their meeting place again when the main event of the rodeo began. A rider came out of a chute, like a streak of lightning, on a coal-black horse that leaped and twisted in a savage effort to throw the man off its back.

  Chet was fascinated by the violence of horse and rider contending to see who would win.

  “I could get a better view from that fence post over there,” he thought and climbed up. Carefully he positioned himself on the small post. But he got so involved in the show that at one point he lost his balance and dropped into the enclosure.

  Frank, who saw the incident from a short distance away, muttered something about Chet and his ideas. Then the bronco threw its rider and charged full-tilt at Chet, who had just gotten to his feet.

  “Watch out!” Frank yelled.

  CHAPTER XII

  Kangaroo Confrontation

  CHET froze as the black horse, glaring and snorting, galloped toward him with pounding hooves!

  Frank moved like lightning. He snatched a lasso that had been used in the steer-roping competition and hurled the noose in a long flying arc.

  As it settled over the horse’s neck, he fastened the other end of the lariat to a fence post. The enraged animal was about to trample Chet when the rope tightened and brought it to a rearing halt in a cloud of dust!

  Chet scrambled over the fence and fought for breath. “Frank,” he puffed, “you’re better than those TV cowboys any day!”

  There were loud cheers and a round of applause for Frank’s rescue. One of the contestants came up and spoke to him admiringly. “Good-oh, cobber! Your China would’ve ended up a proper mess if you hadn’t come through with that rope trick!”

  “China?” Frank looked puzzled. “Is that a word you cowboys use down under?”

  The Aussie laughed. “It’s good old cockney rhyming slang—‘China plate’ for ‘mate.’ And we’re not cowboys down here, Yank. We’re stock-men. My name’s John Harris.”

  Shaking hands, Frank introduced himself and his companions. Together they watched the rest of the rodeo, and Harris captured first prize for broncobusting. He invited them to join in the horseback ride around the ring. Ponsley quickly refused, saying he would rather wait on the viewing stand. He climbed up the few steps and sat down in a chair vacated by one of the rodeo judges.

  Harris brought up three mounts. Frank, Joe, and Chet climbed into the saddles and trotted in the procession around the enclosure. The Hardys, who had ridden horseback many times, guided their mounts with practiced skill.

  Chet clutched the reins with one hand, waved the other, and shouted, “This is for me!” His horse, feeling the tug of the bridle, thought it was time to rear up on its hind legs. The movement alarmed Chet, who slackened his grip and let the horse have its head.

  Finally the ride ended, the rodeo broke up, and the boys joined Ponsley for a walk back toward the center. They checked two more hotels without luck, then stopped at a luncheonette and ordered hamburgers.

  Chet pitched into his enthusiastically. “Nothing like a horseback ride to set you up for chow.”

  Frank laughed. “Chet, who was in charge, you or the horse?”

  “Maybe you’d like an encore,” Joe needled him. “We can go back if you like.”

  “No, thanks,” Chet said. “I showed the rodeo what I can do. That’s enough for me.”

  Ponsley was becoming annoyed. “This trip has not been a success,” he argued. “I’m sure Dr. Jenson isn’t here, and neither is Mike Moran.”

  Frank munched a pickle. “We only have a few more places to check, and we never give up prematurely.”

  Just then John Harris walked into the luncheonette, recognized the Americans, and came to their table.

  “Mind if I join you?” he asked.

  “Of course not,” Frank said, inviting him to sit down. Harris ordered a hamburger. While he ate, Frank told him they were looking for two missing Americans. “Got any suggestions?”

  Harris looked thoughtful. “I overheard a Yank talking to someone right here in this luncheonette not too long ago. He mentioned Cutler Ranch, a cattle station up north, owned by Americans.”

  Frank showed him the photographs. “Was it either of these two men?”

  Harris shrugged. “He had his back turned to me. I just remember the accent, since it’s rare in these parts.”

  Frank exchanged glances with his brother.

  “Worth a try,” Joe agreed.

  “It’s a long ride up north, beyond McGrath Creek and the Sandover River.” Harris warned. “So pick a car that gets a lot of miles to the gallon. You won’t pass any petrol pumps on the way.”

  Finishing his hamburger, he said good-by and left. Joe seemed to be watching someone. Presently he got up and muttered, “Let’s go!”

  Frank and the others paid their bill and followed Joe outside. But they had gone scarcely a block when Joe suddenly whirled around. His three companions saw him grab a seedy stranger in a battered, greasy-looking felt hat, who had been walking several paces behind them.

  “Why are you following us, mister?” the younger Hardy demanded angrily.

  The stranger cringed when he saw the fighting look on Joe’s face. “You’ve got me all wrong, mate,” he mumbled. “I wasn’t following nobody.”

  “Don’t give me that! You were eavesdropping on everything we said back there in the restaurant.”

  “Well....” The stranger hesitated nervously, then blurted, “I expect I did listen closer’n I should’ve done. But I was worried about what that stockman was telling you. Didn’t know if I ought to warn you or not.”

  Joe frowned. “Warn us about what?”

  “The Cutlers.”

  “What about them?” Frank demanded.

  “They’re strange blokes. From what I hear, they don’t welcome visitors—especially visitors who ask questions.”

  “How come?” Joe pressed.

  The seedy strang
er shrugged. “All I know is what I’ve heard some of the abos hereabouts say.”

  “What do they say?”

  “That they’ve seen nosy swagmen ride up to the Cutlers’ cattle station, but they’ve never seen none of them ride away again!”

  The four Americans stared at the seedy stranger uneasily. Before they could cross-examine him, he wriggled free of Joe’s grasp and hurried off down the street.

  “What did he mean by ‘swagmen’?” Chet asked with a worried, wide-eyed look.

  “Traveling cowhands, carrying their ‘swag’ or personal belongings in a blanket roll,” Frank explained. “I remember that much from what I read about the Outback.”

  “They may be traveling cowhands,” said Ponsley, “but if what we just heard means anything, once they go nosing around the Cutlers’ place, their travels come to a sudden end!”

  Chet felt cold chills. “You really think the Cutlers polish off trespassers?”

  “Suppose that guy was just trying to scare us off?” Joe suggested. “Suppose he doesn’t want us to see something out there? Maybe Jenson is a prisoner at the Cutler Ranch and they don’t want us to rescue him?”

  Frank stood up. “It’s still daylight. Let’s go!”

  Ponsley was against it. “I believe this will be another wild-goose chase,” he protested.

  “Mr. Ponsley, we can’t stop now,” Frank urged. “We know Americans took Jenson to Alice Springs. The Cutlers are Americans, and someone’s trying to keep us away from their place. We have to see what’s going on at the Cutler Ranch!”

  “You can stay here until we get back,” Joe proposed.

  “No, no!” Ponsley objected. “I don’t want to stay alone. I’ll go with you!”

  The group went to the only car-rental agency in town and selected a compact that gave them good mileage to the gallon.

  “You’re lucky,” the agent told them. “We were all out of cars, but someone returned this one sooner than expected.”

  “Good,” Frank said and paid for the rental. Then they drove north from Alice Springs with Joe at the wheel. The fertile region gave way to desert, after which signs of agriculture reappeared around McGrath Creek. They could see farm-houses with tall windmills pumping water from underground.