Mystery of the Desert Giant Read online

  For a moment the Mexican was silent as he searched his memory. “I do not know whether this will help you,” he said doubtfully, “but I will tell you a little story. This is a very lonely station. Very few Americans come here. But several weeks ago, about this time of night, a strange man arrived on foot. A freight train was stopped here. I was unloading packages when I noticed this man sneaking around the cars.”

  “A tramp looking for a free ride,” Joe suggested.

  “So I thought,” Leon agreed, “and I went over to chase him away. He was too tired to run from me. When I reached him, he said he was from the United States. He pleaded with me to let him climb into one of the empty freight cars. Somebody was pursuing him, he said.”

  “Was he a fugitive from the police?”

  The agent shrugged his shoulders. “That was what I did not know. He had walked a long way across the desert. I felt sorry for him. Just then I saw the lights of a car approaching the station very fast on the desert road. This man thought it must be his pursuers. Well, the train was about to leave. I had to decide quickly. I helped him into an empty boxcar.

  “Soon afterward—when the train had gone—the car arrived. Two men, I think from your country, hurried into the station seeking the tramp. They said he was a criminal. Somehow, I did not believe them, and pretended I knew nothing and did not understand. They went away.”

  “Why didn’t you believe them?” Frank questioned.

  “Well, because this man—this tramp—he did not seem like a criminal. He was an educated man. He spoke very well. Although he was frightened and in trouble, he complimented me for my English. I trusted him.”

  “How about the other two?” Joe asked.

  The Mexican frowned. “When I lived in the United States I saw that kind of man sometimes. Big, rough men who speak badly. Bullies. Men who have no respect for other people, or for law and order, either.”

  Excitedly, Joe burst out, “Frank! That tramp may have been Grafton. What a break!”

  “I think so, too,” his brother agreed. “We know that Grafton was well educated, pleasant, and people liked him. It all ties in. And the other two sound like some of the toughs we tangled with in Los Angeles.”

  “Listen, Leon,” Joe persisted. “Was this tramp tall or short? Was he frail or well built?”

  “A tall man,” replied the agent promptly. “Thin, wiry. He had walked a long way and was very tired, but not exhausted.”

  “That checks.” Frank nodded.

  “One thing more, Leon,” Joe pursued. “Which way was that freight train heading?”

  “North—toward the border.”

  “Hmm,” Frank put in thoughtfully. “In that case, why hasn’t Grafton returned home by now?”

  “Maybe he didn’t make it,” Joe suggested. “That gang might have caught him again. Maybe he was afraid they were watching his home. Or maybe he stayed in Mexico to try and rescue Wetherby!”

  “That’s an idea,” his brother agreed. “I’d forgotten about Wetherby. How come he didn’t escape with Grafton?”

  At that moment Frank, Joe, and Leon Armijo heard the whistle of an approaching train. “Here is the freight to Mexicali,” the agent announced.

  “Mexicali—and then the border!” Joe exclaimed. “That’s the train for us. If Grafton went north by freight, we will, too!”

  “But what about your boat?” Leon Armijo asked.

  “It will have to wait,” Joe replied. “A good thing for us it broke down!”

  Hastily, Leon gave them directions. “I will flag the train. When it has stopped, you two sneak down the track and climb into a car.”

  “Right—and thanks for everything, Leon!”

  The three shook hands. Then the agent went out with his flag, and the Hardys slipped off in the dark to make a circle back to the track.

  Soon the train rumbled in and stopped. Armijo carried some packages out and handed them to a man in a car just behind the engine. The train started again, with a long chain of jolts all the way to the caboose as each car got moving.

  Although the engineer did not know it, when he left the lonely desert station he was carrying two new passengers in one of his boxcars.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Spanish Hardys

  CROSS-LEGGED, the brothers sat before the huge open doorway of the boxcar and looked out. Under the pale, white light of the moon, the desert passed steadily before their eyes with its rocks and mesas, its scrubby plant life, an occasional wild animal, and the isolated adobe houses which showed no lights at this late hour.

  “What do we do next?” Joe asked.

  “Stick with the train as far as we can,” Frank proposed. “That’s probably what Grafton did. Let’s see what happens.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to sleep,” Joe announced, curling up. “I don’t care how bumpy this car is!”

  “Good idea,” Frank seconded in a sleepy voice.

  Tired from the hair-raising automobile ride, the long walk, and then the violent fight, the two boys fell into a deep sleep.

  Crash! Bang! Crash!

  Opening their eyes with a start, Frank and Joe found the bright light of morning flooding the boxcar. Next they discovered two strange men banging the side of the car with heavy sticks.

  “Wake up, tourists!” one ordered in a cheerful voice. “You will not go to the United States today. A taxi awaits you—a special taxi.”

  “The Mexican police,” Frank muttered, blinking, as he recognized the uniforms.

  “Yes, my friend,” went on the good-humored voice. “The border police. Last stop in Mexico. All free riders get off here.”

  “Are we in Mexicali, then?” Frank inquired.

  “Yes—in Mexicali. Now, come along. The other tourists are waiting.”

  Frank and Joe followed the officer past the motionless boxcars toward the front of the train. There a number of Mexicans, most of them dressed in the faded denim suits of farm laborers, were clambering into the back of a truck.

  “Who are all those guys?” Joe asked sleepily.

  “Free riders—like us,” his brother answered. “Trying to get over the border illegally.”

  By now the boys had reached the truck. The occupants extended friendly hands to help them aboard.

  “Where are they taking us?” Joe inquired.

  “Jail, probably.”

  “Jail!” Joe echoed. “They can’t put us in jail!”

  Suddenly the cheerful guard, who had been boosting Joe from behind, stopped and looked into their faces attentively, then walked to the side of the road.

  “What’s he up to?” Joe wondered.

  “Search me—reporting to his chief, I guess.”

  From the truck they could see the man talking to the officer who seemed to be in charge. Then in another minute they were rattling through the streets of Mexicali.

  At the police station the boys leaped to the pavement. Immediately the guard, who had preceded the truck in a jeep, pulled them to one side, while the other prisoners filed into the station.

  “Get on your way—fast!” he whispered. “Jump into the cab of the truck.”

  The vehicle’s engine was still running, and no sooner had Frank and Joe climbed in and slammed the door than the driver headed out of town.

  “What’s up?” asked Frank, bewildered.

  “The police are looking for some smugglers,” the driver answered. “Your name is Hardy? The guard was instructed to release you and send you away. I heard the order. I don’t know what it’s all about.”

  “That’s funny—” Joe began. But suddenly the young detectives looked at each other. “Hardy—it must be Dad!” Frank exclaimed.

  “Do you mean Dad got us out of that scrape? Then he must be around here somewhere. He may be working on this Grafton mystery himself!”

  Thoughtfully Frank shook his head. “I doubt it. If he were, why would he want us out of the way? His other case may have brought him to Mexico.”

  “And we landed ri
ght in the middle of it!” finished Joe. “So what now?”

  “Keep on looking for Grafton,” his brother replied. “Dad’s all right, I’m sure.” Turning to the driver, the youth asked, “Where are you taking us?”

  “Algodones.”

  “Then we’ll be back on the river and can have our boat fixed.”

  “You are detectives—working with the police?” the man asked.

  “We’re searching for an American who disappeared in Mexico,” Frank answered.

  “Go to the hotel on the main street and wait,” the driver advised. “I will have the police repair your boat and bring it to Algodones.”

  An hour later the brothers were purchasing some much-needed clothes in a small drygoods store in Algodones. Both bought sturdy dungaree trousers and short dungaree jackets to match. Frank added a bright bandanna, and each boy got a pair of the handsome high-heeled, hand-tooled, Mexican leather boots.

  Later, as they were about to register at the town’s main hotel, Frank had an idea. He not only spoke in Spanish, but he translated his name, when signing the guest book, as “Francisco Fuerte.”

  Quick-witted Joe Hardy signed as “José Fuerte.”

  “Good Spanish names.” The clerk smiled his approval.

  “Yes.” Frank laughed. “May I look at your guest book, please? I wonder if two of our friends passed this way?”

  “Were your friends fishermen?” the clerk asked.

  “Well—not exactly,” Joe replied. “They were making the trip downriver by boat. They’re older than we are—men about forty years of age. Both are thin, but one is taller than the other and more athletic looking. Maybe he stopped here on his way back. Grafton is his name.”

  The attentive clerk shook his head. Meanwhile, Frank had checked the book without results and now stood plunged in thought.

  “Our friends may have stopped some place along the way,” he suggested to the clerk. “One of them is a lover of Shetland ponies. He could never pass a Shetland pony ranch, if he found one, without stopping there.”

  “Then perhaps he never came this far,” the smiling clerk remarked. “There’s a pony ranch just over the border—between Yuma, Arizona, and Andrade, California. The Miller Ranch.”

  “Thanks.” Frank laughed. “Maybe we’ll have to pry him loose from there!”

  Alone in their room, Joe complimented his brother. “Nice work. That ranch may be a real lead. And if anybody snoops in that guest book, he won’t find the name Hardy—in English, at least.”

  After a hearty supper, the boys decided to telephone Chet. While Joe kept watch for possible eavesdroppers, Frank called Blythe from the restaurant’s telephone booth.

  “Thought I should be hearing from you fellows,” boomed the hefty boy’s cheerful voice. “What’s up?”

  “We’re on Grafton’s trail,” Frank reported.

  “Say, that’s great! What can I do?”

  “Just tell me one thing—have you seen Dad, or heard from him?”

  “No. Everything’s quiet here. But say,” Chet went on enthusiastically, “you should see the nighttime pictures of the desert I’m getting!”

  “Don’t tell me you go out on the desert by yourself at night!” Frank teased.

  “I have a swell new friend who goes with me,” Chet admitted. “A private airplane pilot named Jim Weston. He’s interested in infrared photography too.”

  “Well, try to be at the motel at this time every night,” Frank urged. “We’ll call you if we need anything.”

  “Roger!” their friend agreed. “Hope you find Grafton!”

  All the following morning Frank and Joe drifted in and out of stores, gas stations, and restaurants, talking casually to people who might have seen Grafton or Wetherby. The boys had no luck and went to sit in the hotel lobby. Just after noon the truck driver who had brought them from Mexicali walked in.

  “Your boat is at the dock,” he greeted the Hardys. “The repairs have been made. It runs perfectly.”

  “Hot diggety!” Joe exclaimed. “What are we waiting for?”

  Francisco and José Fuerte checked out of the hotel. Sporting their blue-dungaree suits and handsome new boots, the boys followed the driver to the water front. The familiar red-and-white boat was waiting for them, with their rucksack and other equipment on the front seat.

  “It was a very small matter,” replied the policeman at the wheel, when Frank tried to pay him for the repair. “Do not trouble yourself. We are always glad to help our neighbors to the north.”

  “We sure are grateful.” Joe smiled.

  In a few minutes the young detectives were out on the river once more, heading upstream under the warm afternoon sun. Soon they had crossed the border again—this time without any trouble.

  When the docks of Yuma, Arizona, became visible on the right, Frank headed across the river toward the California shore and they docked their boat at a public wharf.

  “Now for that pony ranch,” he proposed. “Shouldn’t be more than a mile or two from the river.”

  Joe hoisted the rucksack to his shoulders and followed his brother from the dock. Together they set off along a faint trail over the desert.

  “This leads straight to the ranch, according to the boat-dock owner,” Frank noted.

  After trudging for some distance, the low buildings and the corrals of the ranch came into view.

  “There she is,” Frank called.

  “Just in time, too,” Joe replied, as he swung down his pack. “These new boots are killing me. Hold up a minute while I slip into my moccasins again.”

  Quickly Joe pulled out the comfortable shoes and dropped them before him on the ground. Then, hopping on one foot, he pulled off the handsome but tight-fitting right boot and slipped his stockinged foot into one of the moccasins.

  “Ouch!” he shouted, quickly pulling his foot out again. Holding it in both hands, he hopped around on the other leg. “Ow—boy!”

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked, laughing.

  “It isn’t funny. Feels as if I’d stepped on a fishhook, only worse!”

  Wondering, Frank peered into the small, lightweight shoe. Suddenly he began to stamp on the moccasin viciously with the heavy heel of his own boot.

  “Fishhook, nothing!” he cried out. “There was a little yellow scorpion in your shoe. He must have stung you!”

  Both boys looked carefully at the small, straw-colored insect that Frank shook out of the moccasin. It had a long curving tail with a deadly barb at the end.

  “That’s what he got you with,” said Frank. “They hide in dark places during the day. He must have crawled into the rucksack down in Mexico. Sit still now. There isn’t a moment to lose!”

  Carefully Frank examined the sting. Working rapidly, he bound his new bandanna around Joe’s leg. Then, using a pencil, he completed the tourniquet and tightened the pressure on his brother’s leg.

  “That will slow the flow of blood, so the poison can’t circulate,” he observed. “Now let’s get to that ranch!”

  Fortunately, two cowboys saw the Hardys, one leaning heavily on the other, approaching the ranch. They sped out in a jeep and introduced themselves as Slim Martin and Curly Jones. After hearing what had happened, they took the Hardys quickly to the ranch house, where Joe was put to bed by the owner, Mr. Miller.

  “Get me ice cubes—quick!” Mr. Miller ordered. He was a short, capable-looking man, whose face was bronzed by the weather.

  Bags of ice were applied to the wound, and the owner gave Joe a shot of an antidote to counteract the scorpion’s poison.

  “Lucky we were able to treat you so quickly,” the rancher remarked after it seemed that the danger was past. “That sting could have killed you, or at least made you mighty sick. Where were you fellows heading?”

  “Here,” Frank replied. Briefly, he described Grafton. The owner and his foreman Hank, who had come in, looked at each other.

  “Why—that sounds just like Bill Gray,” the foreman remarked.
<
br />   “Bill Gray—Willard Grafton ... hmm ... might have changed his name just a little,” the owner agreed.

  “You mean he’s here?” Frank and Joe cried together excitedly.

  “Whoa!” said the owner, chuckling. “This man, Bill Gray, worked for me a couple of weeks. Sounds like the person you’re after. Too bad, but I don’t know where he went.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  Exchanging Names

  ALTHOUGH excited by the news that Grafton might have worked at the ranch, Frank Hardy was determined to make sure.

  “This Bill Gray—can you describe him, Mr. Miller?”

  “Guess so,” the ranch owner responded. “Let’s see.... He was tall, all right, kind of thin but pretty well put together. Hadn’t shaved for days and looked like a drifter. I wasn’t going to give him a job, but I was glad to take him on after I saw the way he worked with the ponies.”

  “How was that?” Frank asked.

  “Easy,” Mr. Miller recalled with approval. “Gentle. Knew just how to handle ’em. I don’t mean he just knew horses, either. Horses are a little different. This man knew his Shetland ponies.”

  “That’s Grafton!” Joe sang out from the bed.

  “And was he alone?” Frank went on, somewhat puzzled. “Nobody with him? Nobody came to see him?”

  Mr. Miller shook his head. “A nicer, more likable man you couldn’t find. Quiet, though—didn’t talk about himself. I was sorry to lose him. Wouldn’t say where he was going, either. But”—the rancher’s chair scraped as he got up suddenly —“I have something that may be a clue. Gray left it in the bunkhouse. I’ll get it.” Mr. Miller and the ranch foreman left the room.

  Instantly Joe said, “Frank, maybe Grafton broke off with Wetherby for some reason and is still heading north!”

  Frank nodded. “Grafton won’t talk about himself, and uses an assumed name. He could have become involved in a shady deal and is trying to get away from somebody. But who?”

  “Maybe,” Joe suggested, “he has enemies who haven’t been able to find him, but they knew we’re trying to, so they’re following us, hoping we’ll lead them to Grafton!”

  “Well, if that’s true,” Frank said thoughtfully, “Grafton hasn’t been out of their hands very long. Otherwise, those hoodlums wouldn’t have attacked us in Los Angeles. They would’ve followed us.”