Mystery of the Desert Giant (10 page)

“Nearest mechanic in Riita,” the farmer said.

“Riita—a long walk?”

The Indian nodded. Frank's hopes fell. But he took the opportunity to describe Grafton and Wetherby as clearly as he could to find out if they had been seen. But the Indian again shook his head. No Americans had stopped at the farmhouse for more than a year.

At that moment a wild whoop split the air. “Yippee! Frank! We're saved—here—around the house—come look!” Joe Hardy dashed out suddenly from behind the house, beckoned wildly, and dashed back again. “It's beautiful!” Frank heard him exclaim with admiration.

Closely followed by the Indian, Frank strode quickly around the little farmhouse. Joe Hardy was seated at the wheel of an ancient automobile almost as high as the house itself.

The car had a broad, flat roof, with blue sky showing through the holes in it. The glass of the big square windows had been knocked out long ago. The whole car was rusty except the wooden wheels. But the narrow tires were filled with air!

“I think I have the gearshift figured out, Frank!” Joe called down excitedly. “See if we can rent it!”

“This ... automobile ... does it still run?”

“Sí. Si!”
The Indian nodded vigorously and patted the ancient radiator with affection.

“You will rent it to us, so that we may drive to Riita for a mechanic?”

The Indian looked with approval at Joe Hardy, who seemed to be delighted with the old relic, and nodded.

The native drew them a map of the roads they would follow to reach Riita. Then he took off his hat and his faded denim jacket and bent over in front of the radiator. From the front seat, Frank and Joe could see his muscles straining.

“What's he doing?” asked Frank.

“Cranking. No starters in these crates, you know!”

With a grating, metallic sound the old engine turned over. Joe worked the unfamiliar levers and pedals furiously. Suddenly the whole car seemed to explode in a series of backfires like pistol shots. It stood there banging and vibrating as though threatening to shake into a thousand pieces.

“She runs!” Joe gloated.

The Indian, who had disappeared, now rushed back with a jug in each hand. He was grinning.

“What's that for?” Frank wanted to know.

Because the car was making too much noise for him to be heard, the man simply tapped the radiator cap significantly. Joe took the jugs and nodded. “In case she boils over!”

Frank handed the man some American money and climbed aboard.

“Adiós!”
the boys shouted above the din.

The Indian and his children waved good-by.

Bucking suddenly in low gear, the ancient vehicle clattered onto the rutted track leading from the farm. Soon the boys were bumping along at a good rate of speed.

“On to Riita!” Joe shouted in high spirits.

“You hope!” retorted his brother, hanging on to his seat.

They had gone about three miles when the road suddenly began to climb a hill, ascending in a series of hairpin turns. Halfway up, the engine started to wheeze and sputter. Joe shifted to a lower gear. Gallantly the vehicle ground forward. On the next turn Joe shifted down again. Still the tired motor strained and threatened to stall.

“We haven't any lower gear!” cried Frank. “We'll never make it!”

“Oh, yes, we will—I have an idea!”

Maneuvering carefully, Joe managed to turn the car completely around, so that they were heading downhill.

“Where are you going now?” cried his brother.

“Riita!”

Joe threw the car into reverse gear, and the old automobile began to grind steadily up the hill backward! “According to the old-timers, reverse is the best gear in these old crates!” he shouted to his brother above the noise.

When they reached the top of the ridge, Joe turned the car around again, and they started their descent.

“Oh—oh, I should have used a lower gear,” Joe said worriedly as the old jalopy picked up speed.

“Brake her a little,” Frank advised.

“What do you think I'm doing? The brake pedal is on the floor now and the emergency won't work!”

Completely without brakes, the old car plunged madly down the mountain road, careening wildly around the turns and going faster and faster every second.

“HANG on!” Joe shouted as he hugged the hill-side. “If we meet another car on the turns, we're done for!” Frantically he squeezed the rubber bulb of the horn, and as the cumbersome vehicle plunged wildly downhill, the old-fashioned horn blared out:

“Ska-goog—ah! Ska-goog
—
ah! Ska-goog—ah!”

Joe took the turns like a race driver, crowding to the inside as he went into them. He knew that any sudden twist of the wheel could cause the high automobile to turn over. Luckily there were no hairpin turns on this side of the ridge.

At last they were down off the hill, shooting forward over the level ground.

“Boy!” Joe exclaimed. “I wish this bus had a speedometer. We're practically flying!”

“Never mind,” his brother answered in relief. “After that drive, you're qualified for the 500-mile race at Indianapolis!”

“Well, we'd better come to a gas station soon,” Joe called back over the noise of the engine.

“Yes, to get these brakes looked after.”

“Brakes. Who needs brakes? What we need now is gasoline.” With one finger Joe indicated the car's fuel gauge.

“Empty!” Frank exclaimed.

Anxiously the boys scanned the road ahead of them. Though they could see for miles, there was no sign of a house—let alone a gas station—in any direction.

“Wait a minute,” Joe noted suddenly. “What's that crossing the desert in front of us? Looks like a line of telegraph poles.”

The poles stuck up at regular intervals among the big cactus and other desert growth.

“If they're telegraph poles, there's probably a railroad alongside them,” Frank reasoned.

At that moment the car's engine began to cough and sputter. The whole vehicle bucked as the motor stopped, started again, then quit entirely.

“There goes the last drop.” Throwing the gearshift into neutral, Joe announced, “We'll coast just as far as we can.”

When the ancient wheels finally rolled to a stop, the car was barely a hundred yards from the tracks. With the last bit of momentum, Joe had pulled his vehicle to the side of the road.

“Stuck in the middle of nowhere,” Joe complained as the boys piled out. “Stranded again. First the boat and now this car.”

“Cheer up!” Frank said encouragingly. “This railroad goes someplace where there's a mechanic. There's bound to be a train or a station. Let's start walking.”

“Which way? Toward the good old U.S.A.?”

“No. Riita.”

Quickly Frank checked his watch and then noted the position of the sun. “It's just six o'clock now. At this time of year the sun would be slightly north of west. I'd say this way—south-east.”

Walking on the crossties and crushed stone, the brothers set out at a good steady pace.

“Boy, I sure wish a train would stop for us,” Joe remarked wearily.

After a walk of about an hour, Frank's keen eyes picked out a small building beside the tracks. “Now we're coming to something,” he said, encouraged.

“Yes,” Joe agreed, when they were closer. “Looks like a little station. And say! There's a truck, and some fellows loading things. If we hurry, maybe we can catch a ride to some town and find a mechanic to fix our boat.”

“Sh!” Frank commanded. “Are they yelling to us, or what?”

As the boys stood still, shouts and loud, angry words in Spanish reached them.

“They're stealing the freight!” the agent shouted

“If those aren't shouts for help, I don't know my Spanish!” exclaimed Frank. “Let's move!”

Breaking into a fast run, the boys swiftly covered the distance to the little adobe station.

The first thing they saw was a man trussed up and rolling on the ground. He was shouting as loud as he could:

“Help! Thieves! They're stealing the freight!”

At that moment two men emerged from the station door, carrying a heavy box. Grunting, they moved with their load toward the waiting truck.

“Now!” Frank shouted, breaking into a sprint. “While their hands are full!”

Frank's well-aimed punch knocked one to the ground, stunning him. Joe had leaped on the other man. As all four went down together, the heavy box fell on the leg of Joe's man, causing him to cry out in pain. Seizing the advantage, Joe gripped his sturdy opponent around the middle with his legs and began to pommel him. But the strongly built man twisted away. Grabbing Joe by the shoulders, he flung the boy off, jumped up, and ran for the truck.

Meanwhile, Frank had plowed again into his adversary. While the man lay on the ground, winded, Frank dashed over to the freight agent.

Now, as the truck's engine roared into life, the thief suddenly leaped up and made a break for the vehicle. Joe was too late to stop him. In a moment the truck was speeding across the desert away from the station.

“How is the agent?” Joe asked, returning to his brother.

“Very well, thanks to you,” the man replied in excellent English. “As soon as I have rubbed some life into my wrists, which are very sore from the rope, I will shake your hand in gratitude.”

Seeing the surprised expressions on the faces of the Hardy brothers, he explained, “My name is Leon Armijo. I went to school in the United States while my father was working there.”

“Who were those men, Leon?” Frank asked.

“Freight thieves. Men like that often try to rob lonely stations. They took me by surprise. Except for you two, they would have everything. As it is, they got nothing. Where did you come from, so luckily for me?”

“From a car that broke down.” Joe laughed in answer. “That is, if you can call it a car.”

“We were on our way to Riita,” Frank explained. “It's urgent that we get a mechanic as quickly as possible to fix a boat we have on the river.”

“Nothing is easier.” Leon Armijo said. “I will have the next train stop for you. But that is too little return for your help. Where is your car? I shall have it fixed. When you return here, it will be waiting for you!”

Frank Hardy grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Good. The trouble is, we may not come back this way for some time. We're looking for a mechanic to repair our boat, and it may be easier to get back to the river another way. But, you see, we rented the car from a farmer and he may need it.”

“Do not worry,” said their new friend. “I myself will return the car.”

“In that case we accept your offer with thanks.” Frank told the agent where the Indian lived.

“It's nothing,” Armijo went on. “The next train is a freight north to Mexicali. But the one after that is a coach bound south to Riita.”

While they waited for the train, the grateful agent shared his supper with the two hungry boys. Then all three went outside. The sun was just setting far across the desert.

“This is just a shot in the dark, Leon,” Joe said, “but have you seen any Americans around here—any Americans at all—for the past few months?”

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.”