Mystery of the Desert Giant (13 page)

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.

After supper the two young detectives drove slowly back to the Shetland pony ranch. Now that the work of the day was over, the ranch hands were enjoying themselves. Some lounged in the yard, while others played cards and told stories in the bunkhouse. Grafton sat cross-legged on his bunk, mending a saddle. He appeared calmer than he had in the afternoon.

“Looks like a nice bunch of men to work with,” Frank commented as Grafton joined them outside.

“Yes,” he agreed. “They're good fellows. Nobody knows anything about me here. I get along with them all.”

Slowly Frank, Joe, and Grafton strolled away from the buildings toward the fields where the herd of Shetland ponies was pastured.

“I can understand why you don't want to leave here,” Frank admitted. “It's a nice place, and you're safe—both from the law and from Wetherby. But we have a proposition for you, Mr. Grafton.”

“What is it?” Grafton faced them squarely. Already he seemed to have regained some of his confidence.

“Don't go back to Los Angeles just yet. Help Joe and me and our dad to track down Wetherby and capture him. That will square you with the law and get rid of the threat to your family.”

Grafton hesitated only a moment. Then, gratefully, he shook Frank's extended hand.

“It's a deal. Where do we go from here?”

“Back to Blythe.”

Grafton looked troubled. “Wetherby has spies in that area,” he objected. “They'll know me right away.”

“Leave it to me,” Frank assured the man. “I have an idea of how to take care of that!”

LATER that evening, after the cowboys had retired to the bunkhouse, the kitchen of the Redlands' ranch home presented a strange scene.

On a chair in the middle of the room sat Willard Grafton. A sheet was draped about his body from the neck down. Above his head Frank Hardy brandished a pair of scissors in one hand and a comb in the other, like a barber working on a customer. With a flourish, Frank cut away a lock of Grafton's brown hair, and then stepped back to observe the effect.

“Ooops—got an ear that time,” warned Mr. Redland, a boyhood friend of Grafton.

“What do you think you're doing there, barber?” Joe demanded with pretended severity. The rancher and his wife laughed heartily as Grafton winced.

“I'm adding thirty years to Mr. Grafton's age,” Frank defended himself. “Who ever saw an old drifting cowboy with such well-cared-for hair? Off it comes!”

Snip! Snip! When Grafton's hair seemed ragged enough, Frank sprinkled on some powder from a special Hardy make-up kit which Joe had driven back to the plane to fetch. After a good rubbing, Grafton's rich brown hair had become a dingy gray color. “No shaving for a while now,” the young barber ordered. “Tomorrow, whiskers gray, too!”

Another powder gave a dry, grizzled look to Grafton's skin. Then Frank added a few age lines with a make-up pencil. “Now, stand up.”

Pulling off the sheet, Willard Grafton obeyed. His outfit consisted of down-at-the-heel boots and tattered clothing that the other ranch hands had discarded.

“That old cowpoke has sure seen better days.” Mr. Redland chuckled.

“Let's see you limp across the room, Mr. Grafton,” Joe directed.

Obediently the disguised man moved slowly, in a series of awkward, painful jerks, toward the wall.

“No, no—not that way,” Joe objected. “A person who limps doesn't walk like that. He walks smoothly—and just as fast as we do!”

Demonstrating, the young detective hobbled briskly across the kitchen as though he had had a limp for years.

“Say, that's right, Joe,” Mr. Redland declared. “I've noticed myself—once a man gets used to his limp, he moves around pretty fast.”

After Grafton had practiced walking for a while, the group prepared to break up.

“Now remember,” Joe instructed Grafton, “you're an old unshaven cowboy with a limp. Early tomorrow you hitch a ride to the airport with one of the hands. Then you stow away on our plane. If anybody chases you out, come back later and sneak on again. We'll show up about noon.”

Frank, Joe, and the disguised Grafton stayed at the ranch house overnight and set off in the morning.

When the Hardys boarded their plane the next day, they discovered a seedy-looking old codger cowering in the back seat.

“Who's that?” Frank demanded gruffly.

“A stowaway, sir,” Grafton pleaded, grinning.

“Keep your head down!” Joe warned. “We're not supposed to know you're here until it's too late!”

The plane roared down the runway and ascended into the sky. In all directions its passengers could see the jagged ridges of the Rocky Mountains. Grafton was thankful for the speed of their flight back to Blythe.

“To think it took me three days to hitchhike that distance!” he declared.

“There's Chet, waiting with a rented car,” called Joe as they taxied up to the hangars.

The door of the plane opened and Joe Hardy jumped down. Frank followed and then held the door open.

“Come on! Get down from there!” he ordered harshly.

Meekly a gaunt, disheveled old cowboy lowered himself to the ground. When the boys strode toward the car he hobbled respectfully behind.

“Who's he?” Chet demanded, bewildered. When the Hardys did not reply, he added, “Not Grafton!”

“Hush!” Joe hissed in warning, glancing around.

“This old coot stowed away on us, Chet,” Frank announced in a loud, angry voice. “Keep your eye on him while we make a report, will you? I mean to have him arrested!”

Catching on, their chum responded, “Right. Get over here, you!”

Frank and Joe then walked over to Gene Smith's office, actually to find out about leaving the plane for a few days. When they returned to the car they discovered Chet alone, looking frantically in all directions.

“Where's Graf ... that cowboy?” asked Joe.

“Gone! Vanished,” wailed Chet miserably. “I swear I just peeked inside the hood for a second, and he disappeared into thin air. And after you guys had such a job finding him. Oh, I could kick myself!”

“Never mind that,” Frank cut him short. “Scatter, quick! Find him! His life may be in danger!”

“I'll take the parking lot,” Chet volunteered, hustling off.