Mystery of the Desert Giant (3 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: Mystery of the Desert Giant
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From the opposite end of the runway a small Cub was racing toward them in a take-off run downwind!
Frank's mind worked desperately. “If I swerve, we'll crash! If I brake her, she'll nose over! If I pull up, I might hit the other ship in mid-air! Straight ahead, then, braking slowly!“
The boys stared ahead of them in horror
Observers gasped as the two planes rushed toward each other. At the last instant, the Cub pulled into the air. The boys could see her wheels passing a few scant feet above their heads.
“Wow!” cried Chet, who was shaking with fright.
Not another word was said until an airline pilot, who was the first to reach the boys after the near collision, pumped Frank's hand. “Well done! That fool pulled onto your runway from nowhere. Better go over and file a violation. They'll have his license in two shakes!”
Unfortunately, nobody had noticed the Cub's registration markings. The pilot had not been cleared for take-off and could not be traced. The report was the same the next morning when Frank, Joe, and Chet winged their way southwest across the plains.
At Amarillo, Texas, they stopped to rest and refuel. From here they followed the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks west. When they picked up the silvery, snakelike course of the Colorado River, Frank turned north.
“Sharp lookout for giants, everybody!” he ordered.
Dropping to an altitude of six hundred feet, he began crisscrossing the river. Eagerly the youthful detectives searched the flat surface of the California desert and the mountainous Arizona terrain.
“Frank! There—at two o'clock! A desert giant!”
Banking, Frank circled the spot, a large flat bluff a hundred feet above the water on the Arizona side.
“Long-legged fellow, isn't he?” Chet remarked. “Say, one of his feet has been bitten off by that cliff!”
“Erosion, probably,” Frank guessed. “But what do you make of that smaller fellow, and those other markings next to him?”
Alongside the big giant was a figure perhaps half as large. The outline of this second giant was dug into the ground rather than scraped into the surface like his mate, so he looked more substantial.
“That's a funny design between them,” Chet observed. “Looks like a cross.”
“It is—a Maltese cross, an old European design. It was the emblem of a group of Crusaders called the Knights of Malta,” Frank explained.
“But I thought these pictures were made by Indians,” Chet objected.
“That's right,” Joe agreed. “The cross seems to prove the Indians had had some contact with Spanish explorers when this giant was made.”
“This wasn't the place where Willard Grafton disappeared, was it?” Chet asked. “You mentioned Blythe, California.”
“Right. And we'll head there next.”
Frank went on to the California side of the river, and in a few minutes spotted another desert giant. Near him in the gravelly ground was the figure of a mammoth dog. Some distance away was a lone giant.
“This is where Grafton's plane came down,” said Frank.
“It's sure amazing,” Joe remarked. “I can't wait to do some investigating.”
After flying over still another group of a giant and a horse, Frank said, “Guess we'd better get to the airport.”
He consulted his chart and turned toward the Riverside County Airport. Frank, after getting radio instructions, brought the plane down in a perfect landing and taxied toward the hangars.
As the boys piled out of the cabin and stretched their legs, a stern, unfriendly-looking man approached them.
He introduced himself as an official of the Federal Aviation Agency. “All right, boys. Which one is the pilot?”
Surprised, Frank handed over his pilot's license, which the man scrutinized carefully. “You're the one all right,” he announced gruffly. “You'll have to come with me!”
CHAPTER III
Clue Hunting
“WHAT'S the matter?” Joe asked, puzzled.
The stern-looking man did not answer. He merely motioned with his head for Frank to accompany him. At the same time he took the boy's arm.
“Unload our gear, anyway,” Frank called as he turned to go. “I'll see to this.”
The man led Frank to a small building and into an office. Inside, a stout, jovial-looking man sat at a little desk. He seemed to be engaged in a wrestling match with the typewriter in front of him, for he had grasped it by the roller in two big hands and was tugging first one way and then the other to move it.
“Hello, Cooper. Never could use one of these things!”
Smiling, Frank Hardy stepped forward. “Allow me, sir.” He pressed the lever that allowed the carriage to slide back and forth.
“Humph!” the man grunted. “Thanks, my boy. ”Who is this?” he asked, turning to the man named Cooper.
“That young Hardy pilot. The one they're after for causing that near crash at Chicago.”
The man at the desk looked at Frank sympathetically. “I'm sorry, son. This may mean your license. But we can't be too careful about air safety.”
Perceiving in a flash that someone had misrepresented the incident at Chicago, Frank declared, “Sir, if you think I'm responsible for that near collision, you should get the real facts from Chicago.”
“Why, that's where our information came from —by long-distance phone call!”
“But not from anyone in authority,” Frank insisted. “And why wasn't the message teletyped?”
“You have a point, son. We'll get in touch with Chicago at once. I'm Eugene Smith, manager of this airport at the moment.”
While Mr. Cooper, the F.A.A. representative, was communicating with Chicago in another room, Frank explained to Mr. Smith that the three boys had come to search for Willard Grafton, who had disappeared in the desert nearby.
“About three months ago now.” Mr. Smith nodded. “Made quite a stir hereabouts. Never did find him, did they?”
“No, and we believe there's somebody who doesn't want him found, either.” Briefly, Frank told of the Bayport eavesdropper. “I wouldn't be surprised if the false report you received about me is part of a plan to stop or at least to hold up our investigation!”
Just then, the loud disgruntled voice of Chet Morton was heard outside the office door. “I don't care if the whole United States government is keeping him in therel I'm starving! I want to eat!”
“There's a man after my heart.” Mr. Smith chuckled. He called out heartily, “Come in, boys!”
Frank, Joe, and Chet had packed their belongings in rucksacks, which were more suitable for desert life than ordinary luggage. Now Joe came in bearing the neatly packed sack with his and Frank's things. Chet Morton followed with a bulging pack of his own. First he stumbled into the door. Then he lurched against the door-frame.
“Somebody ought to repack that mule's load,” commented the airport manager, his eyes twinkling. He shook hands all around.
At that moment Mr. Cooper, looking a great deal more friendly, returned. “You're in the clear,” he announced to Frank. “No one in authority at Chicago made that call. Why would anybody play such a dirty trick on you?”
A confusion of voices arose as Eugene Smith satisfied Cooper's curiosity and Frank explained to Chet and Joe.
“Oh—oh!” Chet rubbed his head gingerly. “I knew we hadn't seen the last of that guy who slugged me!”
When the boys emerged from the office it was nearly eight o'clock. The cloudless sky was a luminous blue. Up on the dry mountains, visible from across the desert, the shadow-filled draws looked like dark trickles of blue-black ink spilling down from the ridges.
“What a sky!” Chet exclaimed enthusiastically. “Somehow it looks bigger than it does back home.”
“It's because the atmosphere is so clear,” Frank commented.
Soon a sleek cream-colored convertible drew up with Gene Smith at the wheel. “Jump in!” he called. “I'll drive you into town.”
Rucksacks were stashed in the back seat, and Chet climbed in after them. Frank and Joe rode in front.
As the car headed toward Blythe, where the boys would stay, the Hardy boys were surprised by the soft, warm air currents playing about their faces. Although it was nearly sundown, there was not a hint of moisture, not a trace of dew in the air.
“I thought the desert nights would be cool,” Joe remarked.
“Not in summer,” Smith replied. “On a night like this you can sleep outdoors with no bedroll and not get a chill. Do you plan on sleeping in the desert?”
“Later. We'll stay in town tonight,” Frank answered.
“Then here's where you want to stay,” Cooper said.
The convertible turned into the driveway of an attractive new motel. The building itself was white and shaped like a horseshoe. The quivering blue water of a swimming pool danced in the open space, and now and then spray leaped into the air as someone dived.
“Let's camp here,” Chet agreed, piling out of the car. “They have a swell-looking restaurant!”
The boys took a room on the second floor, located in the curved section of the horseshoe. Lugging their rucksacks, they mounted the outside staircase. Ten minutes later they were in the pool. After dressing, they enjoyed a dinner that satisfied even Chet's appetite.
The next morning Frank proposed that the boys visit the offices of the
Daily Enterprise,
Blythe's only newspaper, and read up on the Grafton story.
“According to Dad, two of a detective's best friends are the newspaper and the police,” the young sleuth remarked.
Later, after the three had studied clippings in the
Enterprise's
morgue, Joe said, “Nothing new here—only that Grafton and Wetherby landed near the giant effigy outside Ripley.”
“Where's their plane now?” Chet asked.
“Let's see ... taken to Riverside County Airport by the authorities. We'll ask Gene Smith to let us look at it later,” Frank suggested.
“Now,” said Joe, as they left the building, “let's try the detective's other best friend—the police.”
Fenton Hardy's reputation as an investigator was known even to the small Blythe police force. The chief greeted Frank and Joe warmly, but could give little new information.
“You know as much about Grafton as we do,” he admitted. “Wetherby once lived here in Blythe. But that doesn't prove anything, either.”
Temporarily discouraged, the young sleuths strolled down Hobsonway, the town's main street, discussing the situation.
“Tell you what!” Joe suddenly proposed to his brother. “You be Willard Grafton, and Chet and I will be Clifford Wetherby!”
“Wha-a-t?”
“I mean, you pilot the plane, and Chet and I will be passengers. We'll make the same flight they did. We'll see the same things from the air. We'll land in the same place. Maybe then we'll learn some answers.”
“Let's hope we don't disappear in the same way!” Chet muttered.
“You'll never disappear, Chet,” Frank needled. “There's too much of you to hide.”
The stout boy made a pass in self-defense. “What say we have lunch before we start?”
After a quick meal the boys were driven by one of the motel employees to Riverside County Airport. The sun blazed upon the white buildings and the bright-colored wing surfaces of the standing aircraft. Frank and Joe wore their comfortable wide-brimmed hats, and Chet sported a new straw sombrero he had purchased.
“Whew! Talk about heat,” Chet complained. “Do you know it's 108 degrees in this sun? I just checked the airport thermometer.”
“Cheer up,” Joe replied. “I've read that the desert sand gets as hot as 165 degrees, and we're in for some walking!”
Chet groaned. “Why don't we go back to that nice motel and take a
siesta?
That's what the Mexicans do in this heat.”
“Because of Willard Grafton,” Frank reminded him. “He may be in danger.”
After unlocking the plane, the boys waited for air to circulate in the cabin, which was as hot as an oven. A few minutes later the trim blue craft rose smoothly from the runway. Dipping one wing, Frank banked in a circle over the airport, then headed north for the desert giants.
The boys enjoyed the scene beneath them. The Colorado River, as blue as the sky itself, was lined with beautiful yellow-leaved tamarisk trees. On the Arizona side were the brown, rugged bad-lands, but the California side was a rich patchwork of growing crops. Each field was a different shade of green.
“Say, I thought this was desert country,” Chet marveled.

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