Night of the Werewolf (13 page)

“Hey! Look at this!” Joe said, holding up what appeared to be a fur rug.

“It's a wolf skin!” gasped Chet.

“Right! Complete from nose to tail. The head even has glass eyes!”

Frank, who hurried to his brother's side, turned it over. “And leather straps with buckles are on the underside, so a person can strap it on!”

In their excitement over the find, the boys failed to hear footsteps approaching outside the hut. Suddenly the door burst open and a voice bellowed:

“You're all under arrest!”

The boys whirled to face the speaker. He was a tall, rawboned man wearing a stetson felt hat and a sheriff's badge pinned to the olive-gray jacket of his uniform.

“Under arrest for what?” Frank asked.

“Breaking and entering'll do for a start.”

“We didn't break in, Sheriff. The door was open.” Frank identified himself and his brother, as well as Chet, and explained that they were investigating the werewolf mystery.

On hearing that two of the youths were the sons of the famous detective, Fenton Hardy, the lawman relaxed his angry expression somewhat and even shook hands. “I'm Sheriff Kennig,” he told them. “You can forget what I said about being under arrest. But that still doesn't excuse you for poking around without permission. I'm the local law officer. If you're up here to work on a case, you should've checked in with me first.”

The Hardys thought it best not to argue.

“We're still fairly new at detective work, Sheriff. We don't have your experience at crime-fighting,” Frank said diplomatically. “I guess we have a few things to learn.”

The rawboned police officer seemed mollified by Frank's attitude and shrugged a bit pompously. “We all have to start somewhere,” he said. “What's that you're holding, young fellow?”

“A wolf skin,” Joe said, handing it over.

“Hm.” Kennig examined the hide, obviously mystified but doing his best to look professional. “I'll take charge of this. It may be important evidence.”

“How did you know we were here, Sheriff?” Joe inquired.

“I didn't. Just got a phone tip that it might be worth while to take a look in John Tabor's cabin.” He added, “As your Dad may have told you, that's one of the most important techniques in police work—gathering leads from informers.”

“Any idea who the caller was?” Frank asked.

Sheriff Kennig cleared his throat. “Actually, no. He didn't leave any name. But he spoke with a foreign accent.”

The lawman fished a gleaming metal pellet from his jacket pocket and held it out to show the boys. “Here's something else that may interest you fellows, strictly off the record, you understand.”

“A silver bullet!” Joe exclaimed. “Where'd it come from, Sheriff?”

“When that werewolf was prowling around last night, someone took a shot at it. I dug this out of the bark of the tree where it hit. Didn't get too mashed up.”

Chet started to say something. Frank sensed that he might be about to mention the bullet fired into the Hardys' front door in Bayport, which might have led to lengthy questioning by the sheriff. So he silenced his chum with a quick frown. Instead, Chet said, “Er, silver bullets are what people used to say it took to kill a werewolf, right?”

The sheriff nodded. “Uh-huh. And this isn't the only one that turned up.”

Frank flashed him a startled glance. “Where else?”

“Somebody fired one at Karel Tabor this morning. Happened just as he was climbing into his helicopter to take off for New York.”

“Did anyone spot the gunman?”

“Nope. The shot came from the woods near the Tabor's house. Whoever it was, looks as if someone around Hawk River may figure the best way to get rid of werewolves is to wipe out the Tabor family!”

“After telling the sheriff where they could be reached, the Hardys headed back to their car with Chet. Both Frank and Joe were worried that the furry clue they had discovered in the hut might cause fresh trouble for the Tabors.

“You think the sheriff would go as far as tossing John in the clink?” Chet asked owlishly.

“He just might,” Frank replied, “if people around here get worked up enough about the werewolf attacks.”

“I still don't see how anyone could be deceived by that wolf skin , though,” Joe argued. “Even if someone strapped it to his arms and body, I wouldn't be fooled into thinking it was a real werewolf!”

“Neither would I,” Chet chimed in.

“And it sure wouldn't explain that glowing wolf creature we saw at the Bayport Diner,” Frank pointed out.

Suddenly Joe snapped his fingers. “Hey! I'll bet I know where that pelt came from!”

“Where?”

“Off that stuffed wolf that got stolen from Alec Virgil! That would explain the glass eyes!”

“Right,” his brother agreed. “Someone just emptied out the stuffing. I think you've hit it, Joe.”

Frank was thoughtful when they arrived at the cottage. “Do you suppose the Mohawks knew anything about werewolves?” he mused.

“Sure,” Joe replied. “That book by Desmond Quorn says that American Indian tribes had lots of folktales about people turning into animals. Why?”

“Hank Eagle said his uncle's a medicine man, remember? Just for the fun of it, I'd like to hear what he has to say about this werewolf scare. Who knows, he might come up with some kind of Indian lore or wolf-hunting gimmick that we could use to distract people around here and take some of the heat off the Tabors.” Frank looked at his two companions. “Are you game to drive to Hank's village?”

Joe nodded, and Chet was positively enthusiastic about the idea. A visit with the Indians, he felt, would give him a chance to soak up some real wilderness know-how. When the trio set off in the car again a short time later, the stout youth was clad in his fringed buckskin hunting shirt and headband, and even brought along his bow and arrows.

The Mohawk village, as they found out by asking directions, lay only a few miles from Hawk River. To Chet's disappointment, it consisted only of a few weatherbeaten houses and cabins, and the people, aside from their coppery complexions and, in some cases, braided hair, seemed no different from other local Americans.

“Chet looks more Indian than they do,” Joe remarked with a chuckle to Frank.

The Mohawks seemed to think so, too. When the boys climbed out of the car, a group of children who had been playing in front of the general store immediately surrounded the chubby visitor, admiring his bow and arrows and asking questions about his costume.

Meantime, Frank and Joe asked where Hank Eagle's uncle lived. His name was Adam Eagle, and he proved to be a thin, gnarled-looking old man with a beaky nose and high-cheekboned face. When he heard that his callers were friends of his nephew he greeted them with a firm handshake.

“Say-go! Skaw-non-gowa,
my friends. How are you?”

The boys chatted with him and found out that Adam Eagle, too, had been a high-steeler in his youth. He had helped build the George Washington Bridge across the Hudson River and the Empire State Building, but now worked as a carpenter and odd-job man.

“Hank told us you were a medicine man,” Joe remarked.

The elderly Mohawk shrugged. “Sometimes I make herbal remedies for my neighbors when they are ill, and perform tribal ceremonies.”

It turned out that he had already heard about the werewolf attacks at Hawk River. When Frank asked his opinion about them and how the trouble could be stopped, at first Mr. Eagle would say little.

But finally, as a favor to the boys, he donned an Indian costume and built a small fire of twigs in the fireplace of his cabin. He played eerily on a red cedar flute. Then, shaking a pair of gourd rattles and speaking in the Mohawk tongue, he began calling on
Ga-oh,
the Spirit of the Winds. Frank and Joe got goose pimples listening to the weird chant.

Afterward, the old man said to them, “The woods are full of mystery, my friends. Most people have lost touch with nature. Who can say whether or not men may become like animals? Still, I think the trouble you speak of comes not from any wolf. I see you in the fire, hunting down evil persons!”

Somewhat mystified but impressed, the Hardys thanked the medicine man and went out to look for Chet. They found him showing off his skill at archery, taking turns with some of the village teenagers, shooting arrows at a makeshift target. The Indian youths clapped when he managed to hit the bull‘s-eye every time.

But none of the Bayporters could match the Mohawks when it came to hurling a hickory lance at a rolling ring. Later they played the deer-button game. The buttons, made of polished horn, were each charred on one side. The players shook the buttons in one hand like dice, then threw them on a blanket, trying to make six or more buttons land with the same side turned up.

Much to his delight, Chet won more games than anyone else. He and the Hardys were invited by the villagers to stay for supper. It was a feast of corn soup, fried trout, venison, succotash, squash, cornbread and blueberry pie.

Before the visitors left, some of the village girls presented Chet with a beaded headband they had sewed, as a prize for his marksmanship with bow and arrow.

“Ohna-ghee-wahee!”
the Mohawks called, waving good-by.

Chet was so proud of the trophy he wanted to show it off to Alena. He asked the Hardys to stop by the Tabors' house when they returned to Hawk River. However, when it came to ringing the bell, he seemed a bit nervous.

“What's the matter?” Frank asked. “Feeling shy?”

“That goofy housekeeper doesn't like me,” Chet confessed sheepishly as he got out of the car. “What if
she
answers the door?”

Dusk had fallen and the boys saw Alena pass in front of a lighted window. Then the light went out.

Chet had a sudden inspiration. He wrote a note to Alena, tied it to an arrow, and strode halfway up the drive while Frank and Joe waited in the car. He aimed at Alena's still open window and let the arrow fly.

Unfortunately, his nervousness must have spoiled his aim. There was a loud tinkle of glass, and Chet froze in horror. His arrow had crashed into the wrong window!

Next moment the front door burst open and Pocahontas charged out, bellowing and brandishing a broom!

“Clear outa here, you no-good!” the huge housekeeper roared, shaking her broomstick weapon. “I'll teach you to come breaking windows in this house!”

Chet pounded down the drive in panic as fast as his chubby legs could carry him. “Gun the engine!” he shouted while still ten yards from the car.

“How come?” teased Joe, who was at the wheel. “Don't you want to stick around till Alena reads your note?”

“Never mind the wisecracks, just get going!” Chet leaped aboard, bug-eyed and puffing. “Think I want that giantess to brain me with her war club?”

Once back in the safety of their cottage, the stout youth began stoking up on cocoa and doughnuts. “Having someone like Pocahontas chase after him is hard on a guy's nerves,” he said plaintively. “I have to recharge my batteries!”

“Good idea,” said Frank. “We may need your full power tonight.”

“What for?” Chet blurted, eyeing the Hardy boy suspiciously.

“All three of us are going to stake out the Tabors' house. If any of those guys who were out there last night show up again, we'll nab them!”

Around nine-thirty, just as the boys were about to leave the cabin, the phone rang. Joe answered. The caller was Hank Eagle.

“I just got home from New York,” the Mohawk high-steeler said. “My uncle told me you were here at the village this afternoon. Sorry I missed you.”

“Same here,” Joe said. “But we sure enjoyed the visit. Your uncle's a fine man, Hank.”

“He thinks you Hardys are pretty special, too. When he ‘made medicine' over the fire, he says
Ga-oh
told him you could be trusted, so he advised me to tell you the truth.”

“About what?”

“About that sneaky dude you met in the restaurant, the one who called himself Mr. Nest. His real name is Marburg.”

“We already found that out,” Joe said. “But if you've got something more to tell us, wait till I get Frank on the line, so he can hear it, too!”

The Hardys were fascinated as they listened to the story Hank Eagle related. After the Revolutionary War, his ancestor, Dark Eagle, had sailed on a British troop-ship, carrying redcoats home to England. In London, King George had presented his fierce Indian ally with a silver tomahawk in reward for his services to the Crown. Made by a famous English silversmith, the tomahawk was decorated with a gold design and embossed with several diamonds.

“Wow! What happened to it?” Joe exclaimed.

“Nobody knows,” Hank replied. “Remember, that was two hundred years ago. Somehow, the tomahawk got lost or disappeared from sight during those two centuries. But when you told me what Marburg said in the restaurant, I knew right away that's what he was after.”

Frank said, “How would he know about the tomahawk?”

“From history books. It's no secret. Anyone who's interested in antiques could have heard about it.”

Hank went on to tell that his family possessed an old journal or diary kept by Dark Eagle. “Many pages are too faded and moldy to read, but from various legible remarks, I'm sure the tomahawk is hidden somewhere at Eagle's Nest.”

“Would Marburg know about that diary, too?” Joe asked.