The Crisscross Shadow (9 page)

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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

BOOK: The Crisscross Shadow
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“I suppose you have no idea who took the suitcase, Chief Whitestone,” Joe said, unable to hide his disappointment.
“I'm afraid I haven't,” the chief replied. “You see,” he explained, “all our work is carried out of here in suitcases, since we can't get a truck or car through the trail. Then it's taken by train to Williamsville, where it's turned over to a distributor. He markets everything for us.”
The boys listened carefully as the chief went on, “A couple of weeks ago our messenger left a suitcase unguarded in the railroad station, and when he came back to get the bag, it was gone. That's all we know about it.”
“I'd say we ought to leave here at once and track down Breck,” said Frank, “if it weren't for that strange man we met in the woods. He's probably connected with this mystery. I think we'll stay around Lantern Junction for a few days and try to find him.”
“I wish you luck,” Chief Whitestone said. When they were outside again, he turned to face Frank and Joe.
“So you're detectives,” he remarked. “And you're staying around here for a while.”
“That's right,” Frank replied, wondering what the chief was leading up to.
Smiling at them, he asked, “How would you like to solve a mystery for me—an old mystery of the Ramapans?”
CHAPTER XI
A Jeweled Dagger
ANOTHER mystery to solve!
“We'll do our best, Chief Whitestone,” Frank said.
“And when he tells you that,” Chet spoke up, “it means they'll solve it.”
Ted and his father smiled as the young detectives blushed at the compliment.
“When can we start?” Joe asked. “We'd like to begin right now because we're due back at school in a week or so.”
“Yes, and it depends a little on where we'll have to go,” Frank added. “Is it far away?”
“You can begin right here and now,” the chief replied. “In fact, you'll have to solve the mystery in the next few days or else wait a whole year.”
With this baffling introduction he invited the boys to go back to his home and hear the full story. Seated before an open fire in a cozy room filled with Indian relics, he began the strange tale.
“We Ramapans are an old tribe. We were once a great and powerful nation, a leader among the Indians in this part of the country.
“But as the years passed, and the white men spread out, our territories grew smaller. Our people became fewer in number as tribal warfare and sickness took their toll. Gradually the Ramapans' power was so weakened that we were forced to move north. This was many generations ago.
“Then, finally the wars stopped, and modem medicine cut down our death rate. We became prosperous, but still we were small and missed our former greatness,” he said with a faraway look.
“The tribe carefully held on to its savings from fishing and trapping. Then fifty-nine years ago the leaders made a decision. With my father as chief, they decided to pool their resources and move down from the wild north country. The place they chose was this very acreage, the site where our ancestors had lived.”
The boys had scarcely moved as the fascinating tale unfolded.
“My father and the tribe bought this land from the estate of a man named York.”
York! The name of one of the suspected gang!
“Was his name Philip York?” Frank asked.
“No,” Chief Whitestone replied. “It was Amos York. But after the tribe set up their new home, they didn't find the peace and security they had expected.”
“What happened?” Joe asked.
The chief had paused to strike a match to his long pipe. He puffed a few times, then continued. “A neighboring tribe started to raid the Ramapans. They came every night, stealing and destroying our property and striking terror in the hearts of our people. But the Ramapans fought back even against heavy odds.
“My father was fearful the enemy would steal our deed to the property, as well as other valuable tribal records. So he buried them secretly, together with a jeweled dagger worth thousands of dollars that the Ramapans had had in their possession for generations. They had confiscated it after a battle with a French army two hundred years previously.”
“Where did your father bury the papers and the dagger?” Frank asked him.
Chief Whitestone shook his head. “That's the mystery. Shortly afterward, he became ill and finally we realized he was dying.
“According to the laws of our tribe, I would become chief. Everyone knew my father had buried the papers and the dagger, but the place was a secret. So I asked him where they were.
“He was sinking rapidly, but he opened his eyes with great will power and whispered: ‘My son—my son—papers—dagger—buried where a crisscross shadow is cast in the light of the hunter's moon.”
As the chief stopped speaking, there was complete silence for several seconds, then the Hardys looked at Chet. His face wore a smug look, as if to say: “There is a treasure buried in a crisscross shadow!”
Chief Whitestone continued after a moment. “That was the only clue my father gave and I've never been able to find the place.”
“It doesn't sound like an easy task,” Frank remarked. “We—”
“That's not all,” Chief Whitestone interrupted. “Not long ago two strangers appeared in the village. They said they wished to buy our land and were prepared to offer a fair price.
“ ‘No,' I told them, ‘we wouldn't sell for all the money in the world. This is our home. The tribe has grown and prospered here after many generations of hardship. Our land is not for sale.' ”
“But that didn't end it,” Ted took up the story. “The men were insistent. Finally, one of them got mad and started to yell. ‘Look, Chief,' he said to my father, ‘I'm warning you! You'd better sell to us if you know what's good for you.' ”
“That's right.” Chief Whitestone nodded. “ ‘What do you mean?' I asked them.
“ ‘Just this,' the man replied. ‘This land isn't yours.'
“I laughed at that, but he said, ‘You think it's funny, eh? Well, we can prove you haven't got a clear title!' Then they stomped out of the house and disappeared.
“I'm afraid those men will find the deed before we do and steal it,” Chief Whitestone said. “Unfortunately we have no other proof of ownership. The courthouse where our deed was recorded burned a few years ago and the papers were lost.”
“Then those men can make it very hard for you,” Joe said.
“Yes. After the fire, ads were run in the papers for people to bring in their deeds and have them recorded again, but we couldn't do that, of course.”
“So it was easy for those men to find out your deed is missing,” Frank surmised. “Well, we'll certainly try to find it for you.”
“Haven't you any protection?” Chet interposed.
“Yes,” the chief said. “After sixty years of possession, the tribe will own the land automatically —even without a deed. It's a state law. But we have several months to go before the time is up. Until then, we're at the mercy of anyone who finds those papers! And we can't be certain someone hasn't already taken them, of course.”
“I doubt it,” Frank commented. “If they had, either the papers would have been returned by honest people, or you would have had trouble before this with real thieves.”
“How about those men who were here?” Chief Whitestone asked.
“I don't think that they would have offered to buy the land if they could have gotten it free.”
“But I'll bet they're looking for the deed,” Joe remarked. “So it's going to be a race. Let's get started!”
“I like your enthusiasm.” The chief smiled. “But first I suggest we have something to eat. And later, why don't you move in here so you can be handy to your work?”
“Thank you,” Frank replied. “We'll do that. Along with solving your mystery, we'll do some sleuthing on our own case.”
By the time they had finished a meal of roast deer, corn bread, and fried apples prepared by Mrs. Whitestone, it had grown dark.
“You'd better make do tonight,” Ted suggested. “You can go back and get your things at the hotel tomorrow.”
The boys accepted Ted's hospitality and slept on cots in his room.
After breakfast the next morning, Joe said, “First thing we'll have to do is move our belongings in from town.”
“Right you are,” Frank agreed. “But there's no need for all of us to go back. I'll go and put all we need in one bag and check the others.”
“Then Chet and I will start hunting around here for clues,” Joe declared.
Chet went to question some of the older men of the tribe. Joe ambled along the street until he reached the leathercraft building. Nonchalantly he walked around it, to observe the layout of the structure.
“Guess I'll go inside,” Joe told himself. “Maybe if I talk with some of the workers—”
The sound of a door opening interrupted his thoughts. He stood motionless as he saw one of the craftsmen emerge from the rear entrance. Joe ducked behind a tree and watched as the man looked intently in every direction.
“He acts as though he doesn't want to be seen,” Joe thought.
Abruptly the man turned and set out briskly through the forest. Joe trailed him noiselessly.
Suddenly the Indian stopped and Joe concealed himself behind an evergreen. The man began stripping bark from a tree, all the while whistling in a carefree manner.
Joe, puzzled, arose slowly from his hiding place. “If that's all that guy came here for,” he mused, “why did he act so leery of being seen?”
The next moment the Indian lighted a cigarette. After a few puffs he stamped it out and started back for the crafts building.
Joe grinned as he recalled a No Smoking sign in the building.
“So he just slipped out to have a smoke. He sure had me fooled.”
Joe started walking back toward the village. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What was that strange scraping noise behind him off to the right?
He stealthily retraced his steps in the direction of the sound, which led him to a small clearing. Joe barely restrained an exclamation when he saw a man digging in the hard-packed earth.
It was the stranger in the suede-fringed suit whom the boys had met the day before!
Without hesitation, Joe approached the digger. “Now I'll find out what his game is,” he was thinking when a twig snapped behind him.
Joe looked over his shoulder in time to see a man leaping toward him, brandishing a stick.
He tried to duck, but the man brought the stick smashing down on the boy's head.
Without uttering a cry, Joe crumpled to the earth!
CHAPTER XII
A Puzzling Telegram
A QUARTER of an hour passed before Joe stirred. Opening his eyes, he was conscious only of a severe pain in the top of his head. Feeling the damp earth against his cheek, the young detective realized he was lying on the ground.
With what seemed like a superhuman effort, Joe lifted himself on one elbow and saw the trees about him. Only then did he remember what had occurred. He put his hand to his head and felt a large bump.
“I'd better get back to the Ramapan village,” he muttered. “Got to warn Chief Whitestone about those men.”
His head throbbed. Swaying from side to side, Joe took a few uncertain steps. It was hard going but finally he reached the edge of the village. There he saw a familiar figure hurrying up the street.
“Chet!” He tried to shout, but his words were barely audible and his friend turned a corner out of sight. Joe started for the Whitestone house, stopping frequently to rest.
Suddenly he heard a cry behind him. “Joe! What happened?”
“Ted! Oh, gosh, I'm glad to see you.”
“Who hit you?” Ted exclaimed, seeing a huge, bloody lump on the top of Joe's head.
“Don't know,” he gasped as the Indian boy steered him toward his house.
As they reached the steps, Chief Whitestone came out. He helped Ted lift Joe and soon the injured youth was resting on a couch.
Ted hurried for the village doctor. After a thorough examination the physician concluded that there was no skull fracture, but told Joe that he might have a headache for a few hours and to call him if anything else developed. He dressed the wound and left.
A sigh escaped Ted's lips. “Thought you were a goner when I saw you staggering down that street, Joe,” he said, and smiled in relief.
But Chief Whitestone was not smiling.
“That fellow tried to kill you!” he exclaimed. He clenched his pipe, the knuckles showing white against the dark bowl.
“Ted,” he went on, “I'm very much concerned about this business. I want you to make inquiries around the village while Joe takes it easy.”
“Don't worry about me, Chief Whitestone,” Joe insisted. “We detectives are used to some roughing up now and then.”
“Did you get a good look at the man who hit you?” Ted wanted to know.
“Yes. But I've never seen him before. I couldn't identify him,” Joe said ruefully.
At that moment Chet hurried in, having heard from a child that the doctor had been calling on “the sick white boy.”
“Joe!” he exclaimed, pale with fright. “What happened?”
While Chet was listening to Joe's story, Frank Hardy strode briskly down the forest trail and finally reached Lantern Junction. He went at once to the Grand Hotel.
“We're moving out,” he told the pleasant clerk.

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