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Authors: Franklin W. Dixon

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BOOK: The Hooded Hawk Mystery
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The Hardys started after him, but suddenly Frank stopped and said, “Joe, let him go. I'm sure that Ragu's the fellow who grabbed the falcon from you. If he doesn't think we're after him, and if he's connected with the senders of those rubies, maybe he'll lead us to them.”
“Guess you're right, Frank.”
They went back to their convertible. As Frank was about to pull away from the curb, a vivacious voice said:
“What a beautiful ring you're wearing, Frank.”
Frank and Joe looked up into the smiling face of Callie Shaw, a close friend of Iola's. Blond, quick-witted, and carefree, she appealed particularly to Frank. Although interested, and frequently very helpful in the boys' sleuthing, the pretty brown-eyed girl loved to tease the Hardys.
“Is the ring a gift?” Callie asked.
“No,” Frank replied with a smile. “It's a clue in a new case we've taken on.”
Iola Morton had joined the group now and was talking to Joe. She said gaily, “Don't forget the fish fry at the farm this afternoon.”
“Wouldn't miss it for all the mysteries in Bayport,” Joe replied.
“The whole gang will be there,” Iola said. “Why not bring along your hawk and give us a demonstration?”
“Sure thing!” Frank agreed.
“Be there about three,” Callie said. “Games first and we'll eat at five.”
The girls waved good-by and headed for a waterfront fish shop.
“If we're going to exhibit Miss Peregrine,” said Joe, “we'd better go home and groom her!”
When they reached the house, the boys showed their mother the ring and told her how they had paid for it. “Mr. Delhi will reimburse us,” Frank explained. “I'll put the ring in Dad's safe.”
After lunch he and Joe fixed a bath for the falcon.
T
hen they changed their clothes, picked up the bird, perch, bells and lure, and set off for the Morton farm. They found a lively gathering of a dozen couples playing spirited games of softball and badminton.
But the moment the young people saw the falcon, they focused all their attention on the bird. Joe set the perch on the ground and said they would let her fly later. The hawk remained quiet as he and Frank joined in the games.
Finally Chet, who was wearing a flashy dark-green shirt splotched with brown and white, said, “Show them what Miss Peregrine can do, fellows.”
Frank looked around for a quarry. Suddenly a jay flew across the field at the edge of a woods. Frank picked up the hawk, yanked off the hood and flung the hawk in its direction. As the guests excitedly watched her fly toward the jay, a short-winged goshawk came rifling in from the woods and dived toward the jay.
“That's a trained bird!” Frank exclaimed.
Instantly the two hawks began to fight over the jay. Joe started forward, calling excitedly to the falcon. Frank held him back, saying:
“It's too late now. They'll fight to the death.”
But the falcon abruptly shifted to avoid the vicious talons of the goshawk and then climbed up where she would have the advantage. While the hawks were maneuvering for position, the jay disappeared in the brush.
Frank and Joe whistled and shouted to Miss Peregrine, hoping to stop the fight. Suddenly the goshawk took flight and disappeared into the shelter of the woods. The falcon oriented herself, located the boys by the sound of their voices, and came down obediently to the feathered lure.
“Hey! You're pretty good!” Chet exclaimed admiringly, and the other young people applauded.
The Hardys smiled, relieved that their falcon was safe, then looked inquiringly toward the woods into which the goshawk had vanished.
“Come on, Joe and Chet!” Frank urged. “Let's find the owner of the hawk! It could be Tava.”
Frank hooded the peregrine and placed her on her perch. Then the three boys hurried into the woods.
Joe spotted a trail of recently trampled grass. Eagerly the trio followed it. They had gone only about a hundred yards when they were confronted by a large red sign with white lettering:
DANGEROUS AREA! KEEP OUT!
The boys were puzzled, especially Chet, who was well acquainted with the woods. “Gosh, I never saw that before,” he said. “What's going on here?”
The land looked undisturbed. There were no signs of digging, tree-felling, or other hazardous operations.
Farther ahead the boys came across similar warning signs.
Frank turned to Chet. “What could make this a dangerous area?” he asked.
“I don't know,” his puzzled friend replied. “Old Mr. Smith who owns these woods used to encourage the public to picnic here.”
“If any big project were under way, everybody in Bayport would have heard about it,” Frank remarked.
“Let's split up and see if we can find out what's going on,” Joe suggested.
He and Chet searched a wide sweep on either side of the trail, while Frank followed the trampled path. The boys lost sight of each other as the foliage became more dense. But Frank could check the others' positions from the sounds of their passage through the undergrowth. Soon these sounds were muffled, and the woods became a silent, twilight world.
Suddenly from Chet's direction came a cry for help.
“Chet's in trouble!” Frank yelled.
Instantly he and Joe were crashing through the underbrush to their friend's aid.
CHAPTER VII
Dangerous Explorations
 
 
 
 
FoR several anxious moments Frank and Joe could not locate Chet. But finally they came upon him huddled in a clump of brush near a brook.
“He's unconscious!” gasped Joe.
They knelt beside Chet, then carefully carried their friend out of the thicket to a clearing. As the boys gently placed him on the ground, they noticed blood oozing from a wound near the back of his head.
“This was no accident,” Frank declared.
“Someone gave him a heavy blow!”
Both boys glanced around cautiously to make sure none of them was in immediate danger, then they gave Chet first aid. As Joe chafed the boy's wrists, Frank started for the brook to soak a handkerchief to bathe Chet's wound and brow.
He had gone only a few feet when he heard a slight rustling sound. Looking around quickly, Frank spotted a movement in some bushes about fifty feet away. Without turning, he whispered:
“Joe, take care of Chet. I see someone. I'll be back as soon as I can.”
Frank headed for the bushes, but almost at the same moment, someone went crashing through the underbrush. The young detective increased his own pace, following the fugitive by the sounds of flight.
Several hundred yards farther on, Frank spotted the back of a tall, thin man for a fleeting second.
Frank put on a burst of speed which brought him closer to the man. They were both making considerable noise now, as twigs and leaves crackled under their feet. For this reason Frank was not immediately aware of footsteps behind him. When he heard them, the boy started to turn, but the next second a heavy blow caught him on the side of his head. Knees buckling, Frank pitched forward and blacked out!
Back at the clearing, Joe had heard the sounds of the chase, but he was confident that his brother would be more than a match for any adversary. Then he went to the brook, soaked his handkerchief in the cool water, and bathed Chet's wound. The boy's eyes flickered open and he looked up dazedly.
“Take it easy,” Joe advised. “Someone knocked you out. But Frank's after him now.”
“I remember. Someone rushed up behind me and I yelled for help. He conked me.” Chet relaxed and closed his eyes.
Joe sat down on a log to wait for Frank's return. Glimpsing the sky through the trees, he could see that the afternoon was waning. It struck him that their friends at the fish fry probably were wondering about the boys' long absence. Should he try to get Chet back and not wait for Frank? But Joe decided against this.
“Chet should take it easy,” he thought.
As time passed and his brother still did not return, Joe grew worried. “Chet, I'd better look for Frank,” he said. “Do you think you can make it back to the farm alone?”
“Guess so.”
Joe helped him to his feet. The stout boy took a few steps, then stopped, admitting that he felt dizzy.
“You better rest a while longer,” Joe said.
He rummaged in the undergrowth and found a strong, heavy stick. Handing it to Chet, he said, “You ought to be able to defend yourself with this. I'm going to hunt for Frank.”
“Okay. I'll wait here.”
Joe moved off into the woods, trying to follow the general direction Frank had taken. Several times he gave the Hardys' secret birdcall whistle, and listened eagerly for his brother's response. But it never came.
Joe trudged on, following the trail of trampled grass he had found. As he reached a dense section, he heard someone moving just ahead of him. Joe stopped and gave the whistle again. There was no reply, but the rustling grew louder. He looked about for a weapon, found a heavy stick, picked it up, and went forward.
As Joe crept around the bole of a large tree, he saw Frank staggering along!
“Frank, you've been hurt!” Joe cried. He gripped his brother around the shoulders and gently lowered him to the ground. As Frank looked up at him, Joe noticed that his brother was clutching a small pouch.
“Where did you get this?” Joe asked.
Frank blinked, looked down at the pouch as if seeing it for the first time, and muttered, “Don't know. Maybe the fellow who attacked me dropped it. Guess I picked it up.” He sank back, exhausted.
Joe opened the small pouch and saw that it contained several reddish-brown nuts. He had never seen any like them and concluded they might be a good clue to the identity of the boys' assailant.
Right now, Joe faced a dilemma. Should he go for help and leave Frank and Chet? But he discarded the idea at once. Their enemy might return. He had to get both boys away as soon as possible!
“Suppose you rest for a few minutes, Frank,” he suggested. “Then we'll take off.”
Frank closed his eyes. He opened them ten minutes later, declaring he felt much better. Joe was seated beside him, gazing at the pouch.
“It's possible that we're close to the smugglers' hideout, Frank,” he remarked.
A few minutes later Frank said that he felt strong enough to start back. Joe helped him up, and they moved off slowly in the lengthening shadows toward the spot where Chet waited. Because of the dusk and the condition of the two boys, further sleuthing was out of the question for the time being.
‘But we'll pick up the trail first thing in the morning,” Frank said with determination.
As they walked on, they discussed their experiences of the afternoon. When they reached the spot where Joe had left Chet, the Hardys did not see him.
“I hope he wasn't attacked again,” Joe cried out.
“No such thing,” came a voice so close to them that the Hardys jumped.
The next instant, Chet's perspiring head emerged from his splotched dark-green shirt, which blended well with the underbrush. The stout boy got up from his hiding place, grinning.
Frank and Joe roared with laughter. As their mirth subsided, Chet explained that he had felt too weak to fight anyone, even with the clublike stick Joe had given him. When he thought someone was coming, he had ducked into the bushes and put the shirt over his head as camouflage.
“But I guess it was my imagination,” he said. “Haven't heard a thing since. Let's go!”
The boys made their way back to the trail and headed for the Morton farm. All the young guests had left except Callie. She and Iola were seated with Mr. and Mrs. Morton near the falcon's perch, keeping a close watch on the valuable bird.
At sight of Chet and Frank, the whole group ran forward. Mr. Morton asked, “What happened?”
“Got banged up a bit,” Chet replied. “But there's nothing wrong with us that some food and a night's sleep won't cure.”
“You bet,” Frank spoke up, also trying to make light of their ordeal. “Anything left from the fish fry?”
“Come and get it!” Iola said.
While they were eating, the boys told the others of their strange experiences in the woods. Chet's father said that he would try to find out if Mr. Smith had posted the warning signs and why.
“Tomorrow we'll go back and investigate the place, anyway,” Joe declared.
The Mortons and Callie begged the boys to be on their guard.
The following day was a cold and dreary one for August, but after breakfast Frank declared he felt well enough to further investigate the woods near the Morton farm. He proposed that they take Ahmed along on their exploration.
“If we do run into a group of Indians, his knowledge will come in mighty handy.”
Joe agreed. “I'll phone him. You get the car.”
Ahmed, amazed to hear about the incident with the goshawk and the attacks on the boys, was eager to go. The boys asked Mrs. Hardy to keep an eye on the falcon, then set off in the convertible to pick up Ahmed at his bungalow. The rug dealer was hardly seated when he said tensely:
“If you have really found the hideout of these despicable smugglers and can bring them to justice, India will never be able to repay you.”
Remembering the small pouch he had found in the woods, Frank pulled it out of his pocket and handed it to Ahmed. “I picked this up in the woods yesterday. Do you think it might be a clue?”
Ahmed's eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the bag and its contents. Then he said cryptically, “I believe this is indeed a clue in your search. These are betel nuts. Only lower-caste Indians chew them.” Ahmed turned to Frank. “The person who attacked you and your friend may be one of the smuggled men or a servant to an Indian of wealth.”
BOOK: The Hooded Hawk Mystery
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