Free Mystery of the Desert Giant by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

binoculars. “It’s that stolen motorboat, all right!” he announced to his fellow officer.
    â€œHe beat it when he saw us coming,” the second policeman answered.
    â€œDid you say that boat was stolen, Officer?” Frank called out.
    â€œRight. We’ve been looking for it all day.”
    â€œWe have reason to believe the thief is probably a member of a gang wanted by the police,” Frank said.
    Briefly and clearly Frank and Joe related their discoveries in the Grafton case to the two startled officers. “And we’re sure this motorboat was going to pick up the fake bellman!” Joe finished.
    The officer in charge sized up the situation quickly. “This looks like serious business. You boys had better proceed downriver according to your plan. We’ll start a search here for this boat thief and your phony bellman. They couldn’t have gone far. When you get to Yuma, check in at police headquarters for news.”

    In another moment the police launch was roaring toward the Arizona shore, while Frank and Joe steered for the boat docks on the California side.
    Again Frank questioned the group of fishermen, loungers, and truckers on shore about Grafton and Wetherby and the three known members of the gang, but without success. Then Joe added a description of the surly boat thief, but nobody recognized him, either.
    â€œWell, if they’ve been heic, they sure kept out of sight,” observed Joe, after the boys had launched their boat again below the dam.
    â€œDon’t be too sure,” his brother cautioned. “They may have been here. These people could even have seen them. The trouble is, they don’t remember. Most people don’t fully develop their powers of observation. After all, they’re not detectives!”
    â€œThat’s true,” agreed Joe, who had taken over the tiller once more. “Say,” he added suddenly, “have you noticed how dark it’s getting? I can hardly make out the ripples that mark the snags and sand bars.”
    The blurred forms of birds dipped and swooped over the water in search of insects. Only when they were silhouetted against the pale, luminous sky could the boys see them clearly. Bats flew about, veering sharply with their awkward, fluttering wings.
    â€œTime to pitch camp,” said Frank. “We were up early, and we’ve had a long day sleuthing.”
    Gently, Joe ran the nose of the boat up to a sand bar that made a pleasant beach. Frank leaped out carrying an anchor, and Joe followed with the rucksack containing food and cooking utensils.
    The boys kindled a cheerful fire with bits of white, dry driftwood. Soon the pleasant sound of sizzling pork chops and their sharp, appetizing aroma filled the air. Joe, the cook, squatted on his haunches before the fire, turning the chops in the fry pan, toasting and buttering bread, and putting on water for their coffee. Meanwhile, Frank opened a can of applesauce and another of vegetables.
    Tired from their long day, the young detectives leaned comfortably against a driftwood log and ate their supper from tin plates. Firelight flickered on their faces and threw shadows over the surrounding rocks.
    â€œNow for dessert,” said Joe happily, skewering a marshmallow to toast over the dying fire.
    Later, as Frank spread out their sleeping bags, he remarked, “We’ll be glad to be inside these bags toward morning. It’ll be damp right next to the water.”
    Before turning in, Joe Hardy baited a strong line, attached it to a stout stick, and cast it into the river. “Night is a good time for catfish!” he said. “Let’s see what we have in the morning!”
    The boys crawled into their bags and slept soundly on the soft sand. Early the next morning they breakfasted upon the big catfish that Joe had hauled in on his night line.
    â€œTastes pretty good, for such an ugly customer!” Frank marveled.
    Two hours later the