Free The Sign of the Crooked Arrow by Franklin W. Dixon

Joe warned suddenly.
    The boys held their breath.
    â€œI hear it!” Frank said hoarsely. “It’s a rider. Maybe the same one coming back!”
    They raced into the shadow of a shed which stood near the corral, and waited. The hoofbeats grew closer. A few minutes later a cowboy reined in his mount at the corral gate and dismounted. After quickly unsaddling, he lifted the bar, slapped his horse on the rump, and the animal bounded inside.
    All the while Frank and Joe craned their necks to get a glimpse of the man. But the dark shadow thrown by his broad-brimmed hat concealed his face.
    The boys noted that he was tall and rangy, but so were many other cowboys. If only they could get a good look at him!
    The man hastened toward the bunkhouse. As he neared the Hardys’ hiding place, Frank and Joe flattened themselves against the side of the building. Their hearts beat like trip-hammers.
    When the cowboy passed them, he suddenly whipped off his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. The moon shone full on a stern face with a thin nose and jutting jaw.
    He hurried on, and soon the boys heard the bunkhouse door shut lightly after him. When all was quiet again, they made their way silently to the house.
    â€œWe’ll spot him in the morning,” Frank whispered. “Something’s up!”
    They opened the back door, which they had left ajar. Then, taking off their shoes, they crept back up to their room.
    In the morning the brothers were awakened by a brilliant sunrise.
    â€œSwell country,” Joe commented.
    â€œSure is. We’ve got to see to it that Cousin Ruth doesn’t lose this ranch,” Frank declared.
    The Hardys roused Chet, who rolled sleepily from bed.
    â€œHi, it’s time to get up,” Joe said as he prodded his friend.
    â€œLemme sleep,” Chet protested.
    â€œYou’re going to miss breakfast,” Frank teased. “They don’t serve it in bed, you know.”
    At the mention of food, the stocky boy quickly shook off his drowsiness and dressed. Ruth Hardy greeted them in the living room.
    â€œBreakfast isn’t quite ready yet,” she said. “Suppose we go outside and I’ll introduce you to the men.”
    They stepped onto the rambling porch, then walked toward the bunkhouse. A group of cowboys, some of whom the Easterners had not seen the day before, were getting ready for their day’s work.
    â€œI’d like you to meet my two cousins Frank and Joe and their friend Chet,” the widow said pleasantly, approaching the cowboys. “They’re from Bayport and are spending a little vacation with us.”
    â€œHowdy,” said the men, shaking hands with the trio.
    Ruth Hardy introduced them one by one. Presently she stopped beside a little fellow with shiny black hair. His leathery face was as weather-beaten as a mountain rock, but the crinkly expression around his eyes indicated a keen sense of humor.
    â€œI know you’ll like Crowhead’s Pye,” their cousin said, turning to the boys.
    â€œPie?” Chet returned enthusiastically. “For breakfast?”
    A few of the cowboys laughed.
    â€œNo.” Mrs. Hardy smiled. “This is Pye. P-y-e. His real name is Pymatuno, and he’s the best Indian cowhand in all of New Mexico!”Then she looked around, as if she had missed somebody.
    â€œWhere’s Hank?” she asked. Turning to her visitors, she explained, “He’s my foreman.”
    As she spoke, the bunkhouse door slammed and a tall man emerged. The Hardys stared in amazement. He had a thin nose and jutting jaw—the same as the mysterious rider of the night before.
    When he approached the group, Ruth Hardy introduced him.
    â€œHowdy,” he said, extending a long, bony hand and showing no enthusiasm at the meeting. “Up purty early for city kids, ain’t yo’?” He looked at the trio with a poker face.
    The boys resented the remark, especially