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

Joe, who was not endowed with the same even temper as his older brother.
    â€œIt seems to me,” he said pointedly, “that certain cowboys stay out at night as late as city folks!”
    Hank tensed. The muscles on his lean cheeks bulged in and out.
    â€œSometimes,” he snapped, “a cowboy has to run off coyotes.”
    Just then the mellow strum of a guitar was heard. A pint-sized cowboy, wearing a bright-red shirt, walked from the bunkhouse.
    â€œThat’s Terry,” Ruth Hardy said with a smile. “He’s a lot of fun, but an awful tease.”
    â€œHe’s mighty fleet-fingered with the gee-tar,” one of the men spoke up.
    The singing cowboy grinned, showing a set of white teeth. He strummed a few chords, greeted the visitors from Bayport, then broke into song.
    â€˜Ef yo’ wanna be a cowman
Yo’ gotta find a frisky hoss
In this rough-and-tumble land,
And ride to beat the band .
    Â 
    â€œBut take a soft old city lad
Ah, how his hoss will fuss
It sure will be a pity
When his rider hits the dust!”
    Terry gaily twanged out an extra chord as the group roared with laughter.
    At that moment the ranch-house bell rang. Ruth Hardy and the somewhat embarrassed “city kids” went off to breakfast. When they had finished the hearty meal of flapjacks and sausage, they lingered at the table.
    Finally Frank addressed his cousin. “You know,” he said, “I don’t mind being razzed because I’m from the city, but it seemed to me that your foreman Hank wasn’t kidding. Is he always like that?”
    â€œOh, Hank’s all right,” Ruth Hardy assured the boys. “He’s a little dictatorial, but I think he means well.”
    â€œSeems mighty unfriendly to me,” Joe said with a worried frown. “Maybe your men are leaving on account of him.”
    â€œI hardly think so. Hank just doesn’t like what he calls ‘city dudes.’ I’m sure you can grow to be friends, though.”
    â€œI hope so,” Frank said. But he was still suspicious that the foreman might be mixed up in some way with the strange disappearance of the Crowhead cowboys.
    Soon their cousin excused herself from the table and the boys continued the discussion.
    â€œYou know,” Frank began, “no matter how confident Cousin Ruth is about her foreman, I think we’d better keep our eye on him.”
    â€œRight,” Joe agreed. “Let’s get started looking for clues.”
    Chet swallowed hard. “If you’re going anywhere on horseback, I think I’ll take a rain check. Guess I ate too much Western breakfast.”
    Frank and Joe let out a hearty laugh.
    â€œOkay, dude,” Joe quipped. “Meet you back here after we take a look around Crowhead.”
    The Hardys walked to the corral, eager to ride over the meandering acres of the ranch. When they asked the foreman for horses, Hank lifted the corral bar and went inside. He returned with two lively mounts.
    â€œSaddle ’em yoreselves,” he said gruffly.
    The animals pranced and pawed, but finally the boys got the saddles strapped in place. Hank looked on amazed as they swung themselves easily onto the horses’ backs.
    At that moment a figure raced toward them. It was Pye.
    â€œGet off!” he shouted excitedly. “They’re bad horses!”
    Hank glared at the Indian. “Stay out o’ this!” he ordered.
    As he spoke, Joe’s horse reared. The next instant the mount did a sunfish, tossing Joe off his back into the dust!

CHAPTER XI
    A Second Chance
    HANK guffawed at Joe’s bad spill but made no attempt to subdue the rearing horse.
    It was Pye who rushed in and grabbed the animal’s bridle, yanking him away from the boy.
    Frank had dismounted and rushed to his brother. But Joe picked himself up and brushed the dirt from his jeans.
    Hank’s laughter suddenly turned into an angry frown as he saw Terry, the singing