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

cowboy, approaching with two other horses.
    â€œWho told yo’ to bring ’em?” he shouted.
    The little cowboy grinned, at the same time letting forth in a high tenor voice:
    â€œYo’ can’t ride a bronc
The very first day.
Yippee-aye-o,
Yippe-aye-yay!”
    â€œShut up!” Hank bellowed. “Yo’re not gettin’ paid for singin’.”
    â€œI’m only tryin’ to make the boys feel at home,” Terry said.
    â€œLeave that to Mrs. Hardy,” the foreman declared. He turned to Pye, who had led the horses back into the corral.
    â€œLook here!” he snapped. “Get those tenderfeet to work ridin’ fence!”
    â€œYes, sir!” Pye grinned.
    The foreman strode off, leaving the boys with the Indian. He offered to saddle the new mounts, but Frank and Joe cinched their own. Then Pye mounted a little pinto and the three started for the fences.
    â€œHey, you’re pretty good riders,” Pye said, surprised at the ease with which the Hardys handled their mounts.
    â€œWe’ve done some riding back home,” Frank replied.
    â€œNice pinto you’ve got there, Pye,” Joe said admiringly. Pye and his horse moved in perfect rhythm.
    â€œHe’s a fine horse,” the Indian said proudly. “And he knows two languages—English and Navaho.”
    With that he spoke an Indian word. The pinto stopped and dropped to his forelegs. Then Pye spoke in English and the pony rose.
    Pye looked at the boys gleefully. “See?” he said. “That pony’s smart. And he never went to school, either.”
    The boys laughed. “What’s his name?” Frank asked as they cantered along.
    â€œCherry,” the Indian replied. “The cowboys make fun of me sometimes. Call me and my horse Cherry Pye.” He grinned until his eyes almost disappeared.
    The country over which the three rode was rough and scrubby. Here and there a few cattle grazed on the green patches dotting the terrain.
    Pye’s admiration of the boys’ horsemanship was unbounded. Finding that they showed no signs of fatigue, he urged them toward the northern fence line of the ranch.
    â€œNice up there,” he said. “A long time ago Indians used to live up that way.”
    As they neared the boundary, Frank thought he heard the distant hum of a motor. He called his brother’s attention to it.
    â€œSounds like a plane,” Joe remarked, scanning the sky.
    They realized that occasionally a transport might pass over the area, flying at a very high altitude. But this one was low.
    â€œThere it is,” Pye declared, pointing over a wooded section a few miles ahead of them. A small white plane suddenly appeared and skimmed over the treetops.
    â€œJoe!” Frank cried. “Isn’t that the same one—?”
    â€œSure looks like it,” Joe put in. “The one that followed us from El Paso yesterday!”
    Pye regarded them curiously. “I’ve seen that plane many times,” he said finally. “It always flies low over those trees.”
    Frank and Joe exchanged glances. Was it in some way connected with the mystery at Crowhead?
    Suddenly Joe reined in sharply. “Look, Frank!” he cried excitedly. “The plane’s coming down!”
    The three watched as the craft banked and disappeared behind the trees.
    â€œDo you suppose it’s in trouble?” Joe asked his brother.
    â€œCould be,” Frank replied. “But it looked to me as if the pilot meant to land.”
    â€œLet’s find out,” Joe declared.
    But hardly were the words out of his mouth when the plane zoomed sharply into the air.
    â€œIt didn’t land after all,” Joe commented. “What do you make of that?”
    â€œMaybe he’s just having fun,” Pye suggested with a grin.
    â€œWhy would a pilot fool around out here?” Frank queried. “He’d be in serious trouble if he crashed.