The Mark on the Door (6 page)

Another hour had passed when a muffled, rumbling sound drifted in from the sea just beyond the cove.

“What's that?” Chet asked, craning his neck to look out.

“Sounds like engines,” Joe said. “Get down, Chet!”

Suddenly a point of light began flashing from the position where the men were sitting.

“They're signaling someone!” Frank observed.

Carefully they turned to look out into the cove. A flashing light pierced the darkness in response.

Gradually the rumbling became louder. Chet's eyes popped and Joe gasped as the faint outline of a submarine slowly approached the cove!

CHAPTER VII

THE BOYS gazed fascinated as the submarine drew closer to the shore.

“It's hard to believe,” Frank whispered excitedly, “but there it isl”

“Leaping lizards!” Chet gasped.

“So that's what those two bandits were waiting for,” said Joe.

All at once there was a burst of activity on the deck. Flashlights, carried by members of the crew as they scurried about, looked like a swarm of agitated fireflies.

“Pronto! Pronto!”
a crewman barked. Then came an incoherent mumbling of many voices.

Beams of light were directed at the big boulder which Frank and Joe were about to examine when the two armed men had fired at them.

“Come on! Push this thing aside!” shouted a crewman in English. “Hurry it up!”

Four husky fellows shoved the rock to one side. Behind it was a large cavity in the incline. Despite their distance from the hole, the boys could clearly see stacks of wooden boxes in the hiding place.

“The cove is a rendezvous for picking up some sort of supplies,” Joe said.

Frank remarked that it was too dark to see whether the strange symbol was painted on the conning tower, but Joe had an answer for that.

“I'll sneak down to the cove for a closer look.”

“I'll go with you,” Chet offered.

“No, it's better if only one of us goes.”

Joe slowly worked his way down through the crevice, then quietly stole along the craggy shore toward the submarine. Crawling on hands and knees, he made his way to a jumble of rocks near the water's edge. Joe crouched down and peered over the damp rocks.

“Keep movin‘. Get that stuff aboard!” ordered a bearded, heavy-set man wearing a battered visor cap. It was obvious to Joe that he was not a Mexican. Neither were most of the other crewmen, who carried the wooden boxes to the sub.

Then one of the riflemen approached the bearded man.
“Qué tal
van
las cosas
—” the Mexican was saying.

“Talk English!” the other snapped. “You know I can't speak much Spanish.”

“Sentirlo
—sorry. I do as you wish, senor.”

Loud enough for Joe to hear, the Mexican told of spotting the boys in the cove. “But we scare ‘em off. We have no trouble.”

“That's what you think!” Joe told himself.

“It doesn't matter,” the bearded man went on. “We've got all the supplies we need and won't be comin' back here any more.”

“What about me and my
amigo?”
the Mexican inquired.

“The boss needs more men back at headquarters. He said you and your friend were to go back with us. We'd better get goin' cause the trip takes about twelve hours.”

The crewmen hurried to load all the boxes aboard. The beam of one flashlight swept across the conning tower and Joe squinted intently to get a glimpse.

There it was! The
same mysterious symbol!

Joe tingled with excitement. The identical sub, or a sister ship at least, both here and in Barmet Bay!

Satisfied that he had seen and heard enough, he decided to rejoin his companions. As Joe moved, his hand brushed against a loose rock. It splashed into the water loud enough for the crewmen to hear the sound.

“What was that?” one man shouted.

Joe froze, waiting anxiously while beams of light crisscrossed the shore.

“See anything?” another asked.

“Naw. It must've been a fish.”

“Okay!” the bearded one shouted. “Let's get goin‘! Cast off the lines!”

The two riflemen unsaddled their horses and sent them galloping off on their own. Then they quickly boarded the submarine.

Joe gave a sigh of relief and crept off. By the time he returned to his companions, the sub was already on its way out of the cove. Breathlessly, Joe related his findings to the others.

“I wonder where it's headed,” Chet said.

“That's anybody's guess,” Joe replied.

“The bearded guy said it would take twelve hours to get where they're going?” Frank queried.

“Right,” Joe replied. “But in that time the sub could be anywhere from one hundred to more than two hundred miles away, depending on whether the trip is made submerged or on the surface.”

“What do you think are in those boxes?” Tico asked.

“Hard to tell,” Joe said, shaking his head. “They appeared to be heavy. I'd say they contain metal tools, or maybe parts for machinery.”

“This is one of the craziest situations I ever saw,” Chet declared. “A sub sneaks into a cove at night to pick up a lot of wooden boxes hidden in the rocks. Why not use a regular boat?”

“Secrecy for one thing,” Frank replied. Obvi ously it's a renegade sub. And—“

“And you can be sure,” Joe interjected, “that it's being used for something more than just hauling cargo around.”

“And then there's the question of Cardillo,” Frank said. “How does he fit into the picture, if at all?”

“Before you masterminds begin building up a case,” Chet interrupted, “how about giving some thought to our food and water problem?”

Joe glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. “It'll be light in a couple of hours. We'd better wait till then before we go trekking around the countryside.”

“That is wise,” Tico agreed. “We would gain little by trying to make our way through the darkness.”

The four boys stretched out in the shelter of some scrubby bushes and fell fast asleep. At the first light of day they awakened and began climbing up the steep, rocky incline. They rested at the top for a moment and peered across the parched and barren plain.

“There isn't much to eat and drink out there,” Chet muttered.

“There's lots of cactus around,” Frank said. “That'll take care of our water problem.”

“And we are sure to find plants which can be eaten,” Tico added, “such as
acerolo.”

“Acerolo?”
Chet blurted.

“That's Spanish for hawthorn,” Joe explained. “It's a plant which bears small red and yellow apples. They're very good.”

As the sun rose higher, the boys' hunger and thirst grew more intense. Tico led his friends to a cactus plant, removed a fisherman's knife from his belt, and sliced off the top. He dug out some of the pulp from which he squeezed a small quantity of water.

“You certainly picked a good one,” Frank remarked with a grin.

As Tico began digging out more pulp for his friends, he saw Chet, a sharp stone in his hand, working on another cactus plant.

“Caramba!”
the Mexican youth screamed. “Do not touch that plant! It is
muy malo!”

Chet was startled. “It's what?”

“Very badl” Tico shouted. “The liquid is poison!”

“Poison?” Chet muttered nervously. His face turned pale. “Why—why I've already drunk some of it!”

CHAPTER VIII

Tico and the Hardys rushed to Chet. He staggered around, as if in great pain, and gripped his chest. “I don't feel too well,” he said in a quavering voice.

“We must do something!” Joe yelled frantically.

“The nearest doctor will be miles away!” Frank said.

Suddenly Tico pointed to a figure in the distance. “I see something! I believe—Yes, it is a man on a horse!”

“Oh, oh!” Joe muttered. “Maybe he's a friend of those two guys who shot at us.”

“That's a chance we'll have to take!” Frank said.

The Hardys and Tico waved their arm wildly and called out to the distant rider. Finally he headed in their direction.

“Buenos dias!”
the horseman shouted as he rode up and dismounted. He was short and wiry and had a handsome face.

“Necesitamos un doctor!—We
need a doctor!” cried Tico.

“Qué pasa?
What is going on?” the stranger asked.

Tico quickly told the man what Chet had done and pointed to the cactus plant. The man walked over to it, studied the plant for a moment, then he scooped out some of the pulp and squeezed the liquid into his mouth.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Joe yelled.

The man grinned. He glanced at the Hardys, then at Chet, who by this time was rolling on the ground. “Americanos?” he inquired.

“Yes!” Frank replied, and added, “You speak English?”

“I do,” was the calm reply.

Chet moaned and his eyes rolled. “Please help me!” he pleaded. “Just don't stand there and talk.”

Tico turned excitedly to the horseman. “Why did you drink from the poison cactus, senor?”

“The water is good,” the man said. “The plant looks like a poisonous kind. But it is not.”

They all sighed, and Chet blurted, “Are you sure?”

“I am,” the man answered.

Chet recovered quickly and got to his feet. “I— I guess I am all right, after all,” he said. “Boyl That was a bad scare! Thank you, Señor—”

“Alvaro Cortines Garcia,” the horseman announced with a courtly bow.

“How do you do, Señor Garcia?” Frank said. He introduced himself and the boys.

“We never expected to see anyone out here in the desert,” Joe remarked. “You certainly surprised us.”

“I am returning to my
ranchero
from the town of El Dorado,” Garcia said. “My hacienda is about six miles from here, near the village of La Brecha.”

Garcia told the boys that he bred horses and burros on his small ranch. He had gone to El Dorado to close a business deal involving the sale of some of his stock.

“I would like to offer you
muchachos
the hospitality of my home,” the horseman added. “You all look very tired.”

The boys did not have to be coaxed. They immediately accepted the offer.

By taking turns riding Señor Garcia's horse, the travelers had time to rest their exhausted bodies. Nearly two hours later they arrived at the adobe-walled hacienda. It was set in a green patch of semidesert, surrounded by poplar trees nearly as high as the twirling windmill.

The dusty bovs hastened to a trough of sparkling clear water at the base of the windmill. After gulping handfuls of water, they splashed their arms and faces.

As they finished refreshing themselves, a pretty woman and a good-looking boy of about sixteen came from the house. Señor Garcia introduced them as his wife and son Alfredo.

Tico and Alfredo began to chatter in Spanish. The visitors were ushered past the corral and inside the cool hacienda. Here Señora Garcia asked a maid to set the dining-room table and prepare food for the visitors.

Garcia sat with the hungry boys while they were eating. Presently he said, “We must give a little fiesta tonight to celebrate my success in El Dorado!”

“Bueno!”
declared Alfredo. “We will invite some of our
amigos
from the village.” His father turned to the boys. “And you,
muchachos,
must stay as my guests.”

“I'm all for that!” Chet exclaimed, beaming.
“Muchas gracias!”

After a long nap, the Americans spent the rest of the afternoon watching preparations for the fiesta. They helped set up large wooden tables on the patio. Bananas, oranges, limes, and avocados were heaped on some of the tables. Food that was cooking gave off tantalizing odors.

“This will be a gastronomic adventure!” Chet exclaimed as he viewed the preparations hungrily.

Joe grinned. “We might never get Chet to leave this place!”

Guests from the village began coming shortly after sunset. As the festivities got underway, torches were lighted to illuminate the area. One man arrived leading a bull and put it in the corral. Many of the younger villagers swarmed around the enclosure to see it.

“What's going on?” Chet asked Alfredo.

“Some of our
amigos
like to show their skills as matadors,” he replied.

“Bullfighting?” Joe asked.

“They are not real matadors,” Alfredo explained laughingly. “It is just a game. The bull does not have sharp horns, and he is not harmed in any way.”

The boys hurried over to the corral and saw that one young man had already leaped into the enclosure. He waved a
muleta,
a small red cloth draped over a stick, in front of the bull.

“Toro! Toro!”
shouted the would-be matador.

The animal rushed toward him, but the young man side-stepped gracefully.

“Olé! Olé!”
the spectators cheered.

The boys watched the fun for several minutes. Then as Frank and Joe walked back to the tables they suddenly became aware of Chet's absence.
“Toro! Toro!”
came their chum's voice from the corral.

“Oh, no!” Joe yelled. “Don't tell me Chet's playing matador!”

As the Hardvs ran back they saw their hefty pal inside the enclosure waving a
muleta.