The Firebird Rocket (10 page)

Early next morning, the Hardys, Chet, and Ponsley took off for Alice Springs. The green areas around Sydney disappeared, and they found themselves flying deep into the Outback, where sand and huge stones extended to the horizon on all sides. Clusters of rocks ballooned from the desert floor into fantastic shapes.

“If we were in the States,” Frank said, “I'd guess we were over Death Valley.”

“Or the Dakota Badlands,” Joe added.

“Well, it's hot and dusty here, too,” the pilot pointed out. “There aren't any rattlesnakes down below, but there are Australian brown snakes, which are nearly as deadly.”

“You are not going to land, are you?” Ponsley asked, frightened.

The pilot laughed. “Don't worry. Landing in this part of the Outback is the last thing I want to do.”

The plane crossed rivers where good farmland spread along the banks. Big cattle ranches occupied hundreds of square miles beyond the Macdonnell Ranges in Australia's Northern Territory. Finally they landed at Alice Springs, and the four Americans got out. They stretched their muscles, cramped after the long flight, paid the pilot, and took a bus into town.

They found Alice Springs crisscrossed by rows of hardy trees that managed to stay alive in the arid soil. The buildings were mostly small and roofed with tin. On Anzac Hill, a shining monument commemorated the Australians and New Zealanders who fell in two world wars.

The boys stopped at police headquarters and asked about Jenson and Mike Moran. The officer on duty could supply no information on either, but gave the boys a list of hotels and guest houses where they could inquire.

“Good thing this town isn't big,” Frank said. “We won't have too much trouble checking these out.”

“Are they all within walking distance?” Chet asked.

Frank had obtained a map of Alice Springs at the airport and looked at it. “I don't know. Let's start here and work toward the periphery of the town.”

Checking with various hotels on the way, the four walked through Gorey's Arcade, the shopping center of Alice Springs. They went along the streets past bars and hamburger joints, and noticed that many men wore cowboy hats, shirts, trousers, and boots. Some of the men were dark-skinned “abos.”

“Those guys look like they came from Tombstone with Wyatt Earp after the gunfight at the O.K. Corral!” Chet commented.

“Except that none of them carry six-shooters,” Frank added with a grin.

They came to a fenced-in enclosure where a competition was being held. Cowboys lined the rails, waiting for their turn to rope steer and ride bucking broncos. Three judges on a raised platform judged the performances and awarded prizes.

“A rodeo!” Joe exclaimed. “How about that!”

“Let's spread out and keep our eyes open,” Frank suggested. “There's always an outside chance of spotting Mike or Dr. Jenson in the crowd. While we're at it, we can chat with people, too, and find out if anybody has noticed an American answering either description. We'll meet here in half an hour.”

“Good idea,” Joe said, and the four separated and began buttonholing cowboys and spectators for information on the two missing men. None of the Australians had heard of them.

They were on the way to their meeting place again when the main event of the rodeo began. A rider came out of a chute, like a streak of lightning, on a coal-black horse that leaped and twisted in a savage effort to throw the man off its back.

Chet was fascinated by the violence of horse and rider contending to see who would win.

“I could get a better view from that fence post over there,” he thought and climbed up. Carefully he positioned himself on the small post. But he got so involved in the show that at one point he lost his balance and dropped into the enclosure.

Frank, who saw the incident from a short distance away, muttered something about Chet and his ideas. Then the bronco threw its rider and charged full-tilt at Chet, who had just gotten to his feet.

“Watch out!” Frank yelled.

CHET froze as the black horse, glaring and snorting, galloped toward him with pounding hooves!

Frank moved like lightning. He snatched a lasso that had been used in the steer-roping competition and hurled the noose in a long flying arc.

As it settled over the horse's neck, he fastened the other end of the lariat to a fence post. The enraged animal was about to trample Chet when the rope tightened and brought it to a rearing halt in a cloud of dust!

Chet scrambled over the fence and fought for breath. “Frank,” he puffed, “you're better than those TV cowboys any day!”

There were loud cheers and a round of applause for Frank's rescue. One of the contestants came up and spoke to him admiringly. “Good-oh, cobber! Your China would've ended up a proper mess if you hadn't come through with that rope trick!”

“China?” Frank looked puzzled. “Is that a word you cowboys use down under?”

The Aussie laughed. “It's good old cockney rhyming slang—‘China plate' for ‘mate.' And we're not cowboys down here, Yank. We're stock-men. My name's John Harris.”

Shaking hands, Frank introduced himself and his companions. Together they watched the rest of the rodeo, and Harris captured first prize for broncobusting. He invited them to join in the horseback ride around the ring. Ponsley quickly refused, saying he would rather wait on the viewing stand. He climbed up the few steps and sat down in a chair vacated by one of the rodeo judges.

Harris brought up three mounts. Frank, Joe, and Chet climbed into the saddles and trotted in the procession around the enclosure. The Hardys, who had ridden horseback many times, guided their mounts with practiced skill.

Chet clutched the reins with one hand, waved the other, and shouted, “This is for me!” His horse, feeling the tug of the bridle, thought it was time to rear up on its hind legs. The movement alarmed Chet, who slackened his grip and let the horse have its head.

Finally the ride ended, the rodeo broke up, and the boys joined Ponsley for a walk back toward the center. They checked two more hotels without luck, then stopped at a luncheonette and ordered hamburgers.

Chet pitched into his enthusiastically. “Nothing like a horseback ride to set you up for chow.”

Frank laughed. “Chet, who was in charge, you or the horse?”

“Maybe you'd like an encore,” Joe needled him. “We can go back if you like.”

“No, thanks,” Chet said. “I showed the rodeo what I can do. That's enough for me.”

Ponsley was becoming annoyed. “This trip has not been a success,” he argued. “I'm sure Dr. Jenson isn't here, and neither is Mike Moran.”

Frank munched a pickle. “We only have a few more places to check, and we never give up prematurely.”

Just then John Harris walked into the luncheonette, recognized the Americans, and came to their table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

“Of course not,” Frank said, inviting him to sit down. Harris ordered a hamburger. While he ate, Frank told him they were looking for two missing Americans. “Got any suggestions?”

Harris looked thoughtful. “I overheard a Yank talking to someone right here in this luncheonette not too long ago. He mentioned Cutler Ranch, a cattle station up north, owned by Americans.”

Frank showed him the photographs. “Was it either of these two men?”

Harris shrugged. “He had his back turned to me. I just remember the accent, since it's rare in these parts.”

Frank exchanged glances with his brother.

“Worth a try,” Joe agreed.

“It's a long ride up north, beyond McGrath Creek and the Sandover River.” Harris warned. “So pick a car that gets a lot of miles to the gallon. You won't pass any petrol pumps on the way.”

Finishing his hamburger, he said good-by and left. Joe seemed to be watching someone. Presently he got up and muttered, “Let's go!”

Frank and the others paid their bill and followed Joe outside. But they had gone scarcely a block when Joe suddenly whirled around. His three companions saw him grab a seedy stranger in a battered, greasy-looking felt hat, who had been walking several paces behind them.

“Why are you following us, mister?” the younger Hardy demanded angrily.

The stranger cringed when he saw the fighting look on Joe's face. “You've got me all wrong, mate,” he mumbled. “I wasn't following nobody.”

“Don't give me that! You were eavesdropping on everything we said back there in the restaurant.”

“Well....” The stranger hesitated nervously, then blurted, “I expect I did listen closer'n I should've done. But I was worried about what that stockman was telling you. Didn't know if I ought to warn you or not.”

Joe frowned. “Warn us about what?”

“The Cutlers.”

“What about them?” Frank demanded.

“They're strange blokes. From what I hear, they don't welcome visitors—especially visitors who ask questions.”

“How come?” Joe pressed.

The seedy stranger shrugged. “All I know is what I've heard some of the abos hereabouts say.”

“What do they say?”

“That they've seen nosy swagmen ride up to the Cutlers' cattle station, but they've never seen none of them ride away again!”

The four Americans stared at the seedy stranger uneasily. Before they could cross-examine him, he wriggled free of Joe's grasp and hurried off down the street.

“What did he mean by ‘swagmen'?” Chet asked with a worried, wide-eyed look.

“Traveling cowhands, carrying their ‘swag' or personal belongings in a blanket roll,” Frank explained. “I remember that much from what I read about the Outback.”

“They may be traveling cowhands,” said Ponsley, “but if what we just heard means anything, once they go nosing around the Cutlers' place, their travels come to a sudden end!”

Chet felt cold chills. “You really think the Cutlers polish off trespassers?”

“Suppose that guy was just trying to scare us off?” Joe suggested. “Suppose he doesn't want us to see something out there? Maybe Jenson is a prisoner at the Cutler Ranch and they don't want us to rescue him?”

Frank stood up. “It's still daylight. Let's go!”

Ponsley was against it. “I believe this will be another wild-goose chase,” he protested.

“Mr. Ponsley, we can't stop now,” Frank urged. “We know Americans took Jenson to Alice Springs. The Cutlers are Americans, and someone's trying to keep us away from their place. We have to see what's going on at the Cutler Ranch!”

“You can stay here until we get back,” Joe proposed.

“No, no!” Ponsley objected. “I don't want to stay alone. I'll go with you!”

The group went to the only car-rental agency in town and selected a compact that gave them good mileage to the gallon.

“You're lucky,” the agent told them. “We were all out of cars, but someone returned this one sooner than expected.”

“Good,” Frank said and paid for the rental. Then they drove north from Alice Springs with Joe at the wheel. The fertile region gave way to desert, after which signs of agriculture reappeared around McGrath Creek. They could see farm-houses with tall windmills pumping water from underground.

Soon the desert began again, and they were traveling a dusty road through desolate country marked by the bleached skeletons of horses and cows that had succumbed in the waterless waste.

“I believe we should pause for a rest,” Ponsley finally said. “Let's stop here.”

Joe pulled over to the side of the road, where a strange formation of huge rocks rose above the desert. They noticed that one of the rocks was covered with painted figures. A serpent wound its way in long sinuous coils up from the base of the cliff. On the left, an owl perched in a flutter of feathers, as if terrified by the snake. On the right, a kangaroo hopped fearfully out of the way. Above these animals, a medicine man wielded a magic wand to ward off the serpent's poison.

Chet scratched his head. “How did this guy and his pets get here?”

“The Aborigines painted them,” Frank replied. “I read about their rock paintings when we were in Princeton. These could be hundreds of years old.”

Ponsley nodded. “Terrific technique,” he declared. “Compares favorably with modern art.”

The four marveled at the figures done in white, black, brown, and dark red. At last, the boys sat down with their backs against the cliff. Ponsley, who complained about his stiff back, wandered away into the desert. A moment later he shouted frantically.

The boys scrambled to their feet and raced toward him, but stopped halfway, jarred by what they saw.

Their portly friend was confronted by
a large
kangaroo!

The animal stood on its hind legs with its heavy tail extended on the sand. Its fur was gray, shading to white underneath, and the tip of the tail was black. It held its small front paws up in the air and stared at Ponsley, who raised his hand in a frantic effort to frighten it off. His ruby ring glittered in the sun.

Suddenly the kangaroo began to hop toward him! The more Ponsley waved, the faster it bounded forward, its eyes fixed on his hand.

Frank recalled that kangaroos are attracted by bright objects. Obviously this one was after Ponsley's ruby ring!

“Stop waving!” the boy yelled, but Ponsley did not seem to hear him. He backed away from the kangaroo, turned frantically, and ran as fast as he could. The kangaroo also increased its speed, caught up with, and sprang at him in a high bound!