The Ghost at Skeleton Rock (13 page)

“Wonder how much that man'll charge us for damages,” Tony said uncomfortably.

The boat owner, however, was quite cordial. “Do not worry, senores,” he assured the boys. “The police have told me the whole story, and I know it was not your fault. Besides, the boat was covered by insurance.”

This time, Frank rented a much faster speedboat and filled the tank with enough fuel for a long run. Heading westward, they cruised along the Puerto Rican coast until Frank sighted a pineapple-shaped hill at the tip of a small spit of land.

“There's Punta Cabezona,” he told Tony. “Now steer a course due north.”

As they headed out to sea, the water was almost glassy calm. About twenty miles out, they sighted a small island, green and palm-fringed.

Joe gave a whoop of triumph. “Frank, I believe your hunch about a hideout north of Cabezona is paying off!”

“Where to now?” Tony asked. “Do we make a landing?”

“That's what we came for,” Frank said grimly as he shaded his eyes to peer shoreward.

The tiny island was narrow and stringbeanshaped, with its long axis lying north and south. Tony cruised cautiously until he found an opening in the coral reef surrounding the islet. Then he steered toward the beach through the gentle breakers, and anchored in shallow water. The boys kicked off their sneakers and waded ashore.

“I wonder if any of the gang is lurking around,” Joe murmured when they reached the sandy beach, which sparkled bone-white in the sunshine. “Maybe we should have—”

He broke off, startled, as a horde of wild-eyed natives sprang from a dense thicket of greenery. Waving clubs and knives, they charged at the boys with blood-chilling yells!

“Run for it!” yelled Frank.

The boys plunged into the water and plowed back to the boat. As Chet, in the rear, squirmed aboard, Frank gunned the engine and steered out to a safe distance. Back near shore, the natives stood waist-deep in water, still yelling and shaking their weapons.

“Wow!” Joe gulped. “What started all that?”

“W-we did!” said Chet, trembling with fright. “We must have landed right in the middle of the gang's hideout. Those cannibals are standing guard for 'em!”

“Cannibals nothing!” said Tony. “I'll bet those are Carib Indians. Isn't that what they call the original inhabitants of these parts?”

“Call 'em anything you like,” Chet replied. “They're still heap bad medicine!”

The stout boy was all for returning to San Juan. But the other three managed to persuade him that they should explore further.

With Frank at the helm, they cruised along the western shore of the island. Presently they came to a small cove, which formed a snug little natural harbor. Alongside a pier which jutted out into the water a red motorboat was moored. Back of the shore lay a palatial white villa.

“Must be some millionaire's vacation home,” Chet remarked. “But I wouldn't want to be that close to those natives!”

On higher ground back of the estate the boys glimpsed an airstrip with a plane on it much like the Hardys' craft, except that it was silver in color.

“Should we tie up and look around?” Chet asked.

“Not yet,” said Frank. “Let's cruise a bit farther first, and get the lay of the land.”

Continuing along the coast, they circled the northern tip of the island. It was covered with pineapple fields, but there was no sign of workers or natives.

“Guess we may as well go back,” Frank remarked.

He reversed course and steered back around the island. As they neared the tiny harbor, a man waved cheerfully from the pier.

“Hi, there!” he shouted. “Come on in!”

Frank brought the boat to shore, and they tied up to the dock on the opposite side from the red motorboat. The man who had called to them was a stout and affable-appearing person, wearing an immaculate white suit and puffing on a cigar.

“Glad to see you,” he greeted the boys as they climbed onto the pier. “We don't often have visitors. Durling Hamilton's my name,” he added.

The boys shook hands and introduced themselves. They learned that Hamilton was a retired sportsman, who spent most of his time on the island estate.

“What brings you boys out here?” he queried.

“We're hunting for a gang of thieves,” Chet blurted before Frank or Joe could stop him.

Hamilton appeared not to notice the awkward silence that followed. “Well, I wish you luck.” He smiled. “Got quite a problem myself. Confounded natives just south of here have made trouble for me ever since I built my home on Calypso Island.”

The Hardys and their friends tried not to look startled at this remark. Casually Frank asked, “Did you say Calypso Island?”

Hamilton nodded. “That's what the natives call it. They're descendants of Carib Indians with some mixed blood. They practice voodoo and worship a small flat stone—
Skeleton Rock.”

HERE at last was a real clue! Frank and Joe figured that probably the natives of Calypso Island were being used as a screen by the smugglers. So it was only natural that they should try to drive Durling Hamilton off the island.

“Have the natives been doing anything unusual lately?” Joe asked the sportsman. “I mean, have you noticed mysterious ceremonies?”

Hamilton puffed his cigar for a moment. “Well,” he replied, “I did see a blue speedboat put in on the natives' side of the island yesterday.”

“A blue boat!” Tony's eyes flashed excitedly.

“That's right,” Hamilton went on. “Four men came ashore.”

“Did you get a good look at them?” Frank asked eagerly.

“Yes. I watched them through binoculars. About all I can tell you, though, is that one was a tall, heavy-set fellow. They talked with the Indians for a while and then shoved off.”

A tall, heavy-set fellow! The boys exchanged knowing glances. Could he have been Abdul?

Hamilton interrupted their thoughts by inviting the boys up to his villa for lunch. A few minutes later the group was seated in comfortable wicker chairs on the terrace enjoying lemonade, pineapple salad, and sandwiches of cold roast beef.

Aside from his staff of white-jacketed Puerto Ricans, Hamilton appeared to live alone on the estate. “It's nice to have company,” he told his guests.

Lunch over, their host showed the boys his game room, decorated with huge trophies of marlin, sailfish, and barracuda. Then he suggested a couple of fast sets of tennis, which he refereed, on twin courts near the airstrip. Afterward, all of them cooled off with a refreshing swim in the gentle blue waters of the cove. By this time, it was late in the afternoon.

“You've given us a wonderful time, sir,” Frank told Hamilton when the boys had finished dressing. “Now we'd better start back to San Juan.”

“Nonsense!” The sportsman paused to bite off the tip of a fresh cigar. “As I told you, we don't have many visitors out here. Gets mighty lonesome. I want you boys to stay and be my guests as long as you like.”

Chet and Tony, though eager to extend their visit, left the decision to the Hardys. Frank and Joe were excited about the possibility to do more exploring. But, to throw Hamilton off the scent, they deliberately hesitated in accepting the invitation.

“At least stay overnight,” Hamilton urged. “If you get bored, you can go back tomorrow morning.”

“Well, if you put it like that, Mr. Hamilton”—Frank grinned—“I guess we'll accept your invitation.”

“Fine! Wonderful!” their portly host beamed. “I'll cook part of the dinner myself. I'm quite a chef in my spare time,” he boasted. “I'm counting on some real appetites to do it justice!”

The dinner of rock lobster and red snapper proved to be delicious. Both Frank and Joe took only the snapper, which was broiled to a juicy turn. But Tony and Chet ate liberally of both dishes.

After dinner they strolled out on the terrace under the stars. Chet sank into a deep lounge chair and let his head loll back.

“O-oh,” he groaned. “I must've eaten too much.”

“Is that unusual?” Joe needled.

“No kidding,” Chet replied. “My stomach feels like lead!”

Tony looked a bit unhappy too. “I don't feel so well myself,” he confessed.

As the boys continued to feel uncomfortable, Durling Hamilton became concerned. “Just sit there and take it easy,” he advised. “I'm sure it'll pass off. Too much excitement for one day, maybe —not good for digestion!”

Meanwhile, Frank and Joe decided to do some sleuthing around the southern end of the island. Saying that they needed exercise, they excused themselves and wandered off along the smooth, sandy beach.

Darkness had fallen, and a full yellow moon was rising over the water. A cool trade wind wafted through the palm trees.

Suddenly Frank gripped his brother's arm. “Look! A campfire!” he pointed.

The flickering orange flames were visible through the dark foliage a short distance back from the beach.

“Come on!” Joe whispered. “Let's see what's up!”

Creeping closer, they pulled aside some branches and saw a group of natives squatting about the fire. The Indians, clad in ragged shirts and trousers, were jabbering excitedly.

“They're sure upset about something,” Joe murmured.

“Hamilton said they practice voodoo,” Frank whispered. “Maybe they're getting ready for some kind of ceremony.”

As the boys listened they caught several words spoken in Spanish. “Sounds more like an argument,” Joe noted.

Presently a skinny brown dog that was curled up near the campfire got to his feet and began to sniff the night air.

“Oh, oh!” gulped Joe in a low voice. “Let's hope he doesn't pick up our scent!”

Slowly the dog began to circle the camp, coming nearer and nearer to the boys' hiding place. All of a sudden he stiffened and broke into a volley of barks.

The natives stopped talking immediately and grabbed up heavy sticks. The Hardys flattened themselves in the underbrush. Should they lie still, or try to make a break?

The decision was made for them when the Indians strode toward the spot. Encouraged by his masters, the snarling cur charged into the thicket.

Instantly Frank and Joe sprang up and started to run. But before they had gone a dozen paces, the fleet-footed natives overtook them. Several grabbed the boys, while others menaced them with clubs.

“Don't fight!” Frank called to his brother. “Maybe we can convince them we're friends.”

Trying to appear calm, the boys allowed themselves to be dragged back to the campfire. One of the natives, a youth about their own age, was able to speak a little English.

“Me Fernando,” he told them. “What you do here? You come to spy for rich white man?”

“No,” Frank replied. “We're just visitors here on the island. We saw your campfire and wondered what was going on, that's all.”

As the boy translated, there was an angry babble from the other natives. Fernando turned back to the Hardys.

“They say you enemies—you work for Senor Hamilton,” he said accusingly. “Him bad man! Our people live here on island always. This our home. Then he come—try to drive us away!”

Frank and Joe denied this earnestly. Speaking in simple words, they tried to convince the youth that they wished to be friends and that Durling Hamilton had no designs against the natives. But it was clear from the Indians' scowling faces that the words were having no effect.

Finally Joe decided to speak out bluntly. “Look, Fernando,” he asked, “is it true that your people believe in voodoo and worship something called Skeleton Rock?”

The effect of Joe's question was astounding. At the mention of Skeleton Rock, the natives seemed to go wild. Shouting and babbling in mixed Spanish-Indian dialect, they seized the two boys and hurled them to the ground!

When Joe asked about Skeleton Rock, the natives seemed to go wild

Frank and Joe fought like wildcats but were soon tied hand and foot. Then the natives began to drag them down to the water's edge.

“They're going to throw us to the sharks!” Joe gasped to his brother.

“You two boys bad like Hamilton!” Fernando glared at them. “Now my people take revenge!”

The Hardys turned pale, their hearts hammering with fear as the Indians loaded them into a boat. Again and again, they pleaded to be released, speaking in both Spanish and English.

Finally their words seemed to take effect. There was a lot of babbling among the natives, then one spoke to Fernando.