Mystery of the Desert Giant by Franklin W. Dixon

track and climb into a car.”
    â€œRight—and thanks for everything, Leon!”
    The three shook hands. Then the agent went out with his flag, and the Hardys slipped off in the dark to make a circle back to the track.
    Soon the train rumbled in and stopped. Armijo carried some packages out and handed them to a man in a car just behind the engine. The train started again, with a long chain of jolts all the way to the caboose as each car got moving.
    Although the engineer did not know it, when he left the lonely desert station he was carrying two new passengers in one of his boxcars.

CHAPTER XIII
    Spanish Hardys
    CROSS-LEGGED, the brothers sat before the huge open doorway of the boxcar and looked out. Under the pale, white light of the moon, the desert passed steadily before their eyes with its rocks and mesas, its scrubby plant life, an occasional wild animal, and the isolated adobe houses which showed no lights at this late hour.
    â€œWhat do we do next?” Joe asked.
    â€œStick with the train as far as we can,” Frank proposed. “That’s probably what Grafton did. Let’s see what happens.”
    â€œIn the meantime, I’m going to sleep,” Joe announced, curling up. “I don’t care how bumpy this car is!”
    â€œGood idea,” Frank seconded in a sleepy voice.
    Tired from the hair-raising automobile ride, the long walk, and then the violent fight, the two boys fell into a deep sleep.
    Crash! Bang! Crash!
    Opening their eyes with a start, Frank and Joe found the bright light of morning flooding the boxcar. Next they discovered two strange men banging the side of the car with heavy sticks.
    â€œWake up, tourists!” one ordered in a cheerful voice. “You will not go to the United States today. A taxi awaits you—a special taxi.”
    â€œThe Mexican police,” Frank muttered, blinking, as he recognized the uniforms.
    â€œYes, my friend,” went on the good-humored voice. “The border police. Last stop in Mexico. All free riders get off here.”
    â€œAre we in Mexicali, then?” Frank inquired.
    â€œYes—in Mexicali. Now, come along. The other tourists are waiting.”
    Frank and Joe followed the officer past the motionless boxcars toward the front of the train. There a number of Mexicans, most of them dressed in the faded denim suits of farm laborers, were clambering into the back of a truck.
    â€œWho are all those guys?” Joe asked sleepily.
    â€œFree riders—like us,” his brother answered. “Trying to get over the border illegally.”
    By now the boys had reached the truck. The occupants extended friendly hands to help them aboard.
    â€œWhere are they taking us?” Joe inquired.
    â€œJail, probably.”
    â€œJail!” Joe echoed. “They can’t put us in jail!”
    Suddenly the cheerful guard, who had been boosting Joe from behind, stopped and looked into their faces attentively, then walked to the side of the road.
    â€œWhat’s he up to?” Joe wondered.
    â€œSearch me—reporting to his chief, I guess.”
    From the truck they could see the man talking to the officer who seemed to be in charge. Then in another minute they were rattling through the streets of Mexicali.
    At the police station the boys leaped to the pavement. Immediately the guard, who had preceded the truck in a jeep, pulled them to one side, while the other prisoners filed into the station.
    â€œGet on your way—fast!” he whispered. “Jump into the cab of the truck.”
    The vehicle’s engine was still running, and no sooner had Frank and Joe climbed in and slammed the door than the driver headed out of town.
    â€œWhat’s up?” asked Frank, bewildered.
    â€œThe police are looking for some smugglers,” the driver answered. “Your name is Hardy? The guard was instructed to release you and send you away. I heard the order. I don’t know what it’s all