Mystery of the Desert Giant by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

goes with me,” Chet admitted. “A private airplane pilot named Jim Weston. He’s interested in infrared photography too.”
    â€œWell, try to be at the motel at this time every night,” Frank urged. “We’ll call you if we need anything.”
    â€œRoger!” their friend agreed. “Hope you find Grafton!”
    All the following morning Frank and Joe drifted in and out of stores, gas stations, and restaurants, talking casually to people who might have seen Grafton or Wetherby. The boys had no luck and went to sit in the hotel lobby. Just after noon the truck driver who had brought them from Mexicali walked in.
    â€œYour boat is at the dock,” he greeted the Hardys. “The repairs have been made. It runs perfectly.”
    â€œHot diggety!” Joe exclaimed. “What are we waiting for?”
    Francisco and José Fuerte checked out of the hotel. Sporting their blue-dungaree suits and handsome new boots, the boys followed the driver to the water front. The familiar red-and-white boat was waiting for them, with their rucksack and other equipment on the front seat.
    â€œIt was a very small matter,” replied the policeman at the wheel, when Frank tried to pay him for the repair. “Do not trouble yourself. We are always glad to help our neighbors to the north.”
    â€œWe sure are grateful.” Joe smiled.
    In a few minutes the young detectives were out on the river once more, heading upstream under the warm afternoon sun. Soon they had crossed the border again—this time without any trouble.
    When the docks of Yuma, Arizona, became visible on the right, Frank headed across the river toward the California shore and they docked their boat at a public wharf.
    â€œNow for that pony ranch,” he proposed. “Shouldn’t be more than a mile or two from the river.”
    Joe hoisted the rucksack to his shoulders and followed his brother from the dock. Together they set off along a faint trail over the desert.
    â€œThis leads straight to the ranch, according to the boat-dock owner,” Frank noted.
    After trudging for some distance, the low buildings and the corrals of the ranch came into view.
    â€œThere she is,” Frank called.
    â€œJust in time, too,” Joe replied, as he swung down his pack. “These new boots are killing me. Hold up a minute while I slip into my moccasins again.”
    Quickly Joe pulled out the comfortable shoes and dropped them before him on the ground. Then, hopping on one foot, he pulled off the handsome but tight-fitting right boot and slipped his stockinged foot into one of the moccasins.
    â€œOuch!” he shouted, quickly pulling his foot out again. Holding it in both hands, he hopped around on the other leg. “Ow—boy!”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” Frank asked, laughing.
    â€œIt isn’t funny. Feels as if I’d stepped on a fishhook, only worse!”
    Wondering, Frank peered into the small, lightweight shoe. Suddenly he began to stamp on the moccasin viciously with the heavy heel of his own boot.
    â€œFishhook, nothing!” he cried out. “There was a little yellow scorpion in your shoe. He must have stung you!”
    Both boys looked carefully at the small, straw-colored insect that Frank shook out of the moccasin. It had a long curving tail with a deadly barb at the end.
    â€œThat’s what he got you with,” said Frank. “They hide in dark places during the day. He must have crawled into the rucksack down in Mexico. Sit still now. There isn’t a moment to lose!”
    Carefully Frank examined the sting. Working rapidly, he bound his new bandanna around Joe’s leg. Then, using a pencil, he completed the tourniquet and tightened the pressure on his brother’s leg.
    â€œThat will slow the flow of blood, so the poison can’t circulate,” he observed. “Now let’s get to that ranch!”
    Fortunately, two cowboys saw the Hardys,