The Mystery of the Aztec Warrior by Franklin W. Dixon Page A

helter-skelter to get away from the animal. Suddenly the angry bull halted, swinging its head from side to side, its horns lowered.
    One of the fleeing bystanders spotted the young matador and shouted, “Roberto! Roberto.” Others in the crowd called out to him.
    Without hesitation, the matador sheathed his sword with the red cloak and walked slowly toward the bull. As it charged toward him, he adroitly swung the cloak and side-stepped the animal. The bull trotted off a short distance, then turned back.
    Once more, Roberto walked toward it with short, steady steps. The animal stood still and glared. Suddenly it lowered its horns again and made a lunge for the matador. Several women screamed, fearful that the man would be gored!
    Roberto gracefully swung his cloak and pivoted to one side. The bull’s horns hit the earth and he gave a loud bellow.
    â€œOlé! Olé!” the crowd shouted in praise of the matador’s expert move.
    As the frustrated beast came toward him, Roberto suddenly pulled out his sword. Frank, Joe, and Chet experienced a sickening sensation -evidently the bull was now to be dispatched. As the crowd watched tensely, a shout came from the edge of the zócalo.
    A man appeared, crying out, “Do not kill the bull!”
    He carried a lariat in his hands. The next moment it snaked out neatly. The immense loop at one end settled down over the bull and was quickly jerked tight. The animal dropped helplessly to the ground, writhing and snorting.
    â€œPretty clever!” said Frank.
    The beast was pulled to the edge of the zócalo, where a truck was parked. The tailgate was down, and quickly the animal was pulled aboard. Then the gate was fastened and the lasso removed from the bull’s legs.
    Frank, Joe, and Chet exchanged pleased grins that no harm had come to the animal.
    Chet remarked, “We sure had a front-row seat to a bullfight that time!”
    The man with the lasso explained to the curious crowd that he was driving the animal to a farm outside of town. When the Mexican had stopped for a traffic light, the tailgate had become unfastened and fallen down. The bull had immediately escaped.
    â€œI would have put a ring in his nose and tied him to the side of the truck,” the man said ruefully, “but I was hoping to enter him in a bullfight and did not want to mar him.”
    As the bull’s owner drove off, Frank nudged his companions. “Let’s go talk to that matador, Roberto, and find out his last name.”
    The boys pushed their way through the crowd to the center of the zócalo where the young matador was receiving congratulations from bystanders.
    â€œGreat performance,” said Frank, smiling. “By the way, what is your last name?”
    The young Mexican grinned. “My full name is Roberto Hermosa Alberto Sanchez.”
    â€œWhat!” Chet’s eyes bulged.
    The young man looked at him, then said, puzzled, “You seem surprised.”
    Immediately Joe asked the matador if he knew a Mr. Moore in the States. “No, I don’t. I never heard of him.”
    The Hardys were disappointed. For the second time their hopes of finding the right Roberto Hermosa were dashed. They now wondered whether Hermosa was the last name of the man they sought.
    â€œDo you know an archaeologist named Tatloc?” Frank questioned him.
    Again the matador shook his head. “I spend most of my time training to be a bullfighter. I would have no opportunity to come in contact with a man like that.”
    Chet now asked, “Is there any shop around that sells antique weapons?”
    â€œYes. It’s not far away,” Roberto replied, and gave the address.
    â€œThanks,” said Chet. “And good luck to you in your bullfights!”
    As the boys walked away, the Hardys beamed at Chet. “You’re really becoming quite a sleuth,” Frank said, and added, “If you find a dagger with an Aztec head on the handle,