The foreman’s eyes seemed to glow in the dark. “Indians always did say that no one could see
Mr. Dalton frowned. “Investigators, eh? Well, I don’t know, boys. The sheriff might not like boys interfering.”
Professor Walsh looked at the card. “Why the question marks, boys? Do you doubt your ability as detectives?”
The professor smiled at his own joke, but Bob and Pete only grinned and waited for Jupe to explain. Adults always asked about the question marks, which was exactly what Jupiter wanted.
“No, sir,” Jupiter said. “The question marks are our symbol. They stand for questions unanswered, mysteries unsolved, enigmas of all sorts that we attempt to unravel. So far we have never failed to explain any riddle we’ve found.”
Jupiter said the last proudly. But Mr. Dalton was looking at the second card, a small green one. Each of the boys had one, and they all read the same:
“You boys certainly showed more sense to-night than half the adults around here,” Mr. Dalton said at last. “Maybe three boys with a fresh viewpoint are just what we need to solve this nonsense. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation, and if you promise to be very careful around that cave, I say go ahead and investigate.”
“We’ll be careful!” the boys cried in unison.
Mrs. Dalton smiled. “I’m sure there’s some very simple explanation we’ve all missed.”
Mr. Dalton snorted. “I say it’s the wind blowing through those old tunnels and nothing more.”
Jupiter finished the last cookie. “You and the sheriff have searched the cave, sir?”
“From one end to the other. Many of the passages are blocked by debris from old earthquakes, but we searched every one we could find.”
“Did you find anything that looked as if it had changed recently?” Jupiter questioned.
“Changed?” Mr. Dalton frowned. “Nothing we could see. What are you getting at, son?”
“Well, sir,” Jupiter explained, “I understand that the moaning only began a month ago. Before that it hadn’t been heard for at least fifty years. If the wind is causing the sound, then it seems only logical that something must have changed inside the cave to make the moaning sound start again. I mean, I doubt if the wind has changed.”
“Hah!” Professor Walsh said. “There’s clear logic, Dalton. Perhaps these boys can solve your mystery.”
Jupiter ignored the interruption. “I also understand,” he went on, “that the moaning occurs only at night, which would not be the case if the wind alone were responsible. Have you noticed if it happens every windy night, by any chance?”
“No, I don’t think it does, Jupiter,” Mr. Dalton was beginning to look really interested. “I see what you mean. If it were just the wind, then we should hear moaning every windy night… Of course, it could be a combination of wind and some special atmospheric condition.”
Professor Walsh smiled. “Or it could be El Diablo, come back to ride again!”
Pete gulped. “Don’t say that, Professor. Jupe already said the same thing!”
Professor Walsh looked over at Jupiter. “He did, did he? You’re not going to tell me that you believe in ghosts, are you, young man?”
“No one knows about ghosts for sure, sir,” Bob put in seriously. “However, we’ve never actually found a real ghost.”
“I see,” the professor said. “Well, the Spanish people have always insisted that El Diablo will come back when he is needed. I’ve done a great deal of research, and I can’t really say that he couldn’t come back.”
“Research?” Bob asked.
“Professor Walsh is a professor of history,” Mrs. Dalton explained. “He’s here in Santa Carla for a year to do special research on California history. Mr. Dalton thought he might be able to help us explain Moaning Valley to our ranch hands.”
“With no luck so far,” the professor admitted. “But perhaps you boys would be interested in the full story of El Diablo? I’m thinking of writing a book on his colourful career.”
“That would be great!” Bob exclaimed.
“Yes, I would like to hear more about him,” Jupiter agreed.
Professor Walsh leaned back in his chair and began to tell the story of El Diablo and his famous last adventure.
“Then,” Professor Walsh concluded, “the moaning suddenly stopped. The Spanish-speaking people said that El Diablo had grown weary and given up his raids — but that he was still in the cave waiting for a time when he would be really needed!”
“Gosh,” Pete exclaimed. “You mean some people think he’s still there in the cave?”
“How could he be?” Bob asked.
“Well, boys,” the professor said, “I’ve done a great deal of research on El Diablo. For example, all his old pictures show him wearing his pistol on the right hip, but I am certain he was left-handed!”
Jupiter nodded thoughtfully. “The stories about such a legendary figure are often false.”
“Exactly,” Professor Walsh said. “Now the official story has always been that he died of his wound that night in the cave. But I have studied the record closely, and I am convinced that his wound could not have been fatal. Since he was only eighteen years old in 1888, it is entirely possible that El Diablo is still alive!”
“I think you’d be surprised how spry a man of a hundred can be,” Professor Walsh said quietly. “There are reports of men in the Caucasus Mountains of southern Russia who still ride and fight when they are a hundred or more. Anyway, our phantom isn’t doing much more than moan from a cave.”
“That’s true, sir,” Jupiter said.
“Also,” Professor Walsh pointed out, “it is entirely possible that El Diablo might have descendants. Perhaps a son or even a grandson is carrying on his career.”
Mr. Dalton began to look a little less sceptical. “That sounds more likely. The people who had the ranch before us never used Moaning Valley, but we are planning to build a range corral out there. Perhaps some descendant doesn’t want El Diablo’s legend interfered with.”
“Jess, that could be the answer!” Mrs. Dalton cried. “Don’t you remember? Some of our older Mexican ranch hands were against our plan to use Moaning Valley even before the moaning began.”“And they were among the first to leave us,” Mr. Dalton exclaimed. “Tomorrow I’m going to talk to the sheriff and see if he knows of any descendants of El Diablo.”
“Perhaps you’d all like to see a picture of El Diablo,” Professor Walsh said. He took a small picture from his pocket and passed it around. It showed a slim young man with burning, dark eyes and a proud face. The picture, which was obviously a photograph of a painting, seemed to prove that El Diablo had been little more than a boy. He wore a wide-brimmed, high-crowned black vaquero sombrero, a short black jacket, a black shirt with a high neck, and tight black trousers that flared at the bottom above shiny black pointed boots.
“Did he always wear black?” Bob asked.
“Always,” Walsh replied. “He said that he was in mourning for his people and his country.”
“He was a bandit and nothing more, and tomorrow I’ll talk to the sheriff to see if any fools are trying to continue his legend,” Mr. Dalton said firmly. Then the lean rancher smiled. “And interesting as I admit El Diablo is, a ranch doesn’t run itself. I have work to do to-night, and you boys must be tired from your trip. I expect I’ll be working you hard tomorrow. Pete’s Dad said you wanted to learn all about how a ranch operates, and the only way to learn is to do the work.”
“We’re really not at all tired, Mr. Dalton,” Jupiter said briskly. “Are we, fellows?”
“Not at all,” Bob agreed.
“Gosh, no,” Pete echoed.
“It’s still early and a clear night,” Jupe went on, “and we’d like to look around the ranch as much as we can. The beach is especially interesting at night. There’s some remarkable flora and fauna up here along the sea-shore that only appears at night.”