Ghost Stories by Franklin W. Dixon Page B

thought. He assumed that the jail had been used mainly to house Indians, whom the white men had at first made drunk with cheap whiskey and then had cheated out of their property before imprisoning them until they sobered up.
    He wandered inside the first cell. Suddenly he heard the door click behind him. He whirled around and tried to push it open, but it would not budge. He was locked in!
    Yet there was not a soul in sight, and not even the slightest breeze was blowing. Who had shut the door?
    A chill went down Frank’s spine. “Joe!” he cried out as loudly as he could. “Joe, help!”
    But his brother did not answer. He’s probably at the other end of town, doing his own exploring, Frank reasoned. I just hope
he
doesn’t get trapped anywhere! The thought frightened him even more. Would the Hardys be locked up forever in a town that didn’t even exist?
    Joe, meanwhile, was making his way closer to the prison, and every time he finished investigating another building, he called out for his brother. Finally he heard a faint reply.
    â€œHere, Joe! I’m in jail!”
    Joe rushed toward the low structure as fast as he could and dashed inside. When he saw Frank’s face behind the bars, he couldn’t help but laugh.
    â€œIt’s not funny!” Frank grated. “Now, let me out,will you? I noticed a key on the wall right over your head.”
    Joe took the key from a nail and put it in the door. But it would not turn! He pushed the door open. “It wasn’t locked, dummy!” he declared.
    Frank stared at him. “It was a minute ago. Don’t you think I tried to get out?”
    â€œHow’d you get in?”
    â€œI just walked in and the door shut behind me. There was no one around and no wind. Don’t ask me how it happened.”
    â€œI believe anything,” Joe murmured.
    â€œLook at the stuff on the walls,” Frank said. “Some of it I can’t decipher, but the drawings are interesting.”
    â€œI’m not coming into that cell?” Joe protested. “What if the door locks when we’re both inside?”
    â€œYou’re right,” Frank said. “Anyway, there’s more in the waiting room.” He walked out of the cell and the boys beamed their lights into every corner. Suddenly Joe stopped and started to read an inscription.
    â€œHey, Frank, listen to this! It says ‘On this day, in the white man’s calendar March 6, 1871, six Indian braves were hanged for stealing horses they did not steal. Tomorrow, the rest of us go to join our brothers on the white man’s gallows. Flaming Rock and all its people will be cursed for this crime. The Great Spirit will sweep down and take them from the good land, the land they ripped open with their mines and laid to waste with their carelessness. The Great Spirit will make Flaming Rock a hole in space. No more.’ ”
    â€œFantastic!” Frank exclaimed. Quickly he pulled a pencil and a piece of paper out of his pocket and copied the inscription.
    â€œDo you think that’s what happened?” he asked when he was finished.
    â€œI was told the same thing by an Indian brave a little while ago,” Joe said.
    â€œYou what?”
    â€œYou heard me. I went into the general store, got conked out by a coal scuttle, and when I came to this guy stood there with a tomahawk in his hand. He told me the town had been doomed because of what they did to his tribe, but that you and I would be spared if we left right away and told what we saw.”
    â€œHow—how do you know you weren’t just seeing a ghost?” Frank asked.
    â€œHe may have been a ghost, but he had a real headband on.” Joe pulled the gift out of his pocket. “Here. He gave it to me.”
    Frank fingered the headband in awe. “This is incredible!” he said finally. “Joe, what do you think we should do?”
    â€œLeave,” Joe said