“Now it strikes me that Lake James is at a somewhat lower level than this river,” the cubmaster went on reflectively. “Does that give either of you a clue?”
“An underground stream might connect the two!” Brad said promptly.
“That’s what I’m thinking,” Mr. Hatfield nodded, “Anyway, we’ll soon know. Notice, that floating paddle is moving toward shore again.”
“It’s traveling, too!” Dan exclaimed. “Almost as if it had a motor!”
“Even if the river did carry away our two paddles, that doesn’t explain what happened to the Navajo blanket or our cache of food,” Brad remarked thoughtfully. He shifted the paddle to the other side of the canoe so that his arm muscle might have a brief rest.
“No, someone deliberately took those things. It bothers me, too.”
“Indians?” Dan interposed.
“It could be.” Mr. Hatfield spoke rather guardedly, as if reluctant to tell the Cubs everything that was in his mind. “I’ve been trying to run into those strangers, to get a line on them. So far, I’ve had no luck.”
Since the Cubs first had discovered the carved clay face at the ravine, park officials had made several visits to the site. Twice they had noted that additional work had been done. But on no occasion had they found anyone in the vicinity.
“The park is too short-handed to assign a man to watch the ravine,” Mr. Hatfield said. “Eventually the culprit or culprits will be caught, but it may take time.”