The Mystery in Arizona

without Bobby—bright-eyed and redcheeked with excitement, hoarse from singing and shouting—why it was unthinkable!
    “I don’t think I want to go, after all,” Trixie heard herself mumble. But nobody heard her because down on Glen Road someone was blasting his automobile horn.
    That would be Tom, the Wheelers’ handsome young chauffeur, who was to drive them to the airport.
    Brian heaved a loud sigh of relief. “Guess the roads are okay now. The snowplow must have gone through a few minutes ago. But our driveway is a mess, Dad. Wish we had time to help you shovel it.”
    “Forget about it and winter!” Grinning, Mr. Belden clapped his eldest son on the shoulder.
    In spite of everything, Trixie couldn’t help thinking how much those two looked alike. They were both so tall and dark and good-looking. She and Mart and Bobby were blond like their mother. Thinking about her parents and Bobby made Trixie homesick all over again, and then Moms was hugging and kissing her and whispering, “You’ll have fun every minute, darling. Then when you get back we’ll have Christmas all over again—on New Year’s Eve and on New Year’s Day.”
    Trixie knew then that she wouldn’t be homesick and would have fun.
    They stopped at the Lynches to pick up Di and her father and their luggage; then Tom drove them to the airport. It was just beginning to grow light when they passed through the gate into the safety zone and climbed up the steps to the plane.
    The attractive, smiling, black-haired stewardess showed them to their seats. “Once were airborne you won t have to stay put,” she told them. “Due to the storm yesterday, we had several cancellations so there are plenty of empty seats.”
    Honey and Trixie were seated across the aisle from Mr. Lynch and Jim. Di had a seat behind Honey and across the aisle from Mart and Brian. Suddenly Trixie felt very weak-kneed. After all, she had never flown before in her life. Suppose she got airsick? Horrors! If she did, Mart would never let her live it down.
    The stewardess closed the door, and almost immediately a sign up front flashed on: no smoking. FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELT.
    Then they were in the air! Trixie shut her eyes and held her breath before she dared to peer out of the window and down at the lights of New York City, which were steadily fading away into the distance.
    Far from feeling sick, she had experienced only a momentary sense of disappointment because the takeoff had not been scary at all. Now they were flying smoothly westward, so smoothly that she might just as well have been sitting in the big glider on the Wheelers’ veranda.
    Di leaned over the seat to smile at her. “Nothing to it, is there?”
    Trixie shook her head. They were flying above the clouds now, and she said, surprised at herself,
    “Why, it’s practically boring!”
    The stewardess stopped beside their seats then and introduced herself. “I’m a full-blooded Apache Indian,” she told them. “Barbara Slater is my American name, and I was educated in public schools.” She slipped into the empty seat beside Di. “My Indian name is too long to remember. So won’t you please just call me Babs?”
    “You look divine in that trim navy-blue uniform,” Di said enviously. “When I’m old enough I’m going to try to get a job as an airline hostess.”
    Babs smiled back at her. “This particular airline hires only full-blooded Indian girls for the New York to Tucson run. Some of us are Papagos and Pimas, and a great many of us are Navahos and Apaches. All stewardesses, of course, have to be high-school graduates.”
    “That lets me out,” Di said dolefully. “Trixie and I don’t think we’ll ever get through junior high.” Trixie grinned. “My brother Mart,” she told the stewardess, “says my brain is so ossified that it rightly belongs in Arizona’s famous Petrified Forest Mart’s the blond boy across the aisle with the funny-looking crew cut The one with wavy black hair is Brian, our older brother.”
    Honey pointed with her little finger. “That boy over there with red hair is my adopted brother, Jim Frayne. The man with him is Di Lynch’s father. We’re going to spend the holidays at a Tucson dude
    ranch. Were going to get material for our English themes, too. Mexican Customs is my topic, and Trixie’s is Navaho Indians.”
    “Mine,” Di said with a rueful chuckle, “is Arizona in general, about which I know nothing. Can you give us any helpful hints?”
    “Well,”