"At the cross, at the cross, there I first saw the light,And the burden from my heart rolled away!It was there by faith I received my sight,And now I'm happy all the day!"
"At the cross, at the cross, there I first saw the light,And the burden from my heart rolled away!It was there by faith I received my sight,And now I'm happy all the day!"
One verse was all. Spent with the effort, Prebbles dropped back on the pillow and continued his whispered muttering.
"It's one of those Salvation Army songs," observed the doctor.
"He thought he was marching and playing the cymbals," said Matt, in a low tone.
"Too bad!" exclaimed McGlory, shaking his head.
"Do all you can for him, doctor," urged Matt.
"I will, of course," was the answer, "but you may be able to do more for him than any one else, Matt."
"How so?"
"Why, by bringing back that scalawag son of his. That's the one thing the old man needs. If we can show Prebbles the boy, and make him realize that he's here, and sorry for the past, it will do a world of good."
"I'll bring him!" declared Matt, his voice vibrant with feeling. "Prebbles said this business would make or break him; and, as the work is on my shoulders now, it's make or break for me. Come on, Joe!"
He turned from the room, followed by McGlory and Cameron. Out of the post went the three, and down the hill and past the post trader's store, the king of the motor boys saying not a word; but, when the shelter tent was in sight, he turned to his companions.
"It's mighty odd," said he, "how chances to do a little good in the world will sometimes come a fellow's way. Through that rascal, Murgatroyd, I was led into giving a helping hand to Mrs. Traquair; and here, through the same man, I've a chance to help Prebbles."
"And you can bet your moccasins we'll help him," declared McGlory, "even though we lose that circus contract. Hey, pard?"
"We will!" answered Matt.
Ping had cooked himself a mess of rice on a camp stove near the shelter tent. He was just finishing his rations when the boys and the lieutenant came up.
"We're going out in the aëroplane to-day, Ping," announced Matt.
"Allee light," said the Chinaman, wiping off his chop sticks and slipping them into his blouse.
"You and McGlory are going with me," went on Matt.
The yellow face glowed, and the slant eyes sparkled.
"Hoop-a-la!" exulted Ping. "By Klismus, my likee sail in Cloud Joss!"
"I wish I had that heathen's nerve," muttered the cowboy. "It's plumb scandalous the way the joy bubbles out of him. All his life he's been glued toterra firma, same as me, but, from the way he acts, you'd think he'd spentmost of his time on the wing. But mebby he's only running in a rhinecaboo, and will dive into his wannegan as soon as we're ready to take a running start and climb into the air. We'll see."
"Pump up the bicycle tires, Joe," said Matt. "Get them good and hard. Ping," and Matt pointed to the haversack of provender McGlory had brought from the post, "stow that back of the seat on the lower wing. We may be gone two or three days."
"And mebby we'll be cut off in our youth and bloom and never come back," observed McGlory, grabbing the air pump. "This is Matt's make and break," he grinned grewsomely; "we make an ascent and break our bloomin' necks. But who cares? We're helping a neighbor."
Ping crooned happily as he set about securing the haversack. He'd have jumped on a streak of chain lightning, if Matt had been going along with him to make the streak behave.
TheComethad two gasoline tanks, and both of these were full. The oil cups were also brimming, and there was a reserve supply to be drawn on in case of need.
Matt went over the machine carefully, as he always did before a flight, making sure that everything was tight and shipshape, and in perfect running order.
Even if anything went wrong with the motor, and the propeller ceased to drive the aëroplane ahead, there would have been no accident. The broad wings, or planes, would have glided down the air like twin parachutes and landed the flyers safely.
Cameron, having manfully smothered his disappointment, lent his hearty aid in getting the boys ready for the start. The machine, at the beginning of the flight, had to be driven forward on the bicycle wheels until the air under the wings offered sufficient resistance to lift the craft. A speed of thirty miles an hour was sufficient to carry the flying machine off the ground and launch it skyward.
But there was disappointment in store for the boys. The three, seated on the lower plane, Matt at the levers, tried again and again to send the machine fast enough along the muddy road to give it the required impetus to lift it. But the road was too heavy.
The trick of fortune caused Ping to gabble and jabber furiously, but McGlory watched and waited with passive willingness to accept whatever was to come.
"I guess you'll have to give up, Matt," said Cameron. "The road's too soft and you can't get a start."
Matt looked at the prairie alongside the road. The grass was short, and the springy turf seemed to offer some chance for a getaway.
"We'll try it there," said he, pointing to the trailside. "Give us a boost off the road, Cameron, and then start us."
The lieutenant assisted the laboring bicycle wheels to gain the roadside, and then pushed the machine straight off across the prairie. Matt threw every ounce of power into the wheels.
Usually the air ship took to wing in less than a hundred yards, but now the distance consumed by the start was three times that. For two hundred feet Cameron kept up and pushed; then theCometwent away from him at a steadily increasing pace. Finally the wheels lifted.
Quick as thought, Matt shifted the power to the propeller. TheCometdropped a little, then caught herself just as the wheels were brushing the grass and forged upward.
"Hoop-a-la!" cried Ping.
McGlory said nothing. His face was set, his eyes gleaming, and he was hanging to his seat with both hands.
A SHOT ACROSS THE BOWS.
The sensation of gliding through the air, entirely cut adrift from solid ground, is as novel as it is pleasant. The body seems suddenly to have acquired an indescribable lightness, and the spirits become equally buoyant. Dizziness, or vertigo, is unheard of among aëronauts. While on the ground a man may not be able to climb a ladder for a distance of ten feet without losing his head and falling, the same man can look downward for thousands of feet from a balloon with his nerves unruffled.
Joe McGlory, now for the first time leaping into the air with a flying machine, was holding his breath and hanging on desperately to keep himself from being shaken off his seat, but, to his astonishment, his fears were rapidly dying away within him.
The cowboy was a lad of pluck and daring; nevertheless, he had viewed his projected flight in a mood akin to panic. Although passionately fond of boats, yet the roll of a launch in a seaway always made him sick; in the same manner, perhaps, he was in love with flying machines, although it had taken a lot of strenuous work to get him to promise to go aloft.
The necessity, on account of wet ground, of juggling for a start, had thrown something of a wet blanket over McGlory's ardor. Once in the air, however, his enthusiasm arose as his fears went down.
Matt sat on the left side of the broad seat, firmly planted with his feet on the footrest and his body bent forward, one hand on the mechanism that expanded or contracted the great wings, and the other manipulating the rudder that gave the craft a vertical course.
On Matt's quickness of judgment and lightning-like celerity in shifting the levers, the lives of all three of the boys depended. Every change in the centre of air pressure—and this was shifting every second—had to be met with an expansion or contraction of the wings in order to make the centre of air pressure and the centre of gravity coincide at all times.
Upon Matt, therefore, fell all the labor and responsibility. He had no time to give to the scenery passing below, and what talking he indulged in was mechanical and of secondary importance to his work. But this is not to say that he missed all the pleasures of flying. A greater delight than that offered by the zest of danger and responsibility in the air would be hard to imagine. Every second his nerves were strung to tightest tension.
Ping sat between Matt and McGlory, his yellow hands clutching the rim of the seat between his knees. He was purring with happiness, like some overgrown cat, while a grin of heavenly joy parted his face as his eyes marked the muddy roads over which they were passing without hindrance.
Up and up Matt forced the machine until they reached a height of five hundred feet. Here the air was crisp and cool, and much steadier than the currents closer to the surface.
"Great!" shouted the cowboy. "I haven't the least fear that we're going to drop, and I'd just as lieve go out on the end of one of the wings and stand on my head."
"Don't do it," laughed Matt, keeping his eyes straight ahead, while his hand trawled constantly back and forth with the lever controlling the wing ends.
"Him plenty fine!" cooed Ping.
"Fine ain't the name for it," said McGlory. "I'm so plumb tickled I can't sit still. And to think that I shied and side-stepped, when I might have been having this fun right along! Well, we can't be so wise all the time as we are just some of the time, and that's a fact. How far do you make it, Matt, to where we're going?"
"A little over a hundred miles, as the crow flies."
"As theCometflies, you mean. How fast are we going?"
"Fifty miles an hour."
"That clip will drop us near Burnt Creek in two hours. Whoop-ya!"
The cowboy let out a yell from pure exhilaration. Not a thought regarding possible accident ran through his head. The engine was working as sweetly as any motor had ever worked, the propeller was whirling at a speed that made it look like a solid disk, and the great wings were plunging through the air with the steady, swooping motion of a hawk in full flight.
A huddle of houses rushed toward theComet, far below, and vanished behind.
"What was that, pard?" cried the cowboy.
"Minnewaukon," answered Matt.
At that moment the young motorist shifted the rudder behind, which was the one giving the craft her right and left course, and they made a half turn. As theCometcame around and pointed her nose toward the southwest, she careened, throwing the right-hand wings sharply upward.
McGlory gave vent to a hair-raising yell. He was hurled against Ping, and Ping, in turn, was thrown against Matt.
"Right yourselves, pards," called Matt. "That was nothing. When we swing around a turn we're bound to roll a little. You can't expect more of an air ship, you know, than you can of a boat in the water. You keep track of the time, Ping. Joe, follow our course on the map. You can hang on with one hand and hold the map open with the other. We can't sail without a chart."
Matt had secured his open-face watch to a bracket directly above Ping's head. The boy could see the time-piece without shifting his position.
The map McGlory had in his pocket. Removing the map from his coat with one hand, the cowboy opened it upon his knee.
With a ruler, Matt had drawn a line from Minnewaukon straight to the point where Burnt Creek emptied into the Missouri. This line ran directly southwest, crossing four lines of railroad, and as many towns.
"How are we going to know we're keeping the course, pard?" inquired McGlory. "We ought to have a compass."
"A compass wouldn't have been a bad thing to bring along," returned Matt, "but we'll be able to keep the course, all right, by watching for the towns we're due to pass. The first town is Flora, on the branch road running northwest from Oberon. If I'm not mistaken, there it is to the right of us. Hang on, both of you! I'm going to drop down close, Joe, while you hail one of the citizens and ask him if I've got the name of the place right."
There was plenty of excitement in the little prairie village. Men, women, and children could be seen rushing out of their houses and gazing upward at the strange monster in the sky. Everybody in that section had heard of Motor Matt and his aëroplanes, so the curiosity and surprise were tempered with a certain amount of knowledge.
"Hello, neighbor!" roared McGlory, as the air ship swept downward to within fifty feet of the ground, "what town is this?"
"Flora," came the reply. "Light, strangers, an' roost in our front yard. Ma and the children would like to get a good look at your machine, and——"
The voice faded to rearward, and "ma and the children" had to be disappointed.
Having assured himself that he was right, Matt headed the aëroplane toward the skies, once more.
Settlers' shacks, and more pretentious farmhouses, raced along under them, and in every place where there were any human beings, intense excitement was manifested as theCometwinged its way onward.
In less than fifteen minutes after passing Flora, they caught sight of another railroad track and another huddle of buildings. It was the "Soo" road, and the town was Manfred.
"How long have we been in the air, Ping?" asked Matt.
"Fitty-fi' minutes," replied the Chinaman.
"Manfred ain't many miles from Sykestown, pard," said Joe, "and we must be within gunshot of that place where we had our troubles, a few days back."
"I'm glad we're giving the spot a wide berth," returned Matt, with a wry face. "We've got to make better time," he added, opening the throttle; "we're not doing as well as I thought."
TheComethurled herself onward at faster speed. The air of their flight whistled and sang in the boys' ears, and hills underneath leaped at them and then vanished rearward with dizzying swiftness.
"I'd like to travel in an aëroplane all the time," remarked McGlory. "Sufferin' skyrockets! What's the use of hoofin' it, or ridin' in railroad cars, when you can pick up a pair of wings and a motor and go gallywhooping through the air?"
The machine was well over the coteaus, now, and the rough country would hold, with only now and then an occasional break, clear to the Missouri.
Another railroad, and a cluster of dwellings known as "Goodrich," were passed, and the aëroplane slid along over the corner of McLean County and into Burleigh.
They were drawing close to Burnt Creek, and everything was going swimmingly. Matt, notwithstanding the severe strain upon him, was not in the least tired. In a little less than two hours after leaving Fort Totten they crossed their last railroad—a branch running northward from Bismarck. The town, near where they winged over the steel rails, was down on the map as "Arnold."
"Speak to me about this!" cried McGlory. "There's a creek under us, Matt, and I'll bet it's the one we're looking for."
"We're finding something else we were not looking for," answered the king of the motor boys grimly.
"What's that?" queried McGlory.
"Look straight ahead at the top of the next hill."
McGlory turned his eyes in the direction indicated. A number of rough-looking horsemen, evidently cowboys, were scattered over the hill. They were armed with rifles, and were spurring back and forth in an apparent desire to get directly in front of theComet.
"Why, pard," shouted McGlory, "they're punchers, same as me. Punchers are a friendly lot, and that outfit wouldn't no more think of cutting up rough with us than——"
The words were taken out of the cowboy's mouth by the sharp crack of a rifle. One of the horsemen had fired, his bullet singing through the air in front of theComet.
"That's across our bows," said Matt, "and it's an invitation to come down."
The "invitation" was seconded by a yell the import of which there was no mistaking.
"Hit the airth, you, up thar, or we'll bring ye down wrong-side up!"
"Nice outfittheyare!" grunted McGlory. "Get into the sky a couple of miles, Matt, and—— Sufferin' terrors! What are you about?"
Motor Matt had pointed the air ship earthward, and was gliding toward the hilltop.
"No use, Joe," Matt answered. "They could hit us with their bullets and wreck us before we got out of range. They want to talk with us, and we might as well humor them."
"Mighty peculiar way for a lot of cowboys to act," muttered McGlory.
"No likee," said Ping.
THE MAN HUNTERS.
Motor Matt was not anticipating any serious trouble with the cowboys. The worst that could possibly happen, he believed, was a slight delay while the curiosity of the horsemen regarding the aëroplane was satisfied.
Armed cattlemen are proverbially reckless. A refusal to alight would certainly have made theCometa target for half a dozen guns, and it was a foregone conclusion that not all the bullets would have gone wild.
The cowboys, of course, knew nothing about aëroplanes. They wanted Matt to come down, no matter whether the landing was made in a spot from which the aëroplane could take a fresh start, or in a place where a start would be impossible.
The hill on which the horsemen were posted was a high one, and had smooth, treeless slopes on all sides. It was, in fact, a veritable turf-covered coteau.
Matt was planning to alight on the very crest of the hill. When he and his pards were ready to take wing again, he thought they could dash down the hill slope, and be in the air before the foot of the hill was reached.
The horses of the men below were frightened by the aëroplane, and began to kick and plunge. The trained riders, however, held them steady with one hand while gripping rifles with the other.
The flying machine circled obediently in answer to her steering apparatus, and landed on the crest of the hill with hardly a jar. As the craft rested there, the boys got out to stretch their cramped legs and inquire what the cowboys wanted. The latter had spurred their restive animals close, and were grouped in a circle about theComet.
"Well, I'll be gosh-hanged!" muttered one, staring at the machine with jaws agape.
"Me, too!" murmured another. "Gee, man, but this here's hard ter believe."
"Hustlin' around through the air," put in another, "same as I go slashin' over the range on a bronk."
The fourth man gave less heed to his amazement than he did to the business immediately in hand.
"Ain't either one o' 'em George Hobbes?" he averred, looking Matt, McGlory, and Ping over with some disappointment.
That name, falling from the cowboy's lips, caused Matt and McGlory to exchange wondering glances.
"What did you stop us for?" asked Matt.
"Me an' Slim, thar, thought ye mout hev Hobbes aboard that thing-um-bob," went on the last speaker. "We're from the Tin Cup Ranch, us fellers are. I'm Jed Spearman, the foreman. Whar d'ye hail from?"
"From Fort Totten."
"When d'ye leave thar?"
"About two hours ago."
"Come off! Toten's a good hunnerd an' twenty miles from here."
"Well," laughed Matt, "we can travel sixty miles an hour, when we let ourselves out, and bad roads can't stop us. But tell us about this man, Hobbes. Who is he?"
"He's a tinhorn, that's what. He blowed inter the Tin Cup bunkhouse, last night, an' cleaned us all out in a leetle game o' one-call-two."
"If you're foolish enough to gamble," said Matt, "you ought to have the nerve to take the consequences."
"Gad-hook it all," spoke up the man referred to as "Slim," "I ain't puttin' up no holler when I loses fair, but this Hobbes person is that rank with his cold decks, his table hold outs, an' his extra aces, that I blushes ter think o' how we was all roped in."
"He cheated you?"
"Cheat?" echoed Jed Spearman, "waal, no. From the way we sized it up when we got tergether this mornin', it was jest plain rob'ry. Hobbes headed this way, an' we slid inter our saddles an' follered. But we've lost the trail, an' was jest communin' with ourselves ter find out what jump ter make next, when this thing"—he waved his hand toward the aëroplane—"swung inter sight agin' the sky. We seen you three aboard the thing, an' got the fool notion that mebby Hebbes was one o' ye."
"Didn't you find out last night that you had been cheated?" asked Matt.
"Nary. If we had, pilgrim, ye kin gamble a stack we'd have took arter this Hobbes person right then. It was only this mornin' when Slim diskivered the deck o' keerds belongin' ter the feller, which same he had left behind most unaccountable, that we sensed how bad we'd been done. The' was an extry set o' aces with that pack, the backs was all readers, an' the hull lay-out was that peculiar we wasn't more'n a brace o' shakes makin' up our minds what ter do."
"What sort of a looking man was this Hobbes?"
"Dead ringer fer a cattleman, neighbor. Blue eyes, well set up, an' youngish."
Matt was surprised. He was expecting to receive a description of Murgatroyd, but the specifications didnot fit the broker. Murgatroyd was a large, lean man with black, gimlet-like eyes.
"What's yer bizness in these parts?" demanded Jed Spearman. "Jest takin' a leetle fly fer the fun o' the thing?"
"Well," answered Matt, "not exactly."
"Ain't in no rush, are ye?"
"Yes. Now that you know the man Hobbes isn't with us, we'll get aboard and resume our flight."
Matt stepped toward the aëroplane, with the intention of taking his place at the driving levers. But Jed Spearman stayed him with a grip of the arm.
"I got er notion," said Jed, "that I'd like ter take a ride in that thing myself." The other cowboys gave a roar of wild appreciation and approval. "Ye say ye kin do sixty miles an hour," proceeded Jed. "I'm goin' back ter the Tin Cup Ranch ter see if the other party that went out arter Hobbes had any success. It's thirty miles ter the Tin Cup, an' ye ort ter git me thar an' back inside o' an hour—onless ye was puttin' up a summer breeze when ye told how fast this here dufunny machine could travel. Hey? How does it hit ye?"
Motor Matt was taken all aback. An hour's delay might spell ruin so far as meeting Newt Prebbles at the mouth of Burnt Creek was concerned.
"We're in too much of a hurry," said Matt, "and we can't spare the time. I'd like to oblige you, Spearman, but it's out of the question."
"No more it ain't out o' the question," growled Spearman. "I'm pinin' ter take a ride in that thar machine, an' ye kin help us in our hunt fer Hobbes if ye'll only take me back ter the ranch. I reckon yore bizness ain't any more important than what ours is."
"Make him take ye, Jed!" howled the other punchers. "If he won't, we'll make kindlin' wood out er the ole buzzard."
The temper of the cowboys was such that Matt was in a quandary. While he was turning the situation over in his mind, McGlory stepped forward and took part in the talk.
"Say, you," he cried angrily, "what you putting up this kind of a deal on us for? You can't make us toe the mark by putting the bud to us, and if you try it, we'll pull till the latigoes snap."
"Don't git sassy," said Jed, in a patronizing tone. "We're too many fer ye, kid. Ridin' in that thing'll be more fun fer me than a three-ring circus, say nothin' o' the help it'll be fer us ter find out whether the other bunch o' man hunters struck 'signs' er not. Step back, an' sing small. Here, Slim, you take charge o' my hoss."
The foreman passed his bridle reins to Slim, dismounted, and laid his gun on the ground.
"We'll have to wait here till ye git back, won't we?" asked Slim.
"Sure," replied Jed. "We've lost the trail, an' thar ain't no manner o' use ter keep on ontil we find out somethin'."
"Then I'm goin' ter git down," said Slim. "We kin bunch up the critters an' smoke a little."
McGlory's temper was rapidly growing. The cool way in which Jed Spearman was planning to appropriate theCometwas more than McGlory could stand.
"You're a lot of tinhorns!" he cried. "This lad here," he waved his hand toward the king of the motor boys, "is Motor Matt, and he's making this flight on government business, mainly. You keep hands off, or you'll get into trouble."
"That's me!" whooped Spearman. "Trouble! I live onthat. Get ready that flyin' machine, kase I'm hungry ter do my sixty miles an hour on the way back ter headquarters."
An idea suddenly popped into McGlory's head.
"This way, Matt," said he, stepping off to one side and beckoning Matt to follow.
The cowboys were a little suspicious, but their curiosity prompted them to inspect theCometand leave Matt and McGlory to their own devices.
"What do you think, pard?" asked McGlory, when he and Matt were by themselves.
"I think it won't do to have any delay," replied Matt, "but I don't just see how we're going to avoid it. If it wasn't for those rifles——" He cast a look at the cowboys and shrugged his shoulders.
"I've got a notion we can fool the punchers," said McGlory, "but Ping and I will have to be left behind, if we do it. You'll be going it alone, from here on. Think you can manage it?"
"I'll try anything," answered Matt. "All I want is to get away. Who this gambler the cowboys call George Hobbes is, I haven't the least idea. Their description of the fellow doesn't tally with the description of Murgatroyd, and the whole affair is beginning to have a queer look. I don't think there's any time to be lost."
"No more there isn't," replied McGlory. "Ping and I can wander on to the mouth of Burnt Creek on foot as soon as we can shake the punchers, and you can look for us there. What I'm plannin' is this."
Thereupon McGlory hastily sketched his swiftly formed plan. It had rather a venturesome look, to Matt, and might, or might not, win out. There was nothing to do, however, but to try it.
"What you shorthorns gassin' about?" yelled Jed Spearman. "I'm all ready ter fly, an' time's skurse."
Matt and McGlory, having finished their brief talk, walked back to the cowboys.
FOOLING THE COWBOYS.
"If you're bound to make Motor Matt take you to the ranch, Spearman," said McGlory, "that means that the chink and me'll have to wait here till you get back."
"Which is what I was expectin'," answered Spearman. "I don't want ter feel cramped in that thar machine."
"The rest of you will have to give the machine a start down the hill," went on McGlory innocently. "When the craft gets a start, and is in the air, you'll have to watch your chance, Spearman, and jump aboard."
"Jump on when she's goin' sixty miles an hour?" howled Spearman. "Say, what d'ye think my scalp's wuth?"
"It won't be going sixty miles an hour," parried McGlory.
Matt had already taken his seat in theComet.
"Why kain't I git in thar with him," asked Spearman, "an' travel with the machine right from the start?"
"Sufferin' centipedes!" exclaimed McGlory, in well-feigneddisgust. "Say, I reckon you don't savvy a whole lot about flyin' machines. She's got to have a runnin' start, as light as possible; then, when she begins to skyhoot, you climb aboard. I guess you don'twantto take a trip aloft."
"Guess again," cried Spearman. "I kin jump some, if it comes ter that, only"—and here he turned to Matt, who was quietly waiting—"fly low an' slow."
"All of you have got to help," proceeded Matt's cowboy pard briskly. "Lay your guns away, somewhere, so you can give both hands to your work."
None of the cowboys had six-shooters, but all were armed with rifles. This was rather odd, but, nevertheless, a fact. When they started out after George Hobbes, the Tin Cup men had been counting on target practice at long range.
The horses had already been bunched with their heads together. Four of the cowboys, who were still holding their rifles, stepped hilariously over to where Slim and Spearman had deposited their guns, and dropped their weapons.
McGlory gave Ping a significant look. The young Chinaman stared blankly for a moment, and then a complacent grin settled over his yellow face. He was as sharp as a steel trap when it came to understanding guileful things. Ping knew what was expected of him, and he was ready.
TheCometwas headed down the western slope of the hill. Four of the cowboys placed themselves at the lower wings, two on each side, ready to run with the machine when they received the word. Spearman, in his shirt sleeves, was tying one end of a riata to the timber which passengers in the aëroplane used as a footrest.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Matt.
Spearman straightened up with a wink.
"Waal, it's fer two things, pilgrim," he answered jocosely. "Fust off, by hangin' ter the rope, Slim an' me kin pull while the rest o' the boys push. Then, ag'in, if ye've got any little trick up yer sleeve, I'll have a line on yer ole sky sailer an' ye kain't leave me behind, not noways."
That rope troubled Matt, but he could voice no reasonable objection to it. Already McGlory had played on the credulity of the punchers to the limit, and it was not safe to go much farther.
"I'm goin' ter have yer job, Jed," rallied one of the cowboys, "if ye fall outen the machine an' bust yer neck."
"Don't ye take my job till I'm planted, Hen, that's all," grinned the foreman. "I been wantin' a new sensation fer quite a spell, an' I guess here's the place whar I connect with it."
If the plans of Matt and his friends worked out successfully, Jed Spearman was to "connect with a sensation" vastly different from what he was expecting. McGlory was chuckling to himself over the prospect.
The cowboys, in their uproarious mood, did not seem to notice that neither McGlory nor Ping were helping to give the aëroplane a running start down the hill.
"Ye'll be a reg'lar human skyrocket, Jed," remarked Slim, "if ye travel at the rate o' sixty miles an hour."
"I'll be goin' some, an' that's shore," answered the foreman. "Wonder what folks'll invent next? Say, thar! If ye're ready, let's start."
Matt started the motor. This evidence of power rather awed the cowboys, and their grins faded as they watched and listened.
"Now," instructed Matt, "the minute I turn the power into the bicycle wheels, you fellows begin to run the machine downhill."
"Let 'er go!" came the whooping chorus.
Jed Spearman and Slim, tailed on to a forty-foot riata, were some twenty feet ahead of the aëroplane.
"Now!" cried Matt.
The bicycle wheels began to take the push, and theCometstarted down the slope, the two cowboys ahead pulling, and the four at the wings pushing.
Naturally, the descent aided the motor. There had not been as much rain, in that part of the State, as there had been in the Devil's Lake country, and the turf was fairly dry and afforded tolerably good wheeling.
The cowboys roared with delight as they ran awkwardly in their tight, high-heeled boots. What happened was only natural, in the circumstances, although quite unexpected to the ignorant cattlemen.
In less than fifty feet the aëroplane was going too fast for the runners. The four at the wings had to let go; and the two at the rope, finding themselves in imminent danger of being run over, dropped the rope and leaped to one side.
All six of the cowboys watched while theComet, catching the air under her outspread pinions, mounted gracefully—and then continued to mount, the riata trailing beneath.
"He ain't comin' back fer ye, Jed!" howled Slim.
"Here, you!" bellowed the foreman. "Whar ye goin'? What kinder way is that ter treat a feller? Come back, or I'll send a bullet arter ye!"
Matt paid no attention. He was following, to the very letter, the plan McGlory had formed, and was rushing at speed in the direction of the Missouri and the mouth of Burnt Creek.
"Git yer guns!" cried the wrathful Spearman. "Shoot him up!"
It is doubtful whether the cowboys would have been able to retrace their way up the hill and secure their guns before Matt had got out of range. But they had not a chance to put their purpose to the test, for the contingency had been guarded against.
When the cowboys reached the top of the hill, Ping was at the foot of it on the eastern side, traveling as fast as his legs could carry him; and clasped in his arms were the six rifles!
"Blazes ter blazes an' all hands round!" fumed the enraged Jed. "The chink's runnin' off with the guns so'st we kain't shoot. Hosses, boys! Capter the little heathen!"
And here, again, were the cowboys doomed to disappointment. Well beyond the foot of the hill, on the south side, was McGlory. He was riding one horse and leading the other five bronchos.
"Done!" gasped Slim, pulling off his Stetson and slamming it on the ground, "done ter a turn! Who'd 'a' thort it possible?"
"It was a frame-up!" raged the foreman. "The two of 'em hatched the plan while they were talkin'. I was a fool ter let 'em palaver like what they done, kase I mout hev knowed they was up ter somethin'. The chink lifted the guns on us, an' t'other feller lifted the hosses so'st we couldn't ketch the chink; an', as forhim," and Jed Spearman turned and looked westward to where the aëroplane was a mere speck in the sky, "as fer him, Isay, if that flyin' machine ever comes crowhoppin' eround whar I am, I'll shore put it out o' bizness!"
"An' ye didn't fly, arter all!" bubbled Slim.
"You hesh," grunted Spearman, "or thar'll be fireworks."
"Ye're purty good at jumpin'," jeered another, "so why don't ye jump aboard? I don't reckon she's more'n two mile off an' a mile high."
"Oh," fretted the foreman, "if Ionlyhad a gun! Say, let up er I'll use my hands."
"An' we had to push," scoffed Slim; "oh, yas,indeed! We had ter git off'n our hosses, an' put down our guns, an' push. Never reckoned nothin', did we? Never a thing. But they knowed, them fellers did—they knowed ev'ry minit jest what they was about. Next time I fool with this here Motor Matt an' his flyin' machine, ye'll know it."
"An' Jed had a string on her," mourned another. "Sure he did. Why, Jed had his rope fast to her so'st ter hang on in case Motor Matt had anythin' up his sleeve. Well, well! I wonder——"
But Spearman could stand no more. With a fierce whoop, he rushed down the hill along the path taken by the Chinaman. Across, on an opposite uplift, Ping could be seen. He was adding insult to injury by hopping up and down and making derisive gestures with one hand.
"We got ter overhaul the chink an' git back them guns," shouted Slim. "Come on, boys!"
The remaining five started after Spearman. Ping, observing the pursuit, hopped out of sight over the top of the hill. Burdened as he was, he could not hope to escape the pursuing cowboys. But he had faith in McGlory—and McGlory did not fail him.
When the cowboys reached the top of the next hill, they could look down and see McGlory and the six horses. Ping was mounting one of the animals, and when he and McGlory vanished around the base of another coteau—which they were not slow in doing—they took the rifles with them.
The cowboys had to pursue, and they had to do their pursuing on foot. If a cattleman hates one thing more than another it is walking, and the six disgruntled Tin Cup men limped and staggered and toiled onward through the coteaus, following the trail for at least four miles. When they finally ran it out, they found their horses and their guns, but McGlory and Ping were conspicuous by their absence.
THE TRAILING ROPE.
Motor Matt could not look behind and take note of how events were progressing on the hill. He could only hope that McGlory would carry out the rest of his plan without any setbacks, and that he and Ping would get safely away from the foiled cattlemen.
The ease with which the boys had played upon the ignorance and credulity of the high-handed cowpunchers, would have been laughable could the young motorist have known how successfully the rest of McGlory's plot was to be carried out. As the matter stood, Matt was worrying too much to enjoy the situation.
He carried away a memento of the recent trouble in the shape of the trailing rope. The forty-foot line hung downward, swinging to right and left and giving frightful pitches to theCometin spite of Matt's manipulation of the wing ends.
Bending down, he tried with one hand to untie the riata and rid the machine of its weight, but the knot had been drawn too tight by the pulling of Spearman and Slim. As a compromise, Matt pulled the rope in and dropped it in the seats recently occupied by McGlory and Ping.
Now for the mouth of Burnt Creek, and the carrying out of the purpose that had brought Matt into that section. The mystery connected with the "George Hobbes" the cowboys were looking for, and the success or failure of McGlory and Ping in their final clash with the Tin Cup men, the king of the motor boys put resolutely from his mind. He was now to look for Newt Prebbles and advance the spark of friendship in behalf of the poor old man at Fort Totten.
Matt conceived that the easiest way to reach the mouth of Burnt Creek was to hover over the stream and follow it to its junction with the Missouri. This manœuvre he at once put into operation.
The creek was as crooked as could well be imagined, and twisted and writhed among the coteaus, carrying with it, on either bank, a scant growth of cottonwoods. Matt cut off the corners, flying high enough to clear the tops of the neighboring hills, and soon had the broad stretch of the Upper Missouri in plain view ahead of him.
In a clump of cottonwoods, near the mouth of the creek, was a small shack. Matt's view of the shanty was not good, on account of the trees, and he could not tell whether or not there was any one about the place.
He was just looking for a spot, on the river bank, where he could make a comfortable landing, when he was startled by discovering a skiff.
The skiff was in the river, well off the mouth of the creek, and was heading for the western bank of the Missouri. There was one man in the boat, and he was using his oars frantically, watching theCometas he rowed.
"That may be George Hobbes," thought Matt, "and it may be Newt Prebbles. In any event the fellow, whoever he is, thinks I'm pursuing him. I'll drop lower and give him a hail."
As theCometsettled downward over the surface of the river, the man in the skiff redoubled his efforts with the oars. He seemed to be seized with an unreasoning panic.
"Hello, below there!" shouted Matt.
To slow the aëroplane too much would mean a drop into the water, for a certain rate of flight was necessary in order to keep the machine aloft.
As Matt called, he passed on beyond the boat, described a turn over the middle of the river, and came back toward the eastern bank.
The man made no response.
"Are you Newt Prebbles?" yelled Matt.
The other shouted something, in an angry tone, the exact import of which the young motorist could not catch. Taking his right hand from the oar, the man jerked a revolver from his belt.
"Don't shoot!" cried Matt. "I'm a friend of yours."
The last word was snipped off in the incisive crack of the weapon. The bit of lead zipped past Matt's head and bored a hole through the upper wing of the air ship.
"Stop that!" called Matt sternly, pointing the aëroplane higher and turning again when over the eastern bank.
Whatever he did, he realized that he must not expose the motor and propeller to a stray bullet.
But no more shots were fired.
Matt wondered at this until he had faced the machine about and was able to observe what was going on below.
The man in the skiff had lost an oar. In releasing his hand to use the revolver, the oar had slipped from the rowlock into the water.
A frantic effort was being made by the man to recover the oar; and so wild and inconsidered was the attempt that the skiff went over, throwing its occupant into the river.
"Help!" came the cry, as the man, thrashing and floundering, bobbed to the surface of the river between the overturned boat and the oar.
It was evident, at a glance, that he could not swim, or that he could swim so little the mere weight of his clothes was enough to drag him under.
"Keep your nerve!" cried Matt encouragingly. "I'll help you in a minute."
TheCometwas well to the westward of the man. Matt turned her sharply, at the same time bringing her as close to the water as he dared. Then, with one hand on the lever controlling the wing tips, with the other he reached for the rope on the seat beside him.
Laying a course to pass directly over the man, Matt leaned forward and flung the riata downward. The sinuous coils straightened out as the rope descended, the lower end swishing through the water.
"Catch the rope and hold fast!" cried Motor Matt, as the aëroplane skimmed over the surface of the river.
There would be a jolt when theComettook up the slack in the riata, providing the man were successful in laying hold of the line. Would the jolt disengage the man's hands, or have any serious effect on theComet?
By that time the aëroplane was so far beyond the man that Matt could not see what he was doing. Holding his breath, the king of the motor boys braced himself and waited.
In perhaps a second theCometreeled and shivered as though under a blow. Quickly Matt turned full speed into the propeller, and the machine steadied itself and began to tug at the weight underneath and behind.
Then, slowly, the aëroplane mounted upward. At a height of fifty feet, Matt could look down and see a dripping form, swaying and gyrating at the end of the riata.
"Can you hang on?" called Matt.
"Yes," was the response from below, "if you don't want me to hang on too long."
"No more than a minute. By that time I'll have you ashore."
The heavy weight, swinging under the machine like a pendulum, made the aëroplane exceedingly difficult to manage. In the early stages of aëroplane flying, equilibrium had only been kept by swinging weights, and it had remained for the Wrights to discover that bending the wing tips upward or downward kept an aëroplane's poise much better than any shifting weight could do; and to Harry Traquair had fallen the honor of inventing sliding extensions, whereby either wing area could be increased or contracted in the space of a breadth.
Now that theComethad both a shifting weight and wing manipulations to keep her steady, she was not steady at all—one balance seeming to counteract the other. In spite of the terrific dipping and plunging, however, Matt succeeded in getting to the shore.
The moment the man on the rope found himself over solid ground, he let go his hold and dropped five or six feet to the bank.
Instantly theCometcame fairly well under control again, and would have been entirely so but for the weight of the rope.
Matt selected a cleared spot in which to alight, shut off the power, and glided to the earth easily and safely.
Stepping out of the aëroplane, he hurried to the spot where the rescued man was lying.
"How are you?" asked Matt, kneeling beside him.
"I'm about fagged," he answered. "There's a cabin, about a rod up the creek on this side. Go there and get the bottle of whisky you'll find on the table. A pull at that bottle will put some ginger into me."
"You don't need that kind of ginger," replied Matt. "I'll help you to the cabin, and when we get there you can get into some dry clothes. That will do you more good than all the fire-water that ever came out of a still."
The man hoisted up on one elbow and peered at Matt with weak curiosity.
"That's your brand, is it?" he asked, with as much contempt as he was able to put into the words.
"Well, yes," replied Matt. "It's my brand, and you'd be a heap better off if it was yours."
He had been scrutinizing the man closely. He now saw that he was young, that he had blue eyes, and that he was wearing cowboy clothes. His hat, of course, was in the river.
"Who are you?" the young fellow asked.
"I'll tell you later," was the indefinite reply.
"How did you happen to be around here in that flying machine?" went on the other suspiciously.
"You'll find that out, too, at the proper time."
"If you're from the Tin Cup Ranch——"
"I'm not, so make your mind easy on that. But I know you. You're George Hobbes, and you robbed the cowboys at the Tin Cup Ranch in a game of cards, last night. You——"
With a fierce exclamation, the youth sat up, and his right hand darted toward his hip.
"You're not going to do any shooting," said Matt. "Your gun's in the river, and you'd have been there, too, but for me. What sort of way is that to act toward the man who saved you from drowning?"
A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Small, and seemingly trifling, events sometimes pave the way for vital undertakings. The performance on the coteau, in which the Tin Cup men had so prominently figured,had left theCometequipped with a forty-foot riata. On the flight to the Missouri Matt had tried to untie the rope and drop it from the machine. In this he had failed—a very fortunate circumstance for the dripping young man on the bank. But for that trailing rope, Matt would never have been able to effect a rescue.
"It may be," said the young man, "that you have only pulled me out of the river to give me into the hands of the Tin Cup outfit."
"I have already told you," returned Matt, "that I have nothing to do with the Tin Cup outfit."
"Why were you chasing me in that air ship, then?"
"I wasn't chasing you. You had a guilty conscience, and if a man had been coming this way on an elephant you would have thought he was after you."
The other was silent for a space, surveying Matt furtively and, apparently, trying to guess his business.
"You knew about that work in the Tin Cup bunk house, last night," said he tentatively.
"I heard of it from a party who are out looking for George Hobbes. That is your name, is it?"
"That's the way I was billed during that performance at the bunk house."
"What are you, by profession—a cowboy or a gambler?"
"Cowboy."
Matt glanced at the young fellow's hands. They looked more like a gambler's hands than a cowboy's. And yet, skillful though he must have been with the cards, Hobbes had not the appearance of a gambler.
"Do you live here?" Matt went on.
"Yes," was the answer. "I told you, a moment ago, where my shack was."
"Then you're not doing much in the cattle line if you hang out in this deserted spot."
Hobbes gave a grunt and got up.
"What are you trying to pry into my business affairs for?" he asked surlily. "Do you think saving my life gives you a right to do that?"
"Well," fenced Matt, "that depends. You don't talk like any cowboy I ever heard—your English is too good."
"There are a lot of punchers who use better English than I do."
"Possibly," answered Matt. "I haven't been in the cattle country very much. What was the amount of money you stole from the Tin Cup outfit?"
A flush of color ran into Hobbes' tanned face.
"I didn't steal their money," he cried angrily. "I played cards for it."
"You didn't play a square game. They found the pack you used, this morning, and there were extra aces, and the backs were printed in such a way that you could tell what cards your opponents held."
"What of that?" was the scoffing response. "They didn't find me out. They had the right to beat me at my own game—if they could."
"I'm not here to preach," said Matt, "but you've got yourself into a pretty bad mix. I'm willing to help you out if you'll send back the money."
"I'll not send back a soo," was the answer, "and you've got your nerve along to bat such a proposition up to me. Who asked for your help? I didn't."
Hobbes turned away in a huff and started for the creek, his wet clothes slapping about him as he walked.
"Just a minute, Hobbes," called Matt, "and I'll go with you. I want to rope this flying machine to a couple of trees, so that it won't be blown into the river if a wind should happen to come up."
Hobbes was very wet, very tired, and very sulky, but he could hardly refuse such a trifling request. With the rope that had saved his life, he helped Matt secure theComet.
"Do you know any one, in these parts, by the name of Newt Prebbles?" Matt inquired, while they were moving toward the shack.
"You used that name while I was in the skiff," said Hobbes, "I remember, now. What's your business with Newt Prebbles?"
"I'll tell him that when I see him. It's important. Do you know the man?"
"Yes, I know him. He's a pal of mine and lives with me in the shack."
"Is he there, now?" asked Matt eagerly.
"No."
"When will he be back?"
"That's hard to tell. He won't come back at all if you don't tell me what your business is with him."
"Why so?"
"I'll warn him away. You've found out a lot about me, but how much have you told me about yourself? Not a thing. I haven't a notion who you are, and I'm blamed if I like mysteries."
They were close to the cluster of cottonwoods and the shack, and Matt fell silent. The house, as the king of the motor boys could see, now that he was close to it, was built of sod, and had a roof of grass thatched over cottonwood poles. It was in a fairly good state of repair and had evidently been occupied for some time.
The door stood open, and Hobbes stepped to one side to let Matt enter first. It looked like a mere act of courtesy, and may have been no more than that; but, in view of what immediately happened, Matt would have been entitled to suspicions.
Believing the shack to be empty, Matt crossed the threshold. He was instantly seized by some one who threw himself from behind the open door.
With a startled cry, the young motorist twisted around in the strong arms that held him and caught a look at the man's face.
It was Murgatroyd!
Another moment and all the fight in Matt's nature flew to the surface. Putting forth all his strength, he kicked and struggled until he had freed himself of the broker's grip.
He was no sooner clear of Murgatroyd, however, when Hobbes set upon him. Hobbes had not yet recovered his strength, and Matt would have made short work of him had not the broker come savagely to his aid. Between them Matt was forced to the clay floor of the house and lashed with a rope in such a manner that he was powerless to move.
Murgatroyd, panting from his exertions, lifted himself erect and gave the prisoner a vengeful kick.
"Wasn't expecting to find me here, eh?" he asked. "You've led me a pretty chase, Motor Matt, but here we are at the end of the trail, and I've got the upper hand."
Somehow Matt had fallen under the impression that the police of Bismarck would take care of Murgatroyd; hence, he had left the broker out of his calculations, and this meeting with him in that sod shack was like lightning out of a clear sky.
"You know this fellow, then?" said Hobbes.
"I know him too well, and that's the trouble. He's meddled with my affairs until they're in a pretty tangle, and I'll have all I can do to straighten them out again. I wasn't expecting a chance like this," and a jubilant note entered the broker's voice. "How did he happen to come here, Newt?"
"That's too many for me, Murg. He was in a flying machine. I saw him coming, and thought he was on my track for a little game that was pulled off at the Tin Cup Ranch, last night. In my hurry to get across the river I lost an oar, and in my hurry to get the oar I overturned the boat. I can't swim much, and with all my clothes on I'd have gone to the bottom if he hadn't snatched me ashore."
Motor Matt was not much surprised to hear Murgatroyd call the supposed Hobbes "Newt." The young motorist's mind had been working around to that view of the young fellow's identity. He was Newt Prebbles, and was on friendly terms with the master scoundrel, Murgatroyd.
The broker seated himself in a chair, and did not seem particularly well pleased with the news Prebbles had just given him. Perhaps, for his peace of mind, he was wishing that Matt had not rescued Newt, and it may be he resented the "hold" this rescue gave Matt on Newt's gratitude—providing Newt harbored such a sentiment, which seemed doubtful.
Newt began changing his clothes. Before he began, he took a bottle from the table and poured himself a drink of its fiery contents.
"When did you get here, Murg?" he demanded, as he got into his clothes.
"It must have been while you were having that trouble on the river. I didn't see anything of the flying machine, and I didn't hear anything of the fracas. Feeling sure you'd be back soon, I hitched my horse among the cottonwoods and came in here to wait. I heard you and Motor Matt talking as you walked this way, and I had to rub my eyes in order to make sure it was really Motor Matt who was coming. Jove, but this is a stroke of luck!"
"You'll have to tell me about that, for it's mighty dark to me. You got my letter all right?"
"Naturally, or I shouldn't be here. The letter arrived in Bismarck yesterday forenoon, and I pulled out of the town at once. Stayed last night with a farmer, more to make certain I wasn't followed than anything else." Murgatroyd scowled. "This being a fugitive," he finished, "gets on a man's nerves."
Newt laughed grimly.
"Did you bring the money?" he demanded.
"Don't talk about that here," and the broker flashed a significant glance at Matt.
"All right," agreed Newt. "Suppose we let this Motor Matt, as you call him, go free? We don't want him around, anyhow."
"Go free?" cried Murgatroyd. "I'll catch myself doing that! I owe him something," and here a demoniacal look crept into the broker's eyes, "and I guess, as my old friend Siwash used to say, I'll take advantage of this opportunity and 'saw off' with him."
This threat, however, did not make Matt feel at all uncomfortable. He had in his hands the material necessary to play off one of these men against the other. Out of this might come a good deal of benefit to himself, and much good for Newt Prebbles. In case he did not succeed in this plan, there was McGlory and Ping yet to be heard from. If they had safely escaped the Tin Cup men, it would not be long before they gained the mouth of Burnt Creek and played their part in events to come.
Just then Matt felt like congratulating himself on having been made a prisoner. Such a position gave him the advantage of being impartial in the hostility he was about to incite between his captors.
"ADVANCING THE SPARK."
"I'm not going to stand around and let you be rough with him," asserted Newt, finishing his dressing and taking another drink from the bottle.
"Nobody asked you to stand around," said Murgatroyd. "When I'm ready to get rough, you can go down to the river and stay there till I'm through."
"Why did you jump on him like that?"
Considering what he himself had done toward Matt's capture, Newt's stand was hardly consistent.
"I'll tell you," and, with that, Murgatroyd went on to relate the number of times his trail had crossed Matt's, and the circumstances.
Newt's eyes widened as the recital proceeded, and when the end was reached it found him moody and preoccupied.
"From all that," went on Murgatroyd, "you can see just how much I am in Motor Matt's debt."
"He saved my life," said Newt doggedly, "and I'm not going to let you be rough with him."
"Don't make a fool of yourself, Newt," scowled Murgatroyd.
"He did me a good turn," insisted the other, "and I'm not going to let him get the worst of this."
"Sit me up in a chair, can't you?" asked Matt. "I want to talk a little, and I'm not very comfortable, lying here like this."
"It's nothing to me," snarled Murgatroyd, "whether you're comfortable or not."
Without a word, Newt went to the prisoner and helped him get to his feet and drop into a chair.
"Leave his ropes alone," called Murgatroyd sharply.
"I'm not touching his ropes—yet," returned Newt. "What have you got to say?" he asked, facing Matt.
"How many I O U's for gambling debts did you leave in Jamestown, Prebbles, when you left there?"
A lighted bomb, hurled suddenly into the shack, could not have startled either of the two men more than did this question.
It was a random shot on Matt's part. He wanted both Newt and Murgatroyd to understand that he was well equipped with information.
"I didn't leave a single gambling debt behind me," asserted Newt, with rising indignation.
The broker became visibly uncomfortable.
"He's talking wild, Newt," said he.
"Then," continued Matt, "how did it happen that Murgatroyd had several duebills, signed by you?"
"He didn't have any signed by me."
"Of course not," agreed Murgatroyd, laughing derisively, but there were demons rising in his sharp eyes.
"Too bad your father didn't know that, Newt," said Matt. "He's been slaving, and denying himself necessities of life, to take up a lot of I O U's which, Murgatroyd told him, had been given by you for gambling debts."
Newt, his face full of rage, whirled on the broker in a fury.
"Is that the truth?" he cried.
"Not a word of truth in it," answered the broker coolly. "From what I've told you about Motor Matt, Newt, you ought to understand that he's cunning. He's working some sort of a dodge, now. Don't let him fool you."
Newt was quieted somewhat but not convinced.
"Who told you about those duebills?" he demanded.
"Your father."
"When did you see him? And how did he happen to tell you anything like that?"
"Just a minute," said Matt, playing with the spark before he advanced it fully. "There's a point about George Hobbes that I'd like to have settled. Which of you uses that name? Or have you a partnership interest in it? Newt plays cards at the Tin Cup Ranch as George Hobbes, and Murgatroyd does business in that name and receives letters in Bismarck when they are so addressed. Now——"
With a hoarse exclamation of astonishment and anger, Murgatroyd flung himself from the chair and started toward Matt. Newt jumped in front of him.
"You'd better sit down, Murg," said Newt.
The two men stared at each other, the broker furious, and the younger man defiant.
"He knows too much!" flared Murgatroyd.
"He says so much I know to be true that I'm inclined to believe everything he tells us. We'll hear him out, and if you try to lay your hands on him you'll settle with me."
The spark was working splendidly. It would not be long, now, before it set off an explosion.
"You wrote a letter to Murgatroyd, Newt," said Matt, "and posted it in Steele, North Dakota. Murgatroyd hasn't found it healthy to be in his Jamestown office for some time, and the only person there, when your letter was received, was your father. He recognized your handwriting, and he opened the letter and made a copy of it before he sent it on to Murgatroyd, in Bismarck."
The broker's face became fairly livid. He tried to talk, but the words gurgled in his throat.
"Your father knew I was a friend of his," pursued Matt, "and he came to Fort Totten to see me. He got there yesterday afternoon, driving over from Minnewaukon in a heavy rain. When he showed me the copy of your letter, I started for this place in the aëroplane."
"What were you intending to do here?" inquired Newt.
"I was hoping to persuade you to go back to Totten and see your father. He wants you."
Newt shook his head.
"It won't do," he answered. "The old man and I had a tumble, and it's better for us to keep apart."
"You don'tdareto go!" stormed Murgatroyd. "What have I been paying you, for? Tell me that. You'll stay away from Fort Totten, Newt. I've brought money enough to take you to South America, and that's where you're going."
Newt's eyes brightened a little.
"I wonder if you really mean to shell out enough to take me that far?" he asked.
"Yes," cried the broker, "and I'll pay you well for going, too."
"You won't go, Newt," put in Matt. "You're not going to let this scoundrel wheedle you into leaving the country just to get you out of the way and prevent you from telling what you know about the accident to Harry Traquair."
Silence followed the launching of this bolt, silence that was broken only by the startled breathing of the two men. Both of them kept their eyes riveted on the prisoner.
"Traquair, the inventor of the aëroplane," continued Matt, "tried out his machine in Jamestown, several weeks ago, and an accident happened. Some part of the mechanism broke. Why did it break?" Matt's voice grew solemn as he turned his eyes on Murgatroyd. "Why did it break?" he asked, again.
The broker's face turned ashen. Drops of sweat stood out on his forehead, his hands clinched spasmodically, and his lips moved without sound.
"Murgatroyd," Matt pursued mercilessly, "had a mortgage on Harry Traquair's homestead, in Wells County. For some reason of his own, Murgatroyd wants that piece of prairie land. If Traquair had lived, he would have sold his aëroplane to the government, and have paid off the mortgage. But he didn't live, because asupposedaccident happened to his aëroplane."
The broker's lips were dry, and again and again he moistened them with his tongue. The demons grew harder, and brighter, and more merciless in his eyes.
The spark was doing well, but it had not yet been advanced to the limit. It was the spark of friendship, but it was coming into its own through devious ways. The friendship was to be between poor old Prebbles and his son; but it was to result in something else between Newt and Murgatroyd, and prove powerful enough to force the two apart.
"Murgatroyd has been paying you money, Newt," resumed Matt, "to keep in the background and remain silent about what you know. Is the scoundrel worth protecting? Is it worth while to take hush money from him? The bribes he has been giving you, he collected from your father by means of duebills to which he had forged your name."
Fierce anger flamed in Newt's face. Matt, seeing that an explosion was close, hastened on.
"Your father is now lying ill at Fort Totten. It is doubtful whether he can live—and he certainly cannot unless you go back with me and be to him what you have not been in the past—a son."