The red faded from Newt Prebbles' face and a deathly pallor came in its stead. Stepping over to Matt, he dropped both hands on his shoulders and looked him steadily in the eyes.
"Motor Matt," said he, "are you telling me the truth about my father? He is dangerously sick at Fort Totten? Don't you lie to me," he warned fiercely.
"I am telling you the truth."
"And those forged I O U's—where did you learn about them?"
"From your father, as I have already told you."
"It's like Murgatroyd," said Newt, between his teeth. "He did want Traquair's homestead, because he happened to discover that there is coal under the soil, and the railroad company will buy the hundred and sixty at a fancy price and run a spur track to it, so——"
The explosion came, at that moment, but it was not as Matt expected. While Newt Prebbles stood facing Matt, his back to the broker, there came the sound of a blow.
Pain convulsed Newt's face for the fraction of a second, his eyes closed, and he dropped senseless, overturning Matt and his chair with the force of his fall.
Lying bound and helpless, Matt heard sounds of quick footsteps, and saw Murgatroyd bending down over him.
THE TRAIL TO THE RIVER.
Joe McGlory and Ping were in a fine good humor. They had left the horses and rifles for the Tin Cup men and, from the top of a distant hill, they had watched the party recover the live stock and the guns. Then, laughing and congratulating themselves, the boys had ducked in among the cottonwoods of the creek bottom and started along the trail to the river.
"Plenty fine," chattered Ping. "By Klismus, my gettee heap fun this tlip. Woosh!"
"We played 'em to a fare-you-well," laughed McGlory, pausing to extend his hand to Ping. "Shake, my little heathen brother! You're the finest bit of the Yellow Peril that ever landed in the U. S. You've got a head on you, you have. Why, you savvied right off what I wanted you to do with those guns, and I didn't have to say a word."
"My savvy look you makee all same eye," chuckled Ping. "Top-side pidgin! One piecee fine bizness."
Then, abruptly, Ping had a swift, paralyzing thought.
"Mebbyso Melican men makee chase fo' McGloly andPing, huh?" he cried. "Plaps we lun, ketchee Matt, no lettee Melican men ketchee us?"
"Oh, shucks, Ping!" exclaimed McGlory disgustedly. "When you forget yourself, now and then, and do a particularly bright thing, you spoil it all by some break of that sort. Those punchers don't know where we're going! And what sort of a trail are we leaving?" The cowboy turned and looked back over the ground they had covered. "All buffalo grass," he finished, "and the Tin Cup outfit couldn't run us down in a thousand years."
But Ping's fears persisted, in spite of McGlory's attempt to smother them.
"My no likee," he quavered, pausing again and again to look back as they traveled. "Mebbyso they ketchee, they takee scalp. My no likee. Losee pigtail, no go back to China ally mo'."
"Well, well, don't blubber about it!" exclaimed McGlory. "You'll keep the pigtail, all right, though what in Sam Hill it's good for is more than I know. Buck up, step high, wide, and handsome, and don't lose so much time looking around. Just stow it away in your mind, Ping, that every step on the trail to the river brings us that much closer to Pard Matt."
McGlory took the lead and set a brisk pace.
"Didn't Matt get away in great shape?" he called out, as he strode along. "And that rope Spearman tied to the machine didn't amount to a row of dobies."
"Cloud Joss heap fine fo' tlavel," remarked Ping. "Feet tlavel plenty tough fo' China boy."
"I guess the circus we pulled off, back there on that hill, was worth the price, Ping. Don't grumble. There was something doing, and you and I answered to roll-call during the height of the agitation. Little Chop Suey and your Uncle Joe had something to say and do every minute the curtain was up. Oh, shucks! I'm tickled to death with myself. I'll be plumb contented, now, if nothing happens to me for the next fifteen minutes. Wonder how Matt's getting along, advancing that spark? Something gives me a hunch and whispers in my ear that he's having his hands full. Put your best foot forward, Ping, and let's see how quick we can get to where we're going."
"No gottee best foot," complained Ping. "Both feets allee same bum. Cleek makee bend, makee bend, makee bend; heap walkee to go li'l way."
"That's right," agreed McGlory. "Sufferin' serpents, how the creek twists! Suppose we climb to the top of this hill on the right and see if we can't work a cut-off on the pesky stream."
"Awri'," agreed Ping, and followed McGlory to the top of the hill.
From the crest they had an extensive view in every direction; in fact, it was almost too extensive, for behind them they glimpsed the Tin Cup men, racing back and forth over the uplifts, scattered widely and hunting for "signs."
McGlory muttered to himself and slipped off the top of the hill like a shot. Ping gasped as he followed.
"They ketchee China boy," he wailed, "him losee pigtail."
"Oh, hush about that," growled McGlory. "Do you know where we was lame, Ping?"
"My plenty lame in feet," said Ping.
"I mean, where we made a hobble. It was by not keeping two of those horses and using them to take us to the mouth of Burnt Creek."
"Woosh! We ketchee Matt now, Melican men follow tlail, ketchee Matt, too. Motol Matt go top-side, we all go top-side. Plenty bad pidgin."
"If they're really following us, which I don't think," remarked McGlory, "we'll fool 'em."
"No fool 'em twice."
"You watch. We'll take the longest way to the river and get that bunch away from the creek."
Ping groaned at the thought of more walking. He could have stood the journey better if he had not been compelled to hang onto his grass sandals with his toes.
McGlory scuttled off between the coteaus, and every once in a while he would climb to the top of a hill to reconnoiter along the back track. Finally, to his great satisfaction, he lost sight of the Tin Cup men.
"That means," said he, when he reported the fact to Ping, "that we're free, once more, to get to the mouth of Burnt Creek as soon as we can."
From that on there was little talking. The boys needed their breath for the work before them. As before, McGlory led the way and Ping hopped and scuffled along behind him.
An occasional hill was scaled to get the bearings of the creek and watch out for the river. McGlory gave a shout of joy when he finally saw the broad ribbon of muddy water in the distance ahead.
"We're close to where we're bound for, Ping," he said cheerily. "We've been two or three hours on the hike, but you trail along and I'll land you at the junction of the creek and the river in less than twenty minutes. Whoop-ya! I'm guessing about Matt. Has it been make or break with him? And how has the spark worked? I'm all stirred up with the notion that he's having a time. Ever get a hunch like that and not be able to explain how you got it?"
"No savvy hunch," groaned Ping. "Let's findee place to makee sit in shade. Heap tired."
"We'll sit in the shade and rest and enjoy ourselves after we find Matt. Keep a-moving, Ping, keep a-moving."
A pass between two hills brought them out into the creek bottom again. The sun was getting low in the west, but it was still uncomfortably warm, and the shadeof the cottonwood trees was refreshing. Ping tottered along with his eyes on McGlory's heels. Suddenly the cowboy stopped and whirled around.
"Look!" he murmured, pointing.
The Chinaman swerved his weary eyes in the direction indicated and saw the sod shack.
"Hoop-a-la!" he exclaimed.
"I hear voices in there," whispered McGlory, "and I'll bet Pard Matt's busy laying down the law to Newt Prebbles. Let's not interrupt, but slip carefully up to the door and get the lay of the land before we butt in."
Ping was for getting to a place of comfort and refreshment in the shortest possible time; but, as usual, he deferred to the superior wisdom of the cowboy.
Silently they stole toward the open door of the hut. Through the opening there came to them the sound of a voice. It was a strange voice, and the words were not distinguishable.
While they were still some distance from the door, the voice was blotted out by the impact of a blow; and immediately there came a crash as of something being overturned.
McGlory was no longer anxious to "get the lay of the land" before butting into Matt's argument with Newt Prebbles. In an instant he jumped for the door and stood peering into the hut.
The scene before him was difficult to comprehend. A chair had been overturned, and there was a form—no, two forms—lying on the floor beside it. Then, too, there was some one else, a man, bending over one of the forms.
The dark interior of the shack was not favorable to a clear survey of the scene by eyes but recently turned from the glaring sunshine.
McGlory, however, caught one detail of the picture that wrenched a sharp cry from his lips.
"Murgatroyd!" he shouted.
The bent form lifted itself with catlike quickness,Crack!The sharp note of a revolver rattled through the narrow room, followed by a warning shout in a well-known voice:
"Look out, Joe! It's Murgatroyd, and he's in a killing mood!"
Matt was in the room, bound and helpless. That was the next detail that flashed before the eyes of McGlory.
Murgatroyd's shot had missed. Mad with rage, he was making ready to fire again.
Blindly, desperately, the cowboy flung himself across the room. Pard Matt was there, and in danger. Think of himself, McGlory would not.
The demons in the broker's eyes glowered murderously along the sights of the leveled weapon. It seemed as though nothing could save the cowboy.
At just that moment, however, a window behind the broker crashed inward. A stone, hurled by Ping with all his force, had shattered the glass, plunged across the gap, and struck Murgatroyd's arm.
The arm dropped as though paralyzed, and the broker staggered sideways with a cry of pain. McGlory sprang upon him, and the two were struggling fiercely when Ping raced into the room and took a hand in the battle.
Murgatroyd, with only one hand, was no match for his wiry young antagonists.
As Newt and Murgatroyd had overpowered Matt, so the cowboy and the Chinaman wrestled and secured the advantage of Murgatroyd.
One of the forms on the floor slowly lifted itself and became busy with the cords around Matt's wrists.
"I can do the rest, Newt," said Matt, sitting up and freeing his ankles.
A few moments more and the tables had been completely turned. Murgatroyd was now the prisoner, and the king of the motor boys and his friends were in command of the situation.
UNWELCOME CALLERS.
Once more, during the course of that eventful day, Ping was to be congratulated on his quickness and wit. McGlory had gone to the door to make his survey of what was transpiring inside the sod shack, and Ping had approached a window. The revolver shot caused the Chinese boy to jump, and to debate in his startled mind whether it would be better to run, or to hold his ground. He held his ground and used the stone—to the lasting benefit of Joe McGlory.
Now, at last, it seemed, the brawling and the violence was over. Murgatroyd lay in the place where Matt had lain, Newt Prebbles was bathing his injured head in a basin of cool water, and Matt, McGlory, and Ping were sitting down and explaining to each other how everything had happened.
"You were foolish to talk like you did to Murgatroyd, when he had the best of you, Matt," said McGlory.
"He didn't have the best of me," asserted Matt. "I had made a friend by that talk, and the friend was Newt Prebbles."
"That's the truth," spoke up Newt, turning his head for a look at Matt.
"Well, then," bristled McGlory, "maybe you'll explain why you helped Murgatroyd down Matt, in the first place?"
"I was to blame there," answered Newt, "but I didn't understand the situation. Everything had been sprung on me all of a heap, as you might say, and I was dazed and bewildered. Murgatroyd had come here because I had written and asked him to. He had money for me, as I supposed, and I considered myself in duty bound to help him. Later, when Motor Matt did his talking, Idiscovered some things which put up the bars between Murgatroyd and me. That last thump on the head, of course, topped off the whole affair. Murgatroyd was crazy mad, that's all. He hit me with something harder than his bare knuckles. Was it the handle of his revolver?"
"Maybe it was this," and McGlory leaned forward and picked a pair of brass knuckle dusters off the clay floor.
"That's what he used," declared Prebbles.
"I have always feared," said Matt, "that our dealings with Murgatroyd would end in some violent work, like this. And it was all for a hundred and sixty acres of coal land, which would have netted Murgatroyd only a few thousand dollars, at the most!"
The broker's anger had vanished with his capture, and left him miserable in spirit; but, even now, while his fortunes were at lowest ebb, his crafty mind led him to think of some way out of his troubles.
"You've got me," said he, with a bitter laugh. "I didn't think you lads could do it, but you've turned the trick. Are you any better off?"
"Speak to me about that!" muttered McGlory. "Matt's a heap better off. I don't know what you were going to do, when Ping and I showed up, but I'm feeling a whole lot easier to have this matter just as it is."
"So am I better off," put in Newt Prebbles. "I've led a hard life, and I've been a hard man, but I'm the only one to blame for that. And I know this: Association with Amos Murgatroyd, for any length of time, is an excellent passport to the penitentiary."
"That's right, Newt," said the broker scathingly. "You know on which side your bread is buttered. Get on the side of the winning team, by all means. But I wasn't talking to you or McGlory, but to Motor Matt."
His voice changed to a pleading tone.
"I'm wrecked, Motor Matt," he went on, "if you turn me over to the authorities. There's nothing in my past life that's so very criminal. Of course, knowing what I did about the Traquair homestead, I was anxious to get hold of it. But that's out of my power, now. You've been put to a good deal of inconvenience, but I'll make that all up to you in dollars and cents if you'll take these ropes off me and let me clear out."
"You say," said Matt, "that there's nothing in your past that is so very criminal. If that's so, why are you afraid to face the music? Why do you want to shirk the consequences?"
"Even a short term of imprisonment will ruin my loan business," answered Murgatroyd. "I have built that business up very carefully, and I hate to see it go to smash. I tell you what I'll do. If you'll release me, I'll wipe out that mortgage of one thousand dollars which I hold on the Traquair homestead, and I'll give you and your friends a thousand apiece, all around. What do you say?"
"I'm sorry for you, Murgatroyd," said Matt, "but I haven't any authority to set you free, even if I was inclined that way. It's the government that wants you; and the government wants you so much that a price has been placed on your head. You've danced, and now you've got to pay the fiddler."
"He says he hasn't done anything so very criminal," remarked Newt Prebbles, as he tied a handkerchief around his head. "I'd like to know what he calls criminal."
"Well," sneered the broker, "I haven't been bribed for keeping what I know away from the authorities."
"As I was bribed," retorted Newt hotly, "with money my own father paid you for forged duebills!"
Murgatroyd laughed, and it was the laugh of a wretch utterly devoid of conscience.
"Thatwasrather a neat play of mine," said he. "But you haven't given me your answer yet, Motor Matt."
"Yes, I have," said Matt. "You're going to Fort Totten."
"And so am I," put in Newt Prebbles, "just as quick as I can get there. I'll take Murgatroyd's horse and ride to Bismarck. There's a night train I can catch for Jamestown, and I ought to be at the post some time before noon, to-morrow."
"You can't get there any too quick," observed McGlory caustically.
He had no liking for Newt Prebbles. A man who would do what Newt Prebbles had done could never stand very high in the cowboy's estimation.
"You'd better watch that fellow, Motor Matt," called Murgatroyd. "He'll not go to the post, but will clear out for parts unknown."
"He'll go to the post, I'm sure of it," said Matt.
"I will," declared Newt. "My father and I never agreed very well, but I guess that was my fault, too. When you leave here, Motor Matt, just lock the door and bring the key. I don't know whether I'll ever come back to this shack or not—I don't think I will, as I feel now—but it will be well for me to have the key. Good-by."
He stepped toward the king of the motor boys and extended his hand.
"Haven't you forgotten something, Newt?" inquired Matt.
Prebbles gave him a blank look. The next moment he understood what Matt had reference to, and pulled a jingling bag from his pocket and tossed it upon the table.
"That's the whole of it," he said. "You'll see that it is returned?"
Matt nodded.
"That means that I'll have to walk to Totten, or ride Murgatroyd's horse," Prebbles added, as he moved toward the door.
Matt was about to lend him the money for his railroad ticket, when a form darkened the door and stepped into the room.
"Goin' somewheres?" queried a voice. "Well, I wouldn't, George—not jest yet."
It was Jed Spearman. Behind him came Slim, and back of Slim trailed the cowboy who had been referred to as "Hen."
Matt, greatly alarmed, sprang up and stepped forward.
"Don't lay a hand on that man, Spearman," said Matt. "His father is sick at Fort Totten, and he's got to go there in a hurry."
"Oh, ho!" guffawed the foreman. "If here ain't Motor Matt, who was flyin' this way on gov'ment bizness! An' the chink that run off with the guns, an' t'other chap as lit out with our live stock. Waal, now, ain't this here a pleasin' surprise—fer us? Don't git vi'lent, any o' ye. Three o' us is in here, and thar's three more watchin' on the outside. I reckon the boot's on the other leg, this deal, hey, Slim?"
"I reckon," agreed Slim. "This is a whole lot funnier than that other game, over on the coteau."
"Don't ye ask us ter put down our guns an' do no more pushin'," said Spearman. "Ye kain't work that joke on us twicet, hand-runnin'. We've cut our eyeteeth, we hev. Got any weppins among ye?"
Newt Prebbles, glaring at the Tin Cup men, had backed into a corner. He had his eye on the broken window, and Spearman observed his intention.
"Don't ye never trythat, George," he grinned. "Ye'd be riddled like a salt shaker afore ye'd hit the ground."
"Spearman," said Matt, "you don't understand this matter. If you did——"
"Thar was some parts o' it I didn't onderstand none too well, back thar on the hill, a few hours ago. But ye heered me say we'd cut our eyeteeth, didn't ye? I meant jest that."
"I came here on government duty, just as I said," went on Matt, "and if you interfere with me in any way, you'll regret it."
"Will I? Waal, life is plumb full o' sorrers an' regrets. Who's the gent on the floor?"
"I'm a helpless victim of these young scoundrels," said Murgatroyd plaintively. "Release me, gentlemen, and do an act of simple justice!"
"His name is Murgatroyd," corrected Matt, "and the government has offered a reward of a thousand dollars for his capture."
"That's your story fer it, young man. I ain't takin' your word fer nothin'. Slim, step over an' cut the gent loose."
Slim started. Matt stepped in front of him.
"Leave that man alone!" ordered Matt. "You fellows, I suppose," he continued, turning to Spearman, "have come here after the money Prebbles took from you at the ranch. He was leaving it with me to deliver to you, just as you came."
"Likely yarn," scoffed Jed Spearman, taking a chair in the doorway. "Consider yerselves pris'ners, all o' ye. We ain't so terribly het up over Motor Matt, and we ain't so mad at t'other feller or the chink as we mout be, seein' as how they left us our hosses an' guns an' then trailed straight fer this place whar we diskiver George Hobbes. It's Hobbes we want, an' I tell ye plain we're goin' ter play bob with him afore we're done. That's flat."
AN UNEXPECTED TURN.
Motor Matt was never more at sea than he was at that moment. What could he, and McGlory, and Ping do against six armed cowboys who, because of their hostility, would not listen to reason?
Jed Spearman and his companions could do exactly as they pleased. They could take the law into their own hands, so far as Newt Prebbles was concerned, and delay his departure for Fort Totten; and, in reckless defiance of what Matt said, they could release Murgatroyd.
Ping, so far from being a factor of strength in the slender force to be mustered against the cowboys, was a decided element of weakness. He was afraid he was going to lose his queue, and the fear had made him almost daft.
"Slim," called Spearman, tilting back in his chair and fanning himself with his hat, "jest count thedineroin that bag an' see how much it foots up."
Slim slouched over to the table, Matt, meanwhile, standing guard between him and Murgatroyd.
With elaborate ease, Slim dumped the contents of the pouch on the table and proceeded to count the gold pieces.
"Why, Jed," he called, "I'm blamed if it ain't all here, an' a dollar more'n what we lost."
"Keep the dollar fer int'rest, Slim," said Spearman generously. "Tell me, Hen," he proceeded, "what we're goin' ter do to the low-down tinhorn who run in them fancy tricks on us at the bunk house?"
"Hang 'im," replied Hen promptly.
"Oh, ye're altogether too desp'rit. Somethin' lighter'n that. What say, Slim?"
"Waal," replied Slim, "I'd suggest runnin' him out o' the kentry, Jed. We ain't got no room, in these parts, fer a robber like what this feller is. The law kain't tech him, ye know."
"Hev we got ter waste our vallyble time pusson'ly conductin' sich a missable galoot across the border?" asked Spearman.
"Thar's a hoss among the cottonwoods, Jed. Let's tie the tinhorn ter his back, take off the hoss' bridle, an' then chase the critter fer a ways. That 'u'd do the trick."
"Gentlemen," came the imploring voice of Murgatroyd, "that animal belongs to me. I beg of you not to use him in your scheme of punishment. How shall I get back to Bismarck after you release me?"
"Stop yer talkin', you!" scowled Spearman. "I reckon, if we turn ye loose, that ort ter be about all ye kin ask. Slim," he added to his comrade, "yer suggestion is in good taste, an' hes my approval. The trick hes been done afore, an' allers, I make no doubt, with good an' lastin' effects ter the community. Pris'ner, hev ye got anythin' ter say?"
"Only this," replied Newt Prebbles. "My father is lying sick at Fort Totten. He needs me. If you try to tie me to that horse and send me across the border, I'll fight till I drop. What more do you want?" he cried passionately. "I gambled with you, and I resorted to a gambler's tricks, but I have returned more money than I took."
"Ye returned the money bekase ye had ter," said Spearman grimly. "If us fellers hadn't blowed in here, we wouldn't 'a' got it."
"You're wrong there, Spearman," called Matt. "I have told you once, and I repeat it now, that Prebbles gave up that moment before he, or any of the rest of us, knew you were coming here. I protest against such inhuman treatment as you're planning to give him."
"All right," grinned Spearman, "protest. Now, we'll let that drap while we consider the case o' the gent on the floor. I reckon, Motor Matt, ye're plumb anxious ter take him ter Totten, ain't ye?"
"I am," answered Matt. "As I told you, he's wanted by the government."
"It 'u'd be a feather in yer cap if ye toted him in, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know anything about that, and I don't care. He's a scoundrel, and ought to be punished."
"An' thar's a thousand out fer him?"
"Yes."
"Which ye'd git?"
"No. It goes to another man."
Spearman drew down an eyelid in a knowing wink.
"'Course I ain't swallerin' that, not noways. It was right funny, that thing ye done over on the hill. I reckon ye've laughed a-considerable about that, hey? I didn't git a chance ter fly with ye, an' the boys hev been joshin' me ever sence about it. Ye ort ter be punished somehow, an' I reckon the easiest and best way ter do that is by letting yer pris'ner go. Ye won't hev no feather in yer cap, an' ye won't hev no thousand dollars. Slim!"
"On deck, Jed."
"I ordered ye, a while ago, ter let that man loose. Now, I order ye ag'in. This time, I want it done!"
"Wait a second!" cried Matt. "Spearman," he went on, "are you such a fool you think you can punish me by allowing this man his freedom?"
"Keerful!" warned the foreman. "Don't git ter callin' names. I won't stand fer that, not fer a minit."
"If you allow this criminal to go, you'll be getting yourself into hot water—you won't be hurting me."
"I know what I'm about. Slim!"
Slim started toward Motor Matt, swinging one hand carelessly but significantly behind him.
"Keep away," said Matt, a dangerous light rising in his eyes. "You'll not let this man go."
"Are you going to let yourself be bluffed by a fellow of his size?" taunted Murgatroyd, taking another tack.
"No words from you," growled Spearman.
Slim undoubtedly felt that it was up to him to let the foreman and Hen know what he was good for. He had a natural delicacy about using a weapon against an unarmed youth, so he made the mistake of thinking he could eliminate the barrier with his hands.
"Side-step!" he commanded.
Matt held his ground.
"Waal, if ye won't, then take that."
Slim swung his fist. What happened, then, must have astonished him exceedingly.
His fist clove the empty air, and before he could recover his poise he was struck a blow that heaved him over against Hen, and toppled both of them against the wall.
"Jumpin' jee-mimy!" stuttered Slim, rubbing his chin. "He hits like the kick of a mule—an' it was about as quick."
"Oh, blazes!" growled Spearman, in disgust. "Hen, you help. If the two o' ye ain't enough, I'll join in."
McGlory had pressed closer to Matt's side. The two chums were now shoulder to shoulder.
"I'm a cowboy myself," cried McGlory, "and if you longhorns have come out prancin' for trouble, I guess we can accommodate you."
But the matter was never brought to an issue. A shrill whistle echoed from the outside. Spearman jumped to his feet.
"That's from one o' our boys," said he. "What's doin'?"
The next moment Spearman knew. A khaki-clad officer appeared in the doorway, covered with the dust of a hard ride. Standing there, for an instant, he surveyed the interior of the shack.
"Cameron!" cried Matt joyfully.
"Whoop-ya!" roared McGlory. "Lieutenant Cameron, of the old U. S. A. Speak to me about that! He's just in time."
"Who's Leftenant Cameron?" snorted Spearman. "I don't know him from Adam."
"Possibly not," answered Cameron, "but, fortunately, I've got a man with me whom you do know. Come in, Roscoe!" called the lieutenant, stepping farther into the room.
A burly individual slouched through the doorway and stood looking out from under his bushy brows at Spearman.
The foreman's careless air left him in a flash. He fell back a step.
"Roscoe!"
"Surest thing you know," replied the burly individual, "Roscoe, Sheriff of Burleigh. Now, what's been going on here?"
There was something humorous, after that, in Spearman's attempt to explain. The whole story was finally given by Matt, and listened to with attention.
The sheriff, when all the details were in, drew a large slab of tobacco from his pocket and nibbled off a corner.
"Who's got the money that was won at the bunk house?" he asked calmly.
"Slim, thar," answered Spearman.
"Fork over, Slim."
Slim promptly tossed the bag to Roscoe.
"If you Tin Cup men haven't got sense enough to keep from being skinned," remarked the sheriff, "you ought to be done out of your eyeteeth. And, furthermore, you haven't any call to chase the man that was too sharp for you and try to run him out of the country. You fellows at the Tin Cup are a heap too lawless. I've had my eye on you for quite a spell. The money goes to the man that took it. Here, stranger! I'm not approving of the way it was come by, mark you, but, so far as the ethics of this case are concerned, the money is yours."
"I don't want it," was the astounding response from Newt Prebbles. "I'm a different man from what I was when I got that away from the Tin Cup fellows."
The sheriff stared, then calmly dropped the bag into his own pocket.
"I'll accept the donation," said he, "and pass it along to the Bismarck Orphan Asylum. Now, Spearman," and he stepped over and tapped the foreman on the chest, "I wish I could take you to town with me for planning to release a badly wanted man. But I can't. All I can say is that I've got my eye on you. Scatter out of this. That will be about all."
The Tin Cup men "scattered." As the galloping hoofs died away in the distance, Lieutenant Cameron stepped over and caught Matt's hand.
"I guess I was of some use, after all, eh, Matt? You fellows have had most of the fun, but I managed to get here in time to save you some unpleasantness."
"You did," answered Motor Matt gratefully, wringing the brave fellow's hand. "You've saved the prisoner, and made it possible for Prebbles' son to get to the post in time to——"
"Wait," interrupted Cameron, pulling a yellow slip from his pocket. "That reached me just as the sheriff and I were leaving Bismarck."
Matt took the telegram. It was brief, but terribly to the point.
"Prebbles can't last more than twenty-four hours, at the outside. Useless to bring his son."
"Prebbles can't last more than twenty-four hours, at the outside. Useless to bring his son."
This was signed by the doctor. Silently Matt passed the telegram to Newt.
Young Prebbles read it, dropped into a chair, and buried his face in his hands.
A RISKY VENTURE.
While Roscoe was removing the ropes from Murgatroyd's hands and replacing them with a pair of steel manacles, Matt and McGlory stepped out of the shack for a brief talk.
"Young Prebbles is pretty badly cut up," said Cameron.
"He ought to be," said McGlory. "I reckon this is a lesson for him, and for any other young fellow who feels like taking the bit in his teeth."
"It's pretty tough," murmured Matt, shaking his head. "There's good stuff in young Prebbles."
"That's Pard Matt for you, Cameron," said the cowboy. "He always looks for the good stuff in a fellow and never sees much of anything else."
"After all," approved Cameron, "that's the best way. But I'll warrant Matt can't find much to commend in Murgatroyd."
"He's old enough to know right from wrong," said Matt, "and now that he's made his bed, he's got to lie in it. Where did you find the sheriff, Cameron?"
"Wired him I was coming, and he met me at the train with a couple of riding horses. They couldn't remember anything definite at the post office, although one of the clerks had a hazy recollection that some one had called for a letter addressed to Hobbes. That's all we had to go on. We hit the trail and rode hard."
"Good thing you did. If you hadn't ridden so hard you might have got here too late."
"What a day this has been! I should think you fellows would be about fagged."
Before Matt could make any response, Newt Prebbles came out of the shack.
"I'm going, just the same," said he doggedly.
"There's no way you can get to the post in time, Prebbles," returned Cameron kindly.
"I'll get there, anyhow, whether I'm late or not. Goodheavens! You don't understand what this means to me! You don't know——"
He bit his lips to keep back the emotion that grew with the words.
"I've just got to go," he finished. "I'll get through somehow."
"How'll you get from here to Bismarck?" inquired Cameron.
"On Murgatroyd's horse."
"Your connections are poor all the way through. You'll not be able to reach Totten before to-morrow afternoon."
"I'm going."
"Wait," said Matt. "Are you willing to take a little risk, Prebbles?"
"Risk? I'd take any risk if it could shorten my trip to Totten by a single hour."
"Do you know the country between here and Totten?"
"Every foot of it."
"By night as well as by day?"
"Any time."
"Let's get a little something to eat," said Matt, "and then I'll agree to get you to Totten inside of three hours."
"How?"
"We'll use the aëroplane."
There was a silence, then a protest from McGlory.
"Pard, you're not made of iron. You can't stand that trip, after all you've done. Sufferin' cats! Why, you're workin' every second you're runnin' theComet! And it's the hardest kind of work, at that."
"I can do it," said Matt, looking around at the gathering dusk. "But we'll have to start before it gets too dark."
"Look at the risk!"
"We'll face it. Besides, it's not so much."
There was no arguing with Matt. He had his mind made up and was like a rock.
"You and Ping, Joe," said Matt, "will come with Cameron and Murgatroyd. Have you a lantern, Newt?"
"Yes."
"Get it."
The lantern was secured and lighted. After Matt had hastily bolted a few mouthfuls of food, he took the lantern and started for the place where he had left theComet.
Cameron, Ping, and McGlory accompanied the king of the motor boys and Newt Prebbles. Roscoe remained at the shack with Murgatroyd.
The rope with which the aëroplane had been made fast to the trees was taken off, and Matt, while he was going over the machine to see that everything was in proper order, told McGlory to hunt for a favorable place to make the start.
When Matt had finished his inspection, the cowboy had selected the nearest spot which was at all promising.
"It's at the top of the bank, Matt," said McGlory. "There's a clear stretch, sloping slightly to the east."
"Then let's get the machine up there."
TheComet, a ghostly monstrosity in the gloom, was pushed and pulled to the top of the bank and pointed down the slight slope. Matt walked over the course of the start with the lantern, to make sure there were no stones in the way.
"We don't want the lantern," said Matt, coming back and handing the light to McGlory. "Lock up the shack when you leave and bring the key with you, Joe."
McGlory was nervous and apprehensive. He grabbed Matt's hand before he took his seat.
"It's a risky venture," he breathed.
"A little risk, of course," answered Matt. "There always is."
"But this is night, pard. You never tried to fly the machine at night before."
"There's always got to be a first time."
"There's some wind, too."
"Not enough to be dangerous."
"You'll win out, Motor Matt," said Cameron; "you always do."
"There's got to be a first time when he won't," croaked McGlory dismally.
"Take your seat, Newt," said Matt.
Newt, without a word, placed himself as directed.
"I guess we're all ready," called Matt, starting the motor. "Help us in the getaway, you fellows."
Cameron, McGlory, and Ping pushed the car down the slope through the dusk. Finally it drew away from them, and they saw it, like a huge spectre, sailing skyward.
Newt Prebbles undoubtedly remembered more about that daring night trip than Motor Matt.
The king of the motor boys had eyes and ears for nothing but his work. The propeller whirled the great planes on and on into the gloom, and sense of touch alone told Matt when to meet the varying points of air pressure by a shift of the wing tips.
Newt said little, and what he did say was in the nature of directions for keeping theCometon the right course. With eyes peering ahead and downward, he watched the dusky panorama flitting away below them.
Matt admired his courage. Calm and steady, he kept rigidly to his place, interfered in no way with the freedom of Matt's movements, and watched alertly for the landmarks with which he was familiar.
Whenever they swept over a cluster of lights, young Prebbles named the town instantly.
The stars came out in the dusky vault overhead, and a big moon crept up over the horizon.
Swinging through space, hung from the zenith as by invisible cords, theCometglided steadily and surely onward.
"Oberon," announced Newt, as they swept across a gleaming mat of yellow.
"Great spark plugs!" exclaimed the king of the motor boys. "I don't know, Newt, but I've a notion we're making a record flight."
"It's wonderful," mused young Prebbles; "but there's something which, to my mind, is even more wonderful than this work of the flying machine."
"What's that?"
"Why, that you're doing this for me—for a man who nearly drowned himself trying to get away from you, and who tried his best to cripple you, or theComet, with a bullet."
"We all of us make mistakes, now and then," answered Matt. "It's a mighty foolish man who won't rectify a mistake when he finds he has made one."
From Oberon the course led north and east.
"There's the post trader's store," reported Prebbles.
"That means we're just about where we're going," said Matt.
"Where'll we come down?"
"On the parade ground at the post."
When near the old fort, they could hear the call of the sentries, and were able to mark the fringe of oil lamps around the barracks and officers' quarters.
Silently, like a wraith from the Unknown, they dropped downward, struck on the bicycle wheels, and glided to a stop.
"Be hivins," cried a voice, "it's th'Comet. Now what would you be afther thinkin' av that? Th'Comet, d'ye moind, rammin' around in th' dark th' same as if it was broad day. Is that yerself, Motor Matt?"
"Yes," said Matt, stepping out of the machine. "How's Prebbles, O'Hara?"
"Th' ould sawbones has given up hope, an' that's all I kin tell ye. But who is it ye have along?"
"Prebbles' son. Take him up to Cameron's quarters at once, will you?"
"Sure I will."
"I'll see you in the morning, Newt," Matt added.
Young Prebbles paused to grasp Matt's hand.
"I appreciate what you have done for me, don't forget that," he said.
Matt gave theCometinto the care of a guard, then hunted up a place to sleep. His head had hardly dropped on the pillow before he was off for the land of dreams.
CONCLUSION.
Doctors are not infallible, and the post doctor was no exception in this respect. All his experience and skill in diagnosing the ills of humanity, made him certain that Prebbles was booked for the other world. But there was an error—and, more than likely, that error was due to the arrival of Newt, who, it will be remembered, the doctor had wired it would be useless to send.
Prebbles was singing his Salvation Army hymns when Newt stepped into the sick room. All night he was marching the streets, in his disordered mind, pounding the cymbals and exhorting. Occasionally there crept into the oral wanderings a reference to the young man watching at the bedside.
Most unexpectedly—most unaccountably, to the doctor—a lucid moment came to Prebbles in the early morning. He saw his son, he recognized him, and he felt his handclasp. There was a smile on the old man's lips as he drifted back into his sea of visions.
But, from that moment, there was a noticeable change. There seemed more resisting power in the wasted body of the old clerk, as though hope for better things had grown up in him and was giving him strength.
To Matt, Newt Prebbles told what he knew about the accident to poor Harry Traquair.
Siwash Charley, under agreement with Murgatroyd, had tampered with Traquair's machine before the fatal flight, just as he had tampered with Matt's machine before the official trials at Fort Totten. But Traquair had not been so fortunate as the king of the motor boys.
Newt had learned of this villainous work through Siwash Charley, and had received from Siwash, at a time when the ruffian was under the influence of liquor, an incriminating note from the broker, signed with hisalias, "George Hobbes."
Prebbles had made use of this document, holding it over Murgatroyd's head and extorting money from him on account of it.
This, of course, formed a sad commentary on the character of young Prebbles. But Motor Matt, in "advancing the spark of friendship," so played upon the facts in the case, and showed up the broker's duplicity, that the old clerk's illness formed the turning point in his son's career.
Such transformations are not so rare as it would seem.
Cameron, Matt, Ping, and Roscoe arrived at the post in the afternoon following the arrival of Matt and young Prebbles. Murgatroyd, of course, accompanied them.
Murgatroyd was tried, not on the Traquair charge, but on the later one of conniving, with Siwash Charley, to injure the aëroplane at the government trials, thus endangering the life, not only of Motor Matt, but of Lieutenant Cameron as well.
His sentence was commensurate with the evil he had attempted, and he followed Siwash Charley to the Leavenworth prison.
After a few days the post doctor was as certain Prebbles would recover as he had been positive, at the time he sent his message to Cameron, that he had not many hours to live.
The reward paid by the government for the capture of Murgatroyd was made over to the old clerk. On this, he and his son were to begin life anew.
One of the first things Matt did, after reaching the post with Newt Prebbles, was to write to Mrs. Traquair, at Jamestown, settling a mystery which had long puzzled every one who knew of Murgatroyd's attempts to secure the Wells County homestead.
There was coal under the soil of the quarter-section, and the railroad company wanted it. That was the secret, and Mrs. Traquair profited handsomely by the knowledge of it.
The mortgage was paid, and the homestead passed into the hands of the railroad company.
In a country so barren of trees as North Dakota, coal is a valuable commodity.
Matt still kept the aëroplane, and still persistently refused to put it in storage at the post, to be called for later.
"TheComet," said Matt, one evening when he and McGlory were again with Cameron, "has got to earn something for Joe, and Ping, and myself."
"Ping comes in on the deal, does he?" laughed Cameron.
"Share and share alike with the rest of us," averred Matt. "That Chinese boy is loyalty itself. Down in that shelter tent, below the post trader's, he spends his nights and days watching the aëroplane."
"And talking to it, and singing about it, and burning rice-paper prayers to the heathen josses, asking them to keep it carefully and not let it go broke while up in the air," put in McGlory. "Oh, he's a freak, that Ping boy; but, as Matt says, he's a mighty good sort of a freak at that. Look how he ran off with the rifles when we fooled the Tin Cup punchers on the hill! And remember how he slammed that stone through the window when Murgatroyd had drawn a fine bead on me and was about to press the trigger. Share and share alike? Well, I should say."
"You're still determined to go into the show business, Matt?" asked Cameron anxiously.
"I don't see why we shouldn't," said Matt. "Five hundred a week isn't to be sneezed at. Joe's agreed, and so has Ping. When the first favorable day arrives, we're going to fly to Fargo."
Two days later the favorable moment was at hand. All the soldiers at the post were out to witness the start, and even the gruff post trader was present to say good-by to the king of the motor boys and his friends.
Matt's last call, at the post, was made on Prebbles. The old man was practically out of danger, but his recovery would take time, and for a long while yet he would have to remain in bed.
He was not able to say much, but what little he did say Matt considered an ample reward for the strenuous adventures that had befallen him and his chums on their flight to the upper Missouri.
Newt had become his sworn friend. Whenever Matt wanted any help, in any way that was within Newt's power to grant, he was surely to call on young Prebbles.
When finally Motor Matt took his way down the post hill for the last time, he was in an exceedingly thoughtful mood.
He remembered when he had first come to Devil's Lake, knowing nothing about aëroplanes, and had practiced with theJune Buguntil he had acquired the knack of flying the machine and had made good and sold the machine to the government for enough to give large profit to himself and his friends, and, what pleased him most, to place Mrs. Traquair above want.
He remembered, too, how he had sailed away alone into Wells County on a fool's errand, had become entangled in a losing cause, and had experienced a sharp reverse.
But, best of all, in his estimation, was the night journey back to the post from the Missouri River, bringing Newt Prebbles to his father's bedside.
Down into the cheering throng below the post trader's store went the king of the motor boys, shaking hands with every one he met, Indians, whites, or "breeds," receiving good wishes from all and heartily returning them.
For the last time the aëroplane was dragged from the shelter tent, given a strong start along the old familiar roadway, and then watched as it climbed up and up into the air and winged swiftly eastward, carrying Motor Matt, and Joe McGlory, and Ping into untried ventures and fresh fields of endeavor.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (27) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Engagement;
OR,
ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW.
"On the Banks of the Wabash"—In the Calliope Tent—An Eavesdropper—Queer Proceedings—Motor Matt Protests—A Blaze in the Air—Was it Treachery?—A Call for Help—Black Magic—The Mahout's Flight—The Paper Trail—Carl Turns a Trick—The Lacquered Box—The Hypnotist's Victim—"For the Sake of Haidee"—The Rajah's Niece
"On the Banks of the Wabash"—In the Calliope Tent—An Eavesdropper—Queer Proceedings—Motor Matt Protests—A Blaze in the Air—Was it Treachery?—A Call for Help—Black Magic—The Mahout's Flight—The Paper Trail—Carl Turns a Trick—The Lacquered Box—The Hypnotist's Victim—"For the Sake of Haidee"—The Rajah's Niece
NEW YORK, August 21, 1909.
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Nicodemus Squab, Professor of Orthography in the Jimtown district school, was a man of an inquiring turn of mind.
Overhearing some of the scholars discussing a prospective coon hunt that was to come off the following Saturday night, the professor drew near and inquired if they would allow him to join them.
"Of course you kin jine us," said Mose Howard, who was the ringleader in all the devilment in the neighborhood. "Glad tu have you go 'long. We'll come by for you."
"Thank you," said the professor. "I never was coon hunting in my life, though I've always wanted to go—just to see how it is done, you know."
According to promise, Mose Howard, Dick Miller, and Joe Smiley came by for the professor, who was ready and waiting, and who joined the hunters, anticipating a jolly old time.
After winding up the coon hunt, which resulted in the capture of five possums and three coons, Mose Howard proposed that they should go back by the fish trap and catch a mess of fish.
The proposition was unanimously agreed to, and they struck off down the creek, the professor bringing up the rear, puffing and blowing, though highly elated at the variation that this additional act in the programme promised, as well as at the prospect of a successful raid upon the finny tribe.
The "Dofuny" contraption that Mose dignified with the name of fish trap consisted merely of a large sack held open by a hoop, around which the mouth of the sack was fastened, and a couple of ropes, one end of which was fastened to each side of the hoop, while the other ends were fastened to trees on the opposite sides of the stream, in such a way as to allow the hoop to remain about halfway submerged.
On the bank of the creek was a lantern, in which was about half a tallow candle.
Producing some matches, Mose lit the candle and proceeded to explain to the professor the modus operandi of catching fish with his new-fangled trap.
"You just take the lamp, and wade into the trap, and hold the lamp right in front of the mouth so that the fish can see how to run in, and we boys'll go away down the creek and pull off our clothes and wade into the creek and drive the fish up and into the trap."
The professor, as unsuspicious of any trick as a sucking baby, shucked himself, and then taking up the lantern, waded into the trap that the boys set for him instead of for fish, and in the construction of which they had not only exhausted their financial resources in the purchase of the material out of which it was constructed, but also their ingenuity in the getting up and fabrication of the same.
"Ugh!" grunted the professor, as he reached the trap and placed the lantern in the position indicated, "this water is cold as ice. I want you boys to make haste."
"Yes, sir," responded the boys.
"You'll hear us hollerin' as we come," said Mose, and off they started down the creek in a trot.
"All right," said the professor.
As soon as they got out of sight their gait slackened to a walk, which they kept till they reached a point some four hundred yards distant from the trap, when, seating themselves on a log, they began the most uproarious din of yelling and howling that had ever awakened the slumbering echoes of those old woods since the aborigines had vacated the premises.
After about an hour spent in this way the boys got up and advanced slowly up the bank of the stream about a hundred yards, when they seated themselves on another log, where they continued to whoop and yell like so many wild Indians.
After another hour thus spent they made another advance which brought the professor and the fish trap within their range of vision, though, owing to the darkness, they were not visible to him.
"Hurry up, boys!" he shouted. "I'm nearly froze, and the candle's nearly out."
That was what they were waiting for—the candle to burn out—so that their failure to catch fish could be laid to the absence of the light.
"Yes, sir!" they shouted back; "we're hurrying as fast as we can!"
And renewing their yells, they advanced slowly—very slowly—up the stream.
"Hurry up! hurry up!" again shouted the professor. "The candle will be out in two minutes."
"Ay, ay, sir!" shouted Mose back; "but you must stop hollerin', or you'll skeer the fish."
Sure enough, in about two minutes the candle gave a last convulsive flicker, and in the twinkling of an eye thick darkness reigned as absolutely over the professor and the fish trap as elsewhere.
"Boys," said Mose, in a tone of voice loud enough for the professor to hear him, "there ain't no use wadin' in this water any longer; let's go back an' git our cloze."
Seating themselves on a log, they sat perfectly silent for a while—long enough, as they thought, for it to have taken them to go back to where they commenced their drive, dress themselves, and reach that point on their return—when they got up and resumed their progress upstream.
On reaching the trap, they found the professor on shore, and though he had completed his toilet, his teeth were chattering together worse than a pair of castanets rattling off a quickstep march.
"We'll have to try it over ag'in some other time," said Mose, "and fetch more candles with us. I thought we had plenty this time, but we didn't. I guess I'll bring enough next time."
"Why didn't you fellows hurry up?" said the professor. "What made you come so slow?" the chattering of his teeth as he spoke causing him to cut the words into more than the legitimate number of syllables to which they were entitled.
"Couldn't come no faster," said Mose. "The water was so thunderin' cold the fish wouldn't drive fast."
Satisfied with this explanation, the professor fell into ranks as the boys filed off in the direction of home. The exercise of walking soon brought a reaction in his system, the first effect of which was to put a stop to the music of the castanets, and on reaching home he pronounced himself all right again.
Sometime during the ensuing week Mose Howard informed the professor that they were going to try the fish trap again the following Saturday night, and asked him if he didn't want to go along.
The professor gave an involuntary shudder as the recollection of that protracted soaking in ice water of the previous Saturday night flashed across his mind.
Discretion prompted him to give a negative response. Curiosity, however, got the better of discretion, and he accepted the invitation.
"I'll be on hand," said he. "There's no fun standing in that cold water, especially when you get no fish; but if you can stand it I guess I can."
At the appointed time the boys came by, when, the professor joining them, they proceeded to the fish trap.
On arriving there, Mose produced a couple of pieces of candle, one of which he proceeded to light and put in the lantern. It was nearly twice as long as the one they had burned out on the previous occasion.
The other piece he placed in the lantern, so that it could be easily got at if it should be needed.
This latter piece Mose had had manufactured himself especially for the occasion, and had taken some little pains in its construction.
After soaking the wick in water until it was perfectly saturated, he had taken a skillet and melted some tallow therein; then placing the wick in a mould, he filled the latter with the melted tallow, and the thing was accomplished.
This particular candle he had carefully marked, so as to be able to distinguish it from any other candle.
Before completing their arrangements at the fish trap, preparatory to beginning the drive, the professor proposed that one of the boys should take his place at the trap while he accompanied the others and assisted in driving the fish.
"Kin you swim?" asked Mose Howard.
"No," answered the professor.
"Well, you'd run the resk ov gittin' drownded, then," said Mose.
"You go on, then," said the professor, "and I'll mind the trap."
So off the boys started, and going down the stream about a mile, seated themselves upon a log, and began yelling and whooping, as on the previous occasion.
Hour after hour passed, each hour seeming to the benumbed professor an age.
The yelling approached slowly but surely.
The boys had now arrived at a point where every motion of the professor was distinctly visible.
The piece of candle Mose had lighted and put in the lantern was nearly burned out. Taking up the other piece, the professor proceeded to light it. Placing it in the lantern, it gave a splutter and went out. Dark! Dark was no name for it. No moon, no stars, no matches.
But that bogus candle would have been a match for a whole box of matches.
"What in thunder's the matter now?" shouted Mose.
"The candle's gone out," shouted the professor back. "Have you got any matches?" he inquired.
"Nary match," said Mose.
"What's to be done?" inquired the professor.
"Nuthin'," said Mose. "The thing's played out. Put on your cloze, while we go and git ourn, and then we'll git for home."
Seating themselves on a log, the boys remained quiet for a while, then rising to their feet, they came up to where the professor was waltzing around trying to get up a circulation.
"Another waterhaul," said Mose.
"Looks a good deal like it," said the professor.
"Don't know why the mischief some of us didn't think tu bring some matches," said Mose.
"I don't know, either," responded the professor, in a deprecating tone of voice, as though he entertained the idea that somehow or other he had been mainly instrumental in producing the bad luck.
"Better luck next time," said Mose philosophically, as he struck out for home, followed by the others.
They had proceeded about two-thirds of the way home, groping their way as best they could through the thick darkness, when a shrill, prolonged scream directly ahead of them, and apparently at no great distance, broke upon their startled auriculars.
"Painter!" ejaculated Mose, in a low tone of voice, though sufficiently loud to be distinctly audible to the professor, at the same time springing to one side, and the next moment he was out of the professor's hearing.
The fact was he had only taken a couple of steps and then squatted in the grass as completely concealed from his companions by the intense darkness as though he had been on the opposite side of the globe.
"Painter!" repeated the other boys, following Mose's example, of springing to one side and squatting in the grass.
Left alone, the professor, with hair on end, paused a moment to collect his scattered thoughts; but only for a moment.
Another scream long drawn out, and apparently but a few yards distant, set his dumpling-shaped body in motion, and the next moment he was streaking it across the country as fast as his duck legs could carry him.
Tumbling over a log lying on the edge of a bank some twenty feet high and nearly perpendicular, down which he rolled, he landed in a mud hole at the bottom.
Gathering himself up he began looking for his hat, which had parted company with him on the way down the bank, when, another scream breaking upon his ear, he struck out once more on his race for life, hatless and covered with mud from his head to his heels.
Coming to a brier patch, he was on the point of diverging from his course in order to try and go around it, when another scream precipitated the terror-stricken professor into the patch like a catapult.
Emerging from the brier patch with his coat tails torn into ribbons, the mud-begrimed professor held on the even tenor of his way without any diminution of speed for a hundred yards or so, when his pace began to slacken a little. Another scream, however, put him to his mettle again, but as that was the last, and as he was about exhausted, he soon settled down to a walk, and presently stumbling over a log, he picked himself up and seated himself thereon.
After resting a while, plunged in the meantime in a deep cogitation, he finally concluded to try and seek a shelter for the remainder of the night. So, starting forward, he wandered about first in one direction and then in another, and it was not until daylight began to streak the eastern horizon that he stumbled on a clearing in the woods, in the midst of which was a log cabin.
Cautiously approaching the cabin, he had reached the foot of a sapling some fifty steps from the door when a big dog came dashing around the corner of the house, barking in a most furious manner.
No sooner did the professor catch sight of the dog bouncing along in the direction of him and the sapling than he was seized with such a sudden panic as to cause him to grasp the sapling in his arms and start up it, though, owing to want of practice, with hardly the agility of a squirrel. After a tremendous effort he succeeded in reaching a fork some ten feet from the ground, where he seated himself, and awaited the issue of events.
He didn't have long to wait. The furious barking of the dog soon roused the inmates of the cabin.
Scarcely a minute had elapsed after the professor had succeeded, by the most superhuman exertions, in seating himself comfortably in the fork of the sapling, out of the reach of the dog, when the door of the cabin opened and a huge six-footer of a backwoodsman, somewhat airily attired, with a rifle of corresponding size with himself in his hand, emerged therefrom.