THE HUT IN THE HILLS.
The Red Flier made fine work of the climb, rounding the crest of the gully-bank in excellent form. The road they were after lay in plain sight, with smooth ground between.
"Which way now, Pringle?" asked Matt, when they had reached the trail.
"Turn to the right," answered Pringle. "You and your new partner are in luck, Pretzel," he added, when the turn was made and the car was skimming along toward the adobe hut and Tomlinson. "You'll cut a fine large cake when you break in on Mr. Gotrocks and tell him he's saved, and that you're prepared to hand him all the pearls in the bag. Wish I had you for the next twenty-four hours, Dutch."
"Oof you hat blayed skevare mit me, Pringle," replied Carl, "you vouldn't haf peen in sooch a mix. I alvays t'ought you vas a pad egg, aber you know how to blay der panjo."
"Sure, and we make a good team. How'll it be if I meet you in Brockville, after I get away, and we hit up Needles with the sketch? All the stuff's at Needles."
"Say, I vouldn't haf nodding more to do mit you. I'm for Tenver so kevick as I can ged dere."
"Well, be jeerful, be jeerful."
"Schust vatch my shmoke a leedle und see. Vill you send my shtuff py Tenver?"
"I will, so help me!"
"You vill—I don'd t'ink. You check der trunk, hey?"
"Sure."
"Vere iss der check?"
"In my jeans. Going to frisk me for it?"
Carl pushed his hand into Pringle's trousers pocket, and dug up a brass tag.
"Vell," said he, "you dit tell der trut'. I vill keep der sheck, Pringle, und ven I got some time I vill sendt it on und have der paggage come to me ad Tenver."
"What about my stuff? You ain't going to hog the whole business, are you?"
"Vell, oof you know anypody in Tenver, I vill leaf your shtuff any blace vat you say."
"Andy Hickman has a saloon there. Leave it with him. What's the use of keeping me tied any longer? You might just as well take off the rope."
"Not until we see how we find things in the hut in the hills," said Matt.
"Yah," agreed Carl, "meppy you vas sdringing us. How ve know dot undil ve findt it oudt?"
"Have I strung you any, so far?" protested Pringle.
"It vas all righdt, so far, aber somet'ing mighdt come oop farder on. Hey, Matt?"
"That's right, Carl," answered Matt. "We'll keep him a prisoner until we find Tomlinson."
This road, like the one they had left, angled about through the hills. They passed one vehicle—a buckboard with two passengers—going in the other direction.
The horses attached to the buckboard were not used to automobiles, and shied badly. Matt slowed to a stop while the driver of the team was going past.
"Seen anything of another automobile, mister?" called Matt.
"Nary, I haven't," answered one of the men, "although I hear Lem Nugent, o' Ash Fork, has been blowin' himself fer one o' the things."
The horses danced past on their hind legs, and Matt started up again.
"There's the Fork," announced Pringle, a few minutes later, nodding his head toward the left. "This is as near as we come to the town."
They were forging along rising ground, just then, and the huddle of buildings that represented the town lay below them, and about a mile away.
"How far is the hut from here, Pringle?" asked Matt.
"Twenty-five miles, I should say, at a rough guess," was the answer. "We'll cross the railroad in another mile, and after that you'd better look for buzz-wagon tracks in the dust. If you see any, then you can bank heavy that Hank and Spang are ahead of you."
"Couldn't they go the other road?"
"They could, but they wouldn't. They'd make a nice picture running through town, Hank with a gun at the driver's head, wouldn't they? Nix. They'll keep in the background as much as they can—and this road is pretty well back. They don't want to be seen by anybody but us, just now, Hank and Spang don't."
"Does this road run into the Ash Fork trail?"
"Yep—a mile t'other side of the hut. The hut's between the two roads, close to this and not so close to the other. If the hut had been closer to the other road, maybe Hank, Spang, and I would have heard Denny when he cut loose from us with this car."
The Red Flier descended a slope just then, crossed the railroad-track, and climbed another slope beyond.
Matt was worrying about the other car. There were no tracks in the road, so it was certain the runabout hadn't passed that way as yet, but there was plenty of time for it to reach the road and catch up with the Red Flier.
The one thing to do was to travel at speed, forestalling possible interference from Hank and Spang by getting well ahead of them.
During the rest of the trip, which Matt made at the top gait, no travelers or vehicles were met. The twenty-five miles were covered in thirty minutes, and when Pringle called on Matt to stop, he brought the Red Flier to a standstill at a place where the hills rose steeply on each side of the trail.
"Here we are," said Pringle.
"The hut is on the left side of the road?" queried Matt.
"Through that gouge," and Pringle, with a nod, indicated a break in the hills. "Going to take me along?"
"I guess I can find the place, all right," answered Matt. "You can stay here with Carl until I see if things are as you say."
"What if Hank and Spang come along?"
Matt turned to the Dutch boy.
"You have that revolver, Carl," said he, "and if you see the other car, or hear it, fire a signal. I'll not be gone any longer than I can help."
"I vill keep a sharp lookoudt, you bed you," answered Carl, "und I vill shoot oof I vant you. Mach schnell, Matt, for I haf der feeling in my pones dot somet'ing iss going crossvays."
Without pausing for further talk, Matt ran into the passage between the hills. A hundred feet carried him through it and out upon a little plateau. Here there was a spring, a thicket of manzanita, and a small ruin of a house. Opposite the point where Matt came upon the plateau was another narrow valley, leading toward the east and apparently communicating with the other road.
Hurrying to the house, Matt stepped through an unclosed breach in the mud wall that had once served for a door. The gloomy interior blinded him for a space and it was impossible for him to see any one.
"You scoundrel!" cried an impassioned voice. "Untie these ropes and let us go at once. You will save yourself trouble if you do that, and give me back that bag of pearls. There's law in this country yet, and I'll make it my business to see that it reaches you."
Gradually, as Matt's eyes became accustomed to the gloom, he made out the forms of two men seated on a bench along one of the walls.
"Are you Mr. Tomlinson, of Denver?" inquired Matt, stepping toward the man who had spoken.
"My name, sir," was the haughty reply. "How long are you going to leave us here, without a mouthful of food and no water to drink? By gad, you'll suffer for this!"
"You're mistaken, Mr. Tomlinson," said the young motorist. "I'm not one of the robbers, and had nothing to do with putting you here. By a stroke of luck I have been able to recover your pearls and to find out where you were. Your car is waiting in the west road, and I am here to release you and take you to Ash Fork."
This startling news left Tomlinson speechless for a moment.
"You—you have come to release us?" he returned.
"Yes," and Matt, with an open knife in his hand, passed to the bench and began severing the cords that held Tomlinson and his chauffeur to the hard seat.
The prisoners had been in their cramped positions all night, and when the ropes fell away, so numb were their limbs that they could hardly hold themselves upright.
"Give us some water," begged Tomlinson.
There was a canteen lying on the floor. Matt picked it up, found that it was full, and uncapped it and held it to Tomlinson's lips.
"The villains that brought us here," spoke up the chauffeur, "left that canteen, but they never stopped to figure out how we were to get at it with our hands tied."
"They were willing, Gregory," said Tomlinson, "to let us starve and die, right here. I never thought a set of men could be such inhuman wretches. But who are you, young man?"
"My name is King, Matt King," replied the youth.
"You say that by a stroke of luck you were able to get my pearls and find out where I had been left? I wish you would explain how——"
"I haven't time to explain anything, just now, as we may be interfered with by the robbers at any moment. They have stolen a fast motor-car and are chasing us. If you and your chauffeur are able to walk, Mr. Tomlinson, we'd better get to the west road as soon as we can. The thieves——"
A noise at the door caused Matt to whirl in that direction. He was astounded to see Spangler standing in the entrance.
BACK TO THE CAR.
There was but one place where Spangler could have come from, and that was the east road. The stolen car must have been driven along the direct trail leading to Ash Fork and have stopped so as to let Spangler out at the nearest point to the hut.
As Matt turned on the ruffian, Tomlinson and Gregory started up from the bench.
"There's one of the rascals!" exclaimed Tomlinson.
Spangler, for a moment, had shown evidences of surprise. Getting quick control of himself, he pushed into the hut and started for Matt.
"Waal, my bantam," he sneered, "I reckon ye didn't make sich a clean gitaway, arter all. Here's where ye git what's comin' if ye don't fork over that bag. Hurry up with it! Ye've made us a heap o' trouble an' we ain't allowin' ter put up with any more o' yer foolishness."
"Why, you infernal scoundrel," cried Tomlinson wrathfully, "you're my prisoner! Put down that revolver, or——"
"Oh, you say moo an' chase yerself!" scoffed Spangler. "I got bizness with young King, here, an' if you butt in ye're goin' ter git hurt. I'll take them pearls," he added to Matt, "an' I'll take 'emnow."
Spangler was only one against three, but he was armed, and two of the men he faced were worn out with the physical suffering they had endured. The ruffian was counting confidently on having things his own way, and Matt was wondering how he could checkmate him.
Hank must be somewhere around. Probably, Matt reasoned to himself, Hank was in the east road keeping guard of the driver of the stolen car.
"Your lease of liberty is short," fumed Tomlinson;"I'll spend my last dollar, if I have to, in bringing you and the rest of your infernal gang to book."
"Fer the last time, King!" growled Spangler, moving his revolver significantly. "I've chinned all I'm goin' ter about that bag. Either pass it over or take what's comin'."
Matt had got around behind the bench. He had done this in a casual manner so as not to arouse Spangler's suspicions. Just as the ruffian finished, Matt kicked the bench against his legs.
Spangler staggered back. He did not lose his balance, but, in order to keep from falling, he had to throw up his arms.
This was the opportunity Matt wanted. Like a flash he jumped over the bench and his right fist shot out in a blow straight from the shoulder.
It was no light tap, for the young motorist put all his heart and science into that darting right-hander. Spangler was caught on the point of the jaw and driven against the crumbling adobe wall. The revolver fell from his hand, and Matt pounced upon it and brought it level with Spangler's breast.
"By gad!" cried the admiring Tomlinson. "What do you think of that, Gregory? Did you ever see anything neater than that? King, you're a wonder! Bravo!"
"He's quicker'n chain lightning!" averred Gregory.
Spangler was having recourse to his usual tactics whenever things went wrong with him, and was swearing like an army teamster.
"That will do, Spangler!" said Matt sternly. "Swearing never helped anybody and it's not going to help you. Stow it."
"I'll have yer life fer this, my buck," gritted Spangler, rubbing the point of his jaw, and glaring.
"Not right away you won't," returned Matt coolly. "Step around to the other wall. We want to pass that door, and you're too close to it."
"If ye think ye're goin' ter make a clean gitaway," scowled Spangler, as he moved across the room, "ye've got a surprise ahead o' ye. Ye kain't bump Hank as easy as ye bumped me."
"What are you going to do, King?" asked Tomlinson.
"Get away from here as quick as we can," answered Matt.
"Aren't you going to take that scoundrel along, now that we've captured him?"
"No, it's impossible."
"Impossible?" echoed Tomlinson incredulously. "Why, we've got him right in our hands."
"His partner is close by, in another road, and his partner has a faster car than your Red Flier, Mr. Tomlinson. We've got to get away from here in a hurry. Take my word for it. There's no time to talk about it. Hurry out, you and Gregory, and make for the west road. I've got a friend there watching the car."
"But——"
"Hurry!"
There was a compelling note in Matt's voice that caused Gregory to catch hold of his employer's arm and pull him toward the door.
"He knows what he's talking about, Mr. Tomlinson," said Gregory. "Here's a chance for you to get away, and get back your pearls and the car. The boy has shown that he has pluck and sense, and we'd better do what he says."
This logic overcame Tomlinson's objections, and the two passed out of the hut.
Matt backed after them.
"Ye better leave that gun," called Spangler.
"I'll leave it," answered Matt, "just as soon as it's safe. Where's Hank?"
"Ye'll find him quick enough!" was the grim response.
Getting through the door, Matt turned and hurried after Tomlinson and Gregory.
Tomlinson was bareheaded. He wore an automobile-coat that reached to his heels, but there was no coat or vest underneath it. The missing garments, it seemed clear, had been appropriated by the scheming Trymore.
"If we could have taken that villain with us," fretted Tomlinson when Matt came up with him and Gregory, "we would have had at least one of the gang. Now they'll all go scot-free."
"We've got to think of ourselves, first and foremost," said Matt. "If you and Gregory escape, and you get your car and your pearls, the sheriff can go after the gang."
"But see what they did to me!" went on Tomlinson querulously, opening his dust-coat and showing himself stripped to the shirt. "The rascal I wounded took part of my clothes, my watch, pocketbook, and some personal papers. Then, to throw us into that miserable hovel as though we were dogs? Gad, it makes my blood boil to think of it."
"You might take the pearls," said Matt, and handed him the bag. "If you could travel a little faster——"
"Can't go any faster!" declared Tomlinson. "We haven't had anything to eat or drink for nearly twenty-four hours, and my hands and feet feel like sticks. I'm anxious to know how you managed to get these pearls, King——"
"I'll tell you all about that just as soon as we get to Ash Fork."
Matt's anxiety was intense. He felt sure that Hank was doing something, and the thought bothered him. Tomlinson and Gregory were creeping along, gathering strength with every minute, yet not fast enough to suit Matt.
"I was foolish ever to carry these pearls with me," went on Tomlinson, "but I expected to dispose of part of them to a dealer in Albuquerque, and thought I couldtake the lot that far in the automobile. How did the robbers know I had them? That's what I can't understand."
"Did you write to Denver that you had secured the pearls and were going to carry them with you as far as Albuquerque?" asked Matt.
"Yes, but——"
"Then the news must have got out there. I happen to know that a Denver man was back of the plot to steal the gems. There was a leak in your Denver office. How long did you stay in Yuma, Mr. Tomlinson?"
"Ten days."
"That gave the Denver man plenty of time to lay his plans. You bought the pearls from a Mexican who came to Yuma from La Paz?"
"Where did you find that out?"
"Is it the truth?"
"Yes."
"Well, that shows there must have been some one in your Denver office who told what you were doing. The information I just gave you came from Denver Denny, the fellow you wounded at the time of the robbery."
"By gad, I'll overhaul my office force from the errand-boy up, as soon as I get back home!"
"A good idea."
"That robbery was the most barefaced proceeding you ever heard of! Gregory and I were spinning along toward Ash Fork, never dreaming of trouble, when we were halted by a big stone in the road. Gregory got out and had just rolled the stone out of the way, when four men rushed at us. I had a revolver and I blazed away. One of the villains staggered—but he couldn't have been very badly hurt, for he pulled himself together and came at me. Two of them laid hold of Gregory, and two laid hold of me; then one of them—the fellow I wounded—stayed with the car while the other three took Gregory and me to that wretched hut. If I live, I'll make every one of those men answer for what they've done! How such a robbery could take place, on a public road, in broad day, is something I can't——"
Tomlinson's rambling remarks were interrupted by a sound that brought Matt's heart into his throat. Two revolver-shots, in quick succession, came from the west road!
That meant that Carl saw trouble of some sort coming the way of the red car.
"Run!" yelled Matt, dropping the revolver and grabbing Tomlinson by the arm: "you've got to run! Catch hold of him on the other side, Gregory. You'll be captured again if we don't hike out of this in short order."
Gregory was a younger man than Tomlinson and had withstood their recent physical discomforts much better. He and Matt, between them, contrived to rush the Denver man toward the road.
They did not have much farther to go, and when they broke through the little gap Carl greeted them with a wild shout:
"Der odder car! It vas coming, Matt, coming like a house afire!"
A RACE AND A RUSE.
Carl, as he yelled his startling announcement, was standing up in the tonneau and pointing toward the place where the west and east roads came together, a mile farther on.
The stolen runabout, while Spangler had been at the hut, had doubled the fork of the trail. Running along the east road it had put about and was now charging along the west.
The Red Flier was facing the direction from which the runabout was coming, and would have to be turned.
"Get Tomlinson aboard, Gregory!" shouted Matt, dropping the Denver man's arm and springing to the front of the machine.
Frantically he turned the lever, then jumped for the driver's seat.
By that time, Gregory had got Tomlinson into the back of the Flier, and had scrambled for a place alongside of Matt.
"Can you run 'er?" he asked.
"Watch me," flung back Matt.
To make a turn, in that narrow roadway, called for plenty of skill, but it was accomplished swiftly. By the time the nose of the Red Flier was pointed the other way, however, the runabout was dangerously close.
Hank was still in front with the captive driver, and still overawing him with the revolver. Matt bent to his levers and steering-wheel. For him there was nothing but the road in front—his eyes saw nothing else.
But how could they hope to win that race, with a better car against them?
"She can do sixty," cried Tomlinson, from behind. "You know her, Gregory! Perhaps you'd better take the wheel."
Gregory had been watching Motor Matt sharply.
"King can forget more about driving a car than I ever knew, Mr. Tomlinson," said he. "Leave the thing as it is. If any one can get us out of this, it's King."
The Red Flier was going like the wind.
"Watch behind, Carl!" shouted Matt.
"Sure," answered Carl, "you bed you. Py shinks! Der odder car is slowing down aboudt vere ve vas. Ah, ha! Dere comes Spangler, oudt oof der blace vere you come, und he chumps by der car. Now dey're rushing ad us again! Himmel, how dey vas purnin' der vind! No use, Matt. Der Red Flier ain'd in it mit dot odder car."
"How's she going, Gregory?" cried Tomlinson.
Gregory bent forward over the speedometer.
"Fifty-eight," he answered.
No car ever worked more sweetly than did the Red Flier. She hummed like a swarm of bees, and Matt's trained ear told him that the machinery was working to perfection.
"She can do sixty!" again shouted Tomlinson. "We mustn't let the scoundrels overhaul us now! Five hundred dollars for you, King, if you keep us away from them!"
"Oof anypody can do dot," yelled Carl, "id vas Modor Matt. Hoop-a-la, Matt! Hid 'er oop, hid 'er oop! Ve don't vant to get ketched any more dan vat Domlinson does."
"They're gaining, they're gaining!" cried Pringle.
He had freed his hands himself, accomplishing it the moment Gregory had hustled Tomlinson into the tonneau. If Tomlinson or Gregory recognized Pringle as one of the robbers, they failed to say anything about it in the general excitement.
But if Tomlinson was urging Motor Matt onward, the desperate Hank was doing no less with the driver of the runabout. And Hank's urging carried with it a threat of life and death.
Foot by foot, steadily and relentlessly, the runabout drew closer to the touring-car. With frenzied eyes Tomlinson watched the closing gap. Presently the racer behind was so close that those in the Flier could see the grimly resolute look on Hank's face, and could hear the fierce words with which he threatened the man under his revolver-point.
"Who's got a revolver?" cried Tomlinson desperately.
"Here you vas!" Carl answered, and handed over the gun he had in his pocket.
"It's mine!" exclaimed Tomlinson, as he took the weapon.
"Ve got it from der feller vat heluped rop you."
It was hardly a time for explanations, but Carl made that one mechanically—for his thoughts were elsewhere.
Tomlinson lifted the gun, training it on the occupants of the car behind. Hank saw the move but never flinched.
"I wouldn't do that," he shouted. "We don't want to kill you, Tomlinson. That isn't part of the game. We want those pearls, and we're not going to be euchered out of them after all this fuss."
Then Spangler, from the rumble, leaned forward over the front seat of the runabout. He had picked up his own weapon from the place where Matt had dropped it, or else he had taken a second six-shooter from Hank's pocket. He leveled the gun at Tomlinson.
"Pull that trigger an' I'll fill ye fuller o' holes than a pepper-box!" he cried.
Gregory, reaching over from the front, caught Tomlinson's arm and jerked it down.
"You're mad, Mr. Tomlinson!" said he. "Don't take such a risk."
"What's our pace?" demanded Tomlinson, his iron-gray hair snapping about his face with the speed of their flight.
"Fifty-nine!"
"Then the other car is doing better than a mile a minute! A thousand dollars for you, King, if you land me, with those pearls, safe in Ash Fork!"
The hot blood went dancing through Motor Matt's veins. Could he do it? Reason told him that the feat was impossible, but——
A thought at that instant leaped through his alert brain. There was a chance—a long chance.
"Slide into this seat, Gregory!" he cried. "Careful, now. I'll hang to the wheel while you get under me."
"What are you going to do?" demanded the astonished Gregory.
"The best I can—and trust to luck."
A note of thrilling determination rang in Motor Matt's voice.
Gregory crawled and scrambled over the front of the lurching car and got into the driver's seat. Matt, relinquishing the wheel, went on his knees in the seat vacated by Gregory.
"Pringle," called Matt, leaning into the tonneau, "you have a bottle in your pocket?"
"Yes, I——"
"Give it here."
Pringle pulled a quart bottle from his pocket. It was half-full of liquor.
Matt drew the cork and spilled the whisky into the road; then, again on his knees, he studied the car behind.
The driver of the runabout was holding his car to a steady line. The left-hand wheels tracked the road a point two feet to the left of the trail of the Red Flier.
Standing in the car and bracing himself with his left hand, Matt raised the empty bottle in his right.
Crash!
The bottle, broken to fragments in the road, offered a danger-point for the car behind. The speed of the Flier had scattered the jagged glass, but most of it had gone to the place Matt had in mind.
Hank, hearing the crash, instinctively divined what had happened.
"To the right, to the right!" he roared, brandishing his revolver in the driver's face.
But the speed of the runabout was so great that swerving the car, before the danger-zone was reached, was out of the question.
One of the front tires hit the broken glass and instantly there came a sharp "pop." The runabout slewed around and the driver cut off the power and put on the brakes just in the nick of time to avoid a bad accident.
The Red Flier glided onward, leaping away from its defeated rival like a glittering streak.
Tomlinson, overcome with the tension of the struggle, collapsed in his seat with a breathless, "By gad."
"King," exulted Gregory, "you're the best ever!"
"Hoop-a-la!" gloried Carl, in a frenzy of delight. "Meppy Modor Matt ditn't do somet'ing dot time! Oh, I bed you! Be jeerful, eferypody, be jeerful! Modor Matt has safed der tay und von a t'ousand tollars. Yah, yah, yah!" and Carl flopped to an about face and shook his clenched fist at the car behind, now almost out of sight.
"Wonderful!" cried Tomlinson. "King, how did you ever manage to think of that?"
"How does he efer manage to t'ink oof eferyt'ing, hey?" asked Carl. "He has his headt mit him all der time. Dot's vy he cuts so mooch ice verefer he goes! Oh, he vas a pully-poy, you bed my life!"
"Well," said Tomlinson, "I'll not forget this."
"There's Ash Fork," spoke up Pringle suddenly, pointing to the right. "Just across the railroad-track there's a road leading down to the place. I guess you better stop here and let me out."
"Stop, Gregory," said Matt. "Pringle isn't going into town with us."
"Yes, he is!" averred Tomlinson, bristling. "He was one of the four men who held us up. I didn't recognize him at first, but I do now. Don't stop, Gregory."
"Mr. Tomlinson," said Matt, facing about, "I promised Pringle he should have his freedom if he told us what the robbers had done with you. But for the information he gave us, we would never have been able to get you away from that hut. I think he's entitled to something, don't you?"
"Is that the way of it?" asked Tomlinson.
Matt assured him that it was.
"Then," went on Tomlinson, "if you promised him his freedom, Matt, Gregory had better stop."
The car halted and Pringle, highly elated, jumped to the ground.
"Don't forget to leave my stuff where I told you, Pretzel," he called.
"Vell, I von't," answered Carl; "und don'd you forged to leadt some tifferent lives oder you vill findt yourseluf pehindt der pars yet."
"Oh, blazes! Say, I'll be wearing diamonds while you're still doing stunts back of the footlights."
"You vill be vearing shdripes, dot's vat."
"By-by, Wienerwurst!"
Carl gurgled and tried to get out of the car. Matt grabbed him and threw him back in his seat.
"Never mind, old chap," he said. "You're well rid of that fellow, and you ought to be thankful."
"I don'd like dot Wienerwurst pitzness," grunted Carl. "He vas rupping it in too mooch, py shinks. Don'd he vas der vorst pad egg vat you efer see?"
Just then Gregory switched on the spark, and the Red Flier glided into the branch road with the town well in sight.
IN ASH FORK.
Once more the Red Flier found shelter in the hotel barn, and once more James Q. Tomlinson was quartered in the hotel. But, of course, it was a different James Q. Tomlinson.
One of the first things Matt did, as soon as he had helped Gregory take care of the Red Flier, was to hunt up the deputy sheriff and tell him what had happened. If there was ever a dumfounded man in Arizona, that man was the deputy.
"Well, thunder an' kerry one!" said he. "Ain't I the bright boy, though? Why, I helped that Denver Denny across the street from the doctor's office, did everythin' I could to make him comfortable, and—oh, gadhook it all! He played me for fair, and no mistake! But I reckon you was a bit fooled yourself, eh?"
"For a while, yes," answered Matt. "But you'd better get busy. Denver Denny is out there on the mountain, and Hank and Spangler are back on the west road with a stolen car. If you hustle you may be able to capture the whole gang—or three of them, anyhow."
"That's me, on the jump."
Ten minutes later the deputy sheriff had collected a posse, and had split the force into two detachments. One party went toward the place where the stolen car had been left, and the other headed along the Flagstaff trail.
As a matter of fact, which may as well be stated in this place, neither detachment accomplished anything.
The owner of the runabout, Lem Nugent, arrived in town on foot, late that afternoon, full of wrath, footsore, and weary.
"Hang the blooming luck, anyhow!" said he, to a group of loungers in front of the hotel. "Got held up for my new car—two fellows snaked it right out from under me. There was a tree across the trail, and of course we had to stop. Next I knew a revolver was looking at me from both sides. I had to get out, and the two hold-up boys went away in the runabout, taking Henry along to run the car for them. As for me—whoosh! I walked into town. Never liked walking much, anyhow. And where's my new runabout? That's what I want to know. Henry's with it, wherever it is."
But Lem Nugent was mistaken. Henry wasn't with the car, at that moment, but was hoofing it into Ash Fork from the hills, glad to have his scalp with him.
He reported to his employer an hour after the theft of the runabout had been described by its owner.
"They made me chase a red touring-car," said Henry,"kept a gun poked into my ribs all the time an' said they'd blow holes in me if I didn't do the right thing. What they thought was the right thing, and what I thought, was some different, but guns was trumps an' they had the best hands. First time we chased the red car the machinery of the runabout went wrong, and the other machine got away from us. Came pretty near getting shot, then, as the strong-arm boys thought I'd made the runabout go wrong a-purpose.
"When we got ready to do some more scorching, the other car had given us the slip. We kept chasing around, and finally dipped over a divide into that east road, a couple o' miles beyond the Fork. By and by we stopped at a place where a feller called Spangler got out and lost himself in a swale. Hank and me jogged on to where the west road come into the other trail, an' turned back along that course. We was to pick up Spangler on the new road, after he'd done something or other, I don't know what.
"Well, unexpectedlike, we sighted the red car. That was our signal to whoop it up, takin' Spangler in behind on the fly. Then we had a race an' no mistake. It would have been our race, too, if the young fellow in the red car hadn't busted a bottle in the trail and spoiled a tire for us. Say, that was the slickest move I ever saw made!
"It took us half an hour to get on a new tire, and by that time, of course, the red car was safe in Ash Fork. Hank made me give him lessons in handling the runabout, then told me to go home and say that he and Spangler liked the machine so well they was going to keep it."
The cattleman swore roundly; and likewise declared that he'd spend the price of a new car getting the old one back.
Tomlinson remained in Ash Fork for two days, recovering from his trying experiences. And when he finally went on to Albuquerque he went by train. As for the Red Flier, the arrangement he had made to have the car taken on developed in a conversation he had with Matt a few minutes before he got aboard the steam-cars.
Matt was at the station with Tomlinson and Gregory, for both were going to Albuquerque by train.
"Here's what I owe you, Matt," said the Denver man, pressing a roll of bills into the young motorist's hand. "A thousand dollars, and I call it cheap, considering the great service you rendered me. The Red Flier will have to come on to Albuquerque, but I don't care to travel with her myself, and I want Gregory to go with me. I'll give you an extra hundred, Matt, if you'll bring the car through. I shall be in Albuquerque for some time, and you can jog along at your leisure. What do you say? If you have anything else on hand, and feel that you can't do it, don't hesitate to say so. Henry, Nugent's driver, will take the Red Flier to Albuquerque, if you can't. But, frankly, I'd rather trust the car in your hands."
"I'll do it," said Matt. "You see, I want to get to Denver myself, and I'll be able to get over a long lap of the run on the trip."
"Good!" exclaimed Tomlinson, with a look of relief. "You're going to Denver, you say?"
"That's my intention."
"What are you going to do there?"
"Something with motor-cars—I can't tell just what, at the present time."
"You'd make a good driver for a racing-car. You've got nerve, and steadiness, and presence of mind. How'd you like a job of that kind?"
Matt's eyes sparkled.
"That would suit me right down to the ground, Mr. Tomlinson," said he.
"Then I think I can help you. A friend of mine is a manufacturer of automobiles, and I know he's looking for a good driver for his racing-machines. If you say so, I'll write him from Albuquerque."
"I'd be obliged to you if you would, Mr. Tomlinson," returned Matt.
"All right, then. You can count on me to give you a good recommendation."
Just then the train came along, Tomlinson and Gregory shook hands with Matt and Carl, and were soon pulling out of Ash Fork.
"Vell, vell!" murmured Carl, staring after the disappearing train, "you vas some lucky poys, Matt. Meppy I vill be lucky, too, oof I shtay hooked oop mit you."
"Nothing would please me better, old chap," said Matt heartily, "than to have you trail along with me."
"Und go mit you py Albuquerque, und den py Tenver?"
"Sure!"
"Hoop-a-la!" jubilated Carl, gripping Matt's hand.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (6) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's Red Flier;
OR,
ON THE HIGH GEAR.
Stranded "Uncle Tommers"—The Red Flier Gets a Load—The Stolen Runabout—The Coat in the Rumble—Matt Begins a Search—Losing the Box—A Mysterious Disappearance—Spirited Away—An Unexpected Meeting—A Daring Plan—On the Road—A Close Call—Car Against Car—Down the Mountain—Motor Matt's Tenstrike—More Trouble for the "Uncle Tommers"—Conclusion.
Stranded "Uncle Tommers"—The Red Flier Gets a Load—The Stolen Runabout—The Coat in the Rumble—Matt Begins a Search—Losing the Box—A Mysterious Disappearance—Spirited Away—An Unexpected Meeting—A Daring Plan—On the Road—A Close Call—Car Against Car—Down the Mountain—Motor Matt's Tenstrike—More Trouble for the "Uncle Tommers"—Conclusion.
NEW YORK, March 27, 1909.
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By RUFUS HALL.
Day after day the poisonous malarial vapors from thickets and jungles, combined with the heat of an equatorial clime, told even upon some of the hardy sailors and marines who had been sent from the sloop of warTrentonto protect a party of engineers away up in the Gaboon country of Lower Guinea, near the mountains, in Western Africa.
In a tent where the marines were encamped, they had put little Jack Winton, the lieutenant's nephew, a boy of fourteen, ill with a fever; and, one morning, as he lay there, with burning cheeks and parched lips, a vision of big red cherries, smooth and round, kept rising in fancy before his wistful eyes. His delirious mutterings were of these cherries, and his hands now and then crossed and recrossed his pillow, as if he thought the fruit must be there.
Then it was that Will Worth, a marine private of sixteen, hearing him, made up his mind to hunt for what he knew the invalid coveted—a cherrylike fruit, to be found among the glens and ravines of the mountains—and to bring some, as a pleasant surprise, to the sufferer. Without mentioning his purpose to any one, he left the camp, being at present off duty, and sped on his way.
Mr. Dale, a youthful ensign, noticing how hurriedly he plunged into the upland thicket ahead, suspected that he meant to desert. His lieutenant had already found fault with him for one soldier's desertion, and he did not relish the idea of another reprimand of this sort. He, therefore, resolved to follow the lad, watch him, and, if he went far, order him back to the camp.
Entering the thicket, he moved rapidly on. The foliage and the brush became denser as he proceeded. He heard the tapping and humming of bees in the hollows of trees. In and out of the great bell-shaped flowers around him they flew, spitefully buzzing at the big green gnats in their way. Hundreds of large white lilies, enormous tulips, and wild roses brightened the shrubbery. High above hovered the scarlet cardinal-bird, sounding its shrill "fife." Below, the hook-nosed falcon boldly confronted the youth, as if inclined to dispute his progress.
At last he caught sight of Worth down in the jungle, on the opposite side of a deep ravine, which he had evidently reached by a roundabout direction through brambles and vines leading past the front of the chasm. Down where he was could be seen gleaming in profusion the small red globes of the cherrylike fruit he had come to gather for his sick little comrade.
The ravine was evidently hundreds of feet in depth, the bottom hidden by the black shadows from the jungle on both sides.
A few yards below Worth the chasm, which was about eighteen feet wide, was crossed by a tree-trunk—a mere sapling, eight inches thick—probably all that remained of a former bridge.
The trunk was smooth, except within five feet of the end nearest the boy, where there was a clipped branch. This end was in a sort of long hollow, overhung by tough roots.
The ensign cautiously descended on his side of the ravine and watched Worth until he had filled a haversack at his side with the "cherries" and was about to ascend, when he called out sharply:
"That fruit will make you a poor meal, my boy, if you mean to desert!"
The startled lad looked across the gorge, saw the ensign, and answered, much hurt by the officer's suspicion:
"I had no intention of deserting, sir. I came here after the fruit for Jack Winton."
"Now, upon my word," said the ensign, who was a good fellow at heart, "I believe you, Worth, and am sorry I made the mistake of suspecting you. Those 'cherries' are just the things for little Jack."
Worth was going to respond, when behind and above him he fancied he heard a low, guttural voice. Turning and looking up, he saw two humanlike but fierce eyes shining amid a thick, dark screen of interlacing vines.
"Who's there—a 'Pongwe?" he inquired, thinking one of the natives of the Mpongwe tribe had been watching him pick the fruit.
There was no reply to his question. But the leafy bower rustled, and now from out the dark screen there rose an awful roar, that was echoed to the chasm's very depths.
From among the concealing vines stepped forth a hideous monster, which the boy at first thought was a chimpanzee, but which, from its black color and ferocious aspect, he concluded must be a gorilla.
Nearly erect it stood, beating its breast with its hands.
Being a greedy lover of fruit, it glared in a fierce, remonstrative way at the lad's full haversack, as if enraged at his having come to pluck the "cherries" it wanted entirely for its own use.
The animal, about five feet high, was covered with black hair, had very broad shoulders and enormous hands, while its stomach bulged as if nearly filled to bursting with the "cherries" it had been eating, the red stain of which was all about its mouth.
The diabolical face, with its great flat nose and projecting open jaws, the latter disclosing two enormous hooked lower teeth and a row of smaller ones above as sharp as a saw, was thrust slightly downward, showing the encircling edges of the hair on its head so distinctly defined as to give it the grotesque appearance of wearing a sort of big furry cap.
It was plain that the brute meant to attack the boy. In fact, it suddenly raised one of its big paws and, with a rush, came crashing toward him through the shrubbery.
Unfortunately he had left his musket, thinking it would be in his way, near the edge of the ravine above. But his bayonet was by his side in its sheath. He drew the steel, and, flourishing it before him, retreated toward the tree-trunk that extended across the chasm.
He had once heard a hunter say that the gorilla, unlike the common monkey, is not a very skilful climber. Neitherwould it, he thought, attempt, for the same reason, to follow him should he creep out on the horizontal sapling.
But just as he got close to the tree the ferocious brute, uttering a terrible roar, aimed a blow at him with its uplifted paw.
He held up his bayonet.
It was dashed from his grasp, but not before the point had inflicted a wound in the monster's arm. So great was the strength of this hairy arm that that single blow must have lacerated the boy's side had not the big paw fallen upon his cartridge-box.
The force of the stroke whirled him over upon his back, knocking him into the hollow in which rested the end of the tree-trunk. He quickly pushed himself under the tough roots overhanging the hollow.
The gorilla, bending over, looked at its wounded arm, lapped it, and pressed it against its breast, all the time growling as if with blended pain and wrath. Then, using both its left paw and its teeth, it commenced to tear away the protecting roots above the lad, with the probable intention of dealing him a finishing blow.
Its strength was so enormous that the earth broke and flew in all directions as the animal shook, pulled, and bit at the roots. Worth, knowing that these would soon give way, expected to be finally torn to death by the infuriated beast.
Meanwhile, the young ensign on the other side of the ravine had been watching for a chance to shoot at the gorilla with the long double-barreled pistol he had with him, which he had drawn from his belt.
But the boy and his assailant were, from the first, so close to each other that he did not dare to fire, lest the bullet should strike his comrade.
He now ran his gaze along the sapling that bridged the chasm. The slender tree was covered with a green, slippery slime. He doubted if he would be able to creep over it, but he saw no other way of attempting to get within close enough range of the fierce beast to shoot it without risk of hitting Worth. Therefore, replacing his pistol in his belt, he started, crawling along on his hands and knees.
It was a daring venture. The horizontal tree was probably more than two hundred feet above the bottom of the chasm. If he lost his balance, certain death awaited him; he would be precipitated into the black depths so far below.
On he went. As he proceeded, the narrow trunk shook with his weight. When he had reached its center, it bent, oscillated, and one of his knees slid off the slippery surface.
He felt himself going over. His distended eyes were turned downward toward the dark, yawning gulf beneath, into which he expected to fall headlong.
But the thought now occurred to him of throwing himself flat upon his breast along the sapling and of hugging it with his arms.
He did so, and the action saved him. Cautiously he then regained his former position and crept on. At length he reached the clipped branch, within five feet of the end of the tree. The gorilla had nearly torn away all the roots that protected Worth. It seemed about to raise its left paw to deal him a fatal blow. The young officer knew he had no time to lose.
He clutched the stumped branch with his left hand, drew his pistol, and, aiming as well as his position would admit of, he fired. The bullet inflicted a flesh-wound in the monster's side. With a roar that shook the air to the chasm's very depths, the brute turned, saw its assailant, and threw itself toward him, resting its big stomach on the sapling. Up went its mighty left paw, and down it came slantingly toward the officer's head.
Worth uttered a cry of dismay. He expected to see the ensign killed and dashed from the tree's trunk into the black pit of the ravine, hundreds of feet below.
It was a critical moment.
Had Dale drawn his head back, the great paw would still have reached him, have struck his neck, and sent him to his doom.
But instead of attempting in his present cramped position any backward movement, he threw his head and shoulders forward.
Thus the big paw clove, with a whirring sound, the empty air above him, and, placing the muzzle of his pistol between the monster's eyes, he fired.
The brute, as the bullet passed through its brain, slid away from the tree, then clawed wildly at the air with both hands, uttered one loud, humanlike scream, and went whirling down into the black abyss of the ravine.
The ensign crept to land and helped Worth from the hollow. The boy had been badly, though not seriously, injured by the force of the gorilla's blow upon his cartridge-box, which had thus been jammed, as if with the stroke of a sledge-hammer, against his body. As with his rescuer's assistance he limped back toward the camp, now and then carefully adjusting his broken haversack so that the "cherries" in it might not drop out, he warmly thanked his companion for saving his life.
"Don't mention it," was the answer. "I am glad enough to have been able to do something for you toward making up for my mistake of suspecting that you meant to desert."
It was a joyful surprise to little Jack Winton when Worth brought the "cherries" to him. They were of great benefit to the fever-stricken lad, whose health began to improve the moment he had partaken of them.
The ensign had made light of his rescue of Worth, and had advised him not to mention so "trifling a matter," as he termed it, to his comrades.
The boy, fearing that the knowledge of it would tend to unduly excite the invalid, said nothing about it until Jack was fully recovered from his illness, when he gave him an account of the whole affair. The little fellow made it known to his uncle, the lieutenant; and Dale's promotion, not long after, was, perhaps, partly due to this circumstance.
Worth, who had never dreamed of being favored for the slight service he had rendered his sick comrade, now attracted the notice of his commander. The latter, perceiving his unvarying good conduct, soon made him a corporal, from which position he eventually won his way to a higher rank.
All naturalists and many sportsmen will recall the great destruction of swans which took place in March, 1908, at Niagara Falls. A great flock of these large and beautiful birds was carried down the river and over the falls, and an authoritative account of the occurrence recently appeared in a paper by James Savage, of Buffalo, N. Y., printed in the bulletin of the Buffalo Society of Natural History, saysForest and Stream.
While the whistling swan occurs regularly along the Niagara River, it is always a rare migrant, and would scarcely ever be captured were it not for the fact that it often floats down the river to injury or death at the great cataract. Observers declare that scarcely a year passes without one or more swans going over the falls. About twenty made the fatal plunge in March, 1906, and five in the same month, 1907, but no such destruction of swans has been known as took place on March 15, 1908, when more than 100 were destroyed.
During the greater part of the day a severe rain-storm prevailed. About eleven o'clock in the morning, between showers, William Leblond, of Niagara Falls, Ontario, was engaged in removing from the ice bridge a temporarystructure that had been used during the winter season as a souvenir and refreshment-stand, when he was startled by a loud cry. Turning around, his attention was first attracted to a swan struggling in the water at the upper end of the ice bridge; but, on looking toward the falls, he saw a great company of swans in distress coming toward the bridge. The scene was a sad one for any bird-lover to contemplate.
These splendid birds, helpless after their terrible plunge over the cataract, were dashed against the ice bridge by the swift current, amid cakes of loose ice which were constantly coming down from the upper river. Some had been killed outright by the falls. Others, unable to fly because of injury to their wings, attempted to stem the rushing waters, but here their wonderful swimming powers were of no avail. They were soon imprisoned in the ice, where their pitiful cries were heartrending.
The game-laws of Ontario will permit the taking of geese and swan in the spring until April 30, and it was not long before men and boys, armed with guns and sticks, availed themselves of the privilege and became the chief factors in the closing scene of nature's great tragedy—the sacrifice of the swans.
As soon as he learned of the occurrence, Mr. Savage visited Niagara Falls, and from his investigation concluded that the number of swans taken March 15 was 102. On the morning of March 18 two more were taken at the ice bridge, and a third was picked up alive on the shore. It was secured by Mr. Savage and photographed. Placed in the zoological collection in Delaware Park, Buffalo, it recovered. Eleven more swans were taken later, and some others were seen which, though apparently carried over the falls, were still able to take wing and fly away.
But swans are not the only water-fowl that are in danger from Niagara. On March 18, 1908, Mr. Savage saw a handsome male canvasback come down against the ice bridge. It appeared to be unable to fly. On the same day he saw a golden-eye duck struggle out of the foaming water below the Horseshoe Falls and reach the shore. It made no attempt to escape when picked up, and seemed unable to walk or fly. Later, however, it recovered and did fly off.
Of the swans which went over the falls, many afterward appeared on the table. A number were preserved by the taxidermists of Niagara Falls and Toronto. A group of five appears in the museum of the Buffalo Society of Natural Sciences. Mr. Savage saw not less than fifty of these dead birds and looked them over carefully, thinking that perhaps there might be among them a trumpeter swan, but none was found. Mr. Savage believes that fully one-third of the 116 swans taken would have survived if given proper care, but the impulse to kill was stronger than the spirit to save, and not even a pair of these unfortunate birds was rescued from nature's doom and restored to nature's freedom.
Rubber is collected by the natives in Brazil, who gather the thick, creamlike sap which oozes from the hatchet-cut in the bark of the rubber-trees. It is received in tiny cups of clay or tin, several of which are emptied daily into pots and carried where the sap is coagulated and "cured." The flow of sap from each tapping lasts but a few hours, and the tree must be bled in fresh places daily.
The total yield from the most vigorous tree does not exceed three or four pints in a season, and a considerable percentage of this is lost by evaporation.
In the camps the Para rubber sap is coagulated over a fire of Uricuri palm-nuts, built under an earthen pot, something like a slender-necked jug without a bottom. A paddle is dipped into the thick sap, and then, holding it in thick smoke, it is deftly turned in the operator's hands until a thin layer of rubber is formed. An hour's work at this would produce a lump, the foundation of a biscuit weighing five or six pounds. When the biscuit has reached a weight of twenty-five pounds or more, it is slit open, the paddle removed, and the rubber hung up to dry. Rubber thus gathered and cured is the finest known.
From the forest the rubber is sent down the stream on crude boats, later being placed on the steamers which ply the Amazon. When Manaos, the second largest city in the Amazon country, is reached, the rubber is boxed, though this is often left until its arrival at Para, at the mouth of the Amazon River. Manaos is 1,200 miles from the sea, so that considerable time is consumed in bringing the rubber to its shipping-point to foreign lands. At Para it is placed in the ocean liners destined for New York or some of the European countries.
The queerest "traders" in all vast California are the odd little animals known as "trade rats."
They never steal, but give miscellaneous articles in exchange for what they take.
A paste-pot left overnight in an assay office was found in the morning filled with the oddest collection of rubbish.
This was the work of trade rats. They had stolen the paste, and left in exchange a piece of stick, a length of rope, some odds and ends of wire, and an unbroken glass funnel.
A trade rat's nest, found in an unoccupied house, was composed of iron spikes laid in perfect symmetry, with the points outward. Interlaced with the spikes were two dozen forks and spoons and three large butcher-knives.
There were also a quantity of small carpenters' tools, and a watch, of which the outside casing, the glass, and the works were all distributed separately—to make a good show!
We are unable to state what this particular trade rat left in exchange for all this "loot."