THE PRIDE OF TOM CLIPPERTON.
At that significant look from Clipperton, Matt's hopes went down. Apparently not even arrest, or the dubious prospect ahead of him, had shaken Tom Clipperton's resolve to hide his dealings with Pima Pete. Defiantly he turned to face the sheriff.
"You're in a bad hole, Clipperton," said McKibben, "and I've brought you here to see again if you won't tell us something that will make this look a little less dark for you. I want to be your friend, but I can't do anything if you're not perfectly frank with me."
"If you want to be my friend, look for the real robbers," answered Clip. "I didn't take Fresnay's money."
"Where did you get that gold, then?"
"I dug it up."
The sheriff looked incredulous, as well he might; Hogan muttered sarcastically, and Fresnay shook his head.
"It's a fact!" declared Clip angrily. "You can go and see the place. Look at that bag!" He whirled and pointed to the dingy canvas sack on the desk. "There's sand on it yet."
"It won't do, Clip," said McKibben. "Don't it strike you as mighty odd you should dig up just the amount of money that was taken from Fresnay, and all of the same kind? But, assuming that you did dig it up, who put the gold in the ground? And what had Pima Pete to do with it?"
"I can't tell you that," answered Clipperton stiffly.
Matt went over to Clip and whispered to him.
"For heaven's sake, Clip, don't you understand what this means to you? Make a clean breast of everything!"
"I'll go to prison for life first! You know how I've been treated here, and you know what would be said of me if they knew all about Pima Pete."
"Anyhow," pleaded Matt, "tell the sheriff it was Dangerfield's money. Dangerfield himself will bear you out in that."
"They wouldn't believe me, and they wouldn't believe Dangerfield. I'll tell them that much, though. Don't you forget! If you're a friend of mine you'll say nothing."
"Not to Chub?"
Clip hesitated.
"We're both of us going to help you out of this," went on Matt earnestly, "one way or another. But we can work better if Chub knows as much as I do."
"Tell him," said Clip. "But make him promise not to tell any one else. I'm not ashamed of my blood, but if they knew Pima Pete was my uncle they'd be more ready to fasten this onto me."
"That's a mistake, old fellow, and——"
"I've made up my mind!" The black eyes flashed. "If you and Chub find the real thieves, and get back the other ten thousand dollars, that would let me out. Nothing else will."
It was a terrible mistake Clip was making, but his nature had been so warped because of the treatment he had suffered on account of his Indian blood, that it was impossible for him to see the matter in the right light. Matt drew back, his face showing his intense disappointment.
"It was Dangerfield's money," said Clip to McKibben.
The sheriff did not believe the statement, and neither did Hogan nor Fresnay nor Leffingwell.
"Where did Dangerfield get all that money?" asked McKibben; "and why did he hide it like that?"
"Ask him," said Clip curtly. The looks on the faces of his inquisitors had brought his pride and defiance to the surface.
"Where is Dangerfield now, Mr. McKibben?" asked Matt.
"He has been taken to the government prison at Leavenworth," answered the sheriff.
"Can't you write him, tell what has happened, and ask him for a statement?"
"What's the use, Matt? The whole thing sounds too fishy."
"Do it for me, Mr. McKibben! IknowClip's telling the truth. Why, Dangerfield wanted me to help dig up that gold——"
Matt stopped suddenly. Clip's eyes were on him and were telling him plainly he had said too much.
"Wantedyouto help dig it up?" queried the puzzled sheriff.
"Write and ask him about it," said Matt.
"I will," averred McKibben, "just because of what you say. My letter will go to the warden of the prison, however, and I'll have him question Dangerfield. It's too improbable a yarn, though, and I haven't any hopes."
He turned to Clip.
"What was in that note Pima Pete gave you?" he asked.
"Pete asked me to meet him last night and dig up the gold," replied Clip.
"Have you the note?"
"I burned it."
"Why did you do that?"
Clip was silent.
"Why did you disguise yourself when you went out to meet Pima Pete?"
Still Clip would not answer.
"Why did you grab Leffingwell's revolver and keep him from shooting the half-breed when he was running away?"
The use of the word "half-breed" was unfortunate. It reminded Clip how ready they were to think evil of him on account of his mixed blood.
"That's my business," said he curtly.
The sharp answer aroused the sheriff's resentment.
"Very well, if you're foolish enough to take that stand, Clipperton. You'll have an examination this afternoon, but you might as well waive it, if you're going to keep that attitude."
"He'll have a lawyer to look after his interests, Mr. McKibben," spoke up Matt.
"Who'll pay for the lawyer?" asked Clip, turning on Matt.
"I will! Dangerfield got you into this, and I'll spend every cent paid to me for his capture to get you clear."
Clip stretched out his hands quietly, the handcuffs rattling. Matt clasped his chum's palm loyally, and Clip turned away. McKibben motioned to Leffingwell, and the prisoner was led out of the room.
"You're certainly a mighty good friend of Clipperton's," said the sheriff to Matt, "but he don't deserve it."
"You don't know him as well as I do," said Matt. "He could explain a whole lot, if he would."
"Then why don't he do it?"
"Mistaken pride," flushed Matt, "and it comes from the scurvy way people have treated him here in Phœnix."
"Then that mistaken pride," said the sheriff gravely, "is going to land him in the penitentiary."
"Not if Chub and I can save him!"
"What have you and Chub got to work on?"
"The theory you won't accept—that the real thieves, with another lot of money, are hiding away somewhere, tickled to death to think that you're on the wrong track."
"Matt," and the sheriff came close to the boy and dropped a hand on his shoulder, "you're the clear quill, and I think a heap of you, but you're going it wrong. That Injun was never born who wouldn't steal, and there's enough Injun blood in Tom Clipperton to make him a thief. Come! There's no use beating about the bush; we might just as well call a spade a spade and be done with it. Let the law take its course with Clipperton—you can't stop it."
"Iwillstop it," declared Matt; "McReady and I will prove that Clipperton is innocent."
"I wish I had a few friends like you," muttered the sheriff.
"Same here," spoke up Fresnay, stepping forward. "Ye don't hold any grouch ag'inst me, do you, Matt?"
"No; you only did what you thought was right. And that's all Tom Clipperton did. All of you will be next to that, one of these days."
"Well," said McKibben, "I know you've got nerve, and I know that when you make up your mind to a thing you hang to it tighter than a dog to a bone. But you listen to me Matt: If you spend all your money for Clipperton you'll be sorry."
"Anyhow, you're going to write to Leavenworth?" asked Matt.
"I'll do that at once."
That was about all Matt had gained by his interview in the sheriff's office. He and Chub went out, and Chub heaved a long breath as they went down the court-house steps.
"There's a hen on somewhere, Matt," said Chub. "I'm pretty thick-headed, but I can see that. What was you whisperin' to Clip about?"
"I was trying to get him to make a clean breast of everything," replied Matt gloomily.
"And he wouldn't?"
"No; but he said I could let you in on all I know, providing you'd agree to keep it to yourself."
"Sure I'll keep it to myself. That's all to the good. Fire away."
"Come over to breakfast with me at Mrs. Spooner's. I'll tell you as we go along."
Matt began by telling Chub how Dangerfield had asked him to help in some work or other which Pima Pete knew about; then he went on to tell about the note given to Clip by Pete, of the former's call the afternoon before, and about Clip's determination to see Pete and warn him away. Then Matt made the whole thing clear by explaining that Pima Pete was Clip's uncle.
Chub was so astounded he could only whistle. They were at Mrs. Spooner's before he could make any comment one way or another, and the landlady was waiting with a badly soiled envelope addressed to Matt.
"That there letter," explained Mrs. Spooner, "was left here by the worst-lookin' greaser I calculate I ever seen. He jest said that was fer you, Matt, an' left straight off. I didn't ask his name, or anythin' else, bein' glad enough to see his back, I can tell ye."
Matt tore open the envelope and drew out a folded sheet of paper. Grimy fingers had left marks all over the paper, but the writing—a mere lead-pencil scrawl—was legible enough.
"CoM PresKot tursda be Att brigs hous wait."
"CoM PresKot tursda be Att brigs hous wait."
That was all. No signature, and nothing but the eight misspelled words.
Was it a clue that pointed to something worth while in Clip's case?
LAYING PLANS.
While he and Chub were eating their breakfast Matt questioned Mrs. Spooner more at length regarding the Mexican who had brought the letter. But he was not able to find out anything more than he already knew. Mrs. Spooner had about as much use for a Mexican as she had for an Indian, and that was no use at all. Consequently she had paid but little attention to the messenger who had delivered the letter, and had been very glad to get rid of him so quickly.
Mrs. Spooner was a good woman, but very inquisitive. From the questions Matt put about the letter she knew it must be of considerable importance, and she tried hard to find out something about its contents. In order to get away, Matt ate less breakfast than usual, and hustled Chub up to his room. There he passed the letter over for Chub's inspection.
"I guess," remarked Chub, after studying the scrawl, "that you can translate that to mean 'Come to Prescott on Thursday. Be at the Briggs House, and wait for something to happen.' Is that what you make of it, Matt?"
"Yes."
"A fair shake, do you think, or is somebody trying to string you?"
"I can't imagine who'd want to string me, Chub. It may have something to do with Clip. And to-morrow's Thursday."
"I can get next to that, all right. It won't do any harm to follow up the tip and see what it amounts to. Suppose I get that one-cylinder machine of Clip's and we make the trip to Prescott on our motor-cycles?"
"Bully! But we can't get away much before this evening, Chub. When the bank opens I want to get some money and hire a lawyer for Clip; then I'd like to ride out to the hills and look over the scene of the robbery. After that we could hike for Prescott. Do you know the road?"
"I could go over it with my eyes shut."
"Good all the way?"
"In dry weather. When it's wet there are whole miles of trail where the motor-cycle would mire clear to the forks. We could go on the train, though, if you wanted to. I know Jack Moody, one of the engineers. He runs up to Ash Fork in the afternoon and comes back the next afternoon; but whether his run's to-day or not I don't know."
"It's better to use the motor-cycles. I haven't given theCometa real spin since I took that hundred-mile run for the governor."
"Then we'll take the wheels and start this afternoon. But look here, Matt. I think a lot of Clip, but he's actin' mighty like he belongs in the foolish-house, seems to me. It wouldn't hurt him much if he told everything he knew—and it mightn't get him out of the scrape, either, but it would help, that's a cinch."
"Clip's a mighty queer fellow, and I don't know that I can blame him for feeling like he does. You know how pretty near everybody has thrown it into him here in Phœnix, because he's part Indian. He's trying to do the square thing, and it hurts. Now, just as he's getting the better of that prejudice, if it came out that Pima Pete, one of the Dangerfield gang, was a relative of his, that would be like turning the knife in an old wound. Clip's got a lot of pride, and he feels as though he wanted to do everything he could for Pima Pete. It's possible he'll go to prison before he opens his head about Pete; unless——"
Matt hesitated.
"Unless what?" asked Chub.
"Why, unless you and I can find the real robbers and the other bag of gold."
"It's a big order," said Chub.
"I've been filling big orders lately," smiled Matt, "and I'd tackle anything if there was a chance of helping Clip."
"Here, too. But what have we got to go on? Nothing but a few words from a mutt who must have spent most of his time playin' hooky when he went to school. Forall we know, it's just as much of a wrong steer as a right one."
"Well, it's a warm guess that McKibben won't strain himself looking for any more robbers."
"He thinks there were only two robbers, and that he's got them. Not knowin' what we do, Matt, an' considerin' the way Clip acts, you can't blame McKibben a terrible sight."
"That's right, we can't. But it bats the whole thing up to us. Maybe McKibben will shake himself together and send some deputies after the other robbers when he hears from Dangerfield."
"What do you think Dangerfield will say?"
"He'll tell the truth, and that will prove that Clip wasn't lying when he said he dug up that money."
"Sounds like a pipe-dream, though, don't it, that Dangerfield buried just ten thousand in double eagles—same as what Fresnay got from the bank?"
"That's a mighty bad coincidence for Clip. Everything's gone wrong for him. He disguised himself so he wouldn't be recognized when he went out to meet his uncle, and now they think he put on those old clothes so he wouldn't be known when he committed the robbery! And when he saved his uncle's life by knocking Leffingwell's revolver aside, McKibben and the deputies drew their own conclusions about that."
"If Pima Pete thought as much of helping Clip as Clip thought of helping him, he'll walk right into the sheriff's office as soon as he hears what's happened."
"That's the last thing Clip would want him to do. The whole business might come out—and I believe Clip would rather go to prison than have it known a relative of his belonged to the Dangerfield gang. Clip knows that everybody thinks Indian blood is no good, and he's been trying to change their notions. I've got something in my head. It's this: You know there were four or five of Dangerfield's gang got away the time Sheriff Burke, of Prescott, rounded the smugglers up at Tinaja Wells. It's the general idea they got over into Mexico, but maybe some of them have been hanging out in the hills; and maybe two of them got wind of this trip of Fresnay's after the pay-roll money and laid for him."
"A cinch!" cried Chub, electrified. "I'll bet money that's the way of it. But those two handy-boys may be on the way to Mexico now. If that's so, I can see where we get off!"
"If we can't catch the robbers," said Matt, "maybe we can catch Pima Pete."
"What good would that do? Clip don't want him caught."
"I don't mean to bring him to Phœnix," pursued Matt, "nor to turn him over to the officers. If we could find him, and make him swear to what he and Clip did last night, that ought to help Clip's case a whole lot."
"That means, then, we've got two strings to pull—either find the two robbers or find Pima Pete."
"This clue may help," and Matt pointed to the note which lay on the table.
"I'm not banking a whole lot on that. It's got all the earmarks of a false alarm. Goin' to show it to McKibben?"
"I'm not going to show it to anybody. It may not amount to anything, but we'll run it down and make sure."
Just then the pounding of a motor from the road in front reached the boys.
"Great guns!" exclaimed Chub, looking from a window. "There's McKibben, now, and he's stopping in front."
Matt looked out. McKibben, in the red roadster, had pulled to a stop in front of Mrs. Spooner's gate. Leffingwell was in the rumble-seat.
The sheriff looked up and saw Matt, then waved his hand for him to come down.
"There's something up, Chub," said Matt. "Let's go down and see what it is."
The two boys hurried down-stairs and out of the house.
"What is it, Mr. McKibben?" asked Matt.
The sheriff reached into his pocket and drew out a yellow slip.
"It's a telegram, Matt," said he. "Just came—and not more than half an hour after I had posted that letter to the warden of the government prison at Leavenworth."
Matt unfolded the slip, hoping against hope that it contained good news of some sort. But he was far afield, for the news was anything but good.
"Dangerfield committed suicide in his cell here last night. Advise name of next of kin, if you know it."
Matt's hands closed convulsively on the yellow sheet. Another hope gone—and there were not many for Clip to lose!
THE RIFLED CACHE.
"Tough luck!" exclaimed Chub, looking over Matt's shoulder and reading the message. "It never rains but it comes down in buckets."
"Itistough, and no mistake," said McKibben. "I'm anxious to give Clipperton every chance, but he's his own worst enemy, and everything goes against him. Why, here I'm in starting on a wild-goose chase into the hills, looking for that rifled cache where Clip says he dug up the gold! Jump in, Matt, I want to take you with us. You, too, Chub; get into this other seat with me, for I'm not going to do the driving myself when there's such a crack chauffeur as Motor Matt along."
McKibben changed his seat, and Chub climbed in. Matt walked around to the other side.
"What time is Clip's examination, Mr. McKibben?" he asked.
"Four o'clock this afternoon."
"I want to get back before the bank closes and in time to hire a lawyer."
"I expect to get back here by eleven o'clock."
With that, Matt cranked up the machine, got in, and they started.
There was no tarrying on the road, for Matt was anxious to get back, and he had Leffingwell hanging to the rumble-seat with both hands half the time.
"You're going to look for the place where Clip and Pima Pete dug up the money, Mr. McKibben?" asked Matt.
"For the place where Clipsaysthey dug it up," qualified the sheriff.
"He told you where to go?"
"Yes."
"And if you see the place you'll believe his story?"
"I'm not saying that, Matt. Clip and Pete may have dug the hole for some other purpose, and Clip may have been smart enough to call the hole a cache, and to say Fresnay's money came out of it. By the way," the sheriff went on, deftly changing the subject, "you were with Dangerfield quite a while, that time you brought him in from Castle Creek Cañon. Was that the time he spoke about having buried that money and asked you to help dig it up?"
"I don't want to talk about that now, Mr. McKibben," answered Matt. "There's a whole lot to it that concerns Clip, and I promised him I wouldn't explain."
"You boys are keeping something back—I know that. If you want to get Clip out of a bad hole, Matt, you don't want to keep anything back, no matter what Clip says. You've got to help him in spite of himself. This is no time for false ideas of loyalty to a friend."
"What I know wouldn't clear Clip," said Matt, "although it would explain a few things that are counting against him. I'm in honor bound to keep it quiet."
"Well," went on the sheriff, "have you any idea who Dangerfield's next of kin is?"
"I understand that he has a father living in Emmetsburg, Iowa."
"Good enough! I'll wire that to Leavenworth."
Under McKibben's direction Matt brought the roadster to a stop close to the place where Fresnay's saddle had turned while he was trying to pick up Welcome during the stampede. Leaving the car in charge of Chub, Matt, McKibben, and Leffingwell got out, found the easiest place for climbing the steep bank, and made their way westward into the uplifts.
As they proceeded, the sheriff eyed their surroundings keenly, apparently laying his course by landmarks about which Clip had told him. After fifteen minutes of scrambling among the rocks, McKibben brought his two companions to a halt at the foot of a rocky hill. Here there was a hole about three feet deep with a heap of sand lying beside it. Close to the edge of the hole a dozen stones had been laid in the form of a cross.
"There you are Leffingwell," remarked McKibben. "What do you think about it?"
"Some 'un was at work here," replied the deputy, "an' not very long ago, at that."
"It was Clip and Pete," put in Matt, and pointed to the print of a moccasin and of a boot-sole in the soft sand at the side of the hole. "Pima Pete wore moccasins."
"They dug up somethin' here, all right," commented Leffingwell, "but I'll bet somethin' handsome it wasn't money."
McKibben wandered around the vicinity of the hole for a few minutes and then turned and started back toward the road.
"We've only Clipperton's word for it," said he, as he descended the bank to the car.
"And mine," added Matt.
"We'll never have Dangerfield's—now."
"Would Pima Pete's sworn statement help any?" asked Matt.
"It might, Matt; but just how much weight Pima Pete's affidavit would have with a jury is a question."
On the homeward trip another halt was made at the place where Fresnay had been robbed. The road was hard at this point, and the unyielding earth had left no sign of what had taken place.
This was another disappointment for Matt. If the ground had been soft,and no moccasin-tracks found, a good point would have been scored for Clip. But fate seemed to be working against Clip at almost every turn.
The party got back to Phœnix at half-past ten, and Matt and Chub left the car at the bank. Here Matt drew $200 of the money that had been paid to him as a reward for bringing in Dangerfield, and the boys proceeded at once to the office of a legal gentleman whom Clip declared to be one of the best criminal-lawyers in Phœnix.
The man's name was Short, and, oddly enough, he stood over six feet in his stockings. He had a gimlet-eye and a hawklike face, and was professionally brusk and brutally frank. But he had already heard of Clip's arrest, and, as everybody in town knew Motor Matt—who had been a good deal in the public eye during the preceding weeks—the lawyer listened to the young motorist with attention.
"How much money have you got to spend on this, King?" queried the lawyer.
"I've got $900," said Matt, "but I'll need some of that for other expenses."
"What expenses?"
"I'll explain, Mr. Short, when you tell me whether or not you'll take the case."
"The long and short of it is this: If we can't break down Clipperton's stubbornness, and induce him to tell what he knows, he's a gone gosling. If I get him clear I want $500; if I lose—which seems a foregone conclusion—$250 will settle the bill."
"Here's a hundred on account," said Matt, and Short gave him a receipt and pocketed the money.
"Now, about the clues you have," said Short.
Matt showed the note received at the boarding-house that morning. The lawyer examined it, puckered up his brows, and drummed on the desk with his fingers.
"Not worth the paper it's written on," said he. "That's my opinion, but it seems to be the only clue we have, so you'd better follow it. I'll go over and talk with Clipperton. Probably we'll waive examination. He'll be held to the circuit court, now in session, and the case will no doubt be taken right up. Are you prepared to furnish bail and get Clipperton out for a few days? I wouldn't advise it. He might run."
"No danger of his running, Mr. Short," said Matt sharply. "Clip's as innocent of that robbery as I am."
"That's my attitude—publicly; but to you, King, I'm frank. However, we'll do what we can. I don't want to lose out, for it means something to me if I win. You boys might go over with me to see Clipperton, and try to get him in a receptive frame of mind. He ought not to keep anything from his lawyer."
The lawyer put on his hat and started for the door.
"How much bail will be required to get Clip out?" Matt asked.
"I think I can get it down to $5,000."
"I've got friends in town——"
"You bet you have!" declared Short; "Governor Gaynor, for instance."
"But the way everybody feels toward Clip, I can't ask any of my friends to go on his bail."
"Just as well. I think the case will come to trialin two or three days. The court is now sitting, and there's not much on the docket."
Mr. McKibben had got back to his office, and the necessary permit for the boys and the lawyer to see Clipperton was quickly obtained.
Clip was a forlorn-looking figure, sitting in his cell with arms folded and head bent. Matt's sympathy went out to him, and, after introducing the lawyer, he slapped him encouragingly on the shoulder and begged him to go into details as much as he could.
Clip was grateful to Matt, and showed it, but not even to Short would he give the true inwardness of the affair. Matt did not tell Clip about the note received through Mrs. Spooner, thinking he might imagine it had something to do with Pima Pete, and shut down on having the clue followed.
When they left the jail Short was tempted to withdraw from the case. "What can we do for a fellow who won't help himself?" he demanded, out of patience.
Matt prevailed on him, however, to do what he could, and the boys left him at the foot of the stairs leading up to his office.
"We're up against it, pard," remarked Chub gloomily, as he and Matt went off down the street. "I'm no knocker, but hanging out like this is the worst kind of foolishness on Clip's part. He's crazy, to act like he's doing. McKibben knew his business when he told you to do what you thought best, and never mind Clip."
"Get that out of your head, Chub," said Matt. "We've got to win this game for Clip on the lines he has laid down. When will you be ready to start for Prescott?"
"Just as soon as I can tell sis, eat my dinner, and pick up Clip's motor-cycle."
"All right. When you're ready come around to Mrs. Spooner's."
The two chums separated. Matt, profoundly dissatisfied with the course of events, took his way toward his boarding-house. As if he had not already had enough to discourage him, Mrs. Spooner, tremendously excited, met him in the hall with another letter.
"The same greaser brought this 'un that brought the other, Matt," she explained. "I didn't like his looks any too well, but I tried to get him to tell his name, knowin' how curious ye was about it. He was that unmannerly, though, he jest bolted right off'n the front steps."
"It doesn't make any difference, Mrs. Spooner," said Matt, "for I don't think it amounts to much."
Matt went on up-stairs, and in the privacy of his room examined the letter. It was better written and better spelled than the other note had been, and was plainly from another hand; but there was no name signed and no other clue to the sender.
The contents, however, were surprising.
"If you start for Prescott you'll never get there alive. Take a fool's advice and keep away."
"If you start for Prescott you'll never get there alive. Take a fool's advice and keep away."
Matt was amazed. Evidently that first communication was of some importance, or the present writer would never have taken the trouble to send such a threat.
So far from being intimidated, a steely glint came into Matt's eyes, and his square jaw set resolutely.
"Chub and I are going to Prescott," he muttered, "and I guess we can take care of all the trouble that comes our way."
THE BREAK IN THE ROAD.
Several days before, when Matt had been planning to start for Denver on his motor-cycle, he had bought an auxiliary gasoline-tank. The tank that came with the machine was attached behind the saddle, and held five quarts, sufficient for a run of 75 to 100 miles. The auxiliary tank was attached to the top tube, and its tubes and connections were so arranged that it could be used independently of the tank behind. With both tanks filled, theComet'sradius of action was increased at least 75 miles—enough to carry the machine half-again as far as Prescott.
Matt had never experienced any trouble with theComet. As a rule, common sense and ordinary thoughtfulness are enough to keep any good motor-cycle on the road without repair bills. TheCometwas always as spick and span as when it came from the factory, for Matt groomed the machine as he would have groomed a race-horse, and cleanliness is one of the first points to look after if a machine is to travel right. On his return from a trip he never failed to go over the motor-cycle with wrench and pliers, to inject a few squirts of kerosene into the warm cylinders, and to "turn over" the engine a few times. He was busy making a final survey of theCometwhen Chub pounded up on Clip's machine. A canteen, lashed to the head of the one-cylinder, showed that Chub had been thoughtful enough to secure a reserve supply of gasoline.
"All ready?" sang out Matt.
"Ready's whole family," answered Chub.
Two minutes later the boys were skimming north along the Cave Creek road. Beyond the outlying canal they struck the hills, and here Matt instructed Chub a little in nursing his machine—not to open the muffler when there was no real necessity, to let the burned oil out of the motor base at least once every fifty miles, and to cut off the power when descending hills in order to cool and help the engine.
They were well into the hills before Matt told Chub about the second letter, and showed it to him.
"Thunder!" exclaimed Chub. "It must be a swift bunch we're up against. But I guess they're four-flushin'. Anyhow," he grinned, "I'm not scared so you can notice it."
"It makes me think," said Matt, "that there's something in that first note, in spite of Short's opinion."
"Sure," answered Chub. "That first note is lookin' better and better to me. Different fists worked on those two letters. The last one must have been jotted down by a fellow who'd been through the eighth grade, anyhow. How do you size 'em up?"
"It's all guesswork, Chub, but my guess is that some party intends giving us a tip, and that another one found it out, and is trying to backcap the first man. The tip must be important, or the second man wouldn't try to keep us away from Prescott. To follow the thing farther, the second man may be one of the two who held up Fresnay."
"Keno! And we've landed with both feet right in something that seems worth while. The second man is trying a bluff—but if he had known Motor Matt better he might have saved himself the trouble."
"We'll keep our eyes skinned, all the same," saidMatt. "If it's really a bluff, we won't lose anything by being careful; while if it isn't, we'll have a lot to gain."
"Correct. An ounce of prevention is worth a ton of cure."
The road, although it twisted back and forth between rocky hills, was smooth and even. Both motor-cycles worked to perfection, and the boys went spinning along at a leisurely clip, keeping a sharp watch all around them.
At the town-pump, in Wickenburg, they stopped for a drink, then struck out for Skull Valley, where the railroad had an eating-house at which they had planned to get supper. They were still wary, although the prospect of trouble seemed to be growing more and more remote.
Chub, overconfident as usual, was just exulting over the way they had "called the bluff" of the unknown writer of the second note, when trouble materialized like a bolt from the blue.
It was at a place where the road-bed was like asphalt, although crooked as a snake, and edged on both sides with rocky hills.
In passing a gap between two of the hills Matt heard sounds that aroused his apprehension. He might have been mistaken, but he thought he heard a scrambling of hoofs.
"Hit her up, Chub," said he, in a low voice. "Did you hear a noise on the left of the road? I did, and I don't like it."
Just as the two machines forged ahead at increased speed, a shout came from behind the boys:
"Stop! Stop, or we'll shoot!"
Matt and Chub stole a quick look behind. Two horsemen were in the road, and one of them was armed with a rifle.
"Faster!" cried Matt. "Get around the next turn!"
There was no need of a spur for Chub. His idea that the writer of that second note was "four-flushing" had proved to be a dream, and he was coaxing his motor-cycle to the limit.
Bang!
The sharp report echoed and reechoed through the hills, and a spurt of dust shot up between the two racing wheels.
"They're shooting at our tires!" called Matt.
"If they'll give us about a minute more," answered Chub, doubled over his handle-bars, "they can blaze away all they please. They've got to haul up if they do any straight shooting, and while they're standing still we're getting into the distance. If—— Wow!"
Chub broke off with a startled yell. One of the bullets had passed altogether too close to him for any sort of comfort.
The next moment the shoulder of a hill intervened between the boys and the marksman. They were safe for the moment, but, above the noise of their machines, they could hear a flurry of pounding hoofs.
"They mean business, all right," said Chub grimly, "but if they've a notion they can overhaul us on a couple of cayuses, they've got another guess coming."
"Look!" shouted Matt suddenly; "there, ahead!"
Chub stared, and instinctively a shout of despair escaped his lips.
Ahead of the boys was a long, straight slope. At the foot of the slope there was a break in the road, a gap crossing it at right angles and seven or eight feet wide.
"There were planks across that gap!" cried Chub. "Those scoundrels have taken them away. They've got us, Matt!"
For a moment Motor Matt did not answer. He was gazing sharply at the break. The chasm seemed deep, even if it was not very wide, and was evidently the course of a small stream. Just before the edge of the gap was reached, heavy freighting over the road had hollowed out the road-bed.
A daring idea took form in Matt's mind.
"We'll get across!" he cried.
"How?" gasped Chub.
"That hollowed-out place—our machines will be thrown upward at the other side of it—they'll leap across!"
Chub's heart almost stood still. He was brave enough, but he did not understand the possibilities of the situation so well as Matt, and the attempt to hurl their motor-cycles across the gap looked like the worst kind of recklessness.
"Give her every ounce of power, Chub!" shouted Matt. "Head straight for the gap and keep the middle of the road. Watch me; I'll take it first."
TheCometwas a much faster machine than the one Chub was riding. Up to that moment Matt had been holding back in order to stay alongside his chum; but now, in order to demonstrate the feasibility of the fearful leap he had suggested, he opened the throttle and forged into the lead.
Chub, every faculty centered in his handle-bars, saw Matt duck downward into the hollow, shoot upward, spin through the air as though launched from a catapult, then alight on the opposite side of the break a good four feet from the edge. What was more, theCometdid not seem to mind the leap any more than a spirited horse would have done, and started on up the road in excellent style. Matt, however, halted and turned back.
There were some doubts in his mind about Chub. Clip's motor-cycle wasn't a very late machine and might not be able to duplicate theComet'sperformance. Far up the slope the horsemen could be seen racing after the boys at top speed. There was nothing else for it, Matt knew, but for Chub to take his chance.
Down into the hollow went Chub, then up and out, the one-cylinder's wheels spinning in mid-air. Down he came, safe by a scant margin, and a breath of relief rushed through Matt's lips.
Baffled shouts came from the horsemen. Matt's hopes were dashed somewhat by sounds which told him Chub's machine was beginning to misfire.
"Use your pedals!" shouted Matt. "Open the throttle, Chub!"
Matt knew that the jolt the machine had had was probably the cause of the misfiring. The jar had perhaps caused the carburetter-float to stick, thus interrupting the regular flow of gasoline.
Opening the throttle did not seem to help. Matt, watching the horsemen, saw them getting ready to take the gap at a leap. To delay much longer would surely mean capture.
"Hold down the priming-pin for a second!" yelled Matt.
He was making ready to go back to Chub's assistance, when the motor took hold in proper shape, and Chub, white and worried but mightily relieved, came gliding along.
"I'm a regular mutt in a pinch like that," said he."Lost my head completely, and wouldn't have known the first thing to do if you hadn't yelled."
"Let 'er out again," returned Matt. "We'll leave those two scoundrels behind, now, for good and all. The main thing is to get out of rifle-range while they're leaping the gap."
Side by side the chums plunged away. Looking behind them, just before they took a turn, they saw the two horsemen swinging into the air and taking the leap safely.
"We'll lead 'em now," gloried Chub, "clear into Skull Valley, if they want to follow!"
PRESCOTT.
Not again did the boys see their pursuers, and for five minutes they kept up their swift pace. When finally sure that they were safe, they slowed down their machines.
"Didn't you ever get rattled, Matt?" asked Chub.
"Lots of times, old fellow," laughed Matt.
"Well, if you'd got rattled back there at the break in the road little Reddy McReady would have been raked in too easy for any use. Those two roughs were dead set on getting us. Must be something mighty important ahead of us in Prescott or they wouldn't have tried so hard to hold us back."
"I'm getting more confidence in that first note all the time," declared Matt.
"That's the way I stack up. It was a regular raw blazer of a play, though, the way those fellows came at us. But they'd laid their plans pretty well. Where they missed was in not riding out into the trail ahead of us instead of behind."
"That wasn't a miss," said Matt, "that was a part of their plan. They had taken up the planks across that break in the road, and thought they'd chase us to the chasm and stop us there."
"I'll bet the air is some blue around where those two fellows are now," laughed Chub. "But put me wise to this: How did they know we were intending to go to Prescott on our motor-cycles?"
"That's too many for me, Chub. There's been quite a lot going on in Phœnix that I can't understand. The same Mexican delivered both notes to Mrs. Spooner, and it looks as though the two men who robbed Fresnay had been staying in the town, and at the same place where the fellow who wrote the first note was hanging out."
"If we'd had time to look up that Mexican——"
"Couldn't have found him in a thousand years from Mrs. Spooner's description. If I'd been at home when he brought that second note, he wouldn't have got away until he had told me a few things."
"My thinkin'-apparatus is all kinked up over the whole business," puzzled Chub, "but it looks like those two handy-boys are playing the game all by themselves. One of them wrote that warning and sent it to us, then picked up his partner and slid for the hills in order to stop us if the note didn't scare us out. They're the robbers, Matt; they're the ones that lifted Fresnay's money, all right."
"Then what do they want to keep us away from Prescott for?" queried Matt. "They needn't worry about themselves. With two good horses, and their freedom, and ten thousand in gold, they could start for Mexico. Whatever we can do in Prescott needn't bother them."
"Maybe they're not able to clear out just yet."
All the speculations of the chums regarding the two notes, and the men who had recently tried to stop them, were mere guesswork. Giving up their attempt to probe the mystery, they set themselves to the task of reaching Prescott as soon as possible.
At Skull Valley, a place consisting of only half a dozen houses and the railroad-station, they halted just long enough to eat a hurried meal. There was the chance, if they tarried too long, that their enemies might attempt to get ahead of them on the road they were still to cover.
When they had finished eating, the boys went over their machines, tightened a few bolts, lighted their lamps—it was beginning to get dark—then mounted and hurried on.
From Skull Valley north they found the worst part of the road. It was on low ground, and boggy. During the present dry weather the road was passably good, but after a rain it would have been difficult for wagons to travel it, to say nothing of motor-cycles.
For the most of the way the trail tried to follow the railroad-track, dipping under high trestles and angling back and forth across the rails. It was poor up to within half a dozen miles of Prescott, and then, abruptly, it became like an asphalt boulevard, level with the track and smooth and clean right up to the ends of the ties.
It was nearly nine o'clock in the evening when the boys reached this good stretch of road, and their lamps, streaming out ahead, showed it to them clearly.
"Mighty good going for a motor-cycle race," said Chub.
"And a fine place for racing a limited train," added Matt, his mind running on the possibilities of steam versus gasoline.
"Say," said Chub, "I'd like to see theCometsplurging along by Jack Moody's big Baldwin, with Moody late and making up time! Whoo-ee! That would be a race! When Moody's behind his schedule you'd think a wildman was at the throttle."
Although the boys did not dream of it at the time, yet this talk of theirs was prophetic.
Presently the motor-cycles glided over a low hill, covered a couple of miles of level road, crossed the track, and entered the town of Prescott.
Chub, who had been in Prescott several times, knew the location of the Briggs House, and led the way directly there. They registered, secured a room on the ground floor, and, in order to make sure there would be no tampering with their machines, trundled them into the room where they would be constantly under their eyes or else behind a locked door.
The motor-cycles were looked over and taken care of, and then the boys, tired out with their trip, tumbled into bed and fell asleep.
They were up in time for breakfast, and were eagerly expecting something to happen. It was Thursday, theday specified in the note which had been so mysteriously delivered at Mrs. Spooner's.
Following breakfast, they sat around the hotel office, impatient and with every faculty on the alert.
Noon came, and they had dinner, then the afternoon waned, and they had supper. No one came near them to broach anything connected with the particular business that had brought them to Prescott. By eleven o'clock Matt gave up hope of hearing anything that day, and he and Chub went to bed.
Chub was very much discouraged.
"I'm beginnin' to think that wasn't much of a tip, after all," he grumbled, as he rolled into bed.
"Something may have happened to keep the man who wrote that first note from showing his hand," hazarded Matt.
"Yes," returned Chub, "and something may have happened to him that will keep him from showing his hand at all."
"You mean——"
"Why, that those two roughs who chased us may have taken care of that fellow who wrote the first note. After we got away from them, those scoundrels may have decided to put the other man out of the way. That would keep the fellow from communicating with us, and it's a cinch that's what those handy-boys were afraid of. Matt, I'd be willin' to bet dad's gold-mine against a peck of marbles that we're side-tracked, and won't be able to do a thing for Clip."
"We'll stay here, anyhow," said Matt doggedly, "and see it through. I've got a hunch that something's going to turn up."
"But by stayin' here we may be losing time—and we haven't any time to throw away."
"What could we do if we weren't here?" asked Matt.
"You've got me now. This business is getting on my nerves so that it's hard for me to hold down a chair and wait. Feel like I wanted to be up and moving."
"You can go back to Phœnix, if you want to," suggested Matt, "and watch things there. I can hold down this end, all right."
"Not on your life!" declared Chub. "I'm goin' to stick to you tighter than a woodtick. If anythingdoeshappen here, maybe you'll need some one about my heft and disposition to help."
"Then," said Matt decidedly, "we're going to stay right here until something turns up. It's the only chance we've got to do anything for Clip."
"It's a slim enough chance, at that, but I'll go you," and Chub turned over and went to sleep.
Matt's resolution to remain in Prescott was somewhat shaken next morning. As he and Chub left their room and walked out into the office the clerk handed Matt a telegram.
"Just came," said the clerk.
Matt knew the message had something to do with Clip, and his hands shook a little as he tore it open. It was a night-message, and had been sent from Phœnix the preceding afternoon. It was from Short, and ran as follows:
"Clipperton's case on Friday morning. No court Saturday. Will probably go to jury Monday afternoon. Need you as witnesses."
"Clipperton's case on Friday morning. No court Saturday. Will probably go to jury Monday afternoon. Need you as witnesses."
Matt's face went white as he read the message and silently handed it to Chub.
"They're making short work of poor old Clip," muttered Chub angrily. "We'vegotto cut loose from here now, haven't we?"
"I want to think about it," answered Matt, heading for the dining-room.
MATT MAKES A NEW MOVE.
Neither of the boys ate much breakfast. That telegram, showing how Clipperton was being railroaded through the court, had taken their appetite. Matt reflected bitterly that Clip was a quarter-blood—little better than a half-breed—and that the foregone conclusion that he was guilty must have prompted Sparling, the prosecuting attorney, to hustle the case through. There was evidence enough to convict him without hunting up any more.
Matt's first step, after breakfast, was to send a telegram to Short.
"Adjourn the case if you can. Must have more time. If anything is done, got to do it here. Can't you send some one to take our affidavits?"
"Adjourn the case if you can. Must have more time. If anything is done, got to do it here. Can't you send some one to take our affidavits?"
Following this, Matt made a new move—one which he was sorry he had not made before. Leaving Chub at the Briggs House, he hunted up his friend Sheriff Burke.
Because of what Matt had done for law and order, Burke had a hearty admiration for him, and welcomed him cordially.
"I'm here on business, Mr. Burke," said Matt, "and haven't got much time to talk. You've heard about the robbery of Josh Fresnay, and about my chum, Tom Clipperton, being held for it?"
A sympathetic look crossed Burke's face.
"Sure I've heard about it," said he. "The trial's on to-day. I'm wondering, Matt, why you're not in Phœnix instead of here."
"I'm here trying to help Clipperton. I can't explain how, but that's the way of it. Short, Clip's lawyer, telegraphed me the case will probably go to the jury Monday. There's not much time to lose, and I'd like to have you send out some deputies to look for the real robbers, Mr. Burke."
Burke opened his eyes wide.
"Why," said he, "it looks like a clear case against Clipperton, and——"
"It isn't a clear case!" declared Matt warmly. "Day before yesterday the two men who robbed Fresnay were in the hills between Wickenburg and Skull Valley. That puts them in your county, Mr. Burke, and it's up to you to catch them, if you can."
"How do you know all that?" demanded Burke, a little excited.
"Because they chased me and my chum, McReady; but we were on our motor-cycles, and got away from them."
"What were they chasin' you for?"
Matt did not care to tell Burke about the tip which had brought him and Chub to Prescott. He got around the explanation in another way.
"Those two robbers, Mr. Burke," said he earnestly, "are two of Dangerfield's old gang."
Burke shot out of his chair at that.
"Are you positive of that, Matt?" he demanded.
"I am sure of it as I am that I am sitting here this minute."
"But those two scoundrels may be a hundred miles away from here by now!"
"I don't think so. I've got a firm conviction that they're hanging around in the vicinity of Prescott."
"They must have recognized you as bein' the governor's courier, that time we made the sourround at Tinaja Wells," said Burke, "and that's why they chased you."
Matt made no response to this.
"Will you try and locate them, Mr. Burke?" he asked.
"You bet I will—if for nothing more than to do something for you. You stack up pretty high with me, my boy, and if this is going to help any, I'll get right at it."
"Hustle!" said Matt. "If we don't dig up something to help Clipperton he's going to be convicted. And we've only got until Monday. They're not losing any time putting him through."
"Not much time to waste on a breed," returned Burke. "I know how it is. How long will you be in Prescott?"
"Can't tell. Not long, I hope."
"Where are you stopping?"
"Briggs House."
"If anything turns up I'll let you know. If you've gone back to Phœnix, I'll wire you. Keep a stiff upper lip," he added kindly, noting the gloom in Matt's face. "You seem to always win out when you tackle anything."
"There's got to be a first time for a fellow to fall down, Mr. Burke."
"Not for you, Matt," said the sheriff cheerily.
In somewhat better spirits, Matt returned to the hotel. Chub was in the office and was not long in telling Matt that nothing had happened.
"You're the one, anyway, a messenger will be lookin' for," fretted Chub. "If anything's going to turn up, you'd better stay right here and wait for it. Where you been, Matt?"
Matt told him.
"That's a good idea," approved Chub, "but the deputies ought to have been started out right after we got here."
"That's one place where my foresight slipped a cog, Chub," said Matt. "I believe I'm getting batty over this business of Clip's. Any telegram from Short?"
"No."
Nor was any message received that day. Neither did anything else develop. The boys remained in the office until midnight, and then, with heavy hearts, went to their room and to bed.
"We're a couple of dubs for staying here like we are," said Chub. "Let's get on our wheels in the morning and roll back where we belong."
"We'll wait till Monday morning," said Matt. "If we can't find out anything by then we'll take the train that leaves here at nine in the morning. Our motor-cycles can travel in the baggage-car. I wouldn't feel like taking chances of an accident to the machines on that trip."
Chub brightened.
"That's the talk!" he exclaimed. "We'll wire Short to hold the case open till we get there, then you can butt in and tell every blooming thing you know about Clip and Pima Pete. Maybe it will help."
Matt was beginning to think that this was the only thing to be done. If Clip wouldn't talk, then, at the last moment, it might be best for his friends to talk for him.
Next morning there was a whole column in one of the Prescott dailies about Clip. He had been arraigned, a jury selected, and the taking of testimony had begun. Before the closing-hour the prosecution had got in nearly all its evidence.
Fresnay had been put on the stand. He was made to tell about his ride in the red roadster, about his remark to the effect that he was going to Phœnix after the Fiddleback pay-roll, and then to describe the hold-up.
Welcome Perkins was forced to testify that Clip was in the roadster when Fresnay said he was going after the pay-roll, and was questioned about the half-breed who had stopped the cowboy's horse.
The paying-teller of the bank got in his evidence as to the amount of money drawn by Fresnay, and swore that it was all in double eagles.
Hogan and Leffingwell also added their mite to the evidence against Clip; and the money, and the dingy canvas bag, and the pouch were shown.
If Short accomplished anything on cross-examination, it did not appear in the newspaper record.
While the discouraged boys were reading and debatingthe court proceedings, a hack drove up with passengers from the train that had recently arrived from the south. Among these was Short himself.
Matt and Chub jumped up excitedly when they saw him. He nodded to them in his usual curt fashion.
"I've come up here just to get your affidavits," said he. "Our side will have an inning Monday morning, but it will be a short one. Let's go some place where we can talk. Bring pen, ink, and paper."
Chub got the writing-materials, and Matt led the lawyer to their room.
"There's not much hope," announced the lawyer, when they were all in the room, "and I don't believe there'd be any hope even if we could make Clipperton talk. There isn't a white man who wouldn't believe the half-breed guilty on half the evidence brought out. If we could have butted into the prosecution with a sworn statement from Dangerfield, we might have had something to work on. But that's out of the question now."
This talk, from Clip's attorney, seemed to ring the knell of his fate.
"Could we do anything if we went on the stand?" asked Matt.
"You could do something for the prosecution," answered Short grimly. "When I saw the line the prosecutor was taking, I was mighty glad you weren't around. All I want from you, King, is a statement that Dangerfield wanted you to help Pima Pete dig up that gold. That will bear out Clipperton's story when I put him on the stand. You don't know anything about that, do you, McReady?"
Chub shook his head.
Short had arrived on the eight-o'clock train, and he had to leave at nine. By doing that he would reach Phœnix early in the afternoon, and he had matters to attend to that couldn't be looked after Sunday.
Having taken Matt's statement, Short conducted him to the office of a notary public, across the street from the Briggs House, and had the document sworn to.
Then, when they were back at the hotel and waiting for the bus that was to take Short to the railroad-station, Matt told him about the second note received at Mrs. Spooner's, about the way he and Chub had been pursued on the road to Prescott, and about Sheriff Burke sending men out to look for the two horsemen.
"This is all promising," said Short, "but it doesn't lead anywhere. We've got to try and make the jury believe that Clip and Pete dug up Dangerfield's gold. Anything that helps that impression will do something for our side."
The bus was at the door, and Short got up to leave. Matt, his face white and haggard, walked with the lawyer to the door of the waiting vehicle.
"Hold the case open, Mr. Short," said he, "until the train that leaves here at nine o'clock Monday morning gets to Phœnix. If nothing comes of our work here, I'll be down, go on the stand, and telleverythingI know. Clip won't like it, and it will make him my enemy, but you can count on me to do that if the worst comes."
The lawyer shook his head.
"I'll see that the case doesn't go to the jury until that train reaches Phœnix," said he, "but I don't think anything you can say will do any good. I've got here"—and he tapped the breast pocket of his coat where he had placed Matt's affidavit—"all you can tell about Dangerfield's gold. If you got on the stand, you might damage our case more than you'd help it. Good-by," and Mr. Short got into the bus and was driven away.
Saturday passed, and Sunday—blue days for the dispirited boys. Sunday night brought on a tremendous storm. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and rain fell in torrents. It was to such an accompaniment of the elements that Motor Matt gave up hope of accomplishing anything for Clipperton.
"Lucky you told Short we'd come back to Phœnix on the train, Matt," said Chub. "It would be three or four days, after this rain, before we could get over the roads on the motor-cycles. Whoosh! Listen to that, will you?" A tremendous peal of thunder shook the walls of the hotel. "It doesn't rain very much around here, but when it does we get a soaker!"
Just at that moment Matt stepped to the table to put out the light before turning in. He had hardly leaned over the lamp before a pane of one of the windows crashed in and some object slammed against the foot-board of the bed and dropped to the floor. A spurt of wind and rain gushed through the broken window, and the light flared high in the chimney and went out.
"Somebody threw a rock!" yelled Chub, jumping out of bed and darting for the window with a blanket.
As soon as the hole had been stopped, Matt struck a match and relighted the lamp; then he went over to the foot of the bed and picked up a stone the size of his fist.
"Fine business," said Chub, "standin' out there in the rain an' shyin' rocks through a window! Who d'you s'pose did a thing like that?"
Matt, pushing closer into the yellow lamplight, showed Chub the stone: It was wrapped closely with twine, and under the twine was a folded paper.
"It's what we've been waiting for, Chub!" said Matt huskily.