THE OLD HOPEWELL TUNNEL.
"Well, great centipedes!" gasped Chub, staring. "That's a nice way to hand a fellow a letter. Why didn't he get a cannon an' shoot it in! Suppose one of us had beenin front of that window when the mail-wagon came through?"
Matt, his fingers none too steady, had been busy taking off the twine and getting at the folded paper. The paper was soaked through, and called for great care in opening it out. When it was finally straightened and laid on the table, this penciled message met the eager eyes of the boys:
"ole hoaPwel tunNNel 8 tirty muNdy morning Keap it quite"
"ole hoaPwel tunNNel 8 tirty muNdy morning Keap it quite"
"More news from our old friend that wrote the first note," said Chub. "He hasn't improved any in his spelling, and he handles his capitals like a Hottentot. Give us a free translation, Matt."
"It's plain enough," said Matt. "'Be at the old Hopewell tunnel at eight-thirty Monday morning. Keep it quiet.' Do you know anything about the old Hopewell tunnel, Chub?"
"Why, yes. It's a played-out mine. We passed it coming into town."
"Could you go there?"
"Easy."
"How far away is it?"
"About three miles."
"Good! Now let's go to bed and sleep—if we can. To-morrow," and Matt slapped his chum jubilantly on the shoulder, "we're going to do something for Clip. I had a hunch all the while that if we waited long enough something would come our way."
"We'll be making quick connections with that nine-o'clock train, Matt. It's Moody's run, too, and I was going back on the engine."
"This rain hasn't hurt the going any if the Hopewell tunnel is out along the road we followed into town. Even Clip's machine can turn those three miles in six minutes. That's twelve, going and coming, with a margin of eighteen at the tunnel. I'm feeling better to-night than at any time since we struck Prescott."
Contrary to his expectations, Matt slept, and slept well. He had been so loaded down with worry that this ray of hope brought him a feeling of intense relief. It was that, no doubt, that calmed his excited nerves and gave him some rest.
He was up bright and early and rousing Chub.
"Turn out, you little runt!" he laughed. "See what a nice, large morning we've got for our work. We're going to get in some good licks for Clip—I feel it in my bones."
Chub hopped out of bed and took a squint through the window. The sun was up, the sky was clear, and everything was glistening with the wet.
"Seven-thirty," announced Matt, as they finished dressing; "that gives us half an hour for breakfast and plenty of time to get to the old Hopewell tunnel. Hope-well! That certainly sounds good to me."
At sharp eight they were on the road, picking their way around street puddles in the direction of the railroad-station. They were to cross the track, close to the station, and reach out along the good road, smooth as macadam, for two miles, after which there was to be a little harder going across country.
The train from Phœnix was just pulling out for the north when they reached the tracks. The station-agent was out on the platform.
"How's Number Twelve?" yelled Chub.
"Thirty minutes to the bad," answered the agent. "She'll be along at nine-thirty."
"We're fools for luck, and no mistake, Matt," said Chub.
"That's the way with luck," returned Matt. "When it makes a turn it comes your way in a bunch."
The road along the railroad-track had perfect drainage, and it was already so nearly dry that the tires took firm hold without skidding. Even after the boys left the road and took a little-used trail across country, they were not bothered to any appreciable extent. The road was sandy, and had soaked up the moisture like a sponge.
It was a quarter past eight by Matt's watch when they came opposite a tunnel opening in the hillside. There was a platform of rocks at the mouth of the tunnel where the useless matter from the bore had been dropped.
"There's where we're going," said Chub, pointing to the tunnel, "but we're ahead of time and——"
"Well, maybe the other fellow's ahead of time, too," broke in Matt. "Let's go up and see."
Leaving their machines against the rocks, the boys climbed a twenty-foot bank and arrived at the mouth of the tunnel. There was no one waiting for them, and Matt and Chub sat down on a couple of boulders to pass the time until some one should come.
"Who are you expecting to see, anyhow?" asked Chub.
"Don't know," replied Matt, "but certainly it's some one who's able and willing to give us a helping hand."
"Yes; and then again, Matt, it may be those two men who tried to corral us at the break in the road. Burke hasn't found them yet, or he'd have told you about it long before this. Suppose they're working a dodge on us?"
This was a startling suggestion, but Matt wouldn't take any stock in it.
"You're forgetting the writing, Chub," said he. "That first note, and the last one, were both by the same fist. There's no doubt about it."
The time passed quickly—all too quickly for the anxious boys who were hoping for so much from their interview with the Unknown.
Eight-thirty came, then a quarter to nine, and Matt'sspirits were fast falling, when there was a noise inside the tunnel. Both boys started quickly, and exchanged significant glances. The sounds were like the swishing fall of moccasined feet, and were approaching steadily along the dark passage.
Presently a swarthy face showed through the murk of the tunnel, and a roughly dressed man pushed into sight. Matt bounded up as though touched by a livewire.
"Pima Pete!" he cried.
A gleam darted through the half-breed's eyes.
"You savvy um, hey?" he returned. "You git um paper-talk, come plenty quick. Ugh!Bueno!"
Matt stood like one in a daze. He had not been expecting to see Pima Pete, although he wondered later how he could have expected to see any one else.
"You know Clipperton's in trouble, don't you?" said Matt, suddenly getting control of his wits. "He's arrested, and being tried for stealing Josh Fresnay's money, and——"
"All same savvy," interrupted Pima Pete, waving his hand. "Savvy plenty before me leave Phœnix, send paper-talk to Motor Matt. How we save um? Clip heap fine boy. White men make um big mistake. You think um Pete better go Phœnix, give himself up?"
"You told us to be here Thursday," said Matt. "Why didn't you send word to us sooner?"
"Me no can make um. Find trouble. Two men b'long to ole gang make um trouble. No let um go to Prescott. They hike off last night, then Pete write um note, go Prescott, throw um note through window. Ugh! How we save um Clip? Odder two men want Clip to go to prison. Me no want um. What we do, huh?"
"Where are those other two men?" asked Matt.
"No savvy."
"Clip don't want you to come to Phœnix," said Matt. "If his lawyer can make the jury believe that you and he really dug up that gold, and that it was Dangerfield's, there's a chance. Understand?"
"We dug um, sure!" declared Pima Pete.
An idea rushed through Matt's head, an idea that called for quick work.
"If I write that out, Pete," he continued, speaking quickly, "will you make oath that it's correct."
"Make um swear? Sure. But how me swear, huh?"
"We'll have to bring a man out here——"
"No!" cried Pete, and drew back. "Me all same worth one thousan' dol'. You bring um man, he ketch um Pete. Huh!Muy malo!No like um."
"There'll be only one man, Pete," begged Matt, "and he couldn't capture you. Remember," he added solemnly, "if you don't make an affidavit there's nothing can save Clip!"
Pima Pete straightened up. His mind was none too keen, and he frowned as he thought the matter over. "Hurry!" urged Matt. "We haven't any time to lose. Clip saved your life when the deputy sheriff was going to shoot at you. Now's your chance to do something for him."
"All ri'," said Pima Pete suddenly. "You bring um man, me make um swear."
Matt whirled on Chub, his watch in his hand.
"It's five minutes of nine, Chub," said he, speaking hurriedly, "and here's what you're to do. Get on the motor-cycle and rush for Prescott. Send out that notary public who took my deposition—or any other notary you can find the quickest. Have him bring his seal along—don't forget that. We'll meet him at the road that runs along the railroad-track——"
"But what good'll that do?" interposed Chub. "Think I can do all that, come out here, and then both of us get back to the station in time to catch the——"
"Wait!" broke in Matt: "I've got this all figured out. After you start the notary in this direction, leave your motor-cycle at the hotel and go down to the station. If I can get there in time for the train, I will; if I can't, you get aboard, and when you see me along the road have your friend, the engineer, stop——"
"Stop! Jack Moody, with thirty minutes to make up! Why, Matt, he wouldn't stop for love or money."
"Then," and the old resolute gleam shone in Matt's gray eyes, "you stand ready to take Pima Pete's affidavit from me as I ride alongside the train on theComet!"
"You can't do it," murmured Chub, standing like one in a trance; "you'll be——"
"I can, and I will!" cried Matt. "It's for Clip. Hustle and do your part andI'll do mine!"
Matt's very manner was electrifying. Chub caught his spirit and arose to the occasion in his best style.
"Count on me!" he yelled, and tore down the steep slope to the place where he had left the motor-cycle.
As Matt watched him, he mounted, started the motor with two turns of the pedals—half a turn was all theCometever needed—and was off.
QUICK WORK.
Motor Matt's work was mapped out for him, and he had plenty to do. Whirling on the grim-faced half-breed, he dropped down on a boulder and pulled a small motor-cycle catalogue from his pocket. Ripping off the cover, which was bare of printing on the inside, he laid it on top of his leather cap, which he placed on his knees.
"This will be a queer-looking affidavit," said he, fishing a lead-pencil from his pocket, "but we'll have to make the most of what we have. You see, Pete, we'reworking against time, and every second counts. Now listen:
"You met Tom Clipperton in the hills, on the night of the robbery, and took him to the place where Dangerfield had buried his money. Then you dug it up, went back to the trail, and were set upon by the two deputies. Is that it?"
"Yes," nodded Pima Pete.
"Where did Dangerfield get that money?"
"He sell um cattle two month ago. Money heap heavy, him no like to carry um. Odder ombrays in gang mebbyso they get bad hearts, want to take um. Dangerfield say, 'Pete, we bury um; anyt'ing happen to me, you savvy where to find um' Ugh! me help Dangerfield bury um. He t'ink mebbyso when we ride to Mexico from Tinaja Wells, he dig up gold. But him captured. You savvy. Dangerfield send um note by big dog to Pima Pete, say for him, bymby, have Motor Matt take um money, send some to Emmetsburg, Iowa, Motor Matt keep some, Clipperton keep some. Whoosh! Him bad business. No win out."
"And you will swear that all of Dangerfield's money was in gold double eagles, and that there was just ten thousand dollars of it?"
"Sure!"
Matt's pencil traveled rapidly over the paper. He was careful, however, to make the writing plain and to bear down hard.
"What's your real name, Pete?" asked Matt.
"Huh?"
Matt repeated the question.
"All same Sebastian," said the half-breed, catching Matt's drift, "Pete Sebastian, but me like um Pima Pete better."
Matt went back to the beginning of the affidavit and put in the full name, then dropped farther down and resumed his writing. Presently it was finished, and Matt looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine!
What if Jack Moody, Matt suddenly asked himself, had made up some of his lost time? What if the train was already whipping along the rails on its way out of Prescott?
Matt leaped up frantically and grabbed Pete's arm. "Come on!" he called. "We'll go down toward the main road and meet the notary."
Pete drew back.
"Mebbyso somebody see um Pima Pete," he demurred, "mebbyso ketch um?"
"Take a chance, can't you?" flung back Matt. "It's for Clip! He'd do more than that for you."
Pima Pete hung back no longer, but scrambled down the slippery rocks with Matt.
"You ride," Pete suggested, when they reached the motor-cycle, "me run along. Heap good runner. You see."
Matt followed out the suggestion, and in this way they reached the road. There was no sign of any rig coming from the direction of Prescott, and by then it was nine-twenty-five!
"See um smoke," said the half-breed, pointing.
Matt gave a jump as his eyes followed Pima Pete's pointing finger. An eddying plume of black vapor was hanging against the sky in the vicinity of the Prescott station. The smoke issued from a point that was stationary, and that meant, if it meant anything, that No. 12 was alongside the Prescott platform.
As he watched, scarcely breathing, the fluttering fog of black began moving southward. At that moment a horse and buggy appeared in the road, the one passenger in the vehicle plying a whip briskly. But the horse was tired, and moved slowly.
"There's the man we're waiting for!" cried Matt. "Come on! We'll meet him. I've got to have this acknowledged before that train gets here!"
Whether this was clear in Pima Pete's mind or not, was a question. But there was one thing too plain to escape him, and that was Matt's wild eagerness to get the work over with as soon as possible.
The two started down the road, Matt still on his machine and Pete running alongside. They could hear the low murmur of the rails, heralding the approach of the train, as they drew to a halt beside the man in the buggy.
"Well, if it ain't Matt King!" exclaimed the notary. "I wasn't expecting to meet you this side the old——"
"Quick!" shouted Matt, handing up the paper. "Acknowledge that. I've got to get it aboard this train."
"You can't," gasped the notary, "you——"
"Imust!"
There was a compelling note in that "must" which caused the notary to jab his spectacles down on his nose and begin, in a rapid mumble, to read off what Matt had written. The document began: "I, Peter Sebastian, otherwise Pima Pete, formerly one of the Dangerfield gang of smugglers."
In the excitement of the moment it is quite likely that those ominous words did not strike the notary with their full meaning. At any rate, he did not cease his droning mumble. As he read, he laid the paper down on his lifted knee, humped over it, and mechanically pulled a fountain pen from his pocket. Equally as mechanically, and while he was still reading, he uncapped the point of the pen. His seal was on the seat beside him.
Matt pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket; also an empty envelope. He wanted to enclose the affidavit in a cover so as to safeguard the pencil-work.
"Hurry!" he called.
Jack Moody, on No. 12, was eating up the two miles that separated the Prescott station from that point in theroad with tremendous rapidity. The rumble was growing louder and louder.
The notary was using the fountain pen.
"Do you solemnly swear," he asked as he wrote, "that this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"Ugh!" grunted the dazed Pima Pete.
"Yes or no!" roared the notary.
"Yes!" cried Pete, with a jump.
"There's your pay!" cried Matt. "Put the affidavit in that envelope, and be quick."
The notary had dropped his fountain pen in the bottom of the buggy, had pulled the seal to his lap, and was bearing down on the handle. The train was almost abreast of them, and the horse, tired though he was, made a frantic jump for the opposite side of the road.
Pima Pete rushed for the animal's head. The notary had come within one of going by the board, but he straightened up and tucked the document into the envelope.
Matt had turned theCometso that it was pointing south.
"There's your letter," called the notary, as Matt came past.
Matt grabbed it, took it in his teeth, and dropped both hands on the grip-control. The last car of the train was opposite him, and the thick, acrid smoke of the engine streamed in his face.
Nothing daunted by the lead the limited had of him, he opened theCometup for a record run.
It was to be theComet'slast flight—and it came within a hair's breadth of being Motor Matt's.
STEAM VERSUS GASOLINE.
Motor Matt knew, as well as he knew anything, that there was more speed in theCometthan there was in Moody's big Baldwin engine.
Moody's running-time was perhaps forty miles an hour. He might, on such a favorable stretch of track, eat into his lost thirty minutes at the rate of fifty miles an hour, but he would hardly dare to do better than that.
Matt, on the other hand, could get sixty miles an hour out of theComet, and even sixty-five if he had to in order to get that letter into Chub's hands before the good road jumped into the bog.
This meant that he had four miles in which to come up with the locomotive—for Chub was riding in the cab with Moody, and Matt, now that the smoke was behind him, could see his chum hanging from the gangway.
The morning sun had dried the road completely, but there was a dampness in the air, and damp weather is a prolific breeder of motor-cycle troubles.
If theCometshould begin to misfire on the high speed, if——
Dread possibilities began to flash through Matt's mind, but he thrust them aside. He was there to do his utmost for Clip, and to hope for the best.
Out of the tails of his eyes he glimpsed excited faces at the car-windows. The passengers were watching him as he passed the swiftly moving coaches. Naturally they could have no idea what his object was in racing with the train, but a look at his set, determined face was enough to convince them that there was a deep purpose back of his work. Through the open windows ladies fluttered handkerchiefs, and men pushed out their heads and cheered him. It was a wonderful thing to see that gallant little machine close in on the rushing locomotive.
Two nerve-racking minutes had passed and two miles of the good road had been covered. This meant that Matt had but two minutes more in which to transfer his letter to Chub.
TheCometwas alongside the baggage-car now, and Matt could see his chum plainly in the gangway. He was leaning far out, holding to the hand-rails with one hand and stretching the other toward Matt.
"Mile-a-minute Matt!" yelled Chub, in wild encouragement, "King of the Motor-boys! Come on, pard! A little farther, a little——"
Just then a hand gripped Chub's shoulder and yanked him back into the cab, while an angry voice commanded him to stay inside.
Matt saw this bit of byplay, and a thrill of apprehension shot through him. The engine crew were not going to let Chub take any chances of breaking his neck. Would they keep him from taking the letter?
But Chub himself had something to say about it. There was a scramble in the cab, and the red-headed boy ducked through the window on the fireman's side and reached the foot-board along the boiler. The fireman yelled, and his hand shot through the window after him. Chub, however, was quick enough to evade the gripping fingers. Holding to the hand-rail, he bent down. He was too high to reach Matt, and Matt would have had to come dangerously close.
The engine was pitching, and swaying, and swinging, but Chub hung to the running-board like a monkey, moved along it quickly, dropped to the top of the steam-chest, and flung his right hand to the lamp-bracket, under and to one side of the headlight.
He could hear the fireman swearing at his recklessness and coming after him.
Meanwhile Motor Matt was whirling along abreast of the big cylinder.
"Ready?" he shouted; "look sharp!"
"Hand it up!" and Chub leaned forward, one foot in the air and his weight on the lamp-bracket.
Matt's right hand left the handle-bar, took the envelope from his teeth, and extended it upward.
"I've got it, pard!" shouted Chub, snatching the letter from Motor Matt's fingers.
A deep breath of relief and satisfaction flickered through Matt's tense lips. A hundred small things had conspired to make that race with the limited a success, and a turn for the worse in any one of them would have spelled failure.
But it was over and he had won. There was a chance for Clip.
Matt diminished speed slowly. The cars of the train began gliding past him, and the thick smoke covered him as with a pall.
He heard yells from the passengers. They were not cheers, but shouts of warning and cries of consternation.
What did they mean?
Matt could see nothing for the moment, the vapor from the engine shrouded him so thickly that it blanketed his view in every direction.
Nevertheless, he instinctively cut off the power and gripped the brake.
Yet it is doubtful if he could by any possibility have saved himself, even had he known the full extent and nature of his peril. TheCometwas under such tremendous headway that a short stop was out of the question.
A frenzied whoop broke on Matt's ears. At almost the same moment there was a shivering crash, so quick and sudden it was more like an explosion than anything else.
It fell to Chub to see all this. His chum's danger loomed full on his stricken eyes.
With the letter, for which he and Matt had risked so much, safe in his pocket, Chub had turned and climbed from the top of the steam-chest to the foot-board.
In this position he was facing the cab of the engine, and looking back along the wagon-road.
Matt was completely engulfed in the smoke, and Chub could not see him; but Chub saw something else that made his heart stand still and sent a sickening fear through every limb.
With both shaking hands he hung to the rail that ran along the jacket of the boiler, dipping and lurching with the engine and staring back.
A big freight-wagon, drawn by six horses and manned by two freighters, was at a standstill in the road. The horses, frightened by the train, had plunged for the roadside, turning the huge van squarely across the trail.
The freighters were on the ground, hanging to the bits of the horses.
Chub, completely unnerved and his brain benumbed with fears for Matt, stared at the huge wagon. The wheels of the vehicle were plastered with mud, for it had just labored through the bog and struck good road.
Could Matt, engulfed as he was in that haze of smoke, see the wagon? Certainly he could nothearit, because of the roar of the train; but could he see it, and would he be able to stop theCometin time to avoid a collision?
So ran Chub's agonized thoughts. Although his brain seemed dazed to everything else, yet it was peculiarly alert to all that concerned Matt and his peril.
Then, while Chub stared into the receding distance, the sharp detonation of the crash reached his ears. A groan was wrenched from him, and his legs gave way. But for the timely support of the fireman he would have fallen from the locomotive.
Never had that particular fireman been so scared as he was then. He swore roundly as he dragged Chub to the cab and jammed him back through the window.
Chub fell in a heap on the heaving floor.
"You young fool!" roared Jack Moody, beside himself on account of the boy's narrow escape, "next time I take you in the cab with me you'll know it. I'd look nice facin' your father and your sister and tellin' them you'd dropped off my engine and been ground up under the drivers, wouldn't I?" And the exasperated Jack Moody said things to himself as he kept one hand on the throttle and the other on the air, and peered ahead.
Chub, half-lifting himself, caught Moody about the knees.
"Stop!" he begged: "there was an accident back there! Matt has been killed! Let me off! Moody——"
"Of course there's been an accident!" cried Moody, without looking around. "Why shouldn't there have been? With two reckless daredevils playin' tag between a motor-cycle and a limited, it's a wonder there wasn't a worse accident than there was."
"Let me get off!" screamed Chub. "If you don't stop, I'll jump!"
"Sit down on him, Jerry," said Moody to the fireman. "If he won't act reasonable, lash his hands and feet. We're going to take him to Phœnix. I'm an old fool to have such a rattle-headed kid around. We're ten minutes to the good," he added, "and we'll drop into Phœnix not more'n five minutes behind the time-card. That's goingsome, eh?"
Meantime there were two amazed freighters, far back on the road, pulling a white-faced, unconscious boy out of a tangled wreck.
"Jumpin' gee-mimy!" muttered one of them, in consternation. "That two-wheeled buzz-cart butted into the wagon like a thunderbolt! Did ye see it, Nick?"
"See nothin'!" grunted Nick. "The leaders had me off'n my feet about then, an' I didn't have no time to observe nothin'. Did he hurt the wagon any, Joe?"
"Knocked the mud off the rear wheels. The wagon weighs twenty-five hundred, but she sure shook when the kid hit it. Fine-lookin' young feller," and Joe stoodup and looked down at Motor Matt with a foreboding shake of the head.
"Killed?" queried Nick, stepping to his partner's side.
"His ticker's goin', but I don't see how he could come through a smash like that there an' live."
"Me, neither. We'd better load him inter the wagon an' snake him ter a doctor as quick as we kin."
"I'll pile up some o' the blankets so'st ter make him comfortable. Wait a minit."
Nick climbed into the wagon and made a cushioned bed in the springless box: then, very gently, Motor Matt was lifted up and laid down on the makeshift bed.
Nick climbed down again and found Joe picking up scraps of theComet.
It was a sorry wreck. The once beautiful machine, the pride of Motor Matt's life, was nothing now but a heap of junk.
"Purty badly scrambled up," remarked Joe. "Don't reckon it could ever be fixed. Shall we tote scrap inter Prescott, Nick?"
"Nary, I wouldn't. Leave the stuff whar it is. We got ter git the boy ter town as soon's we kin, an' hadn't ort ter lose time botherin' with sich truck as that."
So the horses were straightened around, Nick and Joe mounted to the seat, the long whip cracked, and the creaking freight-wagon, with its unconscious passenger, got under headway.
IN COURT.
Court had taken up after the noon recess. The evidence was all in, and the prosecuting attorney had made a masterly address demanding a prison sentence for Tom Clipperton. The prosecutor had so marshaled the evidence that there did not seem a possible hope for Clip. The jurymen looked convinced, and the defiant bearing of the prisoner, which at no time had appealed to their sympathies, was far from making such an appeal now.
Short was in despair. He was not the man, however, to throw up his hands until the jury had announced their verdict and had been polled.
Short had begun his plea at eleven o'clock. He could have finished by noon, but he was talking against time, and announced that he would complete his address after court reconvened.
The train from Prescott was due at one-thirty. One of his clerks brought him word that it was five minutes late. With one eye on the clock he continued to reiterate some of the remarks he had already made.
The jury looked bored, the prosecuting attorney, who did not know what was up, smiled sarcastically, and the judge settled back in his chair with a look of resignation.
Just as the hands of the court-room clock pointed to a quarter of two there was a stir at the door. A crowd of excited men surged through, a red-haired boy, haggard, his face and hands covered with the grime of more than a hundred miles in a locomotive-cab, led the crowd. The boy staggered as he pressed through the room toward the enclosure.
"Evidence!" cried the red-haired boy huskily; "evidence for Tom Clipperton!"
There was a brief period of silence, during which the prisoner jumped to his feet and peered wonderingly at Chub McReady. Leffingwell, in charge of Clipperton, caught his arm and pulled him roughly back into his seat.
In another moment a buzz of excitement ran through the room, and was rapidly increasing to an uproar when the bailiff pounded for order.
"The room will be cleared," warned the judge, "unless we can have quiet."
Short, doubtful but snatching at a straw of hope, turned to the judge and requested that the case be reopened for the taking of further evidence. The prosecutor was instantly on his feet with an objection. Objection was overruled.
"I will call Chub McReady to the stand," said Short.
Another objection from the prosecutor. McReady's evidence was already in, according to the representative of the people, in the form of an affidavit.
Short begged to remind the learned counsel for the State that it was Matt King's affidavit that had been read in court, and not McReady's.
Objection overruled. Chub made his way unsteadily to the witness-chair, stood up while he was being sworn, and then dropped down in a way that showed how spent he was with recent efforts.
Fresh interest was injected into the case. The twelve good men and true in the jury-box were anything but bored now. Chub bore all the marks of having passed through a trying ordeal of some kind, and it must have been in behalf of the prisoner.
In the dead silence that fell over the room while Short was impressively making ready to begin his examination, a piping voice floated through the intense quiet.
"Shade o' Gallopin' Dick! It's Chub, my leetle pard, Chub! Him an' Motor Matt hev been workin' their heads off to git evidence fer Clipperton, an' here——"
"Silence!" thundered the judge. "Officer," he added, "if that man makes any more disturbance, put him out."
Welcome Perkins subsided. The prosecutor frowned, and Short looked pleased. Something had got to the jury which would help, rather than injure, the defendant.
"Your name?" asked Short, facing Chub.
"Mark McReady," came the answer, in a voice that trembled from fatigue and excitement.
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Place of residence?"
"Phœnix."
"Occupation?"
"Inventor."
Somebody snickered.
"Waal, he is!" cried Welcome. "Dad-bing!"
The officer started toward the reformed road-agent, and Welcome ducked into a corner of the room and hid behind a fat man who hadn't been able to find a seat.
"I will ask you to tell the jury, Mark," said Short, "just what you and Matt King have been doing in Prescott."
The prosecutor was on his feet like a shot, objecting, of course.
The judge knitted his brows.
"If it is pertinent to any evidence already introduced," decided his honor, "it can go in."
"It's an affidavit from Pima Pete!" quavered Chub, holding up the letter.
"Wait!" shouted the prosecutor.
"Don't speak, my boy, till I ask you something," said Short.
The prosecutor and Short got their heads together at the judge's desk, and the affidavit of Pima Pete was looked over.
"This is entirely relevant," declared the judge, "and we will have it read."
The affidavit was handed to the clerk, and he read the same in a loud, incisive voice.
The document stated, in clear, crisp terms, that the deponent was one Peter Sebastian, otherwise known as Pima Pete, that he had been a member of Dangerfield's gang of smugglers, told how Dangerfield had sold cattle and buried ten thousand dollars in double eagles, had intended to dig the money up on his way to Mexico, and had been captured before he could carry out his plans. The affidavit then went on to state how Dangerfield had requested Motor Matt to dig up the money for him, claiming that it was honest money, and send the lion's share of it to Dangerfield's father, in Emmetsburg, Iowa; how Pima Pete had given a note to Clipperton, asking him to tell Matt to come for the gold; how Matt had refused to mix up with Pete, and how Clipperton had gone, had joined Pete, had helped dig up the gold, and how both had been set upon by Hogan and Leffingwell.
That affidavit, written by Motor Matt in a tearing hurry, was a model of clearness and brevity.
The prosecutor was on hand with a whole lot of objections, aimed at having the affidavit stricken from the record. In the first place, the affidavit was in lead-pencil. This was unusual, and would allow of changing its contents; in the next place, how were they to know that Pima Pete, a proscribed outlaw, was the real author of the document? And what credence was a half-breed entitled to, anyway, even when under oath?
By all these objections the prosecutor, to use a very figurative expression, "put his foot in it."
Short was obliged to show, by the witness, just how the affidavit had been secured, and an opening was made for the tale of pluck and daring in which Matt and Chub had just figured.
Chub, at times almost overcome with weariness and grief, told the story. It was a telling recital, and held the great roomful of people spellbound. The jurymen leaned forward in their chairs, the judge leaned over his table, everybody craned their necks and listened intently so that not a word might get away from them.
Chub told how he and Matt had made up their minds to do everything they could to free their innocent chum; how Matt had drawn from the bank some of the money paid for the capture of Dangerfield, and had declared he would use every last cent of it to free Clip, who had got into his trouble on Dangerfield's account; how they had gone to Prescott, after receiving the tip at Mrs. Spooner's; how they had been chased by the two horsemen, and had got away by leaping the break in the road; how the weary days had dragged by in Prescott; how Matt had started Sheriff Burke to searching for the real robbers; how the note, tied to the stone, had been hurled through the hotel window on the night of the storm; and how the witness and Matt had gone to the old Hopewell shaft and met Pima Pete.
If the interest up to that point had been absorbing, it now became even more so.
Chub, in his quivering tones, went on to describe the meeting with Pima Pete, and Matt's plan for taking his affidavit, having a notary rushed out from Prescott, and then passing the document up to Chub on the Limited.
Chub had fortunately found the notary in his office; and in front of the office a horse and buggy were standing. He had hustled the notary off in short order, and had then gone to the station and taken the train, riding in the cab with Jack Moody, the engineer, who was a friend of the witness' father.
Just how Matt had accomplished the taking of the affidavit, Chub could not tell. All he knew was that when the limited dashed along the rails, some two miles out of Prescott, the notary, Matt, and Pima Pete were in the wagon-road, Pima Pete holding the notary's horse and Matt climbing after the train on his motor-cycle, theComet, the machine Matt had won in a bicycle-race. Then Chub, mightily worked up himself and showing it in every word and gesture, proceeded to tell how he had tried to lean from the gangway and take the letter from Matt; how he had been thrown back by the fireman, only to get through the cab-window, hurry along the running-board,drop down on the steam-chest, and snatch the letter from Motor Matt's fingers. A sob came from him as he described how, standing on the foot-board and gripping the rail, he had seen the freight-wagon in the road and had heard a crash as Matt had collided with it, being unable to see ahead on account of the smoke, and unable, even if he had seen his danger, to stop the terrible impetus of a motor-cycle going at the rate of a mile a minute.
Here, at the finish of his recital, Chub McReady broke down. In spite of the bailiff's half-hearted attempt to keep order, pandemonium broke loose. Susie McReady ran to her brother's side, and Welcome, nearly oversetting the fat man, tore through the shouting crowd to get to the witness-chair.
Finally, order was again restored, and Short, bland and mightily satisfied with the turn of events, asked the prosecutor to "take the witness."
The prosecutor had nothing to say, and Chub got down and walked wearily to a seat beside Susie and Welcome.
And Clip! The first real feeling he had shown he showed then. With his face in his hands he leaned across the table beside which he was sitting.
Short finished his plea. He did not consume much time, for he was an astute lawyer and knew when he had his jury with him. Jurymen are emotional, as well as any one else; they can weigh the evidence, but sentiment cuts a big figure in any jury's decision—just how big probably even the jurymen themselves do not know.
The judge's charge was brief. He asked the jurymen to weigh the facts irrespective of the impression the heroism of the prisoner's friends might have had on them.
And when the charge was finished, without leaving their seats, a verdict of "not guilty" was rendered.
Then Bedlam broke loose again. Everybody crowded around Tom Clipperton to congratulate him.
But Clipperton, pushing his way through the crowd, started for the door.
"My pard!" he cried. "He's hurt, perhaps dead! I must get to Prescott."
CONCLUSION.
Matt King opened his eyes in his old room at the Briggs House. The roar of the limited was still in his ears, and the awful grinding crash that he had last heard. Sheriff Burke was sitting beside the bed and there were innumerable bandages about Matt's body and a strong smell of drugs in the room.
"How's everything?" Matt mumbled, trying to sit up.
Burke gently pushed him back.
"Fine and dandy, Matt," said he: "but, best of all, is the way you got out of that smash."
"Oh, is it you, Mr. Burke?" queried Matt.
"Surest thing you know," laughed Burke. "That was a great race you made. Racin' the limited! First time it was ever done in these parts."
"Who brought me in?" went on Matt.
"A couple of freighters who were with the wagon you ran into. They thought you were going to turn up your toes, but 'Not for him,' says I. 'That boy,' I says, 'wasn't born to be snuffed out in a little smash like that.' But you've been unconscious for quite a while."
"How long?"
"Well, it's five o'clock now, and you had your race along about nine-forty, this morning."
"What's the matter with me?" demanded Matt, in consternation. "I'm not badly hurt, am I? I don't feel as though I was."
"Not a bone broken, and that's the wonder of it. You hit that wagon like an earthquake, they say. You've had the skin scraped off you in several places, but the doctor says you'll be as well as ever in a week—providing there are no internal injuries."
"Well," said Matt, "there aren't any. I'd know it, I guess, if there was."
"I guess you would."
"Heard anything from Phœnix?"
"Got news that will make you feel like a fighting-cock! A telegram got here sayin' that Clipperton has been freed——"
"Glory!"
"McReady got there in time to flash the affidavit of Pima Pete's before the case went to the jury; but the telegram says it wasn't the affidavit that turned the trick so much as the grit and determination of you and McReady in getting the document to Phœnix."
"But Clip's innocent! Everybody's got to know that."
"Everybodywillknow it, too," averred the sheriff. "The two men who took the money from Fresnay were captured by three of the men I sent out on your tip. They brought the rascals in, not more than an hour ago, gold and all—not early enough to free Clipperton, but in plenty of time to set him straight with anybody who still had a doubt of his innocence. I wired the news to Phœnix an hour ago, and McKibben and some more people will be up on to-night's freight."
There seemed to be nothing more that Motor Matt could wish for. But he roused up from a reverie to ask after theComet.
"That motor-cycle," said Burke, "is a mass of junk. You've had your last ride on it, Matt. You did a lot of good work with that machine."
"But the best work I ever did with it," said Matt, "I did this morning. What I accomplished for Clip was worth the price. And Chub! Talk about pluck and grit, he showed it if ever a fellow did."
"You both showed it," said Burke. "One of the captured scoundrels, Torrel by name, has turned State's evidence. He told me all about everything. Says he, and the fellow with him, have been staying at the house of a Mexican in Phœnix, ever since the Dangerfield gang was put out of business. They knew Dangerfield had buried ten thousand dollars in gold, not far away in the hills, and they knew Pima Pete had been let into the secret of the cache. They were in Phœnix watching Pete. A Mexican, belonging to the place where the two outlaws were staying, carried a note to you that had been given him by Pete. This was after the robbery——"
"But how did Torrel and his pal know about the pay-roll money?" interposed Matt. "If they were watching Pete in order to locate Dangerfield's gold——"
"That's right," broke in Burke, "I'm getting a little ahead of my yarn. Well, they heard from some one that Fresnay had come to town after the ranch-money. That gave them the idea they could make a rich haul without bothering with Pete, so they went out in the hills and made it. They learned, next morning, that Clipperton and Pete had been captured, that Pete had got away, and that circumstances pointed to Clipperton as the thief—Clip and Pete; see?"
"Then Torrel and his pal came back into Phœnix. That was the time they got next to the note sent by Pete to you. The Mexican messenger had read it. The real thieves knew at once that Pima Pete was planning to save Clip, and, naturally, Torrel and his pal didn't want it that way. If Clip and Pete were believed guilty, then the real thieves could enjoy their loot without having the authorities bother them. So Torrel's pal tried to bluff you out by sending the Mexican with a warning. You wouldn't be bluffed. The two scoundrels laid for you in the hills—and you showed them your heels."
"What did Torrel and his pardner want to hang around Prescott for?" queried Matt. "Why didn't they skip when they had a chance?"
"They were expecting to meet another of the old gang at the old Hopewell tunnel. They went there to meet him, and found Pima Pete. Then they held Pete a prisoner in the tunnel until they thought the law had taken care of Clip, got word that the man they were waiting for was in Maricopa, and pulled out early Sunday night, in the storm. That was the last of them, and their move once more gave Pete a free hand, for since that money of Dangerfield's had been taken in charge by the State as that stolen from Fresnay, they had no reason to hold Pete."
"What about the fellow at Maricopa?"
"I wired that town and an officer went after him. But the man will not be caught—I'm positive of that."
"Have you captured Pete?"
A queer look crossed Burke's face.
"I reckon I could have captured him, if I'd tried to right hard," said he slowly, "but I didn't try."
"Why not?"
"Well, he showed himself a good deal of a man, for a half-breed, and I'm not hungry to make a thousand off of him."
Matt reached out his hand and gave the sheriff's big paw a cordial grip.
"I'm glad you feel that way," said he. "I can't explain, but what you say does me a lot of good."
It was half-past ten that night before the Phœnix delegation arrived in Prescott.
McKibben and Leffingwell came, and Clip, and Chub, and Welcome Perkins, and—last but not least—Susie. Susie was going to take care of Matt until he was well enough to dispense with a nurse.
It is useless to dwell on the meeting of these friends with Matt. Clip's dark eyes expressed his feelings, and henceforth only death could wipe out the close friendship born of recent exciting events.
In a week, so well was Matt looked after, that he was up and around—not quite as full of ginger as ever, but rapidly getting back into his old form.
He had more money in the bank, too—even after Short had corralled the $500—than he had before Clipperton had got into difficulties. Some of Dangerfield's gold came to him—Matt would only take enough to offset Short's fee and other expenses—and there was a "rake-off" from the $2,000 Burke received for the capture of Tolliver and his partner.
Motor Matt, when he went back to Phœnix, found himself more popular than ever. He had lost the game littleComet, but it was only a start for higher things in the motor line. Just what these things were, and the fame and fortune they brought to Motor Matt will be touched upon in the next story.
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (5) WILL CONTAIN
MOTOR MATT'S MYSTERY
OR,
FOILING A SECRET PLOT.
A Dutchman in Trouble—The Runaway Auto—The Man at the Roadside—The Mystery Deepens—Matt Gets a Job—Concerning the Letter—The Two Horsemen—On the Road—In the Hands of the Enemy—A Shift in the Situation—A Surprise—Escape—The Hut in the Hills—Back to the Car—A Race and a Ruse—In Ash Fork.
A Dutchman in Trouble—The Runaway Auto—The Man at the Roadside—The Mystery Deepens—Matt Gets a Job—Concerning the Letter—The Two Horsemen—On the Road—In the Hands of the Enemy—A Shift in the Situation—A Surprise—Escape—The Hut in the Hills—Back to the Car—A Race and a Ruse—In Ash Fork.
NEW YORK, March 20, 1909.
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By OLIVER K. ROSSE.
It was about half-past six, one brilliant morning in June, and the boys of Bidford School were dressing themselves, preparatory to "scudding" for the river, wherein to take their customary seven-o'clock "dip." Every one was out of bed, skipping to and fro, as lively as grasshoppers, throwing wet sponges at one another, and indulging in divers other jocular vagaries, which sufficiently accounted for the many strange noises and the repeated loud bursts of laughter that greeted the listening ear.
The inmates of dormitory number one were the younger members of the school, and the merriest and most popular of all were Caggles and Bottlebury.
"I say, Bottlebury," cried Caggles, a youth who had a deal of confidence in his own powers, "I'll swim you this morning, and 'lick' you by a dozen yards."
"All right," said Bottlebury; "but you can bet your life I'll have the laugh on you! I've been putting in a lot of practise lately."
"That's what you always say, 'Bot,' old bird."
"Well! it's right enough. Whoop! Here's a black beetle in one of my shoes!"
"Don't kill it! It's mine," cried a lanky youth, dashing forward.
"Look here, Fuzzy, you beast," said Bottlebury, "you'll get punched until you're black and blue if you bring such disgusting creeping reptiles up here."
Fuzzy was an amateur naturalist, and delighted to keep a stock of living insects about his person, in pill-boxes.
"This fellow got loose," he said, as he fearlessly picked up the coal-black beetle and popped it into the small cardboard prison which he had ready.
"I say, 'Cag,'" resumed Bottlebury, "it's our turn to roll the tennis-ground."
"So it is," said Caggles; "won't it be hot work if the sun hangs out all day!"
"I should say so!" assented his friend. "I say, though, you were dreaming like a madman last night."
"Was I?" laughed Caggles; "I'm an awful fellow to dream. I used to walk in my sleep, but I've got over that. They say it comes of having an active brain."
"Aye; and they say that kids with active brains like that generally turn out to be tip-top poets and authors."
"Do they?" said Caggles, suddenly imagining himself a budding genius.
"Oh," said Bottlebury, with delightfully refreshing candor, "I don't suppose it means anything in your case, you know."
"Why?" asked the disappointed Caggles, in an injured tone of voice.
"Well, I don't think you've got enough brains for 'em to be active. It'll be active nerves in your case. It's just the same, only it's different; see?"
"Was I talking in my sleep?" asked Caggles, anxious to change the subject.
"I think so. I just caught something about 'moles,' but I went to sleep pretty soon after."
"Well, I've been wishing for a mole," said Caggles; "Tupman says they've got no eyes, and I say they have. I'm going to hunt for one of the little beggars, just to see who's right."
At that juncture the door was flung open, and Crieff, one of the oldest boys in the school, rushed into the dormitory, red and breathless, and minus his cap.
Now, Crieff was usually a very sedate fellow, and went about as stately as an Oriental grandee. His neck was rather long, and at every stride he stiffened his legs and bulged out his chest, so that he was suggestive, somewhat, of a dignified stork.
The boys of the dormitory were astonished, therefore, to see him in so breathless and limp a state.
"What's up?" asked Caggles, with mouth agape.
"The tennis-ground!" gasped Crieff, mopping his face with a handkerchief.
The tennis-ground at Bidford School was reputed to be one of the finest in the whole neighborhood. It had been specially laid, and its smooth surface was as level as a billiard-table. Every boy was proud of it, and Crieff tended it with the anxiety of a father.
"What's up with it?" asked two or three voices.
"Spoiled! Ruined!" said Crieff, almost with tears in his eyes.
"Never!" cried Bottlebury.
"It is. Somebody has dug holes all over it with a spade. I've just been down and seen it."
"It was all right yesterday afternoon," said Caggles, with an expression of disgust on his face.
"Some one must have done it in the night," said Crieff; "I believe it's one of those village kids I thrashed last week for throwing stones."
"Very likely," said Caggles; "they'll do anything for spite."
"They used our spade, too," continued Crieff; "the one out of the shed. The lock of the door has been useless for some time, you know. They must have gone in and taken out the spade; I found it lying on the ground."
The inmates of the dormitory stood aghast. A grand match between themselves and a neighboring school had been fixed for this coming Saturday. Under the peculiar circumstances this, of course, would have to be postponed.
Hastily finishing their toilet, the boys accompanied Crieff to the tennis-ground, where they saw that his account was only too true. The ground was dug up in a dozen places.
Exclamations of rage rose from the fast-increasing crowd of boys, and energetic discussions were entered upon, until quite a confusing uproar prevailed.
"Whoever it was," said Caggles, almost bursting with wrath, "they ought to be kicked."
"I say, Crieff," said Bottlebury, "do you think they'll come again?"
"I don't think so," was the answer; "still, they may. I'm just trying to think of a way to catch the scoundrels."
"Put a lot of rat-traps about," suggested a small boy.
"Man-traps, you mean," said Caggles.
"Yes; that's it—man-traps," said the small boy.
"Where'll you get 'em from?" asked Caggles, as if bent on calling down derision on the youngster.
"Oh, anywhere—buy 'em," replied the small boy, in a vague way.
"But where from, you young ass?"
"Where they sell 'em;" and the small boy fled in time to miss Caggles' foot.
"Well," said Dumford, "if there's a doubt whether they'll pay us a second visit, it'll be hardly worth while sitting up all night."
Suddenly Caggles gave a cry of extreme pleasure.
"I know a good plan," he said; "I'll get a ball of strong, thin twine, fasten one end to the spade in the shed, carry the ball across the field, and up-stairs to the dormitory, and then tie the other end to my big toe. If any one walks off with the spade, the string will pull my toe and waken me. Then, down-stairs we go, and ask the midnight visitor if he wants any help."
Crieff laughed.
"It's a good idea," said he, "and there's no harm in trying it. It may answer and it may not. The schoolhouse isn't a hundred yards away."
"Very well," said Caggles, with a gleeful chuckle, "I'll get the twine and try it to-night. Let's roll the ground. They'll very likely to come again if they see we've patched it up."
This was done, the twine purchased, and that night Caggles got into bed with his toe attached to one end of the string and the spade in the shed tied to the other.
Poor Caggles! He little thought what a laugh there was to be at his expense.
For a considerable time the inmates of No. 1 dormitory lay awake in a state of anxious expectation, half-expecting to see Caggles dragged out of bed and go hopping down the room, with his big toe nearly pulled out by the roots, so to speak. But nothing happened, and one by one they closed their eyes and went to sleep, until all were wrapped in slumber. Even Caggles—despite the uncomfortable sensation of the twine round his toe—was not long in succumbing to drowsiness, for he was very tired, having rolled the tennis-ground all that afternoon.
Just as the faint sounds of the schoolroom clock striking one floated up-stairs, Bottlebury woke with a start, having dreamed that he was falling down a coal-mine. He wiped the perspiration of fear from his brow, rubbed his eyes, and sat upright. Then, turning his gaze in the direction where Caggles always slept, he saw by the light of the moon, which streamed in at the window, that his chum was not to be seen.
His bed was empty!
In an instant Bottlebury was on his feet.
"Wake up, you fellows!" he cried, as he dragged his trousers on. "Wake up! D'you hear?"
Dumford popped up his head and asked what the row was over.
"Caggles isn't in bed," said Bottlebury excitedly; "he's felt the string tug, I s'pose, and has hurried off without us."
In another minute every boy had donned his nether garments, and then away they went, pell-mell, down the darkened stairs.
As they rushed outdoors they descried a figure, clad in naught but a night-shirt, making for the tennis-ground.
"Why, that's Caggles!" said Dumford.
"What on earth has he come out like that for?" queried Bottlebury; "he'll catch his death of cold."
"Make no row," warned Dumford. "It strikes me there's something peculiar about this affair. Let's follow him quietly."
Caggles made straight for the shed, and, opening the door, disappeared inside.
In a few seconds he reappeared with the spade in his grasp, and, walking up to the tennis-ground, began to dig.
The onlookers gasped with amazement, and a light dawned on their minds.
"He's asleep," whispered Dumford; "it was nobody but he who dug the ground before."
"By Jove!" was all that the astonished Bottlebury could say—so unlooked-for was the revelation.
Suddenly Caggles was seen to fall to the ground. The twine had twisted round his legs and thrown him.
Bottlebury was quickly at his side and assisted him to his feet.
"What's this?" said Caggles, in great bewilderment, the fall evidently having brought him to his waking senses.
"Come along in," said Bottlebury; "you'll catch rheumatics, or something."
Caggles looked, in a dazed way, first at the spade and then at his now grinning companions.
"Did I do it?" he asked.
"I suppose so," replied Bottlebury; "but what in the name of goodness made you? What were you digging for?"
"Moles," said Caggles, after a slight pause, in which he shivered with cold; "I—I suppose I must have come out to look for moles."
And so he had. The assertion made by Tupman that moles were blind had caused him to long to test the truth of the statement. He even dreamed of the subject, following which a somnambulistic desire to dig for moles in the tennis-ground was born within him.
He never heard the last of the ludicrous adventure, and Bottlebury had a thorough good laugh at him.
The nocturnal mole-hunter thenceforth slept in a small room by himself, with the door securely locked and a patent "catch" on the window, "so that"—as some one facetiously remarked—"he should not again have necessity to tie spades to his toes."