"The Chink's got it right, McGlory," cried Cameron. "Unless something happens to the aëroplane we'll never overhaul it. Matt's gaining on us right along."
"And all we can do is to watch and let him gain," fumed the cowboy. "I feel like I did, once, when I was tied hand and foot and gagged while a gang of roughs were setting fire to a boathouse in which Pard Matt lay asleep. Oh, speak to me about this!"
Then, all at once, the motor went wrong, and the car lost speed until it came to a dead stop. McGlory groaned.
"Of course this had to happen," he stormed. "If you're ever in a hurry something is bound to go wrong with these blooming chug carts. We're out of the race, Cameron. Take your time, take your time. Hang the confounded luck, anyway."
Cameron got down and went feverishly to work locating the trouble. Ping tumbled out of the tonneau and fluttered around, dancing up and down in his excitement and anxiety.
McGlory did not get out of his seat. Gloomily he kept his eyes on the fading speck in the heavens until he could see it no more.
"It's out of sight," he muttered heavily.
"The aëroplane?" asked Cameron, fumbling with the sparking apparatus.
"What else do you think I mean?" snapped the cowboy, in his worst humor. "Matt's done for, and all we can do is sit here and let him rush on at the rate of a mile a minute straight into the trap that has been set for him. Sufferin' snakes! Did you ever run into anything like this before?"
NOTHING DOING IN SYKESTOWN.
Cameron, by a happy blunder, finally located the trouble, and repaired it. McGlory had a little knowledge of motors and he might have helped, but his dejection was so profound that all he could do was to sit in the car, muttering to himself.
"Buck up, McGlory," said Cameron, jerking the crank and noting that the motor took up its humming tune as well as ever. "While there's life there's hope, you know. We'll be able to do something yet."
"Oh, yes," gibed McGlory. "With a car going fifty miles we'll be able to overhaul a flying machine doing sixty."
"Of course," went on Cameron, getting into the car and starting, "we can't expect to overtake Matt unless something should go wrong with the aëroplane, but——"
"If anything goes wrong with the aëroplane then Matt breaks his neck. That won't do."
"I was going to say," proceeded the lieutenant as he teased the car to its best pace, "that we're to meet Matt at Sykestown in the morning. If anything is to happen to him, McGlory, it will be on the other side of Sykestown. Calm down a little, can't you? We'll reach the meeting point by morning, all right, and then we can tell Matt about the message from Mrs. Traquair."
The cowboy had not thought of this point, and yet it was so simple that it should have occurred to him before. Instantly his worry and alarm gave way to hope.
"Right you are, Cameron," said he. "When I go into a taking I always lose my head and slip a cog. We can't catch up with Matt. That's out of the question. As you say, though, we can sure find him in Sykestown."
The car swung into Minnewaukon, and there was a momentary pause for counsel.
"If Matt's taking the air line, as he said he was going to do," remarked Cameron, "then he'll be cutting the corner between here and Sykestown. There are poor roads and bad hills on that lap, and we'll make better time by taking the longer way round and going by Carrington."
"Maybe he didn't go that way," said McGlory. "If he has to come down for anything he'll have to have a fairly good stretch of trail in which to get a start before the flying machine can climb into the air. Like as not he went by way of Carrington, himself."
"We'll soon settle that," and Cameron made inquiries of a man who was standing beside the car.
Yes, the man had seen the aëroplane. It had passed over the town and went southwest.
"That settles it, McGlory," said Cameron. "Matt cut the corner. If he'd gone by way of Carrington he'd have started south."
"He's taking a big chance on his machine going wrong," muttered the cowboy, "but Matt can take more chances and come out right side up than any fellow you ever saw. It's Carrington for us, though."
Cameron headed the machine southward and they flickered out of Minnewaukon like a brown streak. Nothing went wrong, and they hit a steady, forty-mile-an-hour gait and kept it up through Lallie, Oberon, Sheyenne, Divide, and New Rockford. Here and there was an occasional slough which they were obliged to go around, but the delay was unavoidable.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon when they reached Carrington, and they congratulated themselves on the ease with which they had covered so much of their journey.
They halted for an hour in Carrington, Cameron and McGlory going over the machine and replenishing the gasoline and oil. At four they pulled out for Sykestown, and had barely crossed the Carrington town line before accidents began to happen.
First, a front tire blew up. A flying stone gouged the shoe and the inner tube sprung a leak.
An hour was lost repairing the damage. Nevertheless, the cowboy kept his temper well in hand, for they had not planned to reach Sykestown and meet Matt before morning.
A mile beyond the place where the tire had blown up the electricity went wrong; then the carburetor began to flood; and last of all the feed pipe became clogged.
"Let's leave the old benzine-buggy in the road and walk the rest of the way," suggested McGlory. "A pair of bronks and a wagon for me, any old day."
It was eleven o'clock at night when they got into Sykestown and pulled to a halt in front of the only hotel in the place. There was no garage, and Cameron backed the car under an open shed in the rear of the hotel.
While he was doing this, McGlory was making inquiries regarding Motor Matt.
"Nothing doing, Cameron," announced the cowboy, meeting the lieutenant as he came into the hotel.
"Matt hasn't got here yet?"
"He hasn't been seen or heard of. That's some queer, I reckon. He took a crosscut. Coming at sixty milesan hour, barring accidents, he ought to have reached Sykestown by noon."
"Well," said the optimistic lieutenant, "it's a good thing to know he hasn't got here and gone on without waiting for us. Matt knows we were not to meet until morning. He may be waiting at some farmer's shack, somewhere out of town. Let's get a hand-out and then go to bed. Wrestling with a refractory motor is tiresome work."
This was sensible advice, and the cowboy, although he did not accept Cameron's explanation of Matt's absence, concluded to accept it.
McGlory was up at dawn, however, inquiring anxiously for news. There was none. Taking a chair out in front of the hotel he sat down to wait.
An hour later, Ping came scuffling around the corner of the hotel.
"Where have you been, Ping?" McGlory asked.
"My makee sleep in choo-choo car," replied the Chinaman, taking an upward squint at the sky with his slant eyes. "Cloud Joss no makee come, huh?"
"Nary, Ping. I'm which and t'other about this, too. We're up against a rough game of some kind, and I'd give my eyeteeth to know what it is."
"Plaps Motol Matt makee lescue Melican lady all by himself."
"There's no Melican lady to rescue, and that's the worst of it."
At this moment Cameron issued from the hotel. He had his khaki jacket over his arm and the handles of a brace of six-shooters showed above the tops of his hip pockets.
"No sign of Matt yet, eh?" he asked cheerily.
"Nary a sign, Cameron," replied McGlory. "Unless something had gone crossways, he'd have been on here early this morning."
"I don't believe in crossing bridges until you get to them," said Cameron, dropping down on a bench. "You know Motor Matt better than I do, McGlory," he went on, "but I'm well enough acquainted with him to know that he keeps his head with him all the time and never gets rattled."
"He's the boy on the job, all right," averred the cowboy, with a touch of pride. "But what good's a cool head and plenty of pluck if a flying machine up-ends with you a couple of hundred feet in the air?"
Cameron grew silent, and a little bit thoughtful.
"There was a still day yesterday," said he, at last, "and only a bit of a breeze this morning. It's not at all likely that any accident of that kind happened."
"I'm not thinking of that so much as I am of Murgatroyd and his gang," went on McGlory. "That bunch of tinhorns may have laid for Matt somewhere between Sykestown and Minnewaukon."
"Hardly. They wouldn't be expecting him by air ship, and across country, the way he started."
"Hackberry, you remember, wanted him to get a horse and ride cross country."
"But Matt told Hackberry he expected to reach Sykestown by train. Because of that, no matter what the plans of Murgatroyd and his men were, they'd have to give over their designs and lay for Matt somewhere between here and the Traquair homestead."
"That's where you're shy some more," said McGlory. "Hackberry, coming on horseback from Minnewaukon, hasn't got to where Murg is, yet, so he can't have told him what Matt was expecting to do. Take it from me, Cameron, there was a gang on that cross-country road, last night, layin' for our pard."
"Well, if there was," returned Cameron easily, "then Motor Matt sailed over their heads. But all this is mere guesswork," he added, "and mighty poor guesswork, at that. We'll just wait here until Matt shows up."
There was a silence for a while, Ping getting a crick in his neck holding his head back and watching the sky toward the north and east.
"No makee see Cloud Joss," he murmured.
Neither McGlory nor Cameron paid much attention to the report. If Matt had been coming in the aëroplane the excitement in the town would quickly have apprised them of the fact.
"I can't understand," said Cameron musingly, "what this Murgatroyd hopes to accomplish by all this criminal work."
"You can't?" echoed McGlory. "Well, Matt butted into Murgatroyd's game and knocked his villainous schemes galley-west. That don't make Murg feel anyways good, does it? Then there's Siwash Charley. He's a tinhorn andmucho malo, and there's no love lost between him and the king of the motor boys. What's the result if Murg and Siwash get Matt in their clutches?" The cowboy scowled and ground his teeth. "You ought to be able to figure that out, Cameron, just as well as I can."
"Murgatroyd isn't anybody's fool," said Cameron. "He's not going to go to any desperate length with Matt and run his neck into a noose."
"Murg won't, but what does Siwash Charley care? He's already badly wanted, and he's the sort of cold-game gent who does things when he's crossed. Murg will play safe, but Siwash is apt to break away from Murg's plans and saw off with Matt in his own way. What that way is I'm afraid to think about, or——"
The noise of a motor was heard up the road, accompanied by the hollow rumble of a car crossing the bridge over Pipestem Creek.
"Another car coming this way," remarked Cameron, looking in the direction from which the sound came.
Buildings intervened between the front of the hotel and the bridge, effectually shutting off the view.
A moment after Cameron had spoken, however, a big car came around a turn in the road and headed for the hotel.
The car carried two passengers—a man and a woman. The moment the car hove in sight, the proprietor of the hotel came out and leaned against the wall of the building near the door.
"I don't know what's to be done now," muttered the proprietor. "There's only room in that shed o' mine for one automobile, an' your machine is there. What'll Mr. Murgatroyd do with his car?"
"Murgatroyd!" exploded Cameron, jumping to his feet.
"Murgatroyd!" cried McGlory.
"Woosh!" chattered Ping. "We no ketchee Matt, mebbyso we ketchee Murg, huh?"
Up to that moment there had been nothing doing in Sykestown; but now, with startling suddenness, there seemed to be plenty on the programme.
BROUGHT TO EARTH.
If McGlory, Cameron, and Ping were delighted with the start of the new aëroplane, Motor Matt was doubly so. Matt was "at the helm" and capable of appreciating the machine's performance as his friends could not do.
Preserving an equilibrium, and riding on a more or less even keel, is the hardest point to be met in navigating an aëroplane. The centre of wind pressure and the centre of gravitation is constantly changing, and each change must be instantly met by manipulating the wings. In the Traquair machine, equilibrium was preserved by expanding or contracting the wing area, giving more resistance to the air on one side and less on the other, as necessity demanded.
Matt, facing westward in the direction of Minnewaukon, could give no attention to his friends, every faculty being required for the running of the flying machine. Every condition that had so far developed the aëroplane was meeting wonderfully well; but new conditions would constantly crop out and Matt was still in doubt as to how the great planes and the motor would take care of them.
At a height of a hundred feet he steadily opened up the throttle. Faster and faster whirled the propeller, and below the machine the prairie rolled away with dizzy rapidity. Almost before Matt realized it he was over the town of Minnewaukon, with the jubilant cheers of the citizens echoing in his ears.
He made a half turn to lay the machine on her new course. The inner wing dipped as the aëroplane came around, but the expanding and contracting device kept the craft from going to a dangerous angle, and it came level again on the straightaway course.
Even on a day that seems still and quiet the air is a veritable maelstrom of conflicting currents close to the earth's surface. Barns, houses, hills, trees deflect the streams of air and send them upward to churn and twist in numberless whirlpools. To get out of this unruly atmosphere an aëroplane must mount.
Having made sure of the machine's performance at a lower altitude, Matt climbed higher. Three hundred—four hundred—five hundred feet upward he went soaring, then rounded gracefully into a level course and was off at speed along the air line.
It would be hard to describe the exultation that arose in the breast of the king of the motor boys. It was not alone that he was doing with an aëroplane something which had not before been attempted—striking out a new line for the air navigators of the world—but it was the joy of a new sensation that thrilled him, spiced with the knowledge that he was rubbing elbows with death every instant the machine was aloft.
On his clear brain, his steady eye, and his quick hand hung his hope of life. A wrong twist of the lever at a critical time would overset the machine and fling it earthway, a fluttering mass of torn canvas, twisted wire ropes, and broken machinery, himself in the very centre of the wreck.
Higher above the earth the wind was stronger, but steadier, and the motor hurried the aëroplane along at its top speed.
It was difficult for Matt to estimate the rate at which he was traveling. There were no landmarks to rush past him and give him an inkling of his speed. Once, however, he saw a farmhouse in the distance ahead; and he barely saw it before it was swept behind and lost to his eyes under the lower plane.
Wherever he saw a road he followed it. If anything happened, and he was obliged to descend, a flat stretch of hard earth would help him to remount into the air again.
Matt had secured his watch on the seat beside him so that he was able to glance at its face from time to time. He had started from Camp Traquair at eight o'clock. When the hands of the watch indicated nine-thirty, he made up his mind to descend at the most favorable point on the surface below him.
He presently found the place he wanted, hard by a farmhouse, shut off the power and glided downward. A kick at a footlever dropped the bicycle wheels into position, and the aëroplane brushed against the earth of a hard road, moved a little way on the wheels, and then came to a stop.
A man and a boy, who had been watching the strange sky monster from a wheatfield, hurried toward the machine as soon as it had come to a stop. They were full of excitement, and asked many questions, to all of which Matt patiently replied while looking around to see that wings, rudders, and motor were still in perfect condition.
"How far is it to Sykestown?" Matt asked, as soon as his examination was finished.
"About a hundred miles," answered the man.
"And how far are you from Minnewaukon?"
"Eighty miles."
"Great spark plugs!" laughed Matt, resuming his seat in the machine; "I'm traveling some, all right. I've been only an hour and a half coming from Totten."
"Do tell!" gasped the man, in wonder. "Why, neighbor, them there hossless wagons couldn't travel much quicker'n that!"
"I should say not! I've some friends following me in an automobile, but they're nowhere in sight."
Matt got the bicycle wheels to turning. When they were carrying the aëroplane at the rate of thirty miles an hour the planes took the lift of the air and swung upward clear of the earth.
A pull at the gear turned the power into the propeller, and away rushed the machine like a new style of comet.
"I'm going to reach Sykestown in time for dinner," thought Matt, "and McGlory and Cameron are not expecting to meet me there until to-morrow morning. I'd have time to go to the Traquair homestead to-night and perhaps get Mrs. Traquair out of the shack and carry her in to Sykestown."
The idea appealed to Matt. Talk about a test for an aëroplane! A manœuvre of that sort would put the Traquair machine far and away ahead of any air craft so far invented. What heavier-than-air machine was there that could travel away from its starting point and keep going, asking no odds of anything but gasoline and oil and a firm surface for launching into the void?
This demonstration of the new aëroplane was succeeding beyond Motor Matt's wildest dreams.
"We'll not take her apart and put her in a crate to send her to Washington," thought the jubilant young motorist. "I'll fly her there. I didn't think the machine could travel and hold her own like this!"
Having plenty of time at his disposal, he began manœuvring at various heights, slowing down and increasing his speed, and mounting and descending.
In the midst of this fascinating work, he caught sight of an automobile in the road below him. The car contained only two passengers—a man and a woman—and was proceeding in the direction Matt was following.
The car was traveling rapidly, but not so rapidly as the aëroplane.
Matt decided to swing the aëroplane to a point alongside the automobile and not more than a dozen feet above the ground, traveling in company with the car and making inquiries of the man in the driver's seat.
If he carried out his plan to go to the Traquair homestead that night, it would be well to learn something about the location of the farm, and the man in the automobile might be able to give him the information he required.
No sooner had he made up his mind what he was going to do than he proceeded to put the plan into execution. Hovering over the automobile, he slowed down the engine, turned the small steering planes in front and slipped down the slope of air as easily as a hawk coming to earth.
Some fifteen feet above the prairie, just far enough to the right of the automobile so that the left-hand wings cleared the car safely, Matt struck into a horizontal course.
He had not had a good look at the man in the car, as yet, although both the man and the girl were watching his movements with the utmost curiosity.
"Hello!" called Matt, still keeping his eyes ahead and holding his mind to the work of attending to the air ship.
There was no answer, or, if there was, Matt did not hear it.
"Are you acquainted with the country around here?" Matt went on.
"A little," came the response from the man.
"Could you tell me where Harry Traquair used to live?"
"You'll have to bear off to the right if you go there. The Traquair homestead is twenty miles from——"
Something in the voice drew Matt's eyes quickly to the man.
"Murgatroyd!" cried the young motorist. "Great spark plugs!"
A twist of the rear rudder sent the aëroplane away from the road; a touch of the lever increased the machine's speed; then, the next moment, he would have mounted high into the air—had not something happened.
The crack of a rifle came from below, followed by the crang of a bullet on metal, a woman's scream, and a sickening lurch of the aëroplane.
Matt tumbled from the lower wing, and then experienced a shock that almost drove his spine up through the top of his head.
Dazed and bewildered, he lay where he had fallen.
THE COIL TIGHTENS.
Matt's brain was a jumble of vague and half-formed ideas. He did not seem able to grasp any notion firmly, or hold to it realizingly. As his brain began to clear, its first lucid thought had to do with the rifle shot and the man in the automobile. Instinctively he turned his head so that he could have a view of the road.
The automobile had come to a halt a little distance away. The woman, who had been riding in the tonneau and who must have given the scream which was still echoing in Matt's ears, had thrown open the car door and stepped down from the machine.
She was young and pretty, wore a long dust-coat and had the ends of a veil flying out behind her well-shaped head.
Matt shifted his eyes to Murgatroyd. The latter was coolly getting out of the car. Reaching back, as soon as his feet had touched ground, he pulled a rifle from one of the seats, turned and walked a little way toward Matt, halted and leaned on the gun. He did not speak, but his dark, piercing eyes roved over Matt and then leaped on beyond, to where the aëroplane was lying.
Matt withdrew his gaze to give it to Murgatroyd's fair companion.
"Are you hurt?" cried the girl, as Motor Matt lifted himself and looked toward her.
"What is it to you, or that scoundrel with you, whether I am hurt or not?" he answered angrily.
A hurt look crossed the girl's face. She had been hurrying toward Matt, but she now paused and drew back.
"Your business is with me, Motor Matt, and not with my niece," snapped Murgatroyd sharply. "She doesn't know anything about our affairs, and is undoubtedly feeling hard toward me because I fired that shot and brought you down."
"Why did you do that, Uncle Amos?" demanded the girl shrilly. "You might have killed him!"
"No danger of that, Amy," was the cool answer. "I shouldn't have tried to bring him down if he had been high enough in the air for the fall to hurt him."
"Why did you try to bring him down, anyhow?"
The girl's alarm was merging rapidly into indignation and protest.
"Well," said Murgatroyd, "I wanted to talk with him, and he didn't seem at all anxious to stay alongside the automobile."
"So you ruined his flying machine and took the chance of hurting him!"
"Get back in the car, Amy," ordered Murgatroyd sharply. "You don't understand what you are talking about. This young rascal deserves all he receives at my hands, and more."
"He doesn't look like a rascal, or——"
"Will you mind?"
Murgatroyd turned and pointed toward the car. The girl hesitated a moment, then walked slowly back to the automobile and climbed into the tonneau.
Matt, meantime, had picked himself up, glad to find that he had no broken bones. He was bruised and sore, and his coat was torn, but he did not care for that. He had had a lucky escape, and just at that moment was more concerned about the aëroplane than he was about himself.
The flying machine, so far as Matt could see, did not appear to be very badly broken.
"I'll hold you responsible for this, Amos Murgatroyd," said Matt, turning on the broker. "It was an unprovoked attack."
"You've given me plenty of cause to lay violent handson you," answered Murgatroyd. "What are you doing in this part of the country?"
"That's my business, not yours."
A snaky, malevolent smile crossed Murgatroyd's smooth face.
"It may be my business, too," said he. "You asked for the Traquair homestead. Is it your intention to go there?"
"I don't care to discuss that point with you. Just understand that you'll be called on to answer for all the trouble you have caused me and also Mrs. Traquair. This scoundrelly attack on my aëroplane will come in for part of the accounting."
"Yes?" was the sarcastic response. "The machine, to look at it from here, hasn't the appearance of being very badly hurt. Suppose we give it a closer inspection?"
Matt wondered at the man's desire to learn more about the damage to the aëroplane. It was an hour or so before the reason was made clear to him.
Keeping a wary eye on Murgatroyd's rifle, Matt stepped over to the aëroplane.
The bullet had struck one of the propeller blades, snapping it off. The blade, in turn, had struck and cut through one of the small wire cables that formed a stay for the rear rudder.
"You've put the machine out of business," said Matt. "The fall, too, may have damaged the motor pretty seriously. I can't tell that until I make a closer examination."
"It will take you an hour or two, I suppose, to get the machine repaired?"
"An hour or two!" exclaimed Matt. "I shall have to get some farmer to haul it to the blacksmith shop, in Sykestown."
A guileful grin swept like an ill-omened shadow across Murgatroyd's face. Without another word he went to the automobile, climbed to the driver's seat, leaned the rifle against the seat beside him, and started the car. He did not continue on toward Sykestown, but made a turn and went back over the course he had recently covered.
"The scoundrel!" cried Matt. "He knew I was here to do what I could for Mrs. Traquair—that question I asked him about the homestead would have proven that, even if he had not guessed it from the mere fact of my being in this section. He injured the aëroplane to keep me from carrying out any plan I might have for the rescue of Mrs. Traquair. He knows it will take me some time to get the aëroplane fixed, and while I'm doing that he'll be moving Mrs. Traquair from the homestead to some other place. That's why he was so anxious to find out how badly the machine was damaged. If it hadn't been seriously broken, no doubt he'd have put another bullet into it. He'll pay for this if I've anything to say about it."
For a few moments Matt sat down on the prairie and looked ruefully at the helpless aëroplane.
This reverse meant much to Motor Matt. Quite likely it would prevent the sale of the machine to the government, for it was now practically certain the aëroplane could not be repaired and turned over to the government for shipment east by the first of the month. This would have been impossible, even if Matt had had leisure to repair the damage—which he did not have on account of the necessity he was under of helping Mrs. Traquair.
How far back on the road the last house was situated Matt could not remember. He would have to go there, however, and hire the farmer to transport the aëroplane to Sykestown. The quicker this was done, and the sooner the damage was repaired, then the more speedily he could use the machine in helping Mrs. Traquair.
If repairs were going to consume too much time, then he could join Cameron, McGlory, and Ping and go to the Traquair homestead in the lieutenant's borrowed motor car.
Greatly cast down by his reverse, yet firmly determined to carry out his original purpose at any cost, Matt set his face back along the road.
He was guessing good and hard about the young woman who was in the automobile with Murgatroyd. She was the broker's niece, but she was not in favor of any of his villainous designs—that fact was beyond dispute. If the girl felt in this way, why had Murgatroyd had her along while pursuing his dark schemes against Mrs. Traquair?
It was an enigma that baffled Matt. He gave up trying to guess it, and began reproaching himself for becoming so easily entangled with the motor car and its scoundrelly owner. He should have made sure that the man was not an enemy before bringing the aëroplane so close.
It is always easy to look back over our conduct and discover the mistakes. In the present case, Matt was blaming himself when there was really no cause for it. If anything was at fault it was fate, which had brought the disastrous encounter to pass.
Every step Matt took reminded him of his bruises. His head throbbed and every bone in his body seemed to ache. He continued to stride rapidly onward, however, keeping his eyes constantly ahead in the hope of discovering a farmhouse.
Suddenly he saw a fog of dust rising from the trail in the distance. The cloud was moving toward him and he had a quick thought that it might be the automobile. The next moment the dust was whipped aside by the rising wind, and he was sure of it.
The car was coming, but there was only one man in the driver's seat. The girl had vanished from the tonneau.
"Murgatroyd took her to some farmhouse," ran Matt's startled thought, "and he is coming back to try some more villainous work." The young motorist's fists clinched instinctively, and a fierce gleam darted into his gray eyes. "We'll see about that," he muttered, between his teeth.
The automobile came on swiftly, and Murgatroyd brought it to a standstill close beside Matt.
"Get in here," the broker ordered, nodding his head toward the tonneau.
"I've got other business on hand," answered Matt. "If you're going on to finish wrecking the aëroplane——"
"Don't be a fool!" snarled the broker, standing up and lifting his rifle. "I've invited you to get into the car, but I canorder, if you force me to do that, and back up the order with this gun."
"You've used that gun once to-day, Murgatroyd," said Matt, giving the broker a defiant look, "and I guess you'll find that's enough."
He passed on along the roadside close to the side of the automobile. The door of the tonneau was open. As he came abreast of it, a form that had been hiding in the bottom of the car leaped out.
Matt, taken by surprise, tried to leap away. Before hecould do so, however, he was in the grip of a pair of strong arms, and the face of Siwash Charley was leering into his.
"This hyer's once things didn't come yer way, my bantam!" gritted Siwash Charley. "Stop yer squirmin', or I'll give ye a tap on the head that'll put ye out o' bizness."
THE DOOR IN THE HILLSIDE.
In spite of Siwash Charley's threat, Matt struggled as fiercely as he could. With a muttered curse, the ruffian drew back one fist.
"Steady there, Siwash!" cried Murgatroyd. "Don't be any rougher with him than you can help. Wait! I'll come down there and lend a hand while we get a rope on him."
Murgatroyd picked up a rope from the bottom of the car, jumped to the ground and came rapidly up behind Matt. Between the two of them, the scoundrels succeeded in bearing the young motorist to the ground and putting lashings on his hands and feet.
Siwash Charley lifted himself scowling and drew his shirt sleeve across his damp forehead.
"He's a fighter, all right," he muttered, "but he kin gamble on it that we've got the upper hand o' him now."
"You took the girl away and got Siwash Charley, eh, Murgatroyd?" asked Matt.
"You're a young man of rare perception," was the broker's sarcastic response.
"You'll both pay for this," went on Matt steadily.
"Who'll make us pay?" grunted Siwash Charley. "Not you, my bantam. I've got inter enough trouble on your account, an' I ain't intendin' ter git inter any more."
This was a luminous remark of Siwash Charley's. Matt would have liked to ask him how he expected to keep out of trouble by continuing his lawless work, but there was not time. Lifting the prisoner roughly Siwash Charley heaved him onto the seat in the tonneau, and slammed the door; then Siwash got up in front. Murgatroyd was turning the engine over. When he was done, he climbed to the driver's seat and started the car. He did not go on toward Sykestown, but, as before, made in the opposite direction.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Matt.
"Ye'll know," answered Siwash Charley, turning around savagely, "when ye find out—an' not afore."
"Where are you taking me?" persisted Matt.
"Ye'll find that out quicker'n ye'll find out the other."
There was clearly no satisfaction to be got out of Siwash Charley.
"Something will happen to that aëroplane," said Matt, "if it's left alone on the prairie."
"Don't worry erbout that thar flyin' machine. We're goin' ter take keer o' it."
"Murgatroyd," cried Matt, "if you do any more injury to that machine, you'll have to pay for it."
"Sing small," answered the broker, giving all his attention to his driving; "you'll be a whole lot wiser before I'm done with you."
"That machine," went on Matt, "is to be delivered to the government, at Fort Totten, on the first of next month. If it isn't, I'll lose the sale of it. If you keep me from making the sale, you'll have to pay the government price—fifteen thousand dollars."
Siwash Charley lay back in his seat and guffawed loudly.
"Talks big, don't he, Murg?" said he.
"Talk's cheap," was the laconic answer.
Owing to his bonds, Matt had difficulty in keeping himself upright on the seat while the automobile pitched and slewed along the road.
When two or three miles had been covered, Murgatroyd turned the machine from the road and drove toward a range of hills, or coteaus, that fringed the horizon in the northwest.
Over the crisp, crackling grass the heavy car passed, now and then chugging into a gopher hole and slamming Matt around in the tonneau.
When they had reached the foot of the hills, Murgatroyd followed along the foot of the range and finally halted.
"This will do," said the broker. "Take the ropes off his feet, Siwash, and make him walk. I guess he won't try to get away. You can keep a grip on him and I'll trail along with the rifle."
"Oh, I guess he won't try any foolishness with me," cried Siwash, swinging down from the car, "not if he knows what's best fer him."
Opening the tonneau door, Siwash Charley reached in and removed the rope from Matt's ankles.
"Come out here," he ordered.
Murgatroyd stood up in front, rifle in hand, and watched to see that the order was obeyed. Matt supposed that all this was to keep him from going to Traquair's homestead and helping Mrs. Traquair. But, bound as he was, and with two desperate men for captors, he was helpless.
Without a word he got up and stepped out of the car. Siwash Charley caught his arm and led him toward a steep hillside, Murgatroyd following with the rifle. At the foot of the almost perpendicular wall of earth they stopped.
"Hold the gun on him, Murg," said Siwash, "while I fix the winder so'st ter throw a little light inter the dugout."
"Go ahead," answered the broker curtly.
Siwash stepped apart. Matt, with ill-concealed astonishment, saw him push a hand along the hillside and pushback a square curtain of canvas painted the color of the yellowish brown of the dried grass. A small window was revealed. To the right of the window another curtain was lifted, disclosing a door. Siwash opened the door and stepped back with an ill-omened grin.
"Conduct the gent inter the hang-out, Murg," he leered.
"Go on," ordered Murgatroyd, touching Matt with the muzzle of the rifle.
"What kind of a place is this?" asked Matt, hesitating.
"Look at it from the inside an' mebby ye'll have a better notion of it," answered Siwash, grabbing Matt's arm and hustling him through the doorway.
Motor Matt's heart sank when he looked around at the earthen walls of the excavation. It looked like a prison, and undoubtedly it was to be a prison for him.
"I'll make him lay down on the shelf," observed Siwash, "an' tie him thar."
"Put him in a chair and tie him to that," said Murgatroyd. "He'll have to lie down at night, and change of position will be something of a rest for him. I don't want to be any rougher than we have to."
"Bah!" snorted Siwash. "From the way ye talk, Murg, a person 'u'd think ye had a weak heart. But I know diff'rent. I shouldn't think ye'd be so onreasonable when ye stop ter think o' the hole this feller's got us both inter."
"He's going to get us out of the hole, and give me something I've set my heart on, besides. I reckon he's entitled to all the consideration we can give him."
Siwash kicked a chair forward and pushed Matt into it; then, with another rope, he tied the prisoner with coil on coil, drawn taut about his legs, waist, and shoulders. When Siwash was done, Matt could hardly shift his position an inch.
"Now," proceeded Murgatroyd briskly, "we'll have to hurry. I left my niece at a farmhouse, and I want to get back there and make sure that she doesn't cause any trouble."
"Trouble? What kind o' trouble kin she make?"
"She's not used to this sort of work, and it was tough luck that she was in the car when Motor Matt came along in that flying machine. She's very much put out with me because I fired a bullet into the aëroplane in order to stop Motor Matt. She's a girl of spirit, and I must talk with her to make sure she doesn't do something that will play hob with my plans."
"Wimmen ain't no good, anyhow," growled Siwash Charley. "Will ye go right on ter Sykestown ter-night?"
"I think not. It will be best to stay at the farmhouse until I make sure whether my talk will do any good. If I think Amy will leave my hands free, we'll make for town in the morning."
Murgatroyd turned to Matt.
"Where's McGlory?" he asked.
"I don't know," Matt answered.
"Was he to meet you in Sykestown?"
Matt was silent.
"Ye kin gamble, Murg, that cowboy feller was ter meet him some'r's. Wharever ye find one of 'em ye're purty sure ter find t'other. I'm wonderin' why McGlory wasn't in the flyin' machine along with Motor Matt."
"If they were to meet anywhere," said Murgatroyd, "it was in Sykestown. Motor Matt would hardly try to rescue Mrs. Traquair alone."
A snaky smile accompanied the last words. Siwash Charley chuckled.
"It worked like a house afire," the latter muttered.
"Bring writing materials, Siwash," said the broker.
The other went to a box cupboard, swinging against the wall, and brought out some paper and envelopes, a bottle of ink and a pen. These he placed on the table in front of Murgatroyd.
"How many letters ye goin' ter write, Murg?" queried Siwash, hanging expectantly over the table.
"Three," replied the broker. "One letter will be sent to Lieutenant Cameron, another to Joe McGlory, and another to Mrs. Traquair."
Matt could not understand these allusions to Mrs. Traquair. If she was a prisoner at the homestead, why was Murgatroyd writing a letter?
It required an hour's time to write the three letters. Murgatroyd allowed Siwash to read each one as soon as it was finished.
Siwash became jubilant as the reading progressed. When the last letter had been gone over, he brought his fist down on the table with a smashing blow.
"They'll do the trick, by jinks!" he declared. "Ye'll git what ye're arter, Murg, an' so'll I. Thunder, but I wisht I had your head!"
"It takes something of a head to make money and keep out of jail, these times," laughed Murgatroyd, getting up.
The letters were folded and put in the addressed envelopes, and Murgatroyd slipped the three missives into his pocket.
"I'm off, now, Siwash," said he, stepping toward the door. "It may take a week to wind up this business, and it may not take more than three days. See that the prisoner don't get away, whatever you do."
"Waal, ye kin bank on me from the drap o' the hat!" cried Siwash Charley effusively. "Blamed if I ever had anythin' ter do with sich a slick game as this afore, an' it does me proud ter have a hand in it. Count on me, Murg, count on me!"
With a derisive grin at Motor Matt, Murgatroyd stepped through the door in the hillside. A few moments later Matt could hear his automobile gliding off across the prairie.
A REVELATION FOR MATT.
Motor Matt, in spite of his helpless situation, was not at all worried about his own safety. What did alarm him, though, was the plot which Murgatroyd seemed to be putting through with so much success.
Why had the broker written the letters to Cameron, McGlory, and Mrs. Traquair? What did they contain? And why should a letter be written to Mrs. Traquair when she, like Matt, was supposed to be a prisoner of Murgatroyd's?
These were all matters of grave import, and the king of the motor boys turned them over and over in his mind.
He knew that Murgatroyd, for some reason of his own, was intensely eager to secure the Traquair homestead. Probably he could have bought it for a fair amount, but that was not the broker's way. He had made his money by lending on mortgages, and then foreclosing, thus securing property for a fraction of its value. This seemed to be his desire in the present instance, and he was taking long chances to put his plans through.
Siwash Charley, after the broker was gone, was in great good humor. He gave Matt a drink of water from a pail on the earthen shelf, and then filled and lighted his pipe and dropped down on a cot. For purposes of ventilation the door was left open, and Matt, his brain puzzled and bewildered, watched the sun sinking into the west.
The afternoon was drawing to a close. Somewhere, along the road to Sykestown, McGlory, Cameron, and Ping were making their way in the borrowed motor car. During the night, if all went well, the party should reach Sykestown. Matt would not be there to meet them in the morning: but Murgatroyd would be there, and would scarcely be able to evade Cameron and McGlory.
What Matt's friends would do when they encountered the broker was problematical. Matt had abundant faith in Cameron's good judgment, and in his cowboy pard's courage and determination. Something of importance would happen, the king of the motor boys was sure, and that something would be of help to Mrs. Traquair.
"What's Murgatroyd up to, Siwash?" asked Matt.
"He knows, an' I know, but you don't," answered Siwash, "an' what's more, ye ain't a-goin' to. So stop yer quizzin'."
"Why is he writing to Mrs. Traquair if she's a prisoner of his, out on the Traquair homestead?"
Once more Siwash enjoyed himself.
"He's goin' ter send the letter out thar," replied Siwash. "Now stop askin' questions. Ye'd better be congratulatin' yerself that we're handlin' ye so keerful. Arter what ye've done ter Murg an' me, knockin' ye on the head an' drappin' ye inter some slough wouldn't be none too good. Howsumever, ye're wuth more ter us alive than ye air with yer boots on—which is mainly whar yer luck comes in. Hungry?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll git ye a snack."
Siwash went to the cupboard from which he had brought the writing materials and secured some dried beef and crackers. Removing a knife from his pocket, he began cutting the dried beef into small pieces.
There was something about the knife that reminded Matt of the rusty dagger Ping had found in the woods, and recalling the dagger brought Cameron's story of Goff Fortescue abruptly to Matt's mind.
The prisoner eyed Siwash sharply. There was that about the ruffian that suggested the soldier—a certain precision of movement acquired in the ranks. Matt began to whistle softly.
For a moment Siwash Charley paid no attention; then, as the air Matt was whistling came to him, he lifted suddenly and glared.
"Stop yer whistlin'," he snapped.
"Do you know what that is, Siwash?" he asked.
"No!" almost shouted the scoundrel.
"They call it reveille up at the post. Here's 'stable call'——"
Siwash made one spring at Matt, the knife still gripped in his fist. He flashed the blade in front of Matt's eyes.
"If I thought—if I thought——"
Siwash breathed the words hoarsely and stared menacingly at Matt. There followed an awkward silence. Presently Siwash turned away and went on carving the dried beef.
"I don't want ter hear 'stable call' nor nothin' else," he snarled. "Don't like whistlin' nohow. Shut up, or I'll put a gag between yer jaws."
Matt deemed it best to keep silent after that. Nevertheless, it seemed to him as though he had touched a raw spot in Siwash Charley's past history. Had Cameron got the matter right? Was Siwash Charley really the deserter, Cant Phillips?
When the food was ready, Matt asked Siwash to release his hands so that he could help himself. But Siwash refused, and the prisoner was compelled to take his food from the ruffian's hairy paws.
A change appeared to come over Siwash Charley. He was moody and reflective, and kept his pipe going continuously.
Leaning back against the earthen wall of the room, he surrounded himself with a fog of vapor, which, because of the poor ventilation of the dugout, almost stifled Motor Matt.
The sun went down in a blaze of red, night fell, and Siwash closed the door and lighted the lamp. He neglected to curtain the window, however, which may have been an oversight on his part.
Matt fell to musing upon the aëroplane, and about the watch which he had left on the aëroplane seat.
Would anything happen to the machine while he was a prisoner in the hands of Murgatroyd and Siwash? He roused up suddenly.
"Siwash," he asked, "what's going to be done with that flying machine?"
"I've had all I want out o' you," growled the ruffian, with savage emphasis. "If ye know when ye're well off, ye'll hush."
Matt "hushed." Frogs began to croak, and their husky voices came faintly to the prisoner's ears. Somewhere inside the dugout a cricket chattered. A rat ran over Matt's feet and a lizard crawled slowly along the earthen shelf at his side.
"A pleasant hole, this," muttered Matt grimly; then, again and again, thoughts of those three letters recurred to his puzzled mind.
Siwash fell asleep in his chair, and his snores were added to the weird sounds that drifted in from the prairie.
Matt's limbs, bruised and sore from the fall out of the aëroplane, felt numb from the bonds. His whole body was aching, and his head throbbed as though a thousand demons were pounding it with hammers. But, in spite of his pain and discomfort, he fell to wondering if there was not some way by which he could free himself from his bonds.
He had an invincible nature, and never gave up a fight so long as there was breath in his body. Slowly he began an effort to free himself. It was a fruitless attempt, doubly bound as he was, and his desperate labors caused the chair to overturn and land him sprawling on the clay floor.
The noise awoke Siwash Charley.
"Tryin' ter git loose, hey?" he cried with an oath. "I ought ter make ye sit up all night fer that, an' I got a blame' good notion."
Roughly he jerked the chair upright and began removing the coils of rope. When they were off, he examined the cords at Matt's wrists.
"Go over an' lay down on the cot," he ordered.
Matt's feet were free, and, had the door been open, he would have been tempted to make a dash through it and try to lose himself from his captor in the darkness of the open prairie.
Passing over to the cot he dropped down on it, and Siwash tied him there with more coils of rope, passing them around and around the side pieces of the cot, under and over it.
The change of position was a rest, in a measure, although the tight wrist cords kept Matt's arms numb clear to his shoulders. It had been a trying day, and Matt presently dropped off to sleep. The hour was late when he closed his eyes. Although he had no means of telling the exact time, yet he knew it could not be far from midnight.
A mellow chink as of metal awoke him. He opened his eyes and saw daylight shining through the window.
Siwash was at the table, humped over it and counting a small store of yellow gold. An old leather pouch lay on the table beside the coins.
Matt, cramped and in an agony of discomfort, was on the point of crying out and asking to be untied from the cot and put back in the chair, but he saw a head push across the window on the outside of the dugout, and the call died suddenly on his lips.
It was the face of Hackberry!
Hope arose in Motor Matt's breast. Hackberry was a friend, in some manner he had learned where Matt had been taken, and he had come to his rescue!
Scarcely breathing, Matt watched the face of the man at the window.
Hackberry was not looking at Matt, but had centred his attention on Siwash. The latter, finishing his count of the gold pieces, swept them from the table and into the pouch; then, crossing to the wall by the cupboard, he knelt down, removed a flat stone, and pushed his yellow wealth into its cache. After placing the stone in position once more, Siwash Charley got up and stepped toward the door.
Before he could open it, the door was pushed ajar in his face.
"Pecos!" exclaimed Siwash, startled.
"Shore," laughed Pecos. "Ye didn't think it would take me more'n a day and a night to git back from Totten, did ye? The hoss is plumb tired, an' I've jest picketed him close to water an' grass. And the scheme worked, hey?" he went on, with a grin at Matt. "I reckoned I'd put up a purty good bluff."
Here was a revelation for Matt, a revelation that broke over him in a flash and brought with it a grievous disappointment.
A clever trap had been laid by Murgatroyd, and, in spite of all his precautions in testing Hackberry's story, Matt had walked into it!
PECOS TAKES A CHANCE.
"Was that story of yours a lie?" demanded Motor Matt.
"Well," drawled Pecos, "it wasn't exactly the truth, not as anybody knows of. I gave it to you jest as Murg give it to me, an' it certainly took fine!"
The astounded expression on Matt's face caused Siwash Charley to go into another roar of mirth. It was a very good joke—to Siwash and Pecos Jones. Pecos,riding over to Fort Totten, had claimed to be an honest homesteader, doing his utmost to help a neighbor in distress. The idea of Pecos Jones posing as an honest homesteader still further added to Siwash Charley's enjoyment.
"Isn't Mrs. Traquair at the homestead?" inquired Matt.
"Not onless she went thar o' her own accord—which I don't reckon possible."
"And your claim doesn't join the Traquair quarter section?"
"Oh, but that's rich!" whooped Siwash Charley, wiping his bleared eyes.
When Matt's amazement left him he felt a sense of relief. It was something to know that Mrs. Traquair wasn't in danger, something to feel that he had now only himself to think about.
"I'm hungry," said Pecos Jones, throwing himself down on the shelf. "Got any grub, Siwash?"
"Don't I allers have grub?" returned Siwash. "It's thar in the cupboard, Pecos. Help yerself."
Pecos helped himself to a chunk of beef and a handful of crackers.
"I reckon," he observed as he ate, "I ought ter have a good bit o' money fer what I done, eh, Siwash?"
Siwash Charley immediately grew cold and formal.
"Why, you little wart," he answered, "how much pay d'ye want fer goin 'ter Totten an' back? Ain't sixty dollars enough?"
"It was my work as done the trick," protested Pecos. "I'll bet Murg is givin' you a hull lot more'n sixty cases."
"That's my bizness an' Murg's. Sixty you got, an' sixty's all ye git."
Pecos looked at his diminishing piece of beef reflectively.
"Well," he remarked, "you an' me's allers been good friends, Siwash, so I reckon we needn't ter quarrel. Oh, I come purty nigh fergittin'. On my way here I rode past Jessup's shack. Murg come out an' hailed me an' said he wanted ye ter come over there, right away."
"Thunder! Why didn't ye tell me afore?"
"Ye ain't lost much time. Take yer own hoss, don't put a bridle on mine. My critter's all tired out. How long'll ye be?"
"It won't take me more'n an hour ter go an' come," answered Siwash, picking up his hat. "If Murg don't keep me long, I reckon I'll be back in an hour an' a half. What d'ye think he wants me fer?"
"Give it up. He ain't tellin' me any more o' his bizness than what he has ter."
"No more he ain't, an' I reckon it's a good plan, too. I suppose it's somethin' about that niece o' his. Don't let Motor Matt bamboozle ye. If he gits contrary, thar's Murg's rifle leanin' in the corner."
"I don't need no rifle while I got these," and Pecos patted the handles of two revolvers that showed at his hips.
"Waal, so long, Pecos," said Siwash, moving toward the door. "The ole man may be in a hurry, so I'll tear away."
He disappeared, and Pecos continued to munch his bread and crackers. A few minutes later, through the open door, Matt and Pecos saw Siwash pounding away across the prairie.
Immediately Pecos Jones' manner underwent a change. Stuffing what remained of his crackers and dried beef into his jacket pockets, he ran to the door and watched.
"He's gone," murmured Pecos, "an' I got an hour, anyway. Sixty cases, eh?" he snarled. "What I done's wuth more, an' if Murg won't give it I take it, anyhow."
Without paying the least attention to Matt, who was watching proceedings in amazement, Pecos ran to the wall and dropped down on his knees. Removing the big, flat stone, he threw it to one side and pushed his hand into the secret cache. Presently he drew out the leather pouch and gave a croaking laugh as he shook it over his head and listened to the jingle of gold.
"I'll l'arn 'em ter beat me out o' what's my due!" he cried. "I'll git on my hoss an' dodge away inter the hills. If Siwash kin find me, then he's welcome ter take his money back. Wonder if there's anythin' else in there?"
Again Pecos bent down, thrust his arm into the hole, and drew out a suitcase, mouldy and stained. Pecos weighed it in his hands, shook it, then cast it from him.
"Nothin' there!" he grumbled, and got to his feet.
A thrill shot through Matt. Pecos had seen Siwash counting his money and putting it away in the secret cache. Being a man of no principle, and believing that he had been poorly paid, he had made up his mind to steal all he could get his hands on and leave while Siwash was away at Jessup's.
While he was handling the suitcase Matt had seen, on one end of the mouldy piece of luggage, the letters, "G. F."
There was no doubt but that Siwash Charley was Cant Phillips! No doubt but that this satchel, drawn out of the earthen cache by Pecos, was the dishonored officer's luggage—the very receptacle which had contained the San Francisco plans!
"Pecos!" cried Matt, as the thief darted toward the door.
The man paused.
"I ain't got no time ter bother with you," he answered.
"You got me into this," begged Matt, "and why not set me at liberty?"
"I'm takin' enough from Siwash, I reckon," said Pecos.
"But if it hadn't been for you I wouldn't be where I am now."
"An' if ye wasn't where ye are now," answered Pecos, by a strange process of reasoning, "I wouldn't be entitled ter this!" He shook the jingling pouch.
"I've got money in my pocket——"
"Oh, ye have!" cried Pecos, with a complete change of front. "That's diff'rent."
He pushed the pouch into the breast of his coat and came to the side of the cot.
"I'll give it to you," said Matt, "provided you take the ropes off my hands."
"Ye don't have ter give, my buck, so long as I kin take! I'll not let ye go, but I'll take what ye got an' save Siwash the trouble."
Matt's personal property had not been tampered with by his captors—probably on orders issued by Murgatroyd, who seemed to have his own ideas about how the prisoner should be treated.
Pecos, in feverish haste, bent over Matt and tried to get at his pockets. The tightly drawn coils of the rope interfered. Swearing volubly, he grabbed up Siwash Charley's knife from the table and hacked one of the coils in half.
This cutting of one coil released all the others, and Pecos was free to pursue his search unhindered. With a grunt of exultation he drew a small roll of bills from Matt's pocket, stuffed it into his trousers, and was away like a shot.
Matt had the use of his feet, and, now that the coils securing him to the cot had been severed, he was able to rise to a sitting posture.
For a few moments his brain whirled dizzily. Just as it began to resume its normal condition, a thump of galloping hoofs sounded outside the door, and Matt struggled erect and reeled to the opening.
Pecos Jones was putting his tired horse to its best pace. Odd as it seemed to Matt, he was hurrying in the direction of Sykestown.
Perhaps that was the best course for Pecos to take if he wanted to avoid Siwash. He would not go into the town, but could give it a wide berth, and make for regions to the southward.
Weak and tortured with his numbed limbs, Matt sank down on the earthen shelf.
Bound though he was, Matt knew he could escape. Siwash, as yet, had not been gone half an hour. He would certainly be back in an hour, full of wrath and eager for revenge.
Matt did not believe that Murgatroyd had sent for Siwash, but that Pecos had told the story simply to get the other out of the way while the robbery was being perpetrated. If this was true—and Matt felt positive that it was—the fury of Siwash would pass all bounds.
It would be better for Matt not to be there when Siwash returned, but there was Goff Fortescue's suit case. Matt felt that he was in duty bound to take it with him, and this he could not do unless he had the use of his hands.
How was he to free himself? The knife lay on the floor where Pecos had dropped it—and the knife suggested possibilities.
Getting up from the shelf, he walked over to the knife and knelt with it between his feet; then, with his numbed fingers, he fumbled for the blade, lifted it upright, and shoved his feet together with the knife between his heels, edge side out.
This manœuvre took time, for Matt had to try again and again, but at last the blade had a fairly rigid support, with the handle between his heels and the back of the knife against his body.
After resting a moment—for the work, so trifling in the telling, had brought into torturing play every muscle—he pushed the wrist cords up and down the sharp edge. He cut himself slightly—it was impossible to avoid that—but the cords were severed, and, with a groan of relief, he drew his swollen hands around in front of him.
Almost fagged, he fell over upon the floor, feebly rubbing his arms to restore circulation. While he was thus engaged, the beat of hoofs, coming swiftly and the sound rapidly growing in volume, reached him.
Siwash Charley! was the thought that darted through his brain. It did not seem possible that the man had been gone an hour.
It was too late, now, to leave the dugout, and Matt got up and staggered to the door. For a moment he stood there, looking. He was seen, and a furious yell came echoing across the prairie. There was no doubt of the approaching horseman being Siwash Charley.
The crack of a revolver was heard, and a bullet thumped spitefully into the woodwork of the door frame.
Matt drew back, closed the door, and shoved the bolt.
Right then and there he and Siwash Charley would have out their little differences. But Siwash was not the only one of the two who was armed.
Matt remembered the rifle which belonged to Murgatroyd, and to which Siwash had called Pecos Jones' attention. Pecos, in his haste, had left without it, and Matt now hurried to the corner and picked it up; then, returning to the door, he crouched there and waited.