BESIEGED.
The king of the motor boys hated the very touch of a firearm. He had seen so much wanton use of such weapons when in the Southwest, that he had become imbued with horror and disgust for anything that carried powder and ball.
But here he was forced to fall back on whatever he could find in order to withstand the attack of a frenzied and desperate man.
Counting out the rage Siwash must feel over the trickthat had taken him away from the dugout, if he once broke into the room, found his money gone, and the satchel in Matt's possession, there was no telling what demons would be turned loose in him.
Having discovered the satchel, Matt was determined to turn it over to Cameron. It was this resolve that had held Matt to the spot, and now forced him to brave the wrath of Siwash Charley.
Bang! bang! bang!
Leaden hail rattled on the door, but the door was of stout plank and the metal could not penetrate it. The barrier Siwash Charley had constructed for his own preservation, in time of possible stress, now proved a good shield for Motor Matt.
Having announced himself, in this violent fashion, Siwash dismounted and tried the latch. The door, of course, refused to yield, and Siwash hurled himself against it. The stout planks trembled, and the earthen wall quivered.
"Steady, there, Siwash Charley!" cried Matt. "I've got Murgatroyd's rifle, and I don't intend to let you come in here."
This announcement seemingly carried an effect. The attack on the door ceased and Siwash began a parley.
"Did that coyote of a Pecos Jones set ye loose?" he demanded.
"No."
"How'n thunder did ye make it, then?"
"Pecos Jones robbed me—cut the ropes that tied me to the cot so he could get at my pockets. You had left my feet unbound, and I managed to juggle a bit with a knife that lay on the floor."
"Waal, it won't do ye no good. Ye're in thar, an' I'm out hyer, ye've got a rifle an' I've got a brace o' Colts, an' on top o' that ye've got the use o' yer hands, but that don't mean that ye're goin' ter git away. I ain't wantin' ter harm ye—ye heerd what Murg said when he left—so ye might as well open the door an' let me in."
"I'll not do that," answered Matt firmly.
"Why won't ye?"
"Because, now that I'm free, I'm going to stay that way."
"Ye ain't free! All the freedom you got is ter run eround that two-by-twice hole in the ground an' dodge bullets. Whar's that coyote? I got a bone ter pick with him."
"He's not here."
"I know that, kase I seen that his hoss wa'n't down by the spring whar he picketed him. Whar'd he go?"
"I don't know."
"What did he play that bloomin' trick on me fer? Murg wasn't at Jessup's—he an' the gal had been gone from thar fer two hours."
Here was Matt's chance to laugh, but he was not in a mood to take advantage of it.
"Do you remember counting your gold this morning, Siwash?" asked Matt.
A startled exclamation broke from the ruffian.
"Did ye see that?" he returned. "I thought ye was asleep."
"I wasn't the only one who saw it. Pecos Jones was looking through the window. Pecos not only saw you counting the money, but he also saw where you put it."
A bellow of fury broke from Siwash.
"Why didn't ye tell me he was at the winder?" he fumed.
"Why should I?" returned Matt. "You fellows had led me to believe that Pecos Jones' name was Hackberry, and that he was a friend of mine. I had an idea that he was coming here to rescue me, and that's the reason I kept quiet."
Matt could hear Siwash tramping about and easing his wrath as this shot went home.
"What did that coyote do?" roared Siwash. "Tell me that."
"He took your money and ran away with it."
"Did—did he take anything else?"
"Well, some of my money that I had in a vest pocket."
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Ye know whar that cache is?"
"Of course. How could I help knowing when Pecos Jones rifled it under my eyes?"
"I'm suspicionin' you," yelled Siwash, "with yer whistlin' o' reveilles an' stable calls! Ye kain't fool me, not fer a minit."
Matt had been afraid of this discovery, but there had been no way of preventing it. He had told Siwash about Pecos in the hope of having the ruffian trail away in pursuit of the thief.
"Why don't you take after Pecos, Siwash?" asked Matt.
"Kase it's wuth more ter me ter plant myself right hyer an' look arter you. Open this door, 'r I open up on ye, rifle or no rifle."
"I'll not open the door," answered Matt firmly, "and if you try to break it down I'll send some bullets through it. The planks can turn a revolver bullet, but a slug from a rifle will go clean through the wood. Get away from here, Siwash. Your cue is to take after Pecos Jones."
The words ended amid a crash of broken glass. Siwash Charley was shooting through the window. Four shots had already been fired. Matt counted three more. These made seven, and five more shots would empty the ruffian's revolvers.
If he had no more cartridges, he would be helpless. But this was something on which Matt could not count with certainty.
"Keep away from that window, Siwash!" cried Matt,pressing close to the door. "Show yourself there and I'll fire!"
Bang! bang! bang!
"Seven and three are ten," computed Matt. "He'll soon have those weapons emptied. I don't believe he'll show himself at the window, but perhaps I can coax him to shoot again."
Dropping down on hands and knees, Matt crept to a point directly under the window. Having reached this spot, he placed his cap on the muzzle of the rifle and lifted it.
Bang!
"Eleven," thought Matt.
Then he gave a loud cry and allowed the cap to waver back and forth.
Bang!
"Twelve!" exulted Matt. "Now, if he hasn't any more cartridges, I'll be safe."
Matt had allowed the cap to drop at the last shot. Outside he could hear a tramp of running feet.
"I told the cub," came the voice of Siwash. "He ought to've knowed better than ter——"
Siwash Charley's head was thrust in at the opening, rimmed with its jagged points of glass. The scoundrel's words died on his lips, for his eyes were blinking into the muzzle of the rifle.
"Clear out, Siwash!" said Matt calmly. "I don't like guns, and I don't like shooting, but I dislike your society more than either one. Go away from here, and go quick."
What Siwash said Matt could not hear, but he vanished from the window as if by magic.
There was no more firing. In order to test his theory regarding Siwash Charley's ammunition, Matt showed himself boldly at the broken window.
The ruffian was not more than twenty feet away. Quick as a flash he raised one of his weapons and pulled the trigger. There was only a metallic click, which made it manifest that Siwash had not kept such close track of the ammunition as Motor Matt had done.
"Go away, I tell you," ordered the king of the motor boys. "I've had enough trouble with you, and I intend to get to Sykestown in time to prevent Murgatroyd from carrying out his plans. If——"
Matt paused, aghast. Across the prairie he could see a swiftly moving blot—a motor car, he was sure, and undoubtedly Murgatroyd's.
Siwash Charley was likewise looking at the approaching car.
"Oh," he yelled, "I reckon ye ain't got everythin' your way, arter all. Hyer comes Murg, an' ye kin bet Murg ain't out o' ammunition even if I am!"
Matt's heart went down into his shoes. Wasn't luck ever to turn for him? Was there to be no end to this reverse which had come his way?
As he continued to gaze at the approaching car, it grew plainer to his eyes. There was more than one man aboard, he could see that, and the car didn't look like Murgatroyd's, but of a different color. This car was brown!
As Matt's hopes arose, Siwash Charley's began to sink. A moment later, Siwash rushed for his horse.
"Cameron!" cried Matt, hardly able to believe his eyes; "Cameron and McGlory!"
Turning from the window he ran to the door, flung it open and leaped outside.
Yells came from the car, and some one stood up in front and waved his hat wildly.
Matt, pointing to the fleeing Siwash, shouted at the top of his voice:
"Capture that man, Cameron! He's Phillips, the deserter! He is armed, but his revolvers are empty! Capture him!"
If Matt's words were not heard or understood, at least his gestures were. The car turned and darted after Siwash Charley.
The king of the motor boys, leaning against the front wall of the dugout, watched the race.
THE BROKER'S GAME.
The remarks of the landlord, in front of the hotel, had given McGlory and Cameron a clue of which they were not slow to take advantage.
Here was Motor Matt's enemy, the very man who had set in motion the plot which, through Hackberry, had lured the king of the motor boys into Wells County on a useless quest.
Coolly enough Murgatroyd brought his car to a stop in front of the hotel and faced the angry lieutenant and cowboy.
"Your name Murgatroyd?" demanded Cameron.
"My name, yes, sir," answered the broker, half turning in his seat so as to command a better view of the lieutenant. "But," he added quietly, "I believe that you have the advantage of me."
"Cameron's my name."
"Ah!" A flash crossed Murgatroyd's face. "I might have known who you were, just by seeing you with McGlory there. This is a fortunate meeting."
"Fortunate!" cried McGlory, dancing around the front of the car. "Speak to me about that! I should say it was fortunate, you old tinhorn—for us, if not for you. What's this game you've put up on Motor Matt?"
"If we do any talking," said the broker mildly, "you'll have to express yourself in terms that I can understand."
"You'll savvy a heap before we're done with you."
"Just a minute," went on Murgatroyd. "My niece is in the car with me, and I think it well that she should not listen to your violent talk." He looked around. "Amy——"
The girl was white, but she made no attempt to get out of the tonneau.
"I'm not going to leave, Uncle Amos," said she. "I want to hear more of this talk."
"You will please obey me, Amy, and leave the car."
"It is your car," she answered, "and I haven't any right to stay in it if you don't want me to."
Cameron opened the door for her and held out his hand to help her down. She paid no attention to the extended hand, but passed into the hotel.
"Before we begin," proceeded Murgatroyd, "let me ask you if you recognize this watch."
He offered the timepiece as he finished.
"It's Matt's!" exclaimed McGlory, snatching the watch.
"Him Motol Matt's clock, allee light," breathed Ping. The hotel proprietor was the only person, besides Cameron, McGlory, and Ping, within reach of the broker's words.
"This conversation is of a private nature, Brackett," said Murgatroyd significantly, "even though it is taking place in the street in front of your hotel."
Brackett excused himself and passed around the corner of the building.
"That watch," proceeded the broker, "will prove to you that your friend is in my hands. He is being kept safely in a place which you will not be able to find. I have written three letters, one to you, Lieutenant Cameron, one to McGlory, and one to Mrs. Traquair. It will not be necessary to post two of them, for I can tell you, face to face, what the letters contain.
"The one to you, Cameron, has to do with some little unpleasantness connected with the aëroplane trials recently held at Fort Totten. Siwash Charley and, through him, myself were wrongly suspected of complicity in an accident connected with the flying machine. This has been very annoying to me. Your letter contained the information that, other matters being satisfactorily adjusted, your friend Motor Matt would be released under written promise from the authorities at Fort Totten to give over persecuting me and Siwash Charley for a crime of which we are entirely innocent."
McGlory, to put it figuratively, immediately "went up in the air." Before he could air his views, however, Cameron silenced him with a look.
"Motor Matt, according to your proposition, as I understand it," returned the lieutenant calmly, "is to be released providing the military authorities promise you and Siwash Charley immunity?"
"That is one of the conditions governing the release," answered Murgatroyd.
"What are the other conditions?"
"Well, the letter to McGlory contained that. Mrs. Traquair, as satisfaction for the mortgage which I hold against the Traquair homestead, west of here, is to turn over the quarter section to me. That is all. My letter to Mrs. Traquair contains that proposition, and my letter to McGlory requests him to write Mrs. Traquair that what I say, regarding the capture of Motor Matt, is true. McGlory is also to advise her to accept my terms. If those terms are accepted, and if the authorities at Fort Totten agree not to persecute me, or Siwash Charley, any further, Motor Matt will be released."
The cowboy was so full of language that he could hardly restrain himself. Cameron laid a hand on his arm and pushed him away.
"Murgatroyd," said the lieutenant, "you have just made the most impudent and brazen proposition I ever heard. You deliberately plan and commit a crime, and then plan and commit another to save you from legal responsibility for both."
"You look at it in a prejudiced way," returned the broker, apparently not in the least ruffled. "What is your answer?"
The lieutenant was thoughtful for a space.
"I have no power to promise you immunity," said he.
"You will take it up with your superior officer at Fort Totten?"
"I won't say that, but I will say that I will think it over."
"That is all I can ask. How about you, McGlory?"
"Sufferin' wildcats!" gurgled McGlory. "Have I got to answer that? Have I——"
"He'll think it over, Murgatroyd," broke in Cameron, "just as I intend doing. Where is Motor Matt?"
"That is my secret," and the wily broker actually smiled.
"Is he far from here?"
"Another secret. While you are thinking the matter over, I will hunt for a place to stow my car."
He got out to use the crank, and Cameron caught McGlory's arm and led him into the hotel.
"Why didn't I hit him?" the cowboy was murmuring dazedly. "Why didn't you let me hit him, Cameron, or else hit him yourself?"
"Because, McGlory, we've got to talk this over and—— Ah!" The lieutenant broke off as a slender form swept toward him across the office. "This is the young lady, I believe, who was in the car with Mr. Murgatroyd?"
The girl was still pale, but there was resolution in her face and manner.
"I have not much time to talk," said she, "for what I say must be said before my uncle comes in. Mr. Murgatroyd is my uncle. I am a school teacher and live inFargo with my mother. For some time I have been in poor health, and Mr. Murgatroyd suggested that I take an automobile trip with him through this part of the country, where he was coming to look up some of his investments. For a few days our headquarters have been here. Yesterday afternoon we were riding to the north and west of Sykestown when an aëroplane came sailing toward us, dropped down close to the automobile, and a young man whom I afterward learned was Motor Matt hailed my uncle and asked him some question. When my uncle answered, Motor Matt seemed to recognize him, and tried to turn the air ship away. My uncle had a rifle near him, and he fired at the aëroplane, injuring the machinery so that it fell and——
"No," the girl broke off, seeing the look of alarm that crossed the faces of her auditors. "Motor Matt was not seriously injured, but the aëroplane was damaged. This happened about ten miles out, on the road to Jessup's. My uncle turned around and took me to Jessup's, where he left me. I am very sure that he then went some place, secured Siwash Charley to help him, and made a prisoner of Motor Matt. I do not know where your friend was taken, but it could not have been a great way from Jessup's home—west of the road, I think, and along the base of the hills, for that is the way my uncle came when he returned to the farmhouse. We stayed at Jessup's all night and came here this morning. On the way, we passed the aëroplane, and my uncle got out, looked the machine over, and came back with that watch.
"That is all I can tell you. Do not try to keep me any longer, or to ask me any questions. I shall go back to Fargo by train, for I do not like the way my uncle is doing. I—I hope that you will find your friend and that—that no harm has happened to him."
The girl had spoken rapidly, and with nervous impatience, continually watching the door. When she finished, she turned away and passed hastily up the stairs leading to the second floor.
The amazing news she had given held McGlory, Cameron, and Ping spellbound. While they stood, gazing at each other, Murgatroyd entered the office.
"As soon as you have come to a decision," said he, "let me know."
Then he, too, passed up the stairs.
Cameron was the first of the three to recover his wits.
"Quick!" said he, catching McGlory's arm, "there's no time to be lost. Run over to the railroad station and send a telegram to Mrs. Traquair, McGlory. Tell her to pay no attention to any letter she may receive from Murgatroyd. While you're doing that, I'll get out the car and we'll make a run out on the road to Jessup's."
McGlory, inspired with the necessity for rapid work, hustled for the telegraph office. Cameron hurried to the shed after the car. While he was getting the machine ready, Ping mysteriously disappeared.
As the lieutenant pulled out of the shed, he looked for the cowboy and the Chinaman. Neither was in sight.
Two minutes later McGlory appeared, and crossed from the railroad station to the car on a run.
"Where's Ping?" demanded Cameron.
"That's too many for me," said McGlory. "I thought he was with you."
"And I had the idea that he had gone with you. Well, we can't wait for him," and Cameron drove the car around to the front of the hotel.
A man was crossing the street. Cameron hailed him.
"Which is the road to Jessup's?" he asked.
The man pointed it out. Barely had he given the directions when Murgatroyd ran out of the hotel and vanished around the corner of the building.
"He's after his car!" murmured McGlory.
Some one jumped to the footboard and scrambled into the tonneau just as Cameron threw in the switch. It was Ping. He was breathing hard, and his yellow face was as near white as it could possibly be.
"What's the matter with you, Ping?" asked McGlory.
The Chinaman held up one hand. As the flowing sleeve fell away his yellow fingers could be seen gripping a switch plug.
"Murg forgettee plug," chattered Ping. "My findee car, takee plug——"
Cameron let off a shout as he coaxed the automobile into a faster pace.
"That knocks out Murgatroyd, so far as chasing us is concerned," said he. "Shake hands with the chink for me, McGlory. I'm too all-fired busy."
CANT PHILLIPS, DESERTER.
The car slammed its way across the bridge over the Pipestem and hustled at a fifty-mile-an-hour clip in the direction of Jessup's.
"There's a schoolma'm that's worth her weight gold bullion," remarked McGlory. "Her uncle must have found out that she told us something, or he wouldn't have scattered after his car like he did."
"Much good it will do him now," chuckled Cameron, "since Ping has robbed the machine of the important plug. For once the broker was careless."
"And to think of him putting a bullet into the aëroplane and bringing it down!" said McGlory through his teeth. "I reckon that spoils the sale to the government."
"It may," returned Cameron, "but all I can say is I'm sorry if it does."
"How we're to find Matt is a conundrum," went on the cowboy. "Turn west from the road to Jessup's and follow the hills. That may be all right, and it may not.Sufferin' horned toads, but all this is gettin' on my nerves."
"Siwash Charley is taking care of Matt——"
"Taking care of him! I can imagine how the tinhorn is doing that. I hope Pard Matt is able to stand it."
Ten miles were covered in short order, and those in the flying car had a glimpse of the aëroplane beside the road.
"It doesn't seem to be hurt much," remarked Cameron.
"It must be damaged considerable, for all that," said the cowboy. "If it hadn't been, Matt would have got away before Murgatroyd could take the girl to Jessup's, pick up Siwash, and then come back and lay him by the heels."
Cameron brought the car to a halt, jamming down on both brakes.
"Ping," said he, "go back and watch the aëroplane. Here's a revolver. Don't let any one tamper with the machine. We'll be along after a while."
Ping was accustomed to obey orders. Without a word he took the weapon Cameron handed to him and got out of the car. The lieutenant threw in the switch and away they went again.
"There's the hills," announced McGlory, after a period of speeding, pointing to the misty blue line of uplifts.
"I believe I'll break from the trail and head straight for them," said Cameron.
"Might as well," assented McGlory. "It's all a guess, anyhow, and that move is as likely to be right as any other we can make."
There were broad marks of automobile tires in the dust. Cameron had been watching them. Although he said nothing about it to the cowboy, yet he turned from the road at a point where another car had made the turn.
Straight for the hills the lieutenant headed, and as they came closer, McGlory suddenly dropped a hand on Cameron's arm.
"Do you hear it?" asked the cowboy excitedly.
"Hear what?"
"Firing. There it goes again."
Cameron heard it, but it was very faint.
"That sounds as though we were going to get next to something," said McGlory.
"And looks like it, too. Isn't that a horse I see against the background of a hill, over there?"
The cowboy looked straight ahead.
"You're right!" he cried. "There's a horse there, and a man farther along. The man's shooting at the face of the uplift. There! Hear that, Cameron? What's he wasting ammunition like that for?"
Cameron did not answer; he was busy looking and listening and running the car.
"Thunder!" exclaimed McGlory, as the scene opened clearer and clearer before his eyes, "there's a hole in the hillside—two holes, or I'm a Piute, for another just opened up."
"And the man's mounting the horse," said Cameron.
"And some one is coming through that hole in the hill. Sufferin' surprises! Why, it's Matt! Look, Cameron! He's pointing toward the man, and saying something. I can't hear what he says, but it's a cinch he wants us to follow the man."
"And it's a cinch we'll do it, too!" cried Cameron. "Pull that other revolver out of my hip pocket, McGlory. Don't use it, though, till I tell you to. The bare sight of it may be enough to bring the man to a halt."
Cameron had turned the car and was plunging across the prairie in hot pursuit of the fleeing horseman. The car was going five feet to the horse's one, and the pursuit was drawing to a rapid close.
"It's Siwash Charley!" announced McGlory.
"I'd about made up my mind to that," said Cameron. "He was shooting at Matt. It looks as though we had arrived just in time, McGlory."
As the car leaped and swayed across the prairie, the cowboy stood up, hanging to Cameron with one hand and waving the revolver with the other.
"Halt!" he shouted.
Siwash Charley turned in his saddle and shook his fist defiantly.
"He's going to fight," said Cameron. "Look out for a shot when we come close. But don't fire yet, McGlory."
"What's the use of waiting?" demurred the cowboy. "It's a wonder Siwash hasn't opened up on us before now."
"We'll run him down in a minute. His horse—— Ah, ha! See that."
Siwash had been giving rather too much attention to the pursuing car and too little to his horse. The animal dropped a foot in a gopher hole and turned a somersault on the dried grass. Siwash shot out of the saddle as though he had been fired from a cannon, caromed across the prairie, and then lay still.
Cameron nearly ran over the scoundrel before he could shut off and clamp on the brakes. The horse, escaping a broken leg by almost a miracle, scrambled to its feet, gave a frightened snort, and dashed on at full speed, stirrups flying.
"Never mind the horse," said Cameron. "Let Jessup have the brute. Siwash is the one we're after."
"He's coming easy," returned McGlory, dropping the revolver on the seat and following the lieutenant out of the car.
Siwash was lying silent and motionless on the ground. Cameron knelt beside him and laid a hand on his breast.
"Is he done for?" asked McGlory.
Cameron shook his head.
"Stunned, that's all. If we had a rope——"
"The only thing we've got in the way of a line is the piece of string Ping tied around our lunch bag," broke in McGlory, picking the weapons out of Siwash Charley's pockets. "These are no good," he added, after a brief examination. "Every cartridge has been used. Let's load Siwash into the tonneau, Cameron, and I'll agree to keep him quiet until we can get to where Matt is waiting for us."
Between them Cameron and McGlory lifted the huge bulk of the unconscious ruffian and deposited him, none too gently, in the rear of the car. The cowboy climbed in beside him, and the lieutenant cranked up, took his seat, and started back along the foot of the hills. Matt greeted them cheerily as they drew up at the door of the dugout.
"How are you, pard?" whooped McGlory.
"Bruised a little and mighty hungry, but otherwise all right. How's Siwash?"
"In need of a rope, Matt," said Cameron. "Have you got one handy?"
Matt ran into the dugout and picked up part of the rope that had been used to secure him to the chair and the cot. With this Cameron and McGlory made Siwash Charley secure before his wits returned, thus avoiding a possible struggle.
As soon as this part of the work was finished, the cowboy sprang from the car and gripped Motor Matt by the hand.
"You've had a rough time, pard," said he, "and something of a reverse, if what we've learned is true, but you're stacking up pretty well for all that. What sort of a place is this, anyhow?"
"It's Phillips' old rendezvous," said Matt.
"Phillips?" echoed Cameron. "Do you mean Siwash Charley, Matt?"
"No one else."
"Have you any proof of it?"
"Wait a minute."
Matt ran into the dugout and presently reappeared with the suit case.
"Chance threw that in my way," said he, "and, by trying to save it for you, Cameron, I very nearly got myself into more trouble than I could manage. Look at these initials." Matt pointed to the letters "G. F." on the end of the stained and mouldy grip. "This must be the very satchel, don't you think," he added, "that the drummer received by mistake, over in Devil's Lake City?"
Cameron was so amazed he could not speak. Taking the suit case from Matt, he opened it up on the ground. It was not locked and opened readily.
There were stained and mouldy documents inside—blue-prints, tracings, and pages of memoranda.
Cameron rose erect and stared down at the satchel's disordered contents.
"There's no doubt about it," he muttered. "This is the identical suit case that Captain Fortescue carried across the lake with him that day it was supposed he started for St. Paul, and——"
A call came from the wagon.
"What you fellers roughin' things up with me fer? Murgatroyd has got somethin' ter say ter you. When you hear that you'll be lettin' me go."
"He's still hazy," said Matt. "He doesn't remember what's happened."
They all stepped to the side of the car and looked down at Siwash Charley where he lay helpless on the tonneau seat.
"Murgatroyd," said Cameron sternly, "has already told us what he had to say."
"Ye kain't do nothin' ter me fer takin' keer o' Motor Matt," rambled Siwash Charley. "I treated him white, an' he'll tell ye the same thing."
"That's not what we've captured you for," went on Cameron. "You're a deserter, and your name isn't Siwash Charley, but Cant Phillips. You're for Totten, my man, and a court-martial that will probably land you where you won't be able to break the law for a long time to come."
Then, for the first time since his senses had returned, Siwash Charley appeared to understand all that his capture meant.
THE LOSING CAUSE.
Murgatroyd must have had an extra switch plug with him, for Brackett, proprietor of the hotel, was authority for the assertion that he left town shortly after Cameron, McGlory, and Ping had taken their departure. Murgatroyd, however, went east, while the other car took a western trail.
What became of Murgatroyd was for some time a mystery. He was not met along the road between Sykestown and Carrington, and he was not seen in the latter town.
His niece likewise vanished, taking the train—this, also, on the authority of Brackett—and presumably returning to Fargo. For her, Motor Matt and his friends always thereafter treasured a warm regard. She had turned resolutely against a relative in order to make sure that right and justice were meted out to a stranger.
Cant Phillips, alias Siwash Charley, was removed to Fort Totten. After a trial, during which it could not be proved that he had lost the dagger which Ping had found in the woods, or that he had met Captain Fortescue by agreement or otherwise and dealt foully with him, or that he had stolen the suit case and the plans, he was sent to the government prison at Leavenworth to serve a long term.
Phillips' story was to the effect that he had deserted to go into the "business" of stealing horses with Pecos Jones, and that the suit case and the plans were in Jones' possession when he—Phillips—joined him.
But Phillips could not deny his identity, nor the evident fact that he was a deserter. For this he received a sentence that was the limit for desertion, lengthened somewhat by the belief of those presiding at his trial that he had at least a guilty knowledge of the other crimes imputed to him.
Mrs. Traquair was very much wrought up when she discovered how Murgatroyd, using her name, had beguiled the king of the motor boys into a trap destined to free the broker and Siwash Charley of "persecution" by the military authorities, and, at the same time, to secure for the broker himself the Traquair homestead.
It was an audacious plan, and a foolish one, but the several steps by which it was worked were covered in rather a masterly way.
Mrs. Traquair had departed suddenly for a visit with friends in Fargo. Learning of this, and from this one insignificant fact alone, Murgatroyd had built up the whole fabric of his plot. It was a losing cause, and Matt had been caught in it, for, if the audacious scheme was to be successful, the king of the motor boys would be the one factor that made it so. Everything hinged on him.
The aëroplane was guarded by Ping until Matt, Cameron, and McGlory reached Sykestown over the trail to Jessup's and sent a team and wagon back to bring the damaged machine into town. The same wagon that hauled it into Sykestown likewise hauled it across country and back to Fort Totten.
Matt, McGlory, and Cameron, before leaving the dugout to return to Sykestown with their prisoner, lingered to talk over recent events, hear each other's account of what had happened, and to make a further examination of the earthen room.
Nothing of any importance was found, save a slender supply of food in the box cupboard, which was promptly confiscated. When the friends left, they closed the door, allowed the painted screens to fall into place over the door and the broken window, and then marked with astonishment how, at a little distance, even they were at a loss to mark the particular place of that lawless retreat.
"It's a regular robbers' roost," declared McGlory, looking back as the car carried them toward the road.
"It ought to be destroyed," said Cameron. "A knowledge of its presence is an invitation for some other lawless men to make use of it."
"Pecos Jones, for example," added McGlory. "How much money did that fellow get from you, Matt?"
"Twelve dollars," answered Matt. "If he hadn't been in such a hurry, he might have found my money belt and secured three hundred more."
"You got off easy," said Cameron.
"Not so easy, after all, lieutenant. I wouldn't go through that set-to with Siwash Charley again for all the gold that was ever minted. I don't like guns, anyway."
"Somethin' queer about that, too," observed McGlory. "Explosive engines are Matt's hobby, but set off an explosion in a steel tube, with a piece o' lead in front o' it, an' he shies clear off the road."
The next day, after the aëroplane had been brought in and sent on to Fort Totten, and the boys had learned various things from Brackett concerning Murgatroyd and his niece, the little party moved on toward Devil's Lake in the car, taking Cant Phillips with them.
When the post was reached there was a disagreeable surprise awaiting Matt. It came in the shape of a telegram from headquarters, announcing that the trials at Fort Myer had been indefinitely postponed, and that, therefore, another of the Traquair aëroplanes would not be needed.
"Bang goes fifteen thousand!" mourned McGlory.
"The department may change its mind," suggested Cameron, "when it hears about that straight-away flight of the aëroplane into Wells County."
"While the war department is changing its mind," said Matt, smothering his disappointment with a laugh, "McGlory and I will get busy putting the aëroplane into shape and then look for fresh fields and pastures new."
"That hits me, pard," said McGlory. "I've been pining for a change of scene, but I hate to leave this vicinity while Murgatroyd is at large."
"Forget Murgatroyd, Joe," counseled Matt.
"If he'll forget us, yes, but I don't think he will."
THE END.
THE NEXT NUMBER (26) WILL CONTAIN
Motor Matt's "Make and Break"
OR,
Advancing the Spark of Friendship.
The Skeleton in the Closet—What Next?—Bringing the Skeleton Out—Marking Out a Course—The Start—A Shot Across the Bows—The Man Hunters—Fooling the Cowboys—The Trailing Rope—A Bolt from the Blue—"Advancing the Spark"—The Trail to the River—Unwelcome Callers—An Unexpected Turn—A Risky Venture—Conclusion.
The Skeleton in the Closet—What Next?—Bringing the Skeleton Out—Marking Out a Course—The Start—A Shot Across the Bows—The Man Hunters—Fooling the Cowboys—The Trailing Rope—A Bolt from the Blue—"Advancing the Spark"—The Trail to the River—Unwelcome Callers—An Unexpected Turn—A Risky Venture—Conclusion.
NEW YORK, August 14, 1909.
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One morning in September, 190-, there came to the office of Doctor Frederic Curtin, a young English physician in Hongkong, a native junkman from the Chinese city of Swatow, about two hundred miles northeast of the English city. The junkman brought a letter to the doctor from an old acquaintance, the Rev. James Burren, a missionary in the vicinity of Swatow; and the letter begged Curtin to come and attend the missionary's young son, who was suffering from a puzzling and lingering illness.
As none of his patients in Hongkong demanded his immediate attention, Curtin was free to respond to the call. TheSilver Moon, the trading junk that had brought the letter of appeal, was to leave on the return voyage the next day at noon; and as this junk offered the only means of reaching Swatow for several days, Curtin engaged passage on the slow-sailing, clumsy vessel.
There had been much activity that summer among the native pirates that infest the coast waters of the China Sea; and although the doctor did not expect to encounter any of these gentry, he took the precaution of placing in his valise two heavy navy revolvers and a quantity of cartridges.
TheSilver Moonsailed on the morrow at midday, as scheduled, and, driven by a wide spread of canvas, slipped through the deep-blue, lapping water of this Eastern sea at a much better speed than the doctor expected. That evening a nearly full moon floated in the clear sky, and gave a glory to the ocean that Curtin had never seen surpassed. He sat on deck until late, and when he did go down to his cramped berth in the cabin below, he dropped into a sleep so profound that his first intimation of danger was when he was awakened by fierce, wild cries and the scurrying and trampling of many feet on the deck overhead.
He sprang to get his revolvers. But while he fumbled with the catches of the case, there was a rush of footsteps down the passageway outside; and the next moment the frail door burst in with a crash before the attack of half a dozen nearly naked Chinamen, who had revolvers and short curved swords. TheSilver Moonhad fallen a prey to pirates, and Curtin calmly submitted himself to the invaders.
He was allowed to dress. In the meantime the pirates rummaged through his baggage, including the rather portly black leather case in which he carried his medicines and surgical instruments. When he was hustled on deck a few moments later he found lying alongside theSilver Moona huge junk, and swarming over the captured vessel a motley horde of evil-looking barbarians.
The crew of theSilver Moon, awed and cringing, was huddled forward under guard.
But Curtin was not placed with the other captives. At a word from the thin, wiry man who appeared to be the leader, two of the pirates marched the doctor straight aboard the strange junk, where they proceeded to bind his arms and legs with ropes, and left him near the foremast, to sprawl or sit on the hard deck, as he chose.
Then as soon as everything of value on theSilver Moonhad been transferred to the robber junk, the crew returned to their own vessel, and cast off, leaving their countrymen to go their way in peace. The pirate junk now headed to the northeast, following the coast.
Curtin, sprawling on the bare deck in his bonds, could only conjecture what was to be his fate. He knew that the native pirates often made a practice of holding prisoners for ransom, and he fancied that his captors intended to do so in his case, otherwise they would not have singled him out from all those on the captured junk. It did not reassure him to reflect that his bank account in Hongkong was an extremely modest one, and that he had few friends in the city who could place any large sum at his disposal.
About the middle of the forenoon his attention was attracted to one of the pirate crew—a big man who was restlessly pacing up and down the sun-scorched deck not far away, apparently in intense agony. On observing the fellow closely, the doctor saw that there was an angry, unhealed wound in the muscles of his bare left forearm, and noted that the arm itself was swollen to nearly twice its normal size.
At once Curtin's professional instinct was stirred. On the impulse of the moment he stood up awkwardly on his pinioned legs, and said in Chinese:
"That is a bad wound you have in your arm. I am an English doctor of Hongkong. Perhaps if you will let me see your arm I can relieve the pain."
The big Chinaman stopped his uneasy striding to stand and look doubtfully at the speaker. The pirate leader happened to be near, heard what Curtin said, and, the wounded sailor continuing to hesitate, signed him to allow the doctor to examine his arm.
The sufferer obeyed stolidly, and one glance at the inflamed wound, which evidently had been made by a sword thrust, was enough to tell Curtin that he had to deal with a case of threatened blood poisoning. But he thought that if the arm was immediately lanced the Chinaman would have a good chance for speedy recovery.
This he told the pirate captain, who had come over to stand beside his fellow cutthroat. He said that if the black case that had been seized among his other baggage that morning was brought and his arms were released, he would at once treat the wound, although he would not guarantee to cure the man.
To the doctor's surprise, the captain answered that he had lived in Hongkong, and knew of the skill of the English doctors, and that he would be much gratified if Curtin could save the sailor, as the fellow was one of his best men.
The medicine case was quickly produced, and the doctor's hands were untied. First ascertaining that the contents of the case were undisturbed, he prepared the wounded arm by pouring a little alcohol upon it. Then he took out his instruments and quickly performed the operation.
The look of relief that came into the sufferer's face was apparent, but neither the captain nor the other members of the pirate crew, who had gathered round to watch, made any comment. Curtin carefully dressed and bandaged the wound, and as soon as he had finished, his hands were rebound. His patient moved away without a word of thanks or appreciation, yet the doctor did not neglect to say that as often aswas necessary he would attend the arm again. He was anxious to make a friend of this Chinaman; for a friend, he felt, would not be a bad thing to have among that barbarous crew.
Shortly after sunset that evening the junk reached the mouth of a narrow river, and a quarter of a mile from the entrance to this stream the sails were lowered and anchor was dropped. Curtin gathered from the talk of some of the crew who stood near him that the junk was to be taken up this river to an outlaw retreat, but that they would not enter the narrow channel until the high tide of the next morning.
Not long after the evening meal was over the pirates began to turn in for the night. Most of them merely threw themselves down on the hard deck. By nine o'clock all were asleep, with the exception of a single watchman, whom Curtin could see strolling back and forth across the afterdeck.
Hours passed, and as the doctor lay outstretched on the bare deck, he tried to work his hands out of the hempen cord that bound them together behind his back. He thought that if he could free himself from his bonds, the watchman might nap, and thus give him opportunity to slip over the side of the vessel into the sea and swim ashore. But he was unable to release his hands.
Not long after this, the watchman came forward and silently passed close to Curtin, and he was rather surprised to see that the lone guard was no other than the man whose arm he had lanced that morning. He wondered idly if the fellow had been chosen for the post of watchman for the reason that suffering had rendered him sleepless.
Then suddenly, as he looked up at the big yellow man, a new idea for escape germinated, grew to a hazy outline, and in a moment took definite shape in Curtin's mind.
In his medicine case was a vial containing a quantity of a certain very powerful anæsthetic. He had told the pirate that he would dress the wound again when necessary. If on this excuse he could get his hands freed and the case in his possession, why would it not be easy to administer a few drops of the drug by a hypodermic injection, and almost immediately send the watchman into a coma that would last for hours—render him unconscious before he could rebind his captive's hands or think to make outcry?
Curtin fully realized the danger attendant upon so audacious a scheme. But he felt that as long as he was in the hands of these ruthless and merciless men his life was not safe from one hour to the next.
Immediately he hailed the watchman and asked him about his arm. The tall pirate paused and replied that it still pained him considerably. Curtin suggested that he should bring the medicine case and have his arm treated there in the bright moonlight.
The watchman was slow in answering. Curtin began to think that the natural craftiness of his race had counseled him against the proposition, when with a gesture of consent he went to the companionway and disappeared. In a few moments he came back, carrying the familiar case in his hand. Then the doctor's heart gave a joyous leap.
As soon as his hands were loosened, he quickly opened the case and took out the vial he needed and the hypodermic syringe. He poured into the syringe a few drops of the colorless fluid from the vial. Next, with hands that trembled with eagerness, he unwound the bandage from the wounded arm.
Curtin picked up the syringe nonchalantly, but it gave him a shock to note at this instant that the huge pirate had his right hand resting on the carved hilt of the short, naked sword slipped through his belt.
However, the doctor did not hesitate. He resolutely grasped the proffered arm, and carefully inserted the needle point of the instrument into the flesh so far above the wound that the powerful drug could have but little harmful effect upon the irritated region. Then, with even pressure upon the plunger, he completely emptied the vial.
He withdrew the syringe, and keeping a strong grip upon his victim's arm, began to replace the bandage.
He worked slowly, methodically, occupying as much time as possible in each step of the operation. The Chinaman soon began to show signs of a strange, unnatural drowsiness. His head nodded on his broad shoulders, his eyes were half closed, and he opened them with difficulty. All at once the doctor's vigilant eye saw a startled, apprehensive look flit across the countenance of the pirate. The next instant the man gave a half-inarticulate cry and snatched out his sword.
Curtin threw up his hand to arrest the fall of the blade, but suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the Chinaman wavered, the uplifted arm dropped nerveless, the sword fell clattering to the deck from the grasp of the relaxed fingers. As the watchman toppled over under the influence of the drug, the doctor caught him in his arms and lowered him to the deck.
Then Curtin snatched up the sword, and, with one slash of the keen blade, severed the ropes that bound his ankles loosely together. He listened just a moment. All was still on the junk. He stooped down and finished adjusting the bandage to the senseless outlaw's wounded arm.
But he did not linger long on the pirate craft. Throwing a rope over the side of the junk, he slid down into the water and swam away.
No mishap occurred to him in the water, and soon he was following the sands of the beach to the northeast.
At daybreak he came upon a British gunboat lying a little way off the shore, and in response to his signals, a boat put out and took him aboard. That evening he was landed in Swatow. He found the missionary's son very ill with a stubborn fever; but Curtin took up the battle just in time, and at the end of a week had the satisfaction of witnessing the boy's recovery.
"Unravel your stocking, John; begin at the toe," was a sentence which many an old-time schoolboy learned well, for it appeared in the school readers of a generation ago. It was the solution found by a quick-witted wife for the problem of rescuing her husband from the top of a tall chimney. When he had let down an end of a raveling, she tied a piece of string to it, and eventually sent him up a rope.
Something of the same sort happened not long ago to two chimney builders on Staten Island, N. Y.
They were up on the top of a big new concrete chimney, over one hundred and sixty feet tall, and started to complete their job by tearing away the scaffolding on the inside as they worked down. There was a ladder running all the way down. The men stood on some planks about ten feet down from the top. They ripped up the planks one by one, and shot them down inside the shaft.
The next to the last one, however, went a little crooked, glanced from the wall, hit the ladder, and in a twinkling tore several sections out and left the men standing on a single plank, six feet long and two feet wide, with no means of going up or down.
It was then noon, and for more than four hours they alternately whistled and shouted in a vain attempt to attract attention. It was nearly five o'clock when another workman happened to come into the chimney at the bottom and heard their cries.
A crowd quickly gathered, and began to wonder what they could do to help. Meanwhile, the prisoners had not been idle: they had torn their flannel shirts to narrow strips and made a rope of them, and this they sent down the chimney slowly.
Firemen were soon at hand, and attached a light line to the improvised rope, and sent it up. The chief's idea wasthat if they threw it over the top of the chimney and let it down to the ground, he could anchor it there, and they could safely slide down the inside.
They threw it over the top, but there it stuck, fastened in the soft concrete, and soon they could neither pull it toward them nor pay it out; yet they dared not trust their weight on it. For some time the rescue was halted, but at last another rope was secured, and with the line already in hand this was hauled up and thrown over the chimney rim. It went without sticking, and was secured on the outside.
The scaffolding that had held in place was only about fifty feet below the men, but they had used so much of their clothing in making ropes that they were both badly burned in sliding that distance.
However, they reached ground in safety, and in a few days were back at work none the worse for the adventure.
Captive lions, like fire flames, are fine things when under control, but when once they get the upper hand then indeed they are terrible. In her book, "Behind the Scenes with Wild Animals," Ellen Velvin describes a battle between a number of these brutes which took place in a showroom at Richmond, Virginia. It came off at a rehearsal, so that the public lost the chance to see it.
Only one man was concerned in the fight. That was Captain Bonavita, who had managed twenty-seven lions at one time. The cause of the fight was the arrival of newcomers from their native jungles.
When the arena was ready for the rehearsal, Bonavita had considerable trouble in getting the animals out, and when the first one finally appeared, it was not in the slow, stately manner in which he usually entered, but in a quick, restless way, which showed that he was in an excitable state. He was followed by seventeen others, all in the same nervous condition.
Instead of getting on the pedestals in their usual way, the lions, with one exception, a big, muscular fellow, began to sniff at the corners of the arena, where the newcomers had been exercising, and every moment added to their rage. Their fierce natures were excited by jealousy, so that when one lion presumed to go over to a corner and follow up the sniffing of another, the first one turned upon him and bit him savagely. The other promptly retaliated, and in the twinkling of an eye they were fighting fiercely.
The temper of the others flashed up like gunpowder, and almost instantly seventeen lions were engaged in a wild, free fight.
The one big fellow who had climbed on his pedestal when he entered still sat there, but at this moment the remaining nine lions appeared in the arena, followed by Bonavita.
The animals rushed forward into the battle; the big lion with an ugly snarl leaped from his pedestal into the thick of the fray, and in an instant twenty-seven lions were fighting with teeth and claws. In the midst of it all stood one man, calm, self-possessed, but with every nerve and muscle at their highest tension, for he knew better than any one else that his life hung in the balance.
Bonavita vainly tried to regain mastery over the fighting beasts. The lions were no longer the puppets of a show; they were the monarchs of the wild, turbulent and savage.
Seeing his power gone, Bonavita did his best to save his own life. He succeeded in getting out, thanks to his wonderful nerve—for he had to jump over the backs of the fighting animals, and in doing so he received a deep wound in the shoulder.
There was nothing to be done but to let the lions fight it out, which they did. For nearly two hours that awful battle raged; but, when the lions were exhausted, Bonavita, wounded as he was, went in and drove them into their cages.
Many of the lions after this terrible fight were seriously injured, and had to be treated for wounds, cuts, and tears; but they had fought themselves out, and the next week they went through their performances as mildly as kittens.
The many varying conditions under which gold is found is not the least interesting feature of the history of the yellow metal. In rock, sand, and sea it has been discovered, and even in the deposit of hot springs now in activity. Large nuggets have been discovered in dry gravels, while prospectors have acquired much wealth by extracting gold from river beds, by the process known as panning—i. e., separating the dirt and mud from the metal by shaking the gold-bearing earth or gravel with water in a pan.
While, however, many rivers have been thus exploited, explorers and scientists are agreed that there are still millions of dollars' worth of gold waiting to be unearthed from the bottom of rivers in different parts of the world. In New Zealand and South America, for instance, convincing proof has been obtained that rich deposits of the precious metal still lie at the bottom of many of the rivers of those countries. The gold is usually found in the form of grains at some depth below the surface, imbedded in mud and clay.
There are only two ways of recovering it—namely, either the river bed must be dredged by floating dredgers, or the river must be diverted into another channel while its bed is being stripped. The former method is the one generally adopted, dredgers having been used with considerable success on the Pacific Slope.
Attention has been attracted of late years to the possibilities of recovering gold from the rivers of Peru. For ages the gold-laden quartz of the land of the Incas—the people who covered the walls of their temples with plates of gold and used the precious metal to fashion cooking utensils—has been broken down by the denuding agencies of frost, rain, and snow, and carried into rivers, where it has remained undiscovered, until recent explorations revealed an astonishing source of wealth.
Take the River Inambari and its tributaries, for instance. An examination of 30 miles of this river revealed the fact that it contained gold to the average value of $1.75 per cubic yard, which could be extracted at a cost of 12 cents only. The result of this examination led to the formation of the Inambari Gold Dredging Concessions, Limited.
Sir Martin Conway some time ago explored upper Peru and the famous gold-producing valleys from which the Incas gained most of their great store of wealth. He came to the conclusion that in a certain area no less than $10,000,000 profit was to be made by extracting gold from the rivers, and in order to begin obtaining this gold it was only necessary to have a dredge on the spot. The same hour in which the dredge first begins to turn, gold will be won.
The dredges used up to the present have been almost exclusively of the endless-chain bucket or steam-shovel pattern. At one end of the boat is a powerful endless-chain bucket-dredge, which scrapes the gravel from the bottom and elevates it to a revolving screen in the boat. This in turn sifts out the bowlders, which are at once thrown to the bank of the river, while the fine material flows over tables covered with cocoanut matting, which acts like fine riffles, catching the gold in the interstices. The matting is periodically lifted up and thoroughly rinsed off, the rinsings are panned for gold, and the matting returned for another charge.
In the case of the Inambari Gold Dredging Company, a modern steel dredger has been made, which it is confidently estimated will work far quicker and in a much more effective and inexpensive manner than any other dredger which has yet been used.