SURMOUNTING THE DIFFICULTY.
While this clash was going forward between the rancher and Clip, Matt's mind had been busy. The result of his thinking forced the conclusion that Gregory was innocent of any underhand work.
First, the rancher seemed to be alone at the ranch. If that was really the case, then there had been no one belonging to the place to interfere with the machines. Furthermore, some knowledge of the mechanism of the motor-cycles had been necessary in order to strip the machines of their gasoline in the short space of time in which the work had been done. It was not to be supposed that any confederate of Gregory's could have had this knowledge.
"Hold up, Clip," said Matt, dropping a hand on his chum's arm. "You're on the wrong track. I'm sure Gregory didn't do this, or have any one do it."
"There wasn't any one else," flared Clip. "If Gregory didn't do it, he knows who did."
"The red roadster may have stopped farther along the trail, and one of the men may have come back. Have you got any gasoline, Gregory?" inquired Matt.
"Nary, I ain't," answered the rancher. "That's what them other two fellers wanted ter know."
Clip cast a quick look at Matt.
"Mebby they're running short themselves," said Clip. "They found Gregory didn't have any. Then they made a dead set at ours."
"Or," went on Matt, "those fellows may have asked Gregory just to make sure we couldn't get a fresh supply from him when they had taken what we had. We'll go on for a while and use the pedals."
"We've lost out," cried Clip angrily. "Just at the start, too. Nice thing for you to tell the governor."
Matt looked gloomily at his watch, then started off with all the speed he could throw into the pedals. But the weight of the machinery, now suddenly useless, pulled him back.
His hopes were down, way down. His mysterious enemies had scored a telling stroke at the very start-off.
"What time is it, Matt?" asked Clip, in a discouraged tone, toiling along beside his chum.
"Twenty-five minutes of two," was the answer.
"We've got three hours and twenty-five minutes to go sixty-five miles!" Clip laughed gruesomely. "We couldn't do it in two days, at this rate."
While the boys were talking they came to a long slope that ran downward through a thick chaparral of greasewood, palo-verde, and ironwood. The road twisted serpentlike to avoid rough ground. From somewhere in the thicket below a muffledthump,thump,thumpcame up to them, as though some one was wielding an ax.
"What's that?" queried Matt, looking at Clip.
"Mexican wood-cutters, I reckon," was the response.
The boys went on down the slope, coasting at a rapid gait. Half-way down the descent, a turn brought them into the proximity of an automobile, and so suddenly that they had to clap on the brakes in order to avoid a collision.
The car was a red roadster. It was at a standstill in the middle of the trail, and neither of the two men was near it.
Astounded at this stroke of luck, Matt and Clip, for a moment, could do no more than stare at each other. The blows of the ax, off in the chaparral, were louder in their ears now, and they could hear a mumble of voices.
"Wow!" gasped Clip. "Am I dreaming? Can I believe what I see? Say, Matt, this is too blamed good to be true!"
Matt, getting quick control of his wits, had been running his eyes over the roadster. One of the rear tires was flat. On the ground near the flattened tire lay a new one, just taken out of the brackets that had supported it.
"Well, well, thisisluck!" breathed Matt, getting off his machine and hurrying to the automobile. "A tire blew up on them. They haven't a jack along, and they've gone into the brush to cut a couple of pieces of ironwood, in order to lift the axle and get on a new tire."
"They may be back——"
"Sure, and we've got to hustle." Matt was already on the running-board. "Here are our canteens," he went on excitedly, picking both of the gasoline-cans out of the rumble. "And they're full, too," he added. "Take one, Clip, and empty it into your gasoline-tank."
It was a time for action rather than words. The chopping had ceased in the chaparral, but the talking was still going on, and, from the sound of it, the two men were not as yet coming any nearer.
"We're using up our reserve supply," said Clip, while they were emptying the canteens into the tanks.
"We'll fill the canteens again out of the car-tank," returned Matt, "if we have time."
"Bully!" chuckled Clip. "Then let the rest of the gasoline out into the road. Give 'em a dose of their own medicine. It'll serve 'em right."
Clip was a lad of quick temper. The Indian blood in his veins undoubtedly lay at the root of this, but the resentment he felt at being looked down upon by some of the Phœnix boys who regarded the mixed blood as a taint had had a good deal to do with it.
Had Matt not interfered at the well, Clip would certainly have set upon Gregory, for rarely did Clip's temper allow him time to reason a matter out. This reprisal against the two men who had the roadster, however, had already taken form in Matt's mind before Clip had suggested it. By stranding the car in the desert, thirty-five miles from a gasoline-filling station, Matt could clip the claws of his enemies and render them harmless.
The moment theComet'stank had been filled and capped, Matt carried the canteen to the motor-car and proceeded to replenish it out of the supply belonging to his two enemies.
Then, while he was filling Clip's canteen, Clip was busy making Matt's fast to the head of theComet. Both boys were so hard at work that they did not notice the sound of voices had died out in the chaparral. As Matt stepped back from the motor-car and finished screwing the cap on the canteen, a man jumped out into the road. The man was carrying a six-foot length of ironwood. With a yell of anger, he hurled the heavy stick straight at Matt.
Matt dodged, and the timber just grazed his head.
"Jem!" whooped the man; "this way—on the jump!"
Running around the front of the automobile, Matt made a rush for his machine, at the same time yelling to Clip to get into the saddle and make off with a rush.
The man, darting around the rear of the roadster, started to plant himself in Matt's way. Matt feinted as though he would pass on the right side. When the man had thrown himself in that direction, Matt plunged by on the left, whirling the canteen by the strap and striking his enemy a fierce crack on the side of the head.
The man toppled over against the automobile. By then Matt had reached theComet. Still hanging to Clip's canteen, he jerked the motor-cycle away from the bushes, got into the saddle, and started the pedals. Clip had already started, but was going slow and looking back to see if his help would be needed.
Jem, the driver of the roadster, crashed through the bushes just as theCometwas getting under its own headway. He carried an ax and another piece of freshly cut ironwood.
"That's King!" whooped Jem's companion. "Stop him! You've got to stop him!"
Clip flung back a taunt. Matt, as theCometgathered speed like a mettlesome racer, wondered how Jem was going to cover the fast-widening gap and do anything to stop either of the motor-cycles.
The next moment he understood what the last resource was the two men were going to fall back upon.
There came a "pop" like an exploding fire-cracker, and a bullet whistled past Matt's ear. Bending lower over the handlebars, he opened the throttle with a twist of his left hand. The road was down-hill and theCometwas going like a thunderbolt.
In about two seconds Matt had caught up with Clip; then, in an instant more, both boys were screened from their enemies by a turn in the road.
SMOKE-SIGNALS.
"Thunder!" muttered Clip, as the breakneck pace was slackened a little. "Just made it, Matt. By the skin of our teeth. And we didn't dump their gasoline into the road, either. They'll be after us just a-smoking when they get that new tire on."
"We're playing in great luck, Clip, to get off as well as we did," answered Matt. "Here, take your two quarts of gasoline."
Clip took the canteen and hung the strap over his handlebars.
"We're ahead now, anyway," said he, with grim satisfaction. "That's a heap better than being behind."
Matt listened to the steady hum of theComet'stwin cylinders with an exultation he could not conceal. What had happened had been almost like snatching victory from certain defeat.
"How much time did we lose?" asked Clip.
"It's two o'clock," answered Matt, juggling his watch with one hand.
"And we're in the lead. That makes a heap of difference. There'll be no underhand work ahead of us, after this. We'll beat the news to Potter's Gap."
The trail slid away into the flat desert at the foot of the slope. As the boys wheeled across the sandy level, they cast a look backward at the brush-covered slope, to see if they could discover any traces of the red roadster and of their enemies.
The car was not in sight, but rising straight upward in the still air was a thin column of smoke. Suddenly the column was broken, and one, two, three balls of vapor floated aloft; then the straight, grayish plume was in evidence again; after a moment the smoke-balls reappeared and wound up the spectacle.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Matt. "What sort of a performance do you call that, Clip?"
Clipperton's face was ominous as he answered:
"Smoke-signals. Those two back there must belong to Dangerfield's gang. They were telling some of the rest of the gang that we're coming." A look of savage pride crossed Clipperton's face. "You know why I know," he added. "It was born in me."
Motor Matt had been the first true white friend Clipperton had ever had. Perhaps that was because he had looked for the worth and manliness in the depths of Clip's nature, and had found more than any one else had ever taken the trouble to hunt for. Clip's ancestry was a raw wound, principally because there were some who took malignant pride in never allowing it to heal; and yet he was defiantly proud of it.
"I wish I had had a little of the same kind of knowledge born in me, Clip," said Matt generously, and Clip threw him a grateful look, and his surliness vanished.
"See there!" cried Clip abruptly, pointing toward a range of dim blue hills to the north. "The signals were read. They're being answered."
A long way off, but perfectly plain in the clear air, arose a column of smoke. It was broken into little clouds, just as the other had been, and when it disappeared it vanished as quickly.
"How do they do it, Clip?" asked Matt.
"A fire of green wood and a wet blanket. That's all. There's Frog Tanks," and Clip indicated a cluster of adobe walls and thatched roofs, midway between them and the point where the answering signals had shown themselves.
It was twenty minutes after two when the boys wheeled through the little Mexican settlement. There was no sign of the red roadster behind them, but, for all that, they were expecting trouble on account of the smoke-signals.
"Two hours and five minutes on the road," cried Matt, "and we're forty-five miles from Phœnix. We're still ahead of the schedule, Clip."
"The worst part of the road's ahead," said Clip briefly. "Here's where we begin to strike it."
Just at that moment the trail dipped into a rocky ravine and climbed a steep bank on the opposite side. There was no water in the ravine, but the rocks were jagged and sharp, and they had to use much care to save their tires. With all the reserve power thrown into the machinery, theCometmade hard work of the hill. Clip had to get off and drag his motor-cycle up by hand.
For a mile beyond the ravine the trail was heavy with sand. Matt began to appreciate the difficulties ahead of him and to worry a little about the outcome. Clip noticed the serious look that crossed his chum's face.
"Don't fret," said he. "The cañon won't be as bad as this. The bed of the cañon is hard enough. What makes it a tough trail is the boulders brought down in the freshets. That automobile couldn't get up the cañon at all. You and I can go around the rocks. There's the opening into the gulch. Just ahead."
At the edge of the flat Matt saw a high, rocky ridge. The ridge was broken by a notch, and the road crawled through the opening and into the defile.
The sides of the notch were steep, and the boys rode through it in single file, Matt taking the lead. When they were about half-way through, a crash broke on their ears, followed by a rumbling sound that grew swiftly in volume.
A yell of warning came from Clip.
Matt had just time to catch a glimpse of a rock rushing down the side of the notch. In a trice he speeded up theCometand leaped forward toward the cañon, sand and loosened pebbles dropping all around him.
From behind him came a ringing shock. With his heart in his throat he shut off the power and clamped on the brake, stopping so suddenly that he was nearly thrown over the front wheel.
When he turned to look around, the rumbling had ceased. Clip's machine lay on its side, with a twisted and bent rear wheel, and Clip himself was just rising from the ground.
"Are you hurt, Clip?" Matt asked, bracing theCometagainst a boulder and running back.
Clip was frantic with rage and disappointment. One look at his machine was enough to tell him that he was out of the race.
"Those smoke-signals did it!" he snorted angrily, lifting his eyes to the slope of the notch wall. "Some one loosened a rock. The skulking coyote! It's a wonder we weren't killed."
Matt saw the stone. It was round, water-worn, and as big as a barrel. Evidently it had caught Clip's machine just as it was all but out of the way. The impact had whirled it around and bent and twisted the wheel.
"Nothing but a repair-shop can ever fix that," said Matt, almost as much disappointed as his chum was. "What'll you do, Clip?"
Clip did not answer. He had seen something up the steep slope that brought a snarl of anger to his lips and sent him clawing and scrambling up the rocks.
Matt ran after him. If there was to be a fight with any of the Dangerfield gang, Matt was determined not to let Clip go into it alone.
The climb was a hard one, but the hard, well-trained muscles of the two boys made record work of it.
Twenty feet up the wall was a shelf. Clip was over the edge of the shelf first, having had the lead of Matt in the start. As Matt crawled over, he saw a roughly dressed man scurrying to get up the wall at the back of the shelf.
Clip jumped for the man, clutched his feet, and pulled him down. A torrent of imprecations, in some unknown tongue, burst from the man's lips. Throwing up his hands, he caught Clip about the throat, and the two rolled over and over, struggling desperately.
They would have gone over the edge of the shelf and rolled and bounded down the wall, had not Matt, quick to note his chum's danger, darted for the fighters to grab and hold them back.
Catching the man by the shoulders, Matt flung him sideways, on his back. The fellow had a knife in his hand, and made a vicious stab at Matt's breast. Clip, by a quick movement of his lithe body, caught the man's wrist and held the weapon back. Then, while all three were on their knees on the rocky shelf, a strange scene was enacted. Clip and the man stared at each other with startled eyes. The fight went out of each of them in a flash. An expression of amazement crept into their faces, and along with Clip's astonishment came a tinge of bitterness.
"What's the matter?" queried Matt, getting to his feet.
Neither Clip nor the man spoke a word. There was a clatter as the knife dropped on the shelf.
The man was tall and wiry. His face was even more swarthy than Clip's, his eyes were small and piercing, his hair was straight and black, and there were rings in his ears. He wore moccasins and buckskin leggings, and a dingy-blue flannel shirt, open at the throat.
Both the man and Clip got up slowly.
"Tio! Tio mio!" said Clip, in a hoarse whisper.
A slow grin worked its way into the man's face. From the edge of the shelf he looked down to where the disabled motor-cycle was lying.
Then he said something in a language Matt could not understand, and took a step toward Clip, with hand outstretched. Clip muttered and struck the hand aside. The man did not appear very much cast down by this lack of courtesy, but bent over coolly and picked up his knife. Returning it to his belt, he folded his arms, leaned back against the wall at the other side of the shelf, and studied the two boys curiously.
Clip clenched his hands as some strong emotion swept through him. Then abruptly he stepped toward the man and began speaking. What he said Matt could not understand. The words came swiftly, fairly tripping over each other. That Clipperton was upbraiding the man there was no doubt; but why he should do that, or why either of them should act in the queer manner they were doing was a puzzle.
Clip's fierce words seemed to make an impression on the man. The grin faded from his lips and a more serious expression took its place. As soon as he could break into the torrent of Clip's talk, the man spoke. He spoke for a full minute, and Matt pricked up his ears as he heard the name of Dangerfield mentioned.
When the man had finished, Clip said something in a sharp tone and started down the slope, beckoning Matt to follow. The man came to the edge of the shelf and watched them as they slipped and scrambled to the trail, but he made no move to follow.
"Smoke-signals," said Clip, in his usual terse fashion. "They got us into this fix. And brought me a big surprise. But it may be a help to you, Matt, in the long run."
Clip's face was moody, although his words were spirited enough.
"What in the wide world is that fellow?" queried Matt. "What sort of a hold have you got over him, Clip?"
"There's a chain of men watching Castle Creek Cañon," said Clip, not seeming to hear Matt's question. "The smoke-signals are passed on. From the other side of Frog Tanks, they reach Dangerfield, at Tinaja Wells. Some of the gang are laying for you above here. You'll have to go on alone. Think you can find the way?"
"It's right up the cañon, isn't it, until I get to the trail that leads over the right-hand wall?"
"Yes. Take the first trail that leads over the wall. You can't go wrong. While daylight lasts," and a cunning look rose in Clip's eyes, "there'll be more smoke-signals coming from here. I'll be back of them.And they'll help you through."
Clip turned and led the way to the boulder where Matt had left theComet.
"You'd better hike, Matt," said he. "You can't lose any more time."
"But who's that ruffian, Clip?" asked Matt again, as he got into the saddle.
"That ruffian"—there was mocking bitterness in Clip's voice, as he spoke—"is my uncle. He's a half-breed. His name is Pima Pete. He's one of the gang. He didn't recognize me when he rolled that stone down the hill. We haven't seen each other for two years."
Clip whirled around, as though he would make off without another word. Matt was dumfounded. He recovered himself, however, in time to call sharply:
"Clip!"
Clipperton turned and saw Matt holding out his hand. "Can't you say good-by, pard, and wish me luck?" asked Matt.
Clipperton hesitated a moment, then rushed forward, caught Matt's hand, and wrung it fervently. But he could not trust himself to speak.
Another minute and Motor Matt was in Castle Creek Cañon, headed north.
ON THE DIVIDE.
It was five minutes to three, and there were fifty miles of cañon and up-and-down trail over the divide to be covered. This meant that Motor Matt must average twenty-five miles an hour for the next two hours. In favorable parts of the trail he must do better than that, to off-set losses of time where the going was most difficult.
The bed of the cañon was strewn with boulders, ranging in size from a bucket to a hogshead. The road was plainly marked, but the last freshet had sprinkled it with stones, large and small.
Mountain-wagons, constructed for service in such sections of the country, were hauled over the smallest of the boulders, and where the largest were met, and could not be avoided by a detour, the driver of the wagon got out and rolled them away.
As Clip had said, however, the trail was impassable for automobiles. A high-wheel wagon could bump and jerk its way over the stones, but a low-wheel car with pneumatic tires would not have lasted half an hour in the cañon, nor have traversed a mile of it.
On the other hand, the narrow tread of a motor-cycle enabled it to dodge the rocks, leaving the trail only at points where the rocks were so close together the machine could not get between them.
But sharp eyes, a firm hand, and unerring judgment were needed for every foot of the way. This, of course, made anything like the best speed impossible.
For several miles Matt weaved his way in and out, speeding up on the comparatively clear stretches, and slowing down for places where the most obstacles were encountered. The avoiding of sharp stones and boulders at last became almost mechanical. With his gaze on the road immediately in advance, his hands instinctively turned theCometright or left, as the exigencies of the case demanded.
When he could spare a little of his attention from the running of the machine, his thoughts reverted to Clipperton and his heart saddened with the hurt pride smoldering in Clip's eyes when they had parted in the notch.
Clip's uncle—his mother's brother, most probably—was a half-breed and a member of Dangerfield's gang. How Clip's sensitive soul must have recoiled from confessing the truth to Matt! And yet Clip had been manly enough to face the issue, and Matt liked him all the better for it.
"What a fellow's people are," thought Matt, "don't amount to a picayune; it's what the fellow is himself that counts. But it was tough on Clip to run into a relative and find him passing smoke-signals along for that prince of rascals, Dangerfield. And then, it was pretty near the last straw to have that relative roll a stone down the bank and put Clip out of the running. I don't blame him for getting worked up."
A study of the speedometer showed Matt that he was not averaging more than twenty miles an hour. This worried him. The necessity for doing better than that was vital to the success of his mission, and yet, without great risk to his machine, he did not see how he was going to accomplish it. Hoping constantly for a better piece of road, he pushed doggedly on.
The walls of the cañon were wide apart and high. They formed themselves into pinnacles, and turrets, and parapets, and a fanciful mind could easily liken them to the walls of a castle. From these features of the cañon it had, no doubt, derived its name of "Castle Creek."
A stream flowed through the defile, but a stranger would not have discovered this from a casual survey of the cañon's bed. The stream was like most water-courses in Arizona, and flowedunder the sandand next to the bed-rock. Here and there, at irregular intervals, the water appeared in pools, pushed to the surface by a lifting of the underlying rock.
Once Matt halted to snatch a drink from one of the diminutive ponds, but in less than a minute he was astride theCometagain and pushing resolutely onward.
Here and there he passed a "flat," or level stretch of earth, brought down by the waters from above and lodged in some bend of the gulch. These flats were free from stones and covered with a scant growth of cottonwoods and piñons.
Some time was gained by riding across these level, unobstructed stretches.
A little more than half an hour after leaving the notch, Matt passed a flat that lay at the foot of a gully running into the ravine. There was an adobe house on the flat, a corral, and other evidences of a rather extensive ranch. A man was standing in front of the house as Matt hurried past. He was staring at the motor-cycle like a person in a trance.
"What place is this?" called Matt, as he went by.
"Hot Springs," the rancher called back. "What sort of a contraption y'u got thar, anyways?"
Matt told him, but probably the backwoodsman was not very much enlightened.
North of Hot Springs the road was tolerably clear for several miles, and theCometleaped along it at top speed. When near the end of the good going, the road forked, a branch entering a gap in the right-hand wall and climbing steeply toward the top.
Matt's heart gave a bound.
"Here's where I take the divide!" he muttered, swerving theCometinto the opening and giving it every ounce of power for the climb. "Now for Potter's Gap and Sheriff Burke."
Up and up went the trail, twisting back and forth in long horseshoe curves. But for those curves, no wagon could ever have scaled that frightful ascent. In places the road had seemingly been blasted out of a sheer wall, and it was so narrow that a wagon would have had to rub against the cliff-face in order to keep the opposite wheels from slipping over the dizzy brink.
Matt's view of the cañon and of the surrounding hills opened as he ascended. He had not much time for the view, however, for when he was not peering at the trail, or catching a look at the face of his watch, he was studying the speedometer. It was after four o'clock, and he was making barely four miles an hour!
Higher and higher he climbed, coming steadily nearer to the top of the divide. A light breeze fanned his face, and all around him he could see mountain peaks pushing upward into the clear blue sky. Only thechug-chugof his laboring motor-cycle broke the stillness.Probably never before, since time began, had those hills echoed with the puffing of a steel horse.
At last the climbing trail dipped into a level tangent just below the top of the mountain. After a straight-away run of a hundred yards, it coiled serpentlike around the mountain's crest.
On Matt's left was a broken granite wall running vertically to the top of the peak; on his right was a chasm, falling hundreds of feet into a gloomy gulch. Between the chasm and the wall ran the ribbon of road, eroded in places by wind and weather until it had a perceptible slant outward.
A skidding of the wheels, the relaxation for an instant of a cool, steady grip on the handlebars, or a sudden attack of dizziness would have hurled the young courier into eternity.
In that hazardous place speed was not to be thought of. "Slow and sure" had to be Matt's motto. He finished the tangent and began rounding the curve. In no place on that fearsome bend was the road visible for more than a dozen feet ahead.
While he was avoiding the fissures, and carefully picking his way around the curve, a savage growl broke suddenly on his ears. With racing pulses, he lifted his eyes and saw a huge dog crouching in the path before him.
The dog was a Great Dane, big enough and seemingly savage enough for a bear. While Matt stared, and wondered how and why the dog happened to be there, a man in a blue shirt, sombrero, and with trousers tucked in his boot-tops, emerged suddenly from behind a shoulder of rock. He carried a club, and a look of intense satisfaction crossed his face as he came in sight of Matt.
"Take him, Bolivar!" yelled the man, and Motor Matt was brought suddenly face to face with unexpected peril.
With a vicious snarl, the dog lifted his great body into the air and plunged toward theComet. Matt had come to a quick stop, disengaging his right foot from the toe-clip and bracing the motor-cycle upright. He had time for no more than to throw his left arm over his face, when the dog struck him.
The impact of the brute's body was terrific. Matt went down, with the motor-cycle on top of him, head and shoulders over the brink of the precipice.
A RUSE THAT WON.
Of course, the smoke-signals, passed along by Dangerfield's chain of guards, were responsible for Matt's predicament. The man and the dog were at that difficult place in the trail to capture the governor's courier, and just at that moment it looked as though they had succeeded.
Unarmed as he was, what could Motor Matt accomplish against the ruffian and the dog? This problem rushed through the boy's brain as he lay at the edge of the trail.
The Great Dane, crouching close and snarling, watched him as a cat watches a mouse. Matt stared into the brute's fiendish little eyes, and reason told him that the bared white fangs would instantly fasten upon his throat if he moved.
He was not injured, although somewhat bruised, and his mind was as keen and alert as ever. Why not, he asked himself, "play possum" with the man and the dog, and pretend to be badly hurt and unconscious? The ruse might not help him any, but there was a chance that it would.
Closing his eyes until he could just see through them and keep track of what was going on, he held his breath, lay silent, and watched.
The man drew close, leaned on his club, and stood looking down.
"Hello, thar, young feller!" he called.
Matt did not answer.
"Hello, I say!" repeated the man, nudging Matt with the end of the club. "I reckon you're the one Bolivar an' me's been waitin' here fer, an'—what's the matter with ye, anyhow?"
Still no answer from Matt.
"Must hev hit his head a crack when he went down," muttered the man. "You're some sizeable, Bolivar, an' when ye fall on anythin', ye come down like a thousand o' brick. Git away from him! I reckon ye've done yore part. I'll get a rope on him now. Clear out!"
The dog slunk away along the road to a distance of two or three yards. Then the man pulled theCometaway and leaned it against the rocks.
"Fust time I ever seen one o' them steel bronks," he remarked, talking to himself. "Pussonly, I ain't got no use fer a hoss that drinks gasoline. They'd be hard ter ride, an' I don't reckon they'd be reliable."
Before picking up the machine, the man had dropped his club. He now laid hold of Matt and drew him away from the brink of the precipice. When he finally let loose of Matt, Matt's hand was close to the small end of the club—one arm, in fact, was lying upon it.
"If Bolivar had knocked ye a couple o' feet farther, young feller," pursued the man, still talking to himself more than to Matt, "ye'd hev tumbled inter the gulch, iron hoss an' all. Now, we'll see what ails ye, an' then I'll make a stagger ter git ye ter Tinaja Wells, so Dangerfield an' the rest kin size ye up an' find out what yer bizness is."
Bolivar, who did not seem to relish taking a back seat just as his prey had come under his paws, began growling and dragging himself forward.
The man turned and, with a savage oath, ordered the animal to keep away. While his back was toward him, Matt knew that then, if ever, was his time to bolt.
Like lightning the boy gained his feet, lifting the club with him. In two leaps he was beside theComet.
Hearing his quick movements, the man faced around with a frantic yell.
"No, ye don't!" he roared, and flung at Matt with his bare hands.
The club whirled and Matt brought it down on the man's shoulder with all his strength. It was a glancing blow, but it was enough to daze the man and send him reeling backward.
Matt lost not an instant in dropping the club, getting astride theComet, and starting. Just as the motor got busy, the dog dropped beside Matt, gripping his right sleeve and tearing a piece out of the stout leather.
The boy reeled under the shock, but he was not again overturned. To get away from the man and the dog he must have speed, and he must set theCometto going its best in spite of the perils of the trail.
As he tore around the curved course, his resolute eyes following the path in front of the machine, he heard the snarling of the dog and the patter of his cushioned feet on the rocks.
The loss for an instant of the control of the machine would have spelled death for Motor Matt. To keep theCometaway from the edge of the cliff, and away from the loose stones fringing the wall on the other side of the road, was the problem with which Matt had to contend. It was a hair-raising problem, too, and called for every ounce of nerve and every particle of skill the boy possessed.
He dared not look behind to note the situation in that quarter. The man, he knew, he could easily distance, and it was the bounding Great Dane he feared.
His ears told him that the dog was holding his own—exerting all his power and neither gaining nor losing. But he was too close for comfort. Should he snap at the rear wheel and puncture the tire—Matt's thoughts could not carry the danger further. A good many things, just then, swung in the scales of chance, and what the dog might do was only one of them.
A minute passed, a minute so full of peril that it seemed like an hour, and the dartingCometreached the other side of the peak and passed from level ground to a steep descent.
Below him, Motor Matt could see the trail, winding in steep horseshoes just as on the other side of the mountain. But there was no precipice at its edge to threaten destruction.
By its own weight the machine would have coasted down the mountain at a clip never before equaled. Matt diminished the power that fed the racing pistons, but still he continued to drop like a thunderbolt down the steep slope.
The wind sang in his ears, and rock, bush, and stunted tree flashed by like so many missiles hurled at him by a giant hand. The speedometer could register up to sixty-five miles an hour, but the needle had gone out of business. If Motor Matt was not doing a good seventy an hour, on that hurricane drop toward the mountain's foot, he was far afield in his reckoning.
It could hardly be called a ride. It was more like a fall through space.
Naturally, such a fierce gait could not last long. Matt was at the base of the mountain before he fairly realised it, and theCometwas plunging away on a mesa toward a V-shaped cut in a ridge.
He had time now for a quick look rearward. The Great Dane was not in sight. All Motor Matt had to show for the perilous encounter on the cliffside was his torn sleeve, a few bruises, and an uncomfortable remembrance.
As if to make up for the worrisome struggle through the cañon and the snail's pace toward the top of the divide, Matt had now a fine, hard road under him and plenty of room.
How much time he had lost he did not know, but that down-grade had put his schedule many minutes to the good. He was going a mile a minute now, and he was still gaining on the miles lost in the cañon.
As he closed in on the V-shaped opening in the ridge, he slowed down, to make a preliminary survey of the country ahead. The road led on through the bottom of the "V," and Matt suddenly took note of a man on horseback, directly in front of the chargingComet. The horse, frightened by the motor-cycle, was bucking and leaping sideways at the roadside.
"What place is this?" shouted Matt, as he swung past.
"Potter's Gap!" answered the man.
The boy's heart gave a bound, and he shut off and stopped theCometwithin a dozen yards. Facing about, he waited for the horseman to spur his prancing mount closer.
"That's another o' them darned new-fangled machines that folks keep inventin'," remarked the man. "Where'd ye come from, kid, an' what's yer bloomin' hurry? The way ye was shootin' along, it looked as though ye'd git to where ye was goin' purty nigh before ye started. Whoa, blast ye!" he added to his horse. "If I had time, I'd make ye eat oats off'n that two-wheeled thing-um-bob."
"My name's King," said Matt. "Can you tell me where I'll find Sheriff Burke, of Prescott?"
"You bet I can! Go right around that projectin' rock an' ye'll be in our camp. What ye lookin' up Burke fer?"
Matt did not stop to answer. Turning his machine the other way, he sped on around a projecting spur of the ridge, and found himself among a dozen men and horses.
The men were all armed, booted, and spurred. The camp had been pitched beside a spring, and some were watering their horses, and others were rolling up their blankets. Matt's sudden appearance drew the attention of all, and there was a chorus of wondering exclamations as he brought his machine to a halt.
"Blamed if here ain't one o' them new kind o' bicycles!" cried one of the men. "Slid right in on us afore we suspected a thing! It kain't be this kid's one o' the Dangerfield gang?"
A tall, broad-shouldered, red-whiskered man pushed through the crowd that was gathering about Matt.
"Who are you?" the man asked sharply.
"I'm looking for Sheriff Burke," replied Matt.
"Then you've made a bull's-eye, first crack out of the box. I'm Burke."
"What time is it, Mr. Burke?" asked Matt, getting out of the saddle and standing beside the machine.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded the Prescott man, staring.
"Why, I was told to get here at five o'clock——"
"Ye was, hey?" asked one of the posse, looking at a watch. "Then ye're ahead of time, my boy. It lacks five minutes of five."
Matt's delight must have been reflected in his face, for Burke's interest in him manifestly deepened.
"Who told you to get here by five o'clock?" he asked.
"Governor Gaynor."
"Gaynor?" repeated the sheriff.
"Yes. I left Phœnix at quarter-past twelve——"
"Last night?"
"No—at noon to-day."
"An' you've come a hundred miles in five hours onthatthing?"
"Yes."
The bystanders were astonished. Not only that, but their respect for theCometvisibly increased.
"What's the governor got to say?" proceeded Burke.
Matt took the letter out of his pocket.
"Read that, Mr. Burke," replied Matt, "and it will tell you. Don't throw away the envelope. Just write on the back of it, 'Received at five minutes of five, Thursday afternoon and sign your name. I want to take it back and show it to the governor."
AT POTTER'S GAP.
All those rough and ready men were amazed at Motor Matt's performance. Their interest in the boy and his machine, however, was pushed to the background by their curiosity to learn what sort of a message the governor had sent to Burke.
The sheriff read the message through, then slapped the letter excitedly with the back of his hand.
"Here's a go and no mistake, boys!" he cried. "The governor and McKibben have picked up a hot clue about that Dangerfield outfit. If Motor Matt, here, hadn't got this message through in the time he did, the smugglers would have got away from us."
"How's that, Burke?" asked the man Matt had met in the gap, riding forward and joining the rest of the posse.
"First off," Burke explained, "Juan Morisco has been nabbed in Phœnix. He was getting out of town with a wood-hauler, but he had been acting queer, and McKibben was having him watched. While in Phœnix, Morisco wore a piece of courtplaster on one side of his face. The wood-hauler's team ran away, just as he and Morisco were leaving Phœnix, and, in the excitement of catching it, the courtplaster must have got knocked off Morisco's face. Anyhow, when McKibben saw him after the team was stopped, there was that cross-shaped scar, plain as anything. That was all McKibben needed to see. Morisco was taken to jail, and it was what McKibben got out of him that concernsus."
"What in thunder was Juan Morisco doin' in Phœnix?" queried one of the men. "I thought he was with Dangerfield, an' movin' this way, on the road to Mexico."
"Morisco told McKibben," went on Burke, "that Dangerfield sent him on an important piece of work. He also told McKibben that the smugglers are rounded up at Tinaja Wells, and that they have heard we're waiting for them at Potter's Gap, and that they're going to leave the Wells to-night, give us the slip, and go south by way of the Rio Verde."
This revelation caused a tremendous amount of excitement, all the men talking back and forth.
"How'd Dangerfield ever find out we was layin' fer him here?" asked one.
"The governor don't say anything about that; but Dangerfield must know it, or Morisco wouldn't have been able to tell McKibben. The governor says," proceeded Burke, glancing at the letter which he still held in his hand, "that Morisco tells McKibben Dangerfield is going to leave Tinaja Wells to-night, but that he—the governor, mind you—hopes to get this letter into my hands by five o'clock this afternoon, so we'll have a chance to rush the smugglers at the Wells by daylight." He folded up the letter and shoved it into his pocket. "It's twenty miles to the Wells, my lads, and if we start at once we can make it. Saddle up in a hurry. One of you make my horse ready."
Instantly the camp became a scene of bustle and excitement. While the men were making ready, Burke turned to Matt.
"I don't know how you ever got through in the time you did, King," he observed. "That machine of yours must be a jim-dandy."
"It's the best ever," answered Matt.
"Tell me about your trip—just the main points."
Matt began with the red roadster and the trouble he had had with the two men who were traveling in it.
"Dangerfield has a heap of friends through this part of the country," commented Burke. "There's a whole lot of people, you know, who don't think smuggling Chinks into the United States is very much of a crime. Dangerfield must have been expecting something to go crossways in Phœnix and had some of his misguided friends watching McKibben. But go ahead."
Matt told about the smoke-signals, and how they were passed on along the rim of Castle Creek Cañon. The stern lines deepened in the sheriff's face.
"Dangerfield was sure doing everything he could to make a safe getaway into Mexico," said he. "They say he has fifteen men, whites and half-breeds, working his underground railroad. I'm willing enough to believe about those smoke-signals. The two in the red automobile sent word ahead that you and your chum were coming. Well, did that make any trouble for you, King?"
Matt told about the boulder which had been rolled down the side of the notch, and which had crippled Clipperton's machine and put him out of the running; but he did not say a word about the half-breed.
The sheriff was deeply interested in Matt's recital. By that time the rest of the men had finished getting ready, and were pushing around Matt and listening to his experiences. As he went on with the incident on the divide, and the way he had escaped from the man and the dog, several rough hands reached over to give him an admiring tap on the shoulder.
"You're the stuff, son!" cried one of the men.
"You're a fair daisy, an' no mistake!" added another.
"If we clean up on the Dangerfield gang, it will be you as helped more'n anybody else," dropped in a third.
"Some o' us, Burke," suggested a fourth, "mout lope acrost the divide an' down the cañon, gatherin' in all them outposts. Each one means a thousand apiece."
"By the time you got there, Meagher," returned the sheriff, "you wouldn't find any of the men, so it would be a bad play. Besides, we're liable to need our whole force over at Tinaja Wells. What are you going to do, my boy?" he asked, turning to Matt.
"I'm going back to Phœnix," replied Matt.
"Take my advice, and don't try it to-night. It will be dark on the divide before you could get over it, and it's a ticklish enough place in broad day, say nothing of trying to cover the trail when you can't see whereyou're going. I'll leave a blanket here for you to sleep on, and a bottle of cold coffee, some crackers, and a hunk of 'jerked.' You can get an early start in the morning, and probably poke this envelope into the governor's hands at noon."
Fishing the stump of a lead-pencil out of his pocket, Burke wrote a few words on the back of the envelope that had contained the governor's message, and gave it to Matt.
"Before I leave, son," went on the sheriff, taking Matt's hand, "let me say that I think you're the clear quill. You've done a big thing to-day, and if you hadn't had more pluck and ginger than common, it's a cinch you'd have lost out. Now it's up to us, and if we can make good, as you did, everything will be all serene."
Burke turned away and jumped into his saddle. The rest of the men also shook Motor Matt's hand, and then got on their horses.
"There's the blanket," called Burke, tossing a roll in front of Matt. "Adios, my lad, and always remember that Burke, of Prescott, is your friend. Spurs and quirts, boys!"
Away dashed the posse, Burke in the lead. They vanished in the direction of the Gap, although their road to Painted Rocks and Tinaja Wells was not to take them over the divide.
Matt was tired, and the prospect of a rest appealed to him mightily. With a cloth taken from his toolkit, he proceeded to dust off theComet, and to look it over and make sure it had suffered no damage. He attended to this before he looked after his own comfort.
After finishing with the machine, he spread out the sheriff's blanket under some bushes near the spring, and ate a supper of jerked beef and crackers and drank the bottle of coffee.
A feeling of relief and satisfaction ran through him. He had finished his "century" run and had delivered the governor's message to Burke on time. Now, if only Clip had been with him, his enjoyment would have been complete.
He fell to wondering what Clip was about, and how he had expected to help with his smoke-signals. It would have been easy for Clip, aided by the half-breed, to send signals along the line carrying information that the trouble was over with. But Clip had not been able to do that, or the encounter would not have occurred on the divide.
While Matt's mind circled about his chum, darkness fell suddenly, as it always does in Arizona, and coyotes began to yelp shrilly among the hills. Feeling perfectly secure, Matt lay back, pulled the side of the blanket over him, and fell asleep.
He must have slept several hours, when he was aroused by a rustling in the bushes near him, and a sound as of some animal sniffing about his camp. Reaching for the bottle that had contained the coffee, he threw it into the brush. There followed a yelp, and the animal—coyote or wolf—could be heard scurrying away.
Getting up, Matt walked down to the spring and took a drink. As he lifted himself erect, far off across the hills toward the north and west he saw a fiery line rise in the air and burst into a dozen flaming balls. Perhaps a minute later the rocket was answered by another, off to the south.
"There's a whole lot going on in these hills to-night," thought Matt, returning to his blanket. "By this time, I guess, Burke and his men must have reached Tinaja Wells and done their work there. The smuggling of Chinks across the Mexican border is getting a black eye in this part of the country, all right."
Once more Matt fell asleep. When he was aroused again it was by a sound of voices close at hand. He started up quickly, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
Morning had come, and in the gathering light he looked through the bushes and off toward the spring. Two men were standing by the pool, one an American and the other a Mexican. They were both travel-stained and looked as though they had been doing some hard riding.
The American was dressed after the fashion prevailing in the hills, and had a couple of revolvers dangling at his hips. Each man had a horse, and the animals looked worn and tired.
Matt wondered who the two travelers could be, for he could not remember having seen either of them among the sheriff's men. As he gave the Mexican more critical attention he was amazed to discover that he was the wood-hauler who had fled from Phœnix at the time McKibben had arrested Juan Morisco.
Thiswas a disquieting discovery, and Matt thought that if he could levant without being seen it would be well for him to do so. TheCometwas not far away, and Matt got on his knees and began crawling toward it.
A bit of brush snapped under him, however, and startled exclamations escaped the two men. Matt sprang up, with the intention of making a run for the motor-cycle, but before he had taken two steps, an authoritative voice shouted: "Halt!"
Over his shoulder he could see that the American was pointing a revolver at him. Matt halted, of course. There was no reason in the world why the two men should interfere with him, and now that he had been unable to slip away unnoticed he faced them boldly.
JOE BASCOMB.
As Motor Matt walked toward the man with the leveled revolver, the wood-hauler cried out a startled "Madre mia!" and gave a jump for the other man's arm.
"What's the matter with you, José?" demanded the American, keeping his eyes on Matt as he talked.
José launched into a torrent of Spanish. Matt could not understand a word of what he was saying, any more than he could understand the talk which Clip had had with his uncle, the half-breed, but the change that came over the face of the American was remarkable.
In the American's eyes there was a look like that in the orbs of a cornered panther. He had fine features—features that told of an iron will and a fearless spirit; nevertheless, they had a gloomy cast. While José spoke, something akin to kindness crept through the hard, somber lines, the lips twitched and the eyes softened. The man lowered his revolver, tucked it away in the swinging holster, and turned to José.
Then, in the same language José had used, he spokerapidly and at considerable length. Matt stood and waited, trying to guess what the wood-hauler had said to cause such a change in the man's bearing.
"Who are you, my lad?" inquired the man civilly enough.
"That's a fair question, all right," returned Matt; "but you might have asked it before you went through all those motions with the gun. And then, too, I don't know why I should talk about myself until I learn a little about you."
"That's straight, anyhow," said the man. "I like a fellow that comes out flat footed and says what he thinks. My name's Joe Bascomb, and I belong with Burke's crowd."
"You wasn't with Burke's crowd when I saw them here yesterday afternoon."
"No more I wasn't. Yesterday afternoon, you see, I was on detached duty. But I was in at the skirmish at the Wells!"
Bascomb frowned, as though the memory was not pleasant.
"There was a fight?" Matt asked eagerly. "Were Dangerfield and his gang captured?"
"There wasn't much of a fight. You see, the smugglers weren't expecting trouble, and Burke took them by surprise. A few shots were fired, mainly by Burke and his men, but they went wild. The smugglers were making for their horses. Six of their number were captured, but a few more got away. Among those who escaped was Dangerfield. I'm trying to get to Phœnix on business, and I wonder if five hundred dollars would tempt you to let me have that wheel?"
Bascomb pulled a roll of bills from his pocket as he spoke, and held it up for Matt to look at.
"Can you ride a wheel?" asked Matt.
"Never rode one in my life!"
"Then you couldn't use the motor-cycle. You'd go off the trail on the divide as sure as fate."
"Bring the machine down here and let me look at it."
Matt rolled theCometdown. After Bascomb had studied it a while he shook his head disappointedly.
"I reckon you're right," he muttered. "What did you say your name was?"
"Matt King."
"Then you're the chap who covered the trail between Phœnix and Potter's Gap yesterday afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Well, Matt, I've got to get to Phœnix as soon as I can, and if you're not in very much of a hurry, I'll climb into my saddle and we'll go together. If——" Bascomb hesitated. "If any of Dangerfield's scattered gang happened to waylay me, there's something I'd like to have you do for me in Phœnix. That's why I'd like to have you along."
"If you're waylaid, Mr. Bascomb," said Matt, "they'd be liable to get me, too. Dangerfield and his men aren't feeling any too friendly toward me after what I did yesterday afternoon."
"No, they wouldn't get you," insisted Bascomb. "You could run away from 'em like a streak on that motor-cycle. If I ask you to do anything for me," he added significantly, "I'll pay you well for it."
"All right," said Matt, "we'll travel together."
Bascomb turned to José, and again spoke to him in Spanish. The Mexican immediately pulled off his ragged slouch-hat and his tattered coat. Removing his own hat and coat, Bascomb put on the Mexican's; then, after transferring his personal belongings from one garment to the other, he turned to Matt.
"Not much of a disguise, is it?" he remarked. "But maybe it's enough to keep the gang from spotting me."
"What's that Mexican doing here?" demanded Matt. "He was with Juan Morisco in Phœnix yesterday, when Morisco was arrested. This fellow cut out a horse from the runaway team and got away."
"Sure he did; and he rode all day and most of the night to find me. We came across each other by chance, not more than two miles from here."
"If he's a friend of yours," said Matt suspiciously, "and a friend of Morisco's, why——"
"You don't know Mexicans, King. José doesn't know any more than the law allows, but I rendered him a service once, and he's never forgotten it."
José, apparently paying no attention to the talk, was putting on Bascomb's expensive Stetson, and a coat which was infinitely better than the one he had exchanged for it.
"Here's where our trails divide, José," said Bascomb, in English, taking the roll of bills from his pocket and stripping a bank-note from it and handing it to the Mexican. "You've made some mighty bad mistakes, but I give you credit for doing your best.Adios."
"Adios!" answered José.
Both men mounted their horses; and when Bascomb and Matt made off, José, on his jaded beast, sat watching them until they got around the spur on their way to the Gap.
Bascomb led the way, spurring his animal into a slow gallop. Matt followed, accommodating the speed of theCometto the gait of the horse. The long flat was crossed and the mountain climbed and descended—all without mishap, and without a word of talk between the two travelers.
Matt's mind was busy. To pull the wool over his eyes was not an easy matter, and the story told by Bascomb was figuratively speaking, too full of holes to hold water.
José had been with Juan Morisco. Juan was one of the Dangerfield gang. José would not have run from the sheriff unless he had had a guilty conscience. Yet, when he had run away, he had taken the trouble to ride a hundred miles and hunt for Bascomb. Bascomb had explained that José was indebted to him, and had hunted him up for that reason. But that, as Matt looked at it, was no reason at all.
Then what did that exchange of coats and hats mean? Why was it necessary for an officer of the law to disguise himself? Here, again, Bascomb's explanation did not explain.
Although these reflections shattered Matt's confidencein his companion, the boy did not allow it, for the present, to make any difference in his treatment of the man.
Bascomb grew talkative when they reached Castle Creek Cañon and started over the clear stretch of road toward Hot Springs.
"What became of the little girl that figured in that runaway?" he asked. There was an eagerness in his voice which Matt did not fail to notice. "José said you stopped the horses, picked up the little girl, and was going to carry her into the house when Juan Morisco interfered. José didn't see any more, as the sheriff came up just then."
"I took her into the house," answered Matt, "and we sent for a doctor."
The man started in his saddle and bent his piercing eyes on the boy.
"Was she as badly hurt as that?" he demanded.
"The doctor said he didn't think she could live."
"What!" Bascomb's eyes were glaring like an animal's as they met Matt's. "No, no," he added, dropping back in the saddle and brushing a hand across his forehead, "it can't be. I won't believe it. You stopped the horses, and I don't see how she could have been so badly hurt as all that."
"She was tied to the 'reach' of the wagon," explained Matt, "and the front wheels broke away from those behind just before we got the horses stopped. The girl was dragged for a ways. If she hadn't been tied, she wouldn't have been hurt so bad."
"She's been living at José's for a month," muttered Bascomb to himself, but in a voice loud enough for Matt to hear, "and she could stand him, but José said she couldn't bear Juan Morisco. It was bad business sending Juan after her. José had to tie her to the wagon to keep her from running off when Morisco came. But that doctor was wrong!" and Bascomb raised his voice and once more turned to Matt.
This soliloquy of Bascomb's gave Matt fresh food for thought. Bascomb spurred his tired horse cruelly, and they got past Hot Springs at a fairly good gait.
"What did the girl say?" asked Bascomb, when they were well to the south of Hot Springs, and picking their way among the litter of stones. "Did she say anything about herself, or about her folks?"
"She wouldn't say anything about herself or her people," replied Matt.
"True-blue!" muttered Bascomb huskily. "She'll pull through—she always had grit; but I wish I was sure!"
A mile north of the notch Bascomb's horse fell under him. He had been forcing the animal ahead impatiently, and as he fell floundering to the ground over the horse's head, he swore a fierce oath.
One of the revolvers had dropped out of Bascomb's belt. Unseen by its owner, Matt picked it up.
Bascomb, in spite of his temper over the giving out of the horse, knelt beside the animal and unrove the cinches. Pulling the saddle loose, he cast it aside; then he removed the bridle and threw it after the saddle.
"You served me well, you poor brute," said he, "but not well enough."
He whirled away. Matt was looking at him along the barrel of the revolver. He started back with another oath.
"What do you mean by that?" he cried. "Haven't I got enough to torture me without——" He bit the words short, and glared.
"Take that other gun from your belt," commanded Matt, "and throw it away. You can't fool me, Bascomb! You're one of the Dangerfield gang. I don't think you intended going to Phœnix, but you're going now, whether you want to or not!"
Matt's voice was steady, and his gray eyes snapped in a way that meant business.