MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 13
MAY 22, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
QUEER FIND
OR THE SECRET
OF THE IRON CHEST
_By
THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _Swiftly Motor Matt
secured the end of
the rope to one of the
iron handles_]
_STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
New York_
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 13. NEW YORK, May 22, 1909. Price Five Cents.
MOTOR MATT'S QUEER FIND;
OR,
THE SECRET OF THE IRON CHEST.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. THE HUT BY THE BAYOU.
CHAPTER II. YAMOUSA.
CHAPTER III. THE ATTACK ON THE CAR.
CHAPTER IV. SMOKE PICTURES.
CHAPTER V. A QUEER FIND.
CHAPTER VI. FOUL PLAY.
CHAPTER VII. DRIED FROGS--AND LUCK.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PLOTTERS.
CHAPTER IX. THE HEAD OF OBBONEY.
CHAPTER X. ON THE TRAIL.
CHAPTER XI. A BLACK MYSTERY.
CHAPTER XII. AT CLOSE QUARTERS.
CHAPTER XIII. THREE IN A TRAP.
CHAPTER XIV. AN ASTOUNDING SITUATION.
CHAPTER XV. THE TREASURE.
CHAPTER XVI. DIAMONDS GALORE.
THE MASKED LIGHT.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Motor Matt=, a lad who is at home with every variety of motor, and
whose never-failing nerve serves to carry him through difficulties
that would daunt any ordinary young fellow. Because of his daring
as a racer with bicycle, motor-cycle and automobile he is known as
"Mile-a-minute Matt." Motor-boats, air ships and submarines come
naturally in his line, and consequently he lives in an atmosphere of
adventure in following up his "hobby."
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German boy, stout of frame
as well as of heart, who is led by a fortunate accident to link his
fortunes with those of Motor Matt.
=Dick Ferral=, a young sea dog from Canada, with all a sailor's
superstitions, but in spite of all that a royal chum, ready to stand
by the friend of his choice through thick and thin.
=Townsend=, a wealthy though eccentric gentleman, who owns a
remarkable submarine boat on which our friends have seen various
adventures in the past.
=Whistler=,}
=Jurgens=, } a trio of rogues bent upon gaining possession of a prize.
=Bangs=, }
=Yamousa=, the hideous voodoo woman of the Louisiana swamps.
CHAPTER I.
THE HUT BY THE BAYOU.
"Lisden, vonce, you fellers! I t'ink I hear someding."
Carl Pretzel turned back from the forward rail of the _Hawk_, gave his
chums, Motor Matt and Dick Ferral, a warning look, and then leaned out
over the side of the air ship, his eyes on the earth below.
The _Hawk_ was sweeping over the tongue of land between Lake
Pontchartrain and Lake Borgne, bound for New Orleans by way of the
Lower Mississippi.
Night was coming on, and the boys in the air ship had been looking
anxiously for a place in which to effect a landing. Interminable
stretches of cypress and live oak covered the low ground beneath them,
and there did not seem to be a gap anywhere in the dense growth.
"You must have bells in your ears, mate," said Dick, in response to
Carl's announcement that he had heard "something." "Dowse me if I heard
any noise."
"Listen, pards, both of you," called Matt from his seat among the
levers. "If you can hear a voice, down there, it will be a pretty sure
sign that we're close to a clearing. We've done enough flying for
to-day, and these Louisiana air currents are so changeable I don't want
to do any night traveling. If you----"
"Dere it vas some more!" cried Carl excitedly. "You hear him dot time,
Tick?"
"Aye, matey," answered Dick, "I heard a voice, fair enough. It was a
sort of screech, as though a woman might have piped up--or a panther."
"Where away was it?" asked Matt.
"Two points off the starboard bow, Matt."
Matt shifted the rudder, thus altering the course of the _Hawk_; he
also depressed the horizontal plane and threw the air ship closer to
the tree tops.
"It's getting so blooming dark, down there among the trees," observed
Dick, "that it's hard to see anything, but I believe I can make out a
bit of a river, and an arm of it like a bayou."
"Yah, so helup me," put in Carl, "I can see dot meinseluf, I bed you.
Und dere iss a light like a fire, vich geds prighter und prighter as ve
go aheadt. Vat you t'ink is dot anyvay, Tick?"
Before Dick could answer, the cry that had already claimed their
attention was wafted up from below, this time so clear and distinct
that there was no mistaking it.
"_A moi! a moi!_"
It was a screech, as Dick had said, and resembled greatly the yell of
some wild animal; nevertheless, the call was plainly human, for it was
broken into words.
"French lingo, or I'm a Fiji!" averred Dick. "It's the same as some
one calling for help. And a woman, too. No man could make a sound like
that."
As if to prove Dick's words, the cry was repeated, but the words were
English, now, and not French.
"Help! Help!"
"Py chiminy grickets!" gasped Carl. "Dere iss someding going on vat
means drouple for der laty."
"We've got to land," declared Matt, "and see what's the matter. Can you
find a place?"
Both Dick and Carl were leaning over the forward rail and staring ahead
and downward.
Suddenly the tree tops broke away and a heap of blazing wood could be
seen. The fire had been kindled on a cleared stretch of bayou bank, and
not far from it was a log hovel. But there was no one in sight, either
near the fire or around the hut.
The two boys on the lookout announced their discoveries to Motor Matt.
"We'll come down on the bayou bank," said Matt. "Give me directions,
Dick."
The young Canadian, watching sharply below, called their bearings
to Matt, and the _Hawk_ was safely manoeuvred to the surface of the
ground. The calls for aid had ceased, an ominous silence reigning in
the vicinity of the fire and the hut while the boys got out their
mooring ropes and secured the _Hawk_ to nearby trees.
"Where's the woman in distress?" queried Dick, coming around the front
end of the car and joining Matt and Carl. "She was making plenty of
noise, a while ago, but she's quiet enough now."
"She may be in the hut," said Matt. "You stay here and watch the air
ship, Dick, while Carl and I take a look through the shanty."
Matt pulled a blazing pine knot from the fire, and, with this to light
the way, started toward the hut. Carl dropped in at his side and they
proceeded onward together. Suddenly Carl drew to a halt and laid a hand
on Matt's arm.
"I tell you someding, Matt," said the Dutch boy, "und dot iss, I don'd
like dis pitzness. Br-r-r! I haf some greepy feelings all droo me."
Carl could be as brave as a lion when brought company front with any
danger he could understand, but he was so full of superstition that if
a black cat crossed the road in front of him he was at once thrown into
a panic.
"Nonsense!" exclaimed Matt. "We're here to help some one who is in
trouble, and we don't want to get scared at our own shadows."
"Der blace itseluf iss enough to make my shkin ged oop und valk all
ofer me mit coldt feet; and den, for vy don'd we hear dat foice some
more?"
There _was_ a sort of weirdness about the place, and no mistake. The
great live oaks, uncannily festooned with Spanish moss, completely
inclosed the little clearing, bending about it in a half circle and
coming down to the very edge of the bayou. The fact that there was a
fire, of course, proved that human beings had been in the clearing,
even if they were not there now. But there was something ghostly about
the fire, and while it threw flickering shadows across the clearing it
seemed only to make the darkness deeper in the depths of the wood.
"It may be, Carl," said Matt, "that the woman who was calling for help
has become unconscious. That makes it all the more necessary for us to
find her as quick as we can. Come on!"
Waving his torch, Matt hurried along toward the hut. The door was open,
and the torch glare struck whitely against some object suspended over
it.
"Vatt iss dot ofer der door, eh?" asked Carl excitedly. "Py shinks, it
iss some pones! It iss a skeleton oof someding! Whoosh! Dis iss gedding
on my nerfs like anyding."
The young motorist whirled on his Dutch chum.
"You go back to the air ship, Carl," said he, "and send Dick here. Your
nerves are troubling you so much that you're not of much help."
Carl was only too ready to go back to the _Hawk_. With a mumbled
apology for himself, he turned and hurried away. When Dick came up, a
moment later, Matt was looking at the object over the door of the hovel.
"What is it, matey?" queried Dick.
"It looks like the skull of a cat, or a dog," answered Matt.
"Then I suppose it was put up there to bring luck. People around here
must be a jolly lot."
"We'll see what's inside," and Matt, holding his torch high, passed
through the door.
The hut contained but one room. There was a fireplace in one end, and
over a bed of coals a kettle was hanging. A "shake-down" on the floor,
in one corner, was covered with ragged blankets. But the strangest
feature of the place was this: The whole under part of the thatched
roof, and every crevice of the walls, was hung with rags, feathers,
bones of cats, alligator teeth, and a thousand other objects, equally
curious.
"Well, strike me lucky!" mumbled Dick. "This is a rummy old place we've
got into. Between you and me and the mainmast, old ship, I'd just about
as soon give it a good offing. But where's the woman that wanted help?"
The question was hardly out of Dick's mouth before it was answered by
another screeching, "_A moi! a moi!_"
The call did not come from anywhere about the hut, but from outside and
somewhere in the timber.
"This way, Dick!" shouted Matt, and rushed out of the hut.
"_A moi! a moi!_"
The call was again repeated, and the two boys, guiding themselves by
the call, flung up the slight slope and darted in among the trees.
"Careful, matey!" panted Dick, from close behind his comrade. "There's
no telling what sort of a jolly mess we're running into. Better dowse
that light--it'll be safer; besides, I can see the gleam of a lantern
ahead, there, through the trees."
"I just caught a sight of that myself, Dick," answered Matt, in a low
voice. "Your suggestion about the torch is good," and Matt dropped the
blazing fagot and crushed out the fire with his foot. "Now, then," he
finished, "we'll go on, and go quietly."
A dozen yards, perhaps, brought the boys to a spot from which they
could behold a scene that caused their pulses to leap.
An old crone was bound to a cypress stump, and beside her stood a man
with a lithe switch.
The hag was swarthy, and her kinky hair was white. Evidently she was a
mulatto. The man at her side was white. The moment Matt's eyes rested
on him, the young motorist gripped Dick's arm with tense fingers.
"That man!" whispered Matt excitedly; "do you recognize him, Dick?"
"Whistler, or I'm a Hottentot!" gasped Dick.
For a moment, blank amazement held the two boys spellbound. Then,
as Whistler lifted the switch and brought it viciously down on the
old woman's shoulders, the spell was broken and the two boys started
forward.
"Will you tell?" demanded Whistler, pausing after the blow.
"_A moi! a moi!_" screeched the woman.
"You can call till you're blue in the face," went on Whistler savagely,
"and you'll not bring anybody. I'll find out from you what I want to
know, Yamousa, or I'll flay you alive. Will you tell?"
At that moment, Matt and Dick broke into the lantern light. The lantern
was suspended from the broken limb of a tree, and the glow was so faint
that the boys had not been seen until they were close upon the man and
the woman.
Whistler, with an oath of consternation, jumped backward. The next
moment, he had whirled his gad and brought it down on the lantern. A
crash followed, and Stygian blackness shrouded the spot. A sound of
running feet, fading away in the timber, came to the boys' ears.
"Never mind Whistler, Dick," said Matt; "let's look after the woman."