IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY.
Matt had no more than reached the tree when he heard a sound of
scrambling behind him. Just as he whirled about to see what was going
on, a husky yell rang out.
"I'll take care o' the Dutchman, Spangler. You nail the other 'un!"
Simultaneously with the words a big, ruffianly-looking fellow sprang
into the tonneau of the car, grabbed Carl as he was about to rise and
pulled him over the back of the seat with an arm about his throat.
There was another man on the ground, moving warily in Matt's direction.
These were the two scoundrels who had chased the car on the other side
of the mountain, there was no doubt about that. They had made their
counter-move exactly as Tomlinson had surmised. But why had they made
it, now that Tomlinson was not with the car? And where were their
horses?
It seemed clear that they had made a quick ride through the gap, and
had reached the trailside and hidden behind the bushes, ready to make a
capture as soon as the tree had stopped the boys and before they could
take the back track. And what was the use of it all, now that Tomlinson
had got away with the pearls?
These thoughts flashed through Matt's mind with the swiftness of
lightning. A dead branch had been broken from the pine-tree in its
fall. Matt grabbed at it and began waving it around his head.
"Keep away from me!" he cried, to the fellow who was closing in on him.
The ruffian, seeing the snapping gray eyes and the whirling club,
paused undecidedly.
"That's Motor Matt!" yelled the man in the automobile; "get him,
Spangler!"
"Oh, blazes!" snarled the man. "If ye think I'm goin' to walk inter
that club, Hank, ye've got another guess comin'. I'll git him, though."
Spangler threw a hand behind him and jerked a revolver from his hip
pocket.
"Now, younker," said he, leveling the weapon, "drop yer club an' be
reasonable. I'd hate like sin ter cut ye off in yer youth an' bloom,
but Hank an' me ain't here fer the fun o' the thing, not noways."
Matt could see with half an eye that the man meant business, and that
he would be quick to use the revolver if he had to. If the two ruffians
were after the pearls, they would probably leave Matt and Carl and go
away as soon as they found out they were on the wrong track. Then, if
ever, was the time to do a little talking.
"What do you want?" asked Matt, throwing the club away and leaning back
against the tree.
"You seen anything of a green bag?" asked Hank, still hanging to Carl.
"I've seen it, yes," answered Matt. "If that's what you want, we
haven't got it."
"Where is it? Don't you lie to me--it won't be healthy for you."
"Mr. Tomlinson has got the bag," said Matt.
The man on the ground gave a jump and began to swear.
"Do you mean to say," shouted the man in the car, "that the _hombre_
who was in this car with you didn't have that bag?"
"Yes, he's the one. His name's Tomlinson. He's in the jewelry business,
in Denver."
An odd expression crossed the faces of the two men. Then Spangler began
to laugh.
"What d'ye think o' that, Hank?" he demanded. "Tomlinson! He said his
name was Tomlinson! Waal, wouldn't that rattle yer spurs?"
"You say he had the bag?" went on Hank.
"Yes," said Matt.
"They didn't try to take it away from him in Ash Fork?"
"No. Why should they, if it belonged to him?"
"What became of--er--Tomlinson?"
"He got out of the car on the other side of the mountain. He thought
you'd cross over through the gap, and head us off."
This information put both men in a swearing temper.
"If he's on foot anywhere within a dozen miles of us," growled Hank,
"we'll get him. Come on, Spangler! Spurs and quirts, while we run the
coyote down."
Releasing the half-strangled Carl, Hank leaped out of the car. Together
they started for the trailside, and the wooded slope leading to the gap.
But they were not gone, yet. Just as they began to mount the slope,
Spangler gave vent to an angry yell.
"Look thar, Hank," he roared, pointing along the road beyond the tree.
"_Now_ who's played it low-down on us?"
Matt ran back to the car and climbed up to the front seat. From that
elevation he was able to look off and see what it was that had claimed
Hank's frantic attention.
Carl was already staring across the tree and into the distance. Two
mounted men were galloping up the road, one of them leading a horse
with an empty saddle.
One of the men was Tomlinson; the other was----
"Pringle!" muttered Carl; "py chiminy grickets, dere goes dot feller
vat shkipped mit all vat I hat!"
Hank and Spangler were furious.
"They're makin' off with our hosses!" bellowed Spangler.
"And they've got the pearls!" added Hank.
"We got ter ketch 'em!" stormed Spangler. "We got ter pick up hosses
some'rs an' git holt of 'em!"
He started to run along the slope in the direction the horses were
going.
"Come back here, you fool!" ordered Hank. "We couldn't overhaul them in
a thousand years, on foot."
"What'll we do?" flung back Spangler. "We kain't stand here an' watch
'em go skyhootin' off with our hosses an' them pearls. Of all the Injun
plays I ever heerd of, this takes the banner!"
Hank was already retracing his way down the slope.
"We'll take the automobile!" he yelled, over his shoulder. "We'll be
climbing right on top of 'em in a brace of shakes."
"Dot means us, Matt!" exclaimed Carl. "You do vat dey say, und py
chimineddy I vill catch oop mit dot Pringle feller! Wienerwurst! I'll
make him t'ink I vas vorse as dot!"
With revolvers in their hands, Spangler and Hank came plunging for the
car.
"Snake us out of this, Motor Matt!" shouted Hank. "Lay us alongside
that outfit ahead, and see how quick you can do it!"
"Can't do it," answered Matt. "You fellows have blocked the road."
In their excitement, neither Hank nor Spangler had thought of the tree.
It was a case of their own weapons being turned against them. The
ruffians let loose their billingsgate again, but only for a moment.
"Get out here, you two," shouted Hank, "and help us snake the log out
of the way. I reckon the four of us will be plenty."
Carl piled out briskly, and Matt followed. Spangler and Hank worked
like beavers, and after a two minutes' struggle the way was cleared.
"Now for it!" panted Hank, rushing back to the car. "All in, everybody!
If you try any tricks with the machinery, Motor Matt," he finished
savagely, "I'll make a lead-mine out of you. Top speed!"
It was an odd situation, take it all around. Matt was being forced to
help the would-be robbers, but his suspicions of Tomlinson, since his
talk with Spangler and Hank, had reached a point where he was more than
willing to do his best to overhaul the men ahead.
Carl, of course, was thinking only of Pringle, and of what Pringle had
done to him.
The Red Flier leaped onward with a bound, Matt leaning over the wheel
and coaxing the six cylinders up, notch by notch, to their limit of
power.
Hank was in front with Matt. Behind them, standing in the tonneau,
gripping the seat-back and leaning over their heads, were Carl and
Spangler.
"Gif her all she vill shtand, Matt!" cried Carl. "Hit her oop like
anyding! Tear off der miles so kevick as dey nefer vas yet!"
"Whoop-ya!" yelled Spangler. "We'll purty near git thar afore we start!
Talk about yer travelin'--why, this here's like bein' shot out of a
gun!"
"That fellow isn't Tomlinson, you say?" shouted Matt to the man beside
him.
"No more than I am!" answered Hank.
"Is he Denver Denny, otherwise James Trymore?"
"You've hit it!"
A light had suddenly dawned on Matt. Denver Denny was playing a bold
game, and the stakes were $30,000 worth of black pearls. Although Matt
was helping Spangler and Hank, yet there was a hope, deep down in his
heart, that he might somehow be able to worst all the robbers and
recover the pearls for the man who owned them.
But where was that man?
While all this fighting was going on for the possession of the pearls,
what had become of James Q. Tomlinson, of Denver?