THE MAN HUNTERS.
Motor Matt was not anticipating any serious trouble with the cowboys.
The worst that could possibly happen, he believed, was a slight delay
while the curiosity of the horsemen regarding the aëroplane was
satisfied.
Armed cattlemen are proverbially reckless. A refusal to alight would
certainly have made the _Comet_ a target for half a dozen guns, and it
was a foregone conclusion that not all the bullets would have gone wild.
The cowboys, of course, knew nothing about aëroplanes. They wanted Matt
to come down, no matter whether the landing was made in a spot from
which the aëroplane could take a fresh start, or in a place where a
start would be impossible.
The hill on which the horsemen were posted was a high one, and had
smooth, treeless slopes on all sides. It was, in fact, a veritable
turf-covered coteau.
Matt was planning to alight on the very crest of the hill. When he and
his pards were ready to take wing again, he thought they could dash
down the hill slope, and be in the air before the foot of the hill was
reached.
The horses of the men below were frightened by the aëroplane, and began
to kick and plunge. The trained riders, however, held them steady with
one hand while gripping rifles with the other.
The flying machine circled obediently in answer to her steering
apparatus, and landed on the crest of the hill with hardly a jar. As
the craft rested there, the boys got out to stretch their cramped legs
and inquire what the cowboys wanted. The latter had spurred their
restive animals close, and were grouped in a circle about the _Comet_.
"Well, I'll be gosh-hanged!" muttered one, staring at the machine with
jaws agape.
"Me, too!" murmured another. "Gee, man, but this here's hard ter
believe."
"Hustlin' around through the air," put in another, "same as I go
slashin' over the range on a bronk."
The fourth man gave less heed to his amazement than he did to the
business immediately in hand.
"Ain't either one o' 'em George Hobbes?" he averred, looking Matt,
McGlory, and Ping over with some disappointment.
That name, falling from the cowboy's lips, caused Matt and McGlory to
exchange wondering glances.
"What did you stop us for?" asked Matt.
"Me an' Slim, thar, thought ye mout hev Hobbes aboard that
thing-um-bob," went on the last speaker. "We're from the Tin Cup Ranch,
us fellers are. I'm Jed Spearman, the foreman. Whar d'ye hail from?"
"From Fort Totten."
"When d'ye leave thar?"
"About two hours ago."
"Come off! Toten's a good hunnerd an' twenty miles from here."
"Well," laughed Matt, "we can travel sixty miles an hour, when we let
ourselves out, and bad roads can't stop us. But tell us about this man,
Hobbes. Who is he?"
"He's a tinhorn, that's what. He blowed inter the Tin Cup bunkhouse,
last night, an' cleaned us all out in a leetle game o' one-call-two."
"If you're foolish enough to gamble," said Matt, "you ought to have the
nerve to take the consequences."
"Gad-hook it all," spoke up the man referred to as "Slim," "I ain't
puttin' up no holler when I loses fair, but this Hobbes person is that
rank with his cold decks, his table hold outs, an' his extra aces, that
I blushes ter think o' how we was all roped in."
"He cheated you?"
"Cheat?" echoed Jed Spearman, "waal, no. From the way we sized it up
when we got tergether this mornin', it was jest plain rob'ry. Hobbes
headed this way, an' we slid inter our saddles an' follered. But we've
lost the trail, an' was jest communin' with ourselves ter find out what
jump ter make next, when this thing"--he waved his hand toward the
aëroplane--"swung inter sight agin' the sky. We seen you three aboard
the thing, an' got the fool notion that mebby Hebbes was one o' ye."
"Didn't you find out last night that you had been cheated?" asked Matt.
"Nary. If we had, pilgrim, ye kin gamble a stack we'd have took arter
this Hobbes person right then. It was only this mornin' when Slim
diskivered the deck o' keerds belongin' ter the feller, which same he
had left behind most unaccountable, that we sensed how bad we'd been
done. The' was an extry set o' aces with that pack, the backs was all
readers, an' the hull lay-out was that peculiar we wasn't more'n a
brace o' shakes makin' up our minds what ter do."
"What sort of a looking man was this Hobbes?"
"Dead ringer fer a cattleman, neighbor. Blue eyes, well set up, an'
youngish."
Matt was surprised. He was expecting to receive a description of
Murgatroyd, but the specifications did not fit the broker. Murgatroyd
was a large, lean man with black, gimlet-like eyes.
"What's yer bizness in these parts?" demanded Jed Spearman. "Jest
takin' a leetle fly fer the fun o' the thing?"
"Well," answered Matt, "not exactly."
"Ain't in no rush, are ye?"
"Yes. Now that you know the man Hobbes isn't with us, we'll get aboard
and resume our flight."
Matt stepped toward the aëroplane, with the intention of taking his
place at the driving levers. But Jed Spearman stayed him with a grip of
the arm.
"I got er notion," said Jed, "that I'd like ter take a ride in that
thing myself." The other cowboys gave a roar of wild appreciation and
approval. "Ye say ye kin do sixty miles an hour," proceeded Jed. "I'm
goin' back ter the Tin Cup Ranch ter see if the other party that went
out arter Hobbes had any success. It's thirty miles ter the Tin Cup,
an' ye ort ter git me thar an' back inside o' an hour--onless ye was
puttin' up a summer breeze when ye told how fast this here dufunny
machine could travel. Hey? How does it hit ye?"
Motor Matt was taken all aback. An hour's delay might spell ruin so far
as meeting Newt Prebbles at the mouth of Burnt Creek was concerned.
"We're in too much of a hurry," said Matt, "and we can't spare the
time. I'd like to oblige you, Spearman, but it's out of the question."
"No more it ain't out o' the question," growled Spearman. "I'm pinin'
ter take a ride in that thar machine, an' ye kin help us in our hunt
fer Hobbes if ye'll only take me back ter the ranch. I reckon yore
bizness ain't any more important than what ours is."
"Make him take ye, Jed!" howled the other punchers. "If he won't, we'll
make kindlin' wood out er the ole buzzard."
The temper of the cowboys was such that Matt was in a quandary. While
he was turning the situation over in his mind, McGlory stepped forward
and took part in the talk.
"Say, you," he cried angrily, "what you putting up this kind of a deal
on us for? You can't make us toe the mark by putting the bud to us, and
if you try it, we'll pull till the latigoes snap."
"Don't git sassy," said Jed, in a patronizing tone. "We're too many fer
ye, kid. Ridin' in that thing'll be more fun fer me than a three-ring
circus, say nothin' o' the help it'll be fer us ter find out whether
the other bunch o' man hunters struck 'signs' er not. Step back, an'
sing small. Here, Slim, you take charge o' my hoss."
The foreman passed his bridle reins to Slim, dismounted, and laid his
gun on the ground.
"We'll have to wait here till ye git back, won't we?" asked Slim.
"Sure," replied Jed. "We've lost the trail, an' thar ain't no manner o'
use ter keep on ontil we find out somethin'."
"Then I'm goin' ter git down," said Slim. "We kin bunch up the critters
an' smoke a little."
McGlory's temper was rapidly growing. The cool way in which Jed
Spearman was planning to appropriate the _Comet_ was more than McGlory
could stand.
"You're a lot of tinhorns!" he cried. "This lad here," he waved his
hand toward the king of the motor boys, "is Motor Matt, and he's making
this flight on government business, mainly. You keep hands off, or
you'll get into trouble."
"That's me!" whooped Spearman. "Trouble! I live on _that_. Get ready
that flyin' machine, kase I'm hungry ter do my sixty miles an hour on
the way back ter headquarters."
An idea suddenly popped into McGlory's head.
"This way, Matt," said he, stepping off to one side and beckoning Matt
to follow.
The cowboys were a little suspicious, but their curiosity prompted them
to inspect the _Comet_ and leave Matt and McGlory to their own devices.
"What do you think, pard?" asked McGlory, when he and Matt were by
themselves.
"I think it won't do to have any delay," replied Matt, "but I
don't just see how we're going to avoid it. If it wasn't for those
rifles----" He cast a look at the cowboys and shrugged his shoulders.
"I've got a notion we can fool the punchers," said McGlory, "but Ping
and I will have to be left behind, if we do it. You'll be going it
alone, from here on. Think you can manage it?"
"I'll try anything," answered Matt. "All I want is to get away.
Who this gambler the cowboys call George Hobbes is, I haven't the
least idea. Their description of the fellow doesn't tally with the
description of Murgatroyd, and the whole affair is beginning to have a
queer look. I don't think there's any time to be lost."
"No more there isn't," replied McGlory. "Ping and I can wander on to
the mouth of Burnt Creek on foot as soon as we can shake the punchers,
and you can look for us there. What I'm plannin' is this."
Thereupon McGlory hastily sketched his swiftly formed plan. It had
rather a venturesome look, to Matt, and might, or might not, win out.
There was nothing to do, however, but to try it.
"What you shorthorns gassin' about?" yelled Jed Spearman. "I'm all
ready ter fly, an' time's skurse."
Matt and McGlory, having finished their brief talk, walked back to the
cowboys.