THE TRAILING ROPE.
Motor Matt could not look behind and take note of how events were
progressing on the hill. He could only hope that McGlory would carry
out the rest of his plan without any setbacks, and that he and Ping
would get safely away from the foiled cattlemen.
The ease with which the boys had played upon the ignorance and
credulity of the high-handed cowpunchers, would have been laughable
could the young motorist have known how successfully the rest of
McGlory's plot was to be carried out. As the matter stood, Matt was
worrying too much to enjoy the situation.
He carried away a memento of the recent trouble in the shape of the
trailing rope. The forty-foot line hung downward, swinging to right and
left and giving frightful pitches to the _Comet_ in spite of Matt's
manipulation of the wing ends.
Bending down, he tried with one hand to untie the riata and rid the
machine of its weight, but the knot had been drawn too tight by the
pulling of Spearman and Slim. As a compromise, Matt pulled the rope in
and dropped it in the seats recently occupied by McGlory and Ping.
Now for the mouth of Burnt Creek, and the carrying out of the purpose
that had brought Matt into that section. The mystery connected with
the "George Hobbes" the cowboys were looking for, and the success or
failure of McGlory and Ping in their final clash with the Tin Cup men,
the king of the motor boys put resolutely from his mind. He was now to
look for Newt Prebbles and advance the spark of friendship in behalf of
the poor old man at Fort Totten.
Matt conceived that the easiest way to reach the mouth of Burnt Creek
was to hover over the stream and follow it to its junction with the
Missouri. This manoeuvre he at once put into operation.
The creek was as crooked as could well be imagined, and twisted and
writhed among the coteaus, carrying with it, on either bank, a scant
growth of cottonwoods. Matt cut off the corners, flying high enough to
clear the tops of the neighboring hills, and soon had the broad stretch
of the Upper Missouri in plain view ahead of him.
In a clump of cottonwoods, near the mouth of the creek, was a small
shack. Matt's view of the shanty was not good, on account of the trees,
and he could not tell whether or not there was any one about the place.
He was just looking for a spot, on the river bank, where he could make
a comfortable landing, when he was startled by discovering a skiff.
The skiff was in the river, well off the mouth of the creek, and was
heading for the western bank of the Missouri. There was one man in the
boat, and he was using his oars frantically, watching the _Comet_ as he
rowed.
"That may be George Hobbes," thought Matt, "and it may be Newt
Prebbles. In any event the fellow, whoever he is, thinks I'm pursuing
him. I'll drop lower and give him a hail."
As the _Comet_ settled downward over the surface of the river, the
man in the skiff redoubled his efforts with the oars. He seemed to be
seized with an unreasoning panic.
"Hello, below there!" shouted Matt.
To slow the aëroplane too much would mean a drop into the water, for a
certain rate of flight was necessary in order to keep the machine aloft.
As Matt called, he passed on beyond the boat, described a turn over the
middle of the river, and came back toward the eastern bank.
The man made no response.
"Are you Newt Prebbles?" yelled Matt.
The other shouted something, in an angry tone, the exact import of
which the young motorist could not catch. Taking his right hand from
the oar, the man jerked a revolver from his belt.
"Don't shoot!" cried Matt. "I'm a friend of yours."
The last word was snipped off in the incisive crack of the weapon. The
bit of lead zipped past Matt's head and bored a hole through the upper
wing of the air ship.
"Stop that!" called Matt sternly, pointing the aëroplane higher and
turning again when over the eastern bank.
Whatever he did, he realized that he must not expose the motor and
propeller to a stray bullet.
But no more shots were fired.
Matt wondered at this until he had faced the machine about and was able
to observe what was going on below.
The man in the skiff had lost an oar. In releasing his hand to use the
revolver, the oar had slipped from the rowlock into the water.
A frantic effort was being made by the man to recover the oar; and
so wild and inconsidered was the attempt that the skiff went over,
throwing its occupant into the river.
"Help!" came the cry, as the man, thrashing and floundering, bobbed to
the surface of the river between the overturned boat and the oar.
It was evident, at a glance, that he could not swim, or that he could
swim so little the mere weight of his clothes was enough to drag him
under.
"Keep your nerve!" cried Matt encouragingly. "I'll help you in a
minute."
The _Comet_ was well to the westward of the man. Matt turned her
sharply, at the same time bringing her as close to the water as he
dared. Then, with one hand on the lever controlling the wing tips, with
the other he reached for the rope on the seat beside him.
Laying a course to pass directly over the man, Matt leaned forward and
flung the riata downward. The sinuous coils straightened out as the
rope descended, the lower end swishing through the water.
"Catch the rope and hold fast!" cried Motor Matt, as the aëroplane
skimmed over the surface of the river.
There would be a jolt when the _Comet_ took up the slack in the riata,
providing the man were successful in laying hold of the line. Would
the jolt disengage the man's hands, or have any serious effect on the
_Comet_?
By that time the aëroplane was so far beyond the man that Matt could
not see what he was doing. Holding his breath, the king of the motor
boys braced himself and waited.
In perhaps a second the _Comet_ reeled and shivered as though under
a blow. Quickly Matt turned full speed into the propeller, and the
machine steadied itself and began to tug at the weight underneath and
behind.
Then, slowly, the aëroplane mounted upward. At a height of fifty feet,
Matt could look down and see a dripping form, swaying and gyrating at
the end of the riata.
"Can you hang on?" called Matt.
"Yes," was the response from below, "if you don't want me to hang on
too long."
"No more than a minute. By that time I'll have you ashore."
The heavy weight, swinging under the machine like a pendulum, made
the aëroplane exceedingly difficult to manage. In the early stages of
aëroplane flying, equilibrium had only been kept by swinging weights,
and it had remained for the Wrights to discover that bending the wing
tips upward or downward kept an aëroplane's poise much better than any
shifting weight could do; and to Harry Traquair had fallen the honor
of inventing sliding extensions, whereby either wing area could be
increased or contracted in the space of a breadth.
Now that the _Comet_ had both a shifting weight and wing manipulations
to keep her steady, she was not steady at all--one balance seeming to
counteract the other. In spite of the terrific dipping and plunging,
however, Matt succeeded in getting to the shore.
The moment the man on the rope found himself over solid ground, he let
go his hold and dropped five or six feet to the bank.
Instantly the _Comet_ came fairly well under control again, and would
have been entirely so but for the weight of the rope.
Matt selected a cleared spot in which to alight, shut off the power,
and glided to the earth easily and safely.
Stepping out of the aëroplane, he hurried to the spot where the rescued
man was lying.
"How are you?" asked Matt, kneeling beside him.
"I'm about fagged," he answered. "There's a cabin, about a rod up the
creek on this side. Go there and get the bottle of whisky you'll find
on the table. A pull at that bottle will put some ginger into me."
"You don't need that kind of ginger," replied Matt. "I'll help you to
the cabin, and when we get there you can get into some dry clothes.
That will do you more good than all the fire-water that ever came out
of a still."
The man hoisted up on one elbow and peered at Matt with weak curiosity.
"That's your brand, is it?" he asked, with as much contempt as he was
able to put into the words.
"Well, yes," replied Matt. "It's my brand, and you'd be a heap better
off if it was yours."
He had been scrutinizing the man closely. He now saw that he was young,
that he had blue eyes, and that he was wearing cowboy clothes. His hat,
of course, was in the river.
"Who are you?" the young fellow asked.
"I'll tell you later," was the indefinite reply.
"How did you happen to be around here in that flying machine?" went on
the other suspiciously.
"You'll find that out, too, at the proper time."
"If you're from the Tin Cup Ranch----"
"I'm not, so make your mind easy on that. But I know you. You're George
Hobbes, and you robbed the cowboys at the Tin Cup Ranch in a game of
cards, last night. You----"
With a fierce exclamation, the youth sat up, and his right hand darted
toward his hip.
"You're not going to do any shooting," said Matt. "Your gun's in the
river, and you'd have been there, too, but for me. What sort of way is
that to act toward the man who saved you from drowning?"