A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.
Small, and seemingly trifling, events sometimes pave the way for vital
undertakings. The performance on the coteau, in which the Tin Cup men
had so prominently figured, had left the _Comet_ equipped with a
forty-foot riata. On the flight to the Missouri Matt had tried to untie
the rope and drop it from the machine. In this he had failed--a very
fortunate circumstance for the dripping young man on the bank. But for
that trailing rope, Matt would never have been able to effect a rescue.
"It may be," said the young man, "that you have only pulled me out of
the river to give me into the hands of the Tin Cup outfit."
"I have already told you," returned Matt, "that I have nothing to do
with the Tin Cup outfit."
"Why were you chasing me in that air ship, then?"
"I wasn't chasing you. You had a guilty conscience, and if a man had
been coming this way on an elephant you would have thought he was after
you."
The other was silent for a space, surveying Matt furtively and,
apparently, trying to guess his business.
"You knew about that work in the Tin Cup bunk house, last night," said
he tentatively.
"I heard of it from a party who are out looking for George Hobbes. That
is your name, is it?"
"That's the way I was billed during that performance at the bunk house."
"What are you, by profession--a cowboy or a gambler?"
"Cowboy."
Matt glanced at the young fellow's hands. They looked more like a
gambler's hands than a cowboy's. And yet, skillful though he must have
been with the cards, Hobbes had not the appearance of a gambler.
"Do you live here?" Matt went on.
"Yes," was the answer. "I told you, a moment ago, where my shack was."
"Then you're not doing much in the cattle line if you hang out in this
deserted spot."
Hobbes gave a grunt and got up.
"What are you trying to pry into my business affairs for?" he asked
surlily. "Do you think saving my life gives you a right to do that?"
"Well," fenced Matt, "that depends. You don't talk like any cowboy I
ever heard--your English is too good."
"There are a lot of punchers who use better English than I do."
"Possibly," answered Matt. "I haven't been in the cattle country very
much. What was the amount of money you stole from the Tin Cup outfit?"
A flush of color ran into Hobbes' tanned face.
"I didn't steal their money," he cried angrily. "I played cards for it."
"You didn't play a square game. They found the pack you used, this
morning, and there were extra aces, and the backs were printed in such
a way that you could tell what cards your opponents held."
"What of that?" was the scoffing response. "They didn't find me out.
They had the right to beat me at my own game--if they could."
"I'm not here to preach," said Matt, "but you've got yourself into a
pretty bad mix. I'm willing to help you out if you'll send back the
money."
"I'll not send back a soo," was the answer, "and you've got your nerve
along to bat such a proposition up to me. Who asked for your help? I
didn't."
Hobbes turned away in a huff and started for the creek, his wet clothes
slapping about him as he walked.
"Just a minute, Hobbes," called Matt, "and I'll go with you. I want
to rope this flying machine to a couple of trees, so that it won't be
blown into the river if a wind should happen to come up."
Hobbes was very wet, very tired, and very sulky, but he could hardly
refuse such a trifling request. With the rope that had saved his life,
he helped Matt secure the _Comet_.
"Do you know any one, in these parts, by the name of Newt Prebbles?"
Matt inquired, while they were moving toward the shack.
"You used that name while I was in the skiff," said Hobbes, "I
remember, now. What's your business with Newt Prebbles?"
"I'll tell him that when I see him. It's important. Do you know the
man?"
"Yes, I know him. He's a pal of mine and lives with me in the shack."
"Is he there, now?" asked Matt eagerly.
"No."
"When will he be back?"
"That's hard to tell. He won't come back at all if you don't tell me
what your business is with him."
"Why so?"
"I'll warn him away. You've found out a lot about me, but how much have
you told me about yourself? Not a thing. I haven't a notion who you
are, and I'm blamed if I like mysteries."
They were close to the cluster of cottonwoods and the shack, and Matt
fell silent. The house, as the king of the motor boys could see, now
that he was close to it, was built of sod, and had a roof of grass
thatched over cottonwood poles. It was in a fairly good state of repair
and had evidently been occupied for some time.
The door stood open, and Hobbes stepped to one side to let Matt enter
first. It looked like a mere act of courtesy, and may have been no more
than that; but, in view of what immediately happened, Matt would have
been entitled to suspicions.
Believing the shack to be empty, Matt crossed the threshold. He was
instantly seized by some one who threw himself from behind the open
door.
With a startled cry, the young motorist twisted around in the strong
arms that held him and caught a look at the man's face.
It was Murgatroyd!
Another moment and all the fight in Matt's nature flew to the surface.
Putting forth all his strength, he kicked and struggled until he had
freed himself of the broker's grip.
He was no sooner clear of Murgatroyd, however, when Hobbes set upon
him. Hobbes had not yet recovered his strength, and Matt would have
made short work of him had not the broker come savagely to his aid.
Between them Matt was forced to the clay floor of the house and lashed
with a rope in such a manner that he was powerless to move.
Murgatroyd, panting from his exertions, lifted himself erect and gave
the prisoner a vengeful kick.
"Wasn't expecting to find me here, eh?" he asked. "You've led me a
pretty chase, Motor Matt, but here we are at the end of the trail, and
I've got the upper hand."
Somehow Matt had fallen under the impression that the police of
Bismarck would take care of Murgatroyd; hence, he had left the broker
out of his calculations, and this meeting with him in that sod shack
was like lightning out of a clear sky.
"You know this fellow, then?" said Hobbes.
"I know him too well, and that's the trouble. He's meddled with my
affairs until they're in a pretty tangle, and I'll have all I can do to
straighten them out again. I wasn't expecting a chance like this," and
a jubilant note entered the broker's voice. "How did he happen to come
here, Newt?"
"That's too many for me, Murg. He was in a flying machine. I saw him
coming, and thought he was on my track for a little game that was
pulled off at the Tin Cup Ranch, last night. In my hurry to get across
the river I lost an oar, and in my hurry to get the oar I overturned
the boat. I can't swim much, and with all my clothes on I'd have gone
to the bottom if he hadn't snatched me ashore."
Motor Matt was not much surprised to hear Murgatroyd call the supposed
Hobbes "Newt." The young motorist's mind had been working around to
that view of the young fellow's identity. He was Newt Prebbles, and was
on friendly terms with the master scoundrel, Murgatroyd.
The broker seated himself in a chair, and did not seem particularly
well pleased with the news Prebbles had just given him. Perhaps, for
his peace of mind, he was wishing that Matt had not rescued Newt,
and it may be he resented the "hold" this rescue gave Matt on Newt's
gratitude--providing Newt harbored such a sentiment, which seemed
doubtful.
Newt began changing his clothes. Before he began, he took a bottle
from the table and poured himself a drink of its fiery contents.
"When did you get here, Murg?" he demanded, as he got into his clothes.
"It must have been while you were having that trouble on the river. I
didn't see anything of the flying machine, and I didn't hear anything
of the fracas. Feeling sure you'd be back soon, I hitched my horse
among the cottonwoods and came in here to wait. I heard you and Motor
Matt talking as you walked this way, and I had to rub my eyes in order
to make sure it was really Motor Matt who was coming. Jove, but this is
a stroke of luck!"
"You'll have to tell me about that, for it's mighty dark to me. You got
my letter all right?"
"Naturally, or I shouldn't be here. The letter arrived in Bismarck
yesterday forenoon, and I pulled out of the town at once. Stayed
last night with a farmer, more to make certain I wasn't followed
than anything else." Murgatroyd scowled. "This being a fugitive," he
finished, "gets on a man's nerves."
Newt laughed grimly.
"Did you bring the money?" he demanded.
"Don't talk about that here," and the broker flashed a significant
glance at Matt.
"All right," agreed Newt. "Suppose we let this Motor Matt, as you call
him, go free? We don't want him around, anyhow."
"Go free?" cried Murgatroyd. "I'll catch myself doing that! I owe him
something," and here a demoniacal look crept into the broker's eyes,
"and I guess, as my old friend Siwash used to say, I'll take advantage
of this opportunity and 'saw off' with him."
This threat, however, did not make Matt feel at all uncomfortable. He
had in his hands the material necessary to play off one of these men
against the other. Out of this might come a good deal of benefit to
himself, and much good for Newt Prebbles. In case he did not succeed in
this plan, there was McGlory and Ping yet to be heard from. If they had
safely escaped the Tin Cup men, it would not be long before they gained
the mouth of Burnt Creek and played their part in events to come.
Just then Matt felt like congratulating himself on having been made a
prisoner. Such a position gave him the advantage of being impartial in
the hostility he was about to incite between his captors.