THE TRAIL TO THE RIVER.
Joe McGlory and Ping were in a fine good humor. They had left the
horses and rifles for the Tin Cup men and, from the top of a distant
hill, they had watched the party recover the live stock and the guns.
Then, laughing and congratulating themselves, the boys had ducked in
among the cottonwoods of the creek bottom and started along the trail
to the river.
"Plenty fine," chattered Ping. "By Klismus, my gettee heap fun this
tlip. Woosh!"
"We played 'em to a fare-you-well," laughed McGlory, pausing to extend
his hand to Ping. "Shake, my little heathen brother! You're the finest
bit of the Yellow Peril that ever landed in the U. S. You've got a head
on you, you have. Why, you savvied right off what I wanted you to do
with those guns, and I didn't have to say a word."
"My savvy look you makee all same eye," chuckled Ping. "Top-side
pidgin! One piecee fine bizness."
Then, abruptly, Ping had a swift, paralyzing thought.
"Mebbyso Melican men makee chase fo' McGloly and Ping, huh?" he cried.
"Plaps we lun, ketchee Matt, no lettee Melican men ketchee us?"
"Oh, shucks, Ping!" exclaimed McGlory disgustedly. "When you forget
yourself, now and then, and do a particularly bright thing, you spoil
it all by some break of that sort. Those punchers don't know where
we're going! And what sort of a trail are we leaving?" The cowboy
turned and looked back over the ground they had covered. "All buffalo
grass," he finished, "and the Tin Cup outfit couldn't run us down in a
thousand years."
But Ping's fears persisted, in spite of McGlory's attempt to smother
them.
"My no likee," he quavered, pausing again and again to look back as
they traveled. "Mebbyso they ketchee, they takee scalp. My no likee.
Losee pigtail, no go back to China ally mo'."
"Well, well, don't blubber about it!" exclaimed McGlory. "You'll keep
the pigtail, all right, though what in Sam Hill it's good for is more
than I know. Buck up, step high, wide, and handsome, and don't lose so
much time looking around. Just stow it away in your mind, Ping, that
every step on the trail to the river brings us that much closer to Pard
Matt."
McGlory took the lead and set a brisk pace.
"Didn't Matt get away in great shape?" he called out, as he strode
along. "And that rope Spearman tied to the machine didn't amount to a
row of dobies."
"Cloud Joss heap fine fo' tlavel," remarked Ping. "Feet tlavel plenty
tough fo' China boy."
"I guess the circus we pulled off, back there on that hill, was worth
the price, Ping. Don't grumble. There was something doing, and you and
I answered to roll-call during the height of the agitation. Little
Chop Suey and your Uncle Joe had something to say and do every minute
the curtain was up. Oh, shucks! I'm tickled to death with myself.
I'll be plumb contented, now, if nothing happens to me for the next
fifteen minutes. Wonder how Matt's getting along, advancing that spark?
Something gives me a hunch and whispers in my ear that he's having his
hands full. Put your best foot forward, Ping, and let's see how quick
we can get to where we're going."
"No gottee best foot," complained Ping. "Both feets allee same bum.
Cleek makee bend, makee bend, makee bend; heap walkee to go li'l way."
"That's right," agreed McGlory. "Sufferin' serpents, how the creek
twists! Suppose we climb to the top of this hill on the right and see
if we can't work a cut-off on the pesky stream."
"Awri'," agreed Ping, and followed McGlory to the top of the hill.
From the crest they had an extensive view in every direction; in fact,
it was almost too extensive, for behind them they glimpsed the Tin Cup
men, racing back and forth over the uplifts, scattered widely and
hunting for "signs."
McGlory muttered to himself and slipped off the top of the hill like a
shot. Ping gasped as he followed.
"They ketchee China boy," he wailed, "him losee pigtail."
"Oh, hush about that," growled McGlory. "Do you know where we was lame,
Ping?"
"My plenty lame in feet," said Ping.
"I mean, where we made a hobble. It was by not keeping two of those
horses and using them to take us to the mouth of Burnt Creek."
"Woosh! We ketchee Matt now, Melican men follow tlail, ketchee Matt,
too. Motol Matt go top-side, we all go top-side. Plenty bad pidgin."
"If they're really following us, which I don't think," remarked
McGlory, "we'll fool 'em."
"No fool 'em twice."
"You watch. We'll take the longest way to the river and get that bunch
away from the creek."
Ping groaned at the thought of more walking. He could have stood the
journey better if he had not been compelled to hang onto his grass
sandals with his toes.
McGlory scuttled off between the coteaus, and every once in a while he
would climb to the top of a hill to reconnoiter along the back track.
Finally, to his great satisfaction, he lost sight of the Tin Cup men.
"That means," said he, when he reported the fact to Ping, "that we're
free, once more, to get to the mouth of Burnt Creek as soon as we can."
From that on there was little talking. The boys needed their breath for
the work before them. As before, McGlory led the way and Ping hopped
and scuffled along behind him.
An occasional hill was scaled to get the bearings of the creek and
watch out for the river. McGlory gave a shout of joy when he finally
saw the broad ribbon of muddy water in the distance ahead.
"We're close to where we're bound for, Ping," he said cheerily. "We've
been two or three hours on the hike, but you trail along and I'll land
you at the junction of the creek and the river in less than twenty
minutes. Whoop-ya! I'm guessing about Matt. Has it been make or break
with him? And how has the spark worked? I'm all stirred up with the
notion that he's having a time. Ever get a hunch like that and not be
able to explain how you got it?"
"No savvy hunch," groaned Ping. "Let's findee place to makee sit in
shade. Heap tired."
"We'll sit in the shade and rest and enjoy ourselves after we find
Matt. Keep a-moving, Ping, keep a-moving."
A pass between two hills brought them out into the creek bottom again.
The sun was getting low in the west, but it was still uncomfortably
warm, and the shade of the cottonwood trees was refreshing. Ping
tottered along with his eyes on McGlory's heels. Suddenly the cowboy
stopped and whirled around.
"Look!" he murmured, pointing.
The Chinaman swerved his weary eyes in the direction indicated and saw
the sod shack.
"Hoop-a-la!" he exclaimed.
"I hear voices in there," whispered McGlory, "and I'll bet Pard Matt's
busy laying down the law to Newt Prebbles. Let's not interrupt, but
slip carefully up to the door and get the lay of the land before we
butt in."
Ping was for getting to a place of comfort and refreshment in the
shortest possible time; but, as usual, he deferred to the superior
wisdom of the cowboy.
Silently they stole toward the open door of the hut. Through the
opening there came to them the sound of a voice. It was a strange
voice, and the words were not distinguishable.
While they were still some distance from the door, the voice was
blotted out by the impact of a blow; and immediately there came a crash
as of something being overturned.
McGlory was no longer anxious to "get the lay of the land" before
butting into Matt's argument with Newt Prebbles. In an instant he
jumped for the door and stood peering into the hut.
The scene before him was difficult to comprehend. A chair had been
overturned, and there was a form--no, two forms--lying on the floor
beside it. Then, too, there was some one else, a man, bending over one
of the forms.
The dark interior of the shack was not favorable to a clear survey of
the scene by eyes but recently turned from the glaring sunshine.
McGlory, however, caught one detail of the picture that wrenched a
sharp cry from his lips.
"Murgatroyd!" he shouted.
The bent form lifted itself with catlike quickness, _Crack!_ The sharp
note of a revolver rattled through the narrow room, followed by a
warning shout in a well-known voice:
"Look out, Joe! It's Murgatroyd, and he's in a killing mood!"
Matt was in the room, bound and helpless. That was the next detail that
flashed before the eyes of McGlory.
Murgatroyd's shot had missed. Mad with rage, he was making ready to
fire again.
Blindly, desperately, the cowboy flung himself across the room. Pard
Matt was there, and in danger. Think of himself, McGlory would not.
The demons in the broker's eyes glowered murderously along the sights
of the leveled weapon. It seemed as though nothing could save the
cowboy.
At just that moment, however, a window behind the broker crashed
inward. A stone, hurled by Ping with all his force, had shattered the
glass, plunged across the gap, and struck Murgatroyd's arm.
The arm dropped as though paralyzed, and the broker staggered sideways
with a cry of pain. McGlory sprang upon him, and the two were
struggling fiercely when Ping raced into the room and took a hand in
the battle.
Murgatroyd, with only one hand, was no match for his wiry young
antagonists.
As Newt and Murgatroyd had overpowered Matt, so the cowboy and the
Chinaman wrestled and secured the advantage of Murgatroyd.
One of the forms on the floor slowly lifted itself and became busy with
the cords around Matt's wrists.
"I can do the rest, Newt," said Matt, sitting up and freeing his ankles.
A few moments more and the tables had been completely turned.
Murgatroyd was now the prisoner, and the king of the motor boys and his
friends were in command of the situation.