LAYING PLANS.
While he and Chub were eating their breakfast Matt questioned Mrs.
Spooner more at length regarding the Mexican who had brought the
letter. But he was not able to find out anything more than he already
knew. Mrs. Spooner had about as much use for a Mexican as she had for
an Indian, and that was no use at all. Consequently she had paid but
little attention to the messenger who had delivered the letter, and had
been very glad to get rid of him so quickly.
Mrs. Spooner was a good woman, but very inquisitive. From the questions
Matt put about the letter she knew it must be of considerable
importance, and she tried hard to find out something about its
contents. In order to get away, Matt ate less breakfast than usual, and
hustled Chub up to his room. There he passed the letter over for Chub's
inspection.
"I guess," remarked Chub, after studying the scrawl, "that you can
translate that to mean 'Come to Prescott on Thursday. Be at the Briggs
House, and wait for something to happen.' Is that what you make of it,
Matt?"
"Yes."
"A fair shake, do you think, or is somebody trying to string you?"
"I can't imagine who'd want to string me, Chub. It may have something
to do with Clip. And to-morrow's Thursday."
"I can get next to that, all right. It won't do any harm to follow up
the tip and see what it amounts to. Suppose I get that one-cylinder
machine of Clip's and we make the trip to Prescott on our motor-cycles?"
"Bully! But we can't get away much before this evening, Chub. When
the bank opens I want to get some money and hire a lawyer for Clip;
then I'd like to ride out to the hills and look over the scene of the
robbery. After that we could hike for Prescott. Do you know the road?"
"I could go over it with my eyes shut."
"Good all the way?"
"In dry weather. When it's wet there are whole miles of trail where the
motor-cycle would mire clear to the forks. We could go on the train,
though, if you wanted to. I know Jack Moody, one of the engineers. He
runs up to Ash Fork in the afternoon and comes back the next afternoon;
but whether his run's to-day or not I don't know."
"It's better to use the motor-cycles. I haven't given the _Comet_ a
real spin since I took that hundred-mile run for the governor."
"Then we'll take the wheels and start this afternoon. But look here,
Matt. I think a lot of Clip, but he's actin' mighty like he belongs in
the foolish-house, seems to me. It wouldn't hurt him much if he told
everything he knew--and it mightn't get him out of the scrape, either,
but it would help, that's a cinch."
"Clip's a mighty queer fellow, and I don't know that I can blame him
for feeling like he does. You know how pretty near everybody has thrown
it into him here in Phoenix, because he's part Indian. He's trying
to do the square thing, and it hurts. Now, just as he's getting the
better of that prejudice, if it came out that Pima Pete, one of the
Dangerfield gang, was a relative of his, that would be like turning
the knife in an old wound. Clip's got a lot of pride, and he feels as
though he wanted to do everything he could for Pima Pete. It's possible
he'll go to prison before he opens his head about Pete; unless----"
Matt hesitated.
"Unless what?" asked Chub.
"Why, unless you and I can find the real robbers and the other bag of
gold."
"It's a big order," said Chub.
"I've been filling big orders lately," smiled Matt, "and I'd tackle
anything if there was a chance of helping Clip."
"Here, too. But what have we got to go on? Nothing but a few words from
a mutt who must have spent most of his time playin' hooky when he went
to school. For all we know, it's just as much of a wrong steer as a
right one."
"Well, it's a warm guess that McKibben won't strain himself looking for
any more robbers."
"He thinks there were only two robbers, and that he's got them. Not
knowin' what we do, Matt, an' considerin' the way Clip acts, you can't
blame McKibben a terrible sight."
"That's right, we can't. But it bats the whole thing up to us. Maybe
McKibben will shake himself together and send some deputies after the
other robbers when he hears from Dangerfield."
"What do you think Dangerfield will say?"
"He'll tell the truth, and that will prove that Clip wasn't lying when
he said he dug up that money."
"Sounds like a pipe-dream, though, don't it, that Dangerfield buried
just ten thousand in double eagles--same as what Fresnay got from the
bank?"
"That's a mighty bad coincidence for Clip. Everything's gone wrong for
him. He disguised himself so he wouldn't be recognized when he went out
to meet his uncle, and now they think he put on those old clothes so he
wouldn't be known when he committed the robbery! And when he saved his
uncle's life by knocking Leffingwell's revolver aside, McKibben and the
deputies drew their own conclusions about that."
"If Pima Pete thought as much of helping Clip as Clip thought of
helping him, he'll walk right into the sheriff's office as soon as he
hears what's happened."
"That's the last thing Clip would want him to do. The whole business
might come out--and I believe Clip would rather go to prison than have
it known a relative of his belonged to the Dangerfield gang. Clip knows
that everybody thinks Indian blood is no good, and he's been trying to
change their notions. I've got something in my head. It's this: You
know there were four or five of Dangerfield's gang got away the time
Sheriff Burke, of Prescott, rounded the smugglers up at Tinaja Wells.
It's the general idea they got over into Mexico, but maybe some of them
have been hanging out in the hills; and maybe two of them got wind of
this trip of Fresnay's after the pay-roll money and laid for him."
"A cinch!" cried Chub, electrified. "I'll bet money that's the way of
it. But those two handy-boys may be on the way to Mexico now. If that's
so, I can see where we get off!"
"If we can't catch the robbers," said Matt, "maybe we can catch Pima
Pete."
"What good would that do? Clip don't want him caught."
"I don't mean to bring him to Phoenix," pursued Matt, "nor to turn him
over to the officers. If we could find him, and make him swear to what
he and Clip did last night, that ought to help Clip's case a whole lot."
"That means, then, we've got two strings to pull--either find the two
robbers or find Pima Pete."
"This clue may help," and Matt pointed to the note which lay on the
table.
"I'm not banking a whole lot on that. It's got all the earmarks of a
false alarm. Goin' to show it to McKibben?"
"I'm not going to show it to anybody. It may not amount to anything,
but we'll run it down and make sure."
Just then the pounding of a motor from the road in front reached the
boys.
"Great guns!" exclaimed Chub, looking from a window. "There's McKibben,
now, and he's stopping in front."
Matt looked out. McKibben, in the red roadster, had pulled to a stop in
front of Mrs. Spooner's gate. Leffingwell was in the rumble-seat.
The sheriff looked up and saw Matt, then waved his hand for him to come
down.
"There's something up, Chub," said Matt. "Let's go down and see what it
is."
The two boys hurried down-stairs and out of the house.
"What is it, Mr. McKibben?" asked Matt.
The sheriff reached into his pocket and drew out a yellow slip.
"It's a telegram, Matt," said he. "Just came--and not more than half
an hour after I had posted that letter to the warden of the government
prison at Leavenworth."
Matt unfolded the slip, hoping against hope that it contained good news
of some sort. But he was far afield, for the news was anything but good.
"Dangerfield committed suicide in his cell here last night. Advise name
of next of kin, if you know it."
Matt's hands closed convulsively on the yellow sheet. Another hope
gone--and there were not many for Clip to lose!