BESIEGED.
The king of the motor boys hated the very touch of a firearm. He had
seen so much wanton use of such weapons when in the Southwest, that he
had become imbued with horror and disgust for anything that carried
powder and ball.
But here he was forced to fall back on whatever he could find in order
to withstand the attack of a frenzied and desperate man.
Counting out the rage Siwash must feel over the trick that had taken
him away from the dugout, if he once broke into the room, found his
money gone, and the satchel in Matt's possession, there was no telling
what demons would be turned loose in him.
Having discovered the satchel, Matt was determined to turn it over to
Cameron. It was this resolve that had held Matt to the spot, and now
forced him to brave the wrath of Siwash Charley.
Bang! bang! bang!
Leaden hail rattled on the door, but the door was of stout plank and
the metal could not penetrate it. The barrier Siwash Charley had
constructed for his own preservation, in time of possible stress, now
proved a good shield for Motor Matt.
Having announced himself, in this violent fashion, Siwash dismounted
and tried the latch. The door, of course, refused to yield, and Siwash
hurled himself against it. The stout planks trembled, and the earthen
wall quivered.
"Steady, there, Siwash Charley!" cried Matt. "I've got Murgatroyd's
rifle, and I don't intend to let you come in here."
This announcement seemingly carried an effect. The attack on the door
ceased and Siwash began a parley.
"Did that coyote of a Pecos Jones set ye loose?" he demanded.
"No."
"How'n thunder did ye make it, then?"
"Pecos Jones robbed me--cut the ropes that tied me to the cot so he
could get at my pockets. You had left my feet unbound, and I managed to
juggle a bit with a knife that lay on the floor."
"Waal, it won't do ye no good. Ye're in thar, an' I'm out hyer, ye've
got a rifle an' I've got a brace o' Colts, an' on top o' that ye've
got the use o' yer hands, but that don't mean that ye're goin' ter git
away. I ain't wantin' ter harm ye--ye heerd what Murg said when he
left--so ye might as well open the door an' let me in."
"I'll not do that," answered Matt firmly.
"Why won't ye?"
"Because, now that I'm free, I'm going to stay that way."
"Ye ain't free! All the freedom you got is ter run eround that
two-by-twice hole in the ground an' dodge bullets. Whar's that coyote?
I got a bone ter pick with him."
"He's not here."
"I know that, kase I seen that his hoss wa'n't down by the spring whar
he picketed him. Whar'd he go?"
"I don't know."
"What did he play that bloomin' trick on me fer? Murg wasn't at
Jessup's--he an' the gal had been gone from thar fer two hours."
Here was Matt's chance to laugh, but he was not in a mood to take
advantage of it.
"Do you remember counting your gold this morning, Siwash?" asked Matt.
A startled exclamation broke from the ruffian.
"Did ye see that?" he returned. "I thought ye was asleep."
"I wasn't the only one who saw it. Pecos Jones was looking through the
window. Pecos not only saw you counting the money, but he also saw
where you put it."
A bellow of fury broke from Siwash.
"Why didn't ye tell me he was at the winder?" he fumed.
"Why should I?" returned Matt. "You fellows had led me to believe that
Pecos Jones' name was Hackberry, and that he was a friend of mine. I
had an idea that he was coming here to rescue me, and that's the reason
I kept quiet."
Matt could hear Siwash tramping about and easing his wrath as this shot
went home.
"What did that coyote do?" roared Siwash. "Tell me that."
"He took your money and ran away with it."
"Did--did he take anything else?"
"Well, some of my money that I had in a vest pocket."
"Anything else?"
"No."
"Ye know whar that cache is?"
"Of course. How could I help knowing when Pecos Jones rifled it under
my eyes?"
"I'm suspicionin' you," yelled Siwash, "with yer whistlin' o' reveilles
an' stable calls! Ye kain't fool me, not fer a minit."
Matt had been afraid of this discovery, but there had been no way of
preventing it. He had told Siwash about Pecos in the hope of having the
ruffian trail away in pursuit of the thief.
"Why don't you take after Pecos, Siwash?" asked Matt.
"Kase it's wuth more ter me ter plant myself right hyer an' look arter
you. Open this door, 'r I open up on ye, rifle or no rifle."
"I'll not open the door," answered Matt firmly, "and if you try to
break it down I'll send some bullets through it. The planks can turn
a revolver bullet, but a slug from a rifle will go clean through the
wood. Get away from here, Siwash. Your cue is to take after Pecos
Jones."
The words ended amid a crash of broken glass. Siwash Charley was
shooting through the window. Four shots had already been fired. Matt
counted three more. These made seven, and five more shots would empty
the ruffian's revolvers.
If he had no more cartridges, he would be helpless. But this was
something on which Matt could not count with certainty.
"Keep away from that window, Siwash!" cried Matt, pressing close to
the door. "Show yourself there and I'll fire!"
Bang! bang! bang!
"Seven and three are ten," computed Matt. "He'll soon have those
weapons emptied. I don't believe he'll show himself at the window, but
perhaps I can coax him to shoot again."
Dropping down on hands and knees, Matt crept to a point directly under
the window. Having reached this spot, he placed his cap on the muzzle
of the rifle and lifted it.
Bang!
"Eleven," thought Matt.
Then he gave a loud cry and allowed the cap to waver back and forth.
Bang!
"Twelve!" exulted Matt. "Now, if he hasn't any more cartridges, I'll be
safe."
Matt had allowed the cap to drop at the last shot. Outside he could
hear a tramp of running feet.
"I told the cub," came the voice of Siwash. "He ought to've knowed
better than ter----"
Siwash Charley's head was thrust in at the opening, rimmed with its
jagged points of glass. The scoundrel's words died on his lips, for his
eyes were blinking into the muzzle of the rifle.
"Clear out, Siwash!" said Matt calmly. "I don't like guns, and I don't
like shooting, but I dislike your society more than either one. Go away
from here, and go quick."
What Siwash said Matt could not hear, but he vanished from the window
as if by magic.
There was no more firing. In order to test his theory regarding Siwash
Charley's ammunition, Matt showed himself boldly at the broken window.
The ruffian was not more than twenty feet away. Quick as a flash he
raised one of his weapons and pulled the trigger. There was only a
metallic click, which made it manifest that Siwash had not kept such
close track of the ammunition as Motor Matt had done.
"Go away, I tell you," ordered the king of the motor boys. "I've had
enough trouble with you, and I intend to get to Sykestown in time to
prevent Murgatroyd from carrying out his plans. If----"
Matt paused, aghast. Across the prairie he could see a swiftly moving
blot--a motor car, he was sure, and undoubtedly Murgatroyd's.
Siwash Charley was likewise looking at the approaching car.
"Oh," he yelled, "I reckon ye ain't got everythin' your way, arter all.
Hyer comes Murg, an' ye kin bet Murg ain't out o' ammunition even if I
am!"
Matt's heart went down into his shoes. Wasn't luck ever to turn for
him? Was there to be no end to this reverse which had come his way?
As he continued to gaze at the approaching car, it grew plainer to his
eyes. There was more than one man aboard, he could see that, and the
car didn't look like Murgatroyd's, but of a different color. This car
was brown!
As Matt's hopes arose, Siwash Charley's began to sink. A moment later,
Siwash rushed for his horse.
"Cameron!" cried Matt, hardly able to believe his eyes; "Cameron and
McGlory!"
Turning from the window he ran to the door, flung it open and leaped
outside.
Yells came from the car, and some one stood up in front and waved his
hat wildly.
Matt, pointing to the fleeing Siwash, shouted at the top of his voice:
"Capture that man, Cameron! He's Phillips, the deserter! He is armed,
but his revolvers are empty! Capture him!"
If Matt's words were not heard or understood, at least his gestures
were. The car turned and darted after Siwash Charley.
The king of the motor boys, leaning against the front wall of the
dugout, watched the race.