SURMOUNTING THE DIFFICULTY.
While this clash was going forward between the rancher and Clip, Matt's
mind had been busy. The result of his thinking forced the conclusion
that Gregory was innocent of any underhand work.
First, the rancher seemed to be alone at the ranch. If that was
really the case, then there had been no one belonging to the place
to interfere with the machines. Furthermore, some knowledge of the
mechanism of the motor-cycles had been necessary in order to strip the
machines of their gasoline in the short space of time in which the
work had been done. It was not to be supposed that any confederate of
Gregory's could have had this knowledge.
"Hold up, Clip," said Matt, dropping a hand on his chum's arm. "You're
on the wrong track. I'm sure Gregory didn't do this, or have any one do
it."
"There wasn't any one else," flared Clip. "If Gregory didn't do it, he
knows who did."
"The red roadster may have stopped farther along the trail, and one
of the men may have come back. Have you got any gasoline, Gregory?"
inquired Matt.
"Nary, I ain't," answered the rancher. "That's what them other two
fellers wanted ter know."
Clip cast a quick look at Matt.
"Mebby they're running short themselves," said Clip. "They found
Gregory didn't have any. Then they made a dead set at ours."
"Or," went on Matt, "those fellows may have asked Gregory just to make
sure we couldn't get a fresh supply from him when they had taken what
we had. We'll go on for a while and use the pedals."
"We've lost out," cried Clip angrily. "Just at the start, too. Nice
thing for you to tell the governor."
Matt looked gloomily at his watch, then started off with all the speed
he could throw into the pedals. But the weight of the machinery, now
suddenly useless, pulled him back.
His hopes were down, way down. His mysterious enemies had scored a
telling stroke at the very start-off.
"What time is it, Matt?" asked Clip, in a discouraged tone, toiling
along beside his chum.
"Twenty-five minutes of two," was the answer.
"We've got three hours and twenty-five minutes to go sixty-five miles!"
Clip laughed gruesomely. "We couldn't do it in two days, at this rate."
While the boys were talking they came to a long slope that ran downward
through a thick chaparral of greasewood, palo-verde, and ironwood. The
road twisted serpentlike to avoid rough ground. From somewhere in the
thicket below a muffled _thump_, _thump_, _thump_ came up to them, as
though some one was wielding an ax.
"What's that?" queried Matt, looking at Clip.
"Mexican wood-cutters, I reckon," was the response.
The boys went on down the slope, coasting at a rapid gait. Half-way
down the descent, a turn brought them into the proximity of an
automobile, and so suddenly that they had to clap on the brakes in
order to avoid a collision.
The car was a red roadster. It was at a standstill in the middle of the
trail, and neither of the two men was near it.
Astounded at this stroke of luck, Matt and Clip, for a moment, could
do no more than stare at each other. The blows of the ax, off in the
chaparral, were louder in their ears now, and they could hear a mumble
of voices.
"Wow!" gasped Clip. "Am I dreaming? Can I believe what I see? Say,
Matt, this is too blamed good to be true!"
Matt, getting quick control of his wits, had been running his eyes over
the roadster. One of the rear tires was flat. On the ground near the
flattened tire lay a new one, just taken out of the brackets that had
supported it.
"Well, well, this _is_ luck!" breathed Matt, getting off his machine
and hurrying to the automobile. "A tire blew up on them. They haven't a
jack along, and they've gone into the brush to cut a couple of pieces
of ironwood, in order to lift the axle and get on a new tire."
"They may be back----"
"Sure, and we've got to hustle." Matt was already on the running-board.
"Here are our canteens," he went on excitedly, picking both of the
gasoline-cans out of the rumble. "And they're full, too," he added.
"Take one, Clip, and empty it into your gasoline-tank."
It was a time for action rather than words. The chopping had ceased in
the chaparral, but the talking was still going on, and, from the sound
of it, the two men were not as yet coming any nearer.
"We're using up our reserve supply," said Clip, while they were
emptying the canteens into the tanks.
"We'll fill the canteens again out of the car-tank," returned Matt, "if
we have time."
"Bully!" chuckled Clip. "Then let the rest of the gasoline out into the
road. Give 'em a dose of their own medicine. It'll serve 'em right."
Clip was a lad of quick temper. The Indian blood in his veins
undoubtedly lay at the root of this, but the resentment he felt at
being looked down upon by some of the Phoenix boys who regarded the
mixed blood as a taint had had a good deal to do with it.
Had Matt not interfered at the well, Clip would certainly have set upon
Gregory, for rarely did Clip's temper allow him time to reason a matter
out. This reprisal against the two men who had the roadster, however,
had already taken form in Matt's mind before Clip had suggested
it. By stranding the car in the desert, thirty-five miles from a
gasoline-filling station, Matt could clip the claws of his enemies and
render them harmless.
The moment the _Comet's_ tank had been filled and capped, Matt carried
the canteen to the motor-car and proceeded to replenish it out of the
supply belonging to his two enemies.
Then, while he was filling Clip's canteen, Clip was busy making Matt's
fast to the head of the _Comet_. Both boys were so hard at work that
they did not notice the sound of voices had died out in the chaparral.
As Matt stepped back from the motor-car and finished screwing the cap
on the canteen, a man jumped out into the road. The man was carrying a
six-foot length of ironwood. With a yell of anger, he hurled the heavy
stick straight at Matt.
Matt dodged, and the timber just grazed his head.
"Jem!" whooped the man; "this way--on the jump!"
Running around the front of the automobile, Matt made a rush for his
machine, at the same time yelling to Clip to get into the saddle and
make off with a rush.
The man, darting around the rear of the roadster, started to plant
himself in Matt's way. Matt feinted as though he would pass on the
right side. When the man had thrown himself in that direction, Matt
plunged by on the left, whirling the canteen by the strap and striking
his enemy a fierce crack on the side of the head.
The man toppled over against the automobile. By then Matt had reached
the _Comet_. Still hanging to Clip's canteen, he jerked the motor-cycle
away from the bushes, got into the saddle, and started the pedals. Clip
had already started, but was going slow and looking back to see if his
help would be needed.
Jem, the driver of the roadster, crashed through the bushes just as the
_Comet_ was getting under its own headway. He carried an ax and another
piece of freshly cut ironwood.
"That's King!" whooped Jem's companion. "Stop him! You've got to stop
him!"
Clip flung back a taunt. Matt, as the _Comet_ gathered speed like a
mettlesome racer, wondered how Jem was going to cover the fast-widening
gap and do anything to stop either of the motor-cycles.
The next moment he understood what the last resource was the two men
were going to fall back upon.
There came a "pop" like an exploding fire-cracker, and a bullet
whistled past Matt's ear. Bending lower over the handlebars, he opened
the throttle with a twist of his left hand. The road was down-hill and
the _Comet_ was going like a thunderbolt.
In about two seconds Matt had caught up with Clip; then, in an instant
more, both boys were screened from their enemies by a turn in the road.