SMOKE-SIGNALS.
"Thunder!" muttered Clip, as the breakneck pace was slackened a little.
"Just made it, Matt. By the skin of our teeth. And we didn't dump their
gasoline into the road, either. They'll be after us just a-smoking when
they get that new tire on."
"We're playing in great luck, Clip, to get off as well as we did,"
answered Matt. "Here, take your two quarts of gasoline."
Clip took the canteen and hung the strap over his handlebars.
"We're ahead now, anyway," said he, with grim satisfaction. "That's a
heap better than being behind."
Matt listened to the steady hum of the _Comet's_ twin cylinders with an
exultation he could not conceal. What had happened had been almost like
snatching victory from certain defeat.
"How much time did we lose?" asked Clip.
"It's two o'clock," answered Matt, juggling his watch with one hand.
"And we're in the lead. That makes a heap of difference. There'll be no
underhand work ahead of us, after this. We'll beat the news to Potter's
Gap."
The trail slid away into the flat desert at the foot of the slope. As
the boys wheeled across the sandy level, they cast a look backward at
the brush-covered slope, to see if they could discover any traces of
the red roadster and of their enemies.
The car was not in sight, but rising straight upward in the still air
was a thin column of smoke. Suddenly the column was broken, and one,
two, three balls of vapor floated aloft; then the straight, grayish
plume was in evidence again; after a moment the smoke-balls reappeared
and wound up the spectacle.
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Matt. "What sort of a performance do you call
that, Clip?"
Clipperton's face was ominous as he answered:
"Smoke-signals. Those two back there must belong to Dangerfield's gang.
They were telling some of the rest of the gang that we're coming." A
look of savage pride crossed Clipperton's face. "You know why I know,"
he added. "It was born in me."
Motor Matt had been the first true white friend Clipperton had ever
had. Perhaps that was because he had looked for the worth and manliness
in the depths of Clip's nature, and had found more than any one else
had ever taken the trouble to hunt for. Clip's ancestry was a raw
wound, principally because there were some who took malignant pride in
never allowing it to heal; and yet he was defiantly proud of it.
"I wish I had had a little of the same kind of knowledge born in me,
Clip," said Matt generously, and Clip threw him a grateful look, and
his surliness vanished.
"See there!" cried Clip abruptly, pointing toward a range of dim blue
hills to the north. "The signals were read. They're being answered."
A long way off, but perfectly plain in the clear air, arose a column of
smoke. It was broken into little clouds, just as the other had been,
and when it disappeared it vanished as quickly.
"How do they do it, Clip?" asked Matt.
"A fire of green wood and a wet blanket. That's all. There's Frog
Tanks," and Clip indicated a cluster of adobe walls and thatched roofs,
midway between them and the point where the answering signals had shown
themselves.
It was twenty minutes after two when the boys wheeled through the
little Mexican settlement. There was no sign of the red roadster behind
them, but, for all that, they were expecting trouble on account of the
smoke-signals.
"Two hours and five minutes on the road," cried Matt, "and we're
forty-five miles from Phoenix. We're still ahead of the schedule, Clip."
"The worst part of the road's ahead," said Clip briefly. "Here's where
we begin to strike it."
Just at that moment the trail dipped into a rocky ravine and climbed a
steep bank on the opposite side. There was no water in the ravine, but
the rocks were jagged and sharp, and they had to use much care to save
their tires. With all the reserve power thrown into the machinery, the
_Comet_ made hard work of the hill. Clip had to get off and drag his
motor-cycle up by hand.
For a mile beyond the ravine the trail was heavy with sand. Matt began
to appreciate the difficulties ahead of him and to worry a little about
the outcome. Clip noticed the serious look that crossed his chum's face.
"Don't fret," said he. "The cañon won't be as bad as this. The bed of
the cañon is hard enough. What makes it a tough trail is the boulders
brought down in the freshets. That automobile couldn't get up the cañon
at all. You and I can go around the rocks. There's the opening into the
gulch. Just ahead."
At the edge of the flat Matt saw a high, rocky ridge. The ridge was
broken by a notch, and the road crawled through the opening and into
the defile.
The sides of the notch were steep, and the boys rode through it in
single file, Matt taking the lead. When they were about half-way
through, a crash broke on their ears, followed by a rumbling sound that
grew swiftly in volume.
A yell of warning came from Clip.
Matt had just time to catch a glimpse of a rock rushing down the side
of the notch. In a trice he speeded up the _Comet_ and leaped forward
toward the cañon, sand and loosened pebbles dropping all around him.
From behind him came a ringing shock. With his heart in his throat he
shut off the power and clamped on the brake, stopping so suddenly that
he was nearly thrown over the front wheel.
When he turned to look around, the rumbling had ceased. Clip's machine
lay on its side, with a twisted and bent rear wheel, and Clip himself
was just rising from the ground.
"Are you hurt, Clip?" Matt asked, bracing the _Comet_ against a boulder
and running back.
Clip was frantic with rage and disappointment. One look at his machine
was enough to tell him that he was out of the race.
"Those smoke-signals did it!" he snorted angrily, lifting his eyes to
the slope of the notch wall. "Some one loosened a rock. The skulking
coyote! It's a wonder we weren't killed."
Matt saw the stone. It was round, water-worn, and as big as a barrel.
Evidently it had caught Clip's machine just as it was all but out of
the way. The impact had whirled it around and bent and twisted the
wheel.
"Nothing but a repair-shop can ever fix that," said Matt, almost as
much disappointed as his chum was. "What'll you do, Clip?"
Clip did not answer. He had seen something up the steep slope that
brought a snarl of anger to his lips and sent him clawing and
scrambling up the rocks.
Matt ran after him. If there was to be a fight with any of the
Dangerfield gang, Matt was determined not to let Clip go into it alone.
The climb was a hard one, but the hard, well-trained muscles of the two
boys made record work of it.
Twenty feet up the wall was a shelf. Clip was over the edge of the
shelf first, having had the lead of Matt in the start. As Matt crawled
over, he saw a roughly dressed man scurrying to get up the wall at the
back of the shelf.
Clip jumped for the man, clutched his feet, and pulled him down. A
torrent of imprecations, in some unknown tongue, burst from the man's
lips. Throwing up his hands, he caught Clip about the throat, and the
two rolled over and over, struggling desperately.
They would have gone over the edge of the shelf and rolled and bounded
down the wall, had not Matt, quick to note his chum's danger, darted
for the fighters to grab and hold them back.
Catching the man by the shoulders, Matt flung him sideways, on his
back. The fellow had a knife in his hand, and made a vicious stab at
Matt's breast. Clip, by a quick movement of his lithe body, caught the
man's wrist and held the weapon back. Then, while all three were on
their knees on the rocky shelf, a strange scene was enacted. Clip and
the man stared at each other with startled eyes. The fight went out of
each of them in a flash. An expression of amazement crept into their
faces, and along with Clip's astonishment came a tinge of bitterness.
"What's the matter?" queried Matt, getting to his feet.
Neither Clip nor the man spoke a word. There was a clatter as the knife
dropped on the shelf.
The man was tall and wiry. His face was even more swarthy than Clip's,
his eyes were small and piercing, his hair was straight and black, and
there were rings in his ears. He wore moccasins and buckskin leggings,
and a dingy-blue flannel shirt, open at the throat.
Both the man and Clip got up slowly.
"_Tio! Tio mio!_" said Clip, in a hoarse whisper.
A slow grin worked its way into the man's face. From the edge of the
shelf he looked down to where the disabled motor-cycle was lying.
Then he said something in a language Matt could not understand, and
took a step toward Clip, with hand outstretched. Clip muttered and
struck the hand aside. The man did not appear very much cast down by
this lack of courtesy, but bent over coolly and picked up his knife.
Returning it to his belt, he folded his arms, leaned back against the
wall at the other side of the shelf, and studied the two boys curiously.
Clip clenched his hands as some strong emotion swept through him. Then
abruptly he stepped toward the man and began speaking. What he said
Matt could not understand. The words came swiftly, fairly tripping over
each other. That Clipperton was upbraiding the man there was no doubt;
but why he should do that, or why either of them should act in the
queer manner they were doing was a puzzle.
Clip's fierce words seemed to make an impression on the man. The grin
faded from his lips and a more serious expression took its place. As
soon as he could break into the torrent of Clip's talk, the man spoke.
He spoke for a full minute, and Matt pricked up his ears as he heard
the name of Dangerfield mentioned.
When the man had finished, Clip said something in a sharp tone and
started down the slope, beckoning Matt to follow. The man came to the
edge of the shelf and watched them as they slipped and scrambled to the
trail, but he made no move to follow.
"Smoke-signals," said Clip, in his usual terse fashion. "They got us
into this fix. And brought me a big surprise. But it may be a help to
you, Matt, in the long run."
Clip's face was moody, although his words were spirited enough.
"What in the wide world is that fellow?" queried Matt. "What sort of a
hold have you got over him, Clip?"
"There's a chain of men watching Castle Creek Cañon," said Clip, not
seeming to hear Matt's question. "The smoke-signals are passed on. From
the other side of Frog Tanks, they reach Dangerfield, at Tinaja Wells.
Some of the gang are laying for you above here. You'll have to go on
alone. Think you can find the way?"
"It's right up the cañon, isn't it, until I get to the trail that leads
over the right-hand wall?"
"Yes. Take the first trail that leads over the wall. You can't go
wrong. While daylight lasts," and a cunning look rose in Clip's eyes,
"there'll be more smoke-signals coming from here. I'll be back of them.
_And they'll help you through._"
Clip turned and led the way to the boulder where Matt had left the
_Comet_.
"You'd better hike, Matt," said he. "You can't lose any more time."
"But who's that ruffian, Clip?" asked Matt again, as he got into the
saddle.
"That ruffian"--there was mocking bitterness in Clip's voice, as he
spoke--"is my uncle. He's a half-breed. His name is Pima Pete. He's one
of the gang. He didn't recognize me when he rolled that stone down the
hill. We haven't seen each other for two years."
Clip whirled around, as though he would make off without another word.
Matt was dumfounded. He recovered himself, however, in time to call
sharply:
"Clip!"
Clipperton turned and saw Matt holding out his hand. "Can't you say
good-by, pard, and wish me luck?" asked Matt.
Clipperton hesitated a moment, then rushed forward, caught Matt's hand,
and wrung it fervently. But he could not trust himself to speak.
Another minute and Motor Matt was in Castle Creek Cañon, headed north.