A RUSE THAT WON.
Of course, the smoke-signals, passed along by Dangerfield's chain of
guards, were responsible for Matt's predicament. The man and the dog
were at that difficult place in the trail to capture the governor's
courier, and just at that moment it looked as though they had succeeded.
Unarmed as he was, what could Motor Matt accomplish against the ruffian
and the dog? This problem rushed through the boy's brain as he lay at
the edge of the trail.
The Great Dane, crouching close and snarling, watched him as a cat
watches a mouse. Matt stared into the brute's fiendish little eyes, and
reason told him that the bared white fangs would instantly fasten upon
his throat if he moved.
He was not injured, although somewhat bruised, and his mind was as keen
and alert as ever. Why not, he asked himself, "play possum" with the
man and the dog, and pretend to be badly hurt and unconscious? The ruse
might not help him any, but there was a chance that it would.
Closing his eyes until he could just see through them and keep track of
what was going on, he held his breath, lay silent, and watched.
The man drew close, leaned on his club, and stood looking down.
"Hello, thar, young feller!" he called.
Matt did not answer.
"Hello, I say!" repeated the man, nudging Matt with the end of the
club. "I reckon you're the one Bolivar an' me's been waitin' here fer,
an'--what's the matter with ye, anyhow?"
Still no answer from Matt.
"Must hev hit his head a crack when he went down," muttered the man.
"You're some sizeable, Bolivar, an' when ye fall on anythin', ye come
down like a thousand o' brick. Git away from him! I reckon ye've done
yore part. I'll get a rope on him now. Clear out!"
The dog slunk away along the road to a distance of two or three yards.
Then the man pulled the _Comet_ away and leaned it against the rocks.
"Fust time I ever seen one o' them steel bronks," he remarked, talking
to himself. "Pussonly, I ain't got no use fer a hoss that drinks
gasoline. They'd be hard ter ride, an' I don't reckon they'd be
reliable."
Before picking up the machine, the man had dropped his club. He now
laid hold of Matt and drew him away from the brink of the precipice.
When he finally let loose of Matt, Matt's hand was close to the small
end of the club--one arm, in fact, was lying upon it.
"If Bolivar had knocked ye a couple o' feet farther, young feller,"
pursued the man, still talking to himself more than to Matt, "ye'd
hev tumbled inter the gulch, iron hoss an' all. Now, we'll see what
ails ye, an' then I'll make a stagger ter git ye ter Tinaja Wells, so
Dangerfield an' the rest kin size ye up an' find out what yer bizness
is."
Bolivar, who did not seem to relish taking a back seat just as his prey
had come under his paws, began growling and dragging himself forward.
The man turned and, with a savage oath, ordered the animal to keep
away. While his back was toward him, Matt knew that then, if ever, was
his time to bolt.
Like lightning the boy gained his feet, lifting the club with him. In
two leaps he was beside the _Comet_.
Hearing his quick movements, the man faced around with a frantic yell.
"No, ye don't!" he roared, and flung at Matt with his bare hands.
The club whirled and Matt brought it down on the man's shoulder with
all his strength. It was a glancing blow, but it was enough to daze the
man and send him reeling backward.
Matt lost not an instant in dropping the club, getting astride the
_Comet_, and starting. Just as the motor got busy, the dog dropped
beside Matt, gripping his right sleeve and tearing a piece out of the
stout leather.
The boy reeled under the shock, but he was not again overturned. To get
away from the man and the dog he must have speed, and he must set the
_Comet_ to going its best in spite of the perils of the trail.
As he tore around the curved course, his resolute eyes following the
path in front of the machine, he heard the snarling of the dog and the
patter of his cushioned feet on the rocks.
The loss for an instant of the control of the machine would have
spelled death for Motor Matt. To keep the _Comet_ away from the edge
of the cliff, and away from the loose stones fringing the wall on the
other side of the road, was the problem with which Matt had to contend.
It was a hair-raising problem, too, and called for every ounce of nerve
and every particle of skill the boy possessed.
He dared not look behind to note the situation in that quarter. The
man, he knew, he could easily distance, and it was the bounding Great
Dane he feared.
His ears told him that the dog was holding his own--exerting all his
power and neither gaining nor losing. But he was too close for comfort.
Should he snap at the rear wheel and puncture the tire--Matt's thoughts
could not carry the danger further. A good many things, just then,
swung in the scales of chance, and what the dog might do was only one
of them.
A minute passed, a minute so full of peril that it seemed like an hour,
and the darting _Comet_ reached the other side of the peak and passed
from level ground to a steep descent.
Below him, Motor Matt could see the trail, winding in steep horseshoes
just as on the other side of the mountain. But there was no precipice
at its edge to threaten destruction.
By its own weight the machine would have coasted down the mountain at
a clip never before equaled. Matt diminished the power that fed the
racing pistons, but still he continued to drop like a thunderbolt down
the steep slope.
The wind sang in his ears, and rock, bush, and stunted tree flashed by
like so many missiles hurled at him by a giant hand. The speedometer
could register up to sixty-five miles an hour, but the needle had gone
out of business. If Motor Matt was not doing a good seventy an hour, on
that hurricane drop toward the mountain's foot, he was far afield in
his reckoning.
It could hardly be called a ride. It was more like a fall through space.
Naturally, such a fierce gait could not last long. Matt was at the
base of the mountain before he fairly realised it, and the _Comet_ was
plunging away on a mesa toward a V-shaped cut in a ridge.
He had time now for a quick look rearward. The Great Dane was not in
sight. All Motor Matt had to show for the perilous encounter on the
cliffside was his torn sleeve, a few bruises, and an uncomfortable
remembrance.
As if to make up for the worrisome struggle through the cañon and the
snail's pace toward the top of the divide, Matt had now a fine, hard
road under him and plenty of room.
How much time he had lost he did not know, but that down-grade had put
his schedule many minutes to the good. He was going a mile a minute
now, and he was still gaining on the miles lost in the cañon.
As he closed in on the V-shaped opening in the ridge, he slowed down,
to make a preliminary survey of the country ahead. The road led on
through the bottom of the "V," and Matt suddenly took note of a man
on horseback, directly in front of the charging _Comet_. The horse,
frightened by the motor-cycle, was bucking and leaping sideways at the
roadside.
"What place is this?" shouted Matt, as he swung past.
"Potter's Gap!" answered the man.
The boy's heart gave a bound, and he shut off and stopped the _Comet_
within a dozen yards. Facing about, he waited for the horseman to spur
his prancing mount closer.
"That's another o' them darned new-fangled machines that folks keep
inventin'," remarked the man. "Where'd ye come from, kid, an' what's
yer bloomin' hurry? The way ye was shootin' along, it looked as though
ye'd git to where ye was goin' purty nigh before ye started. Whoa,
blast ye!" he added to his horse. "If I had time, I'd make ye eat oats
off'n that two-wheeled thing-um-bob."
"My name's King," said Matt. "Can you tell me where I'll find Sheriff
Burke, of Prescott?"
"You bet I can! Go right around that projectin' rock an' ye'll be in
our camp. What ye lookin' up Burke fer?"
Matt did not stop to answer. Turning his machine the other way, he sped
on around a projecting spur of the ridge, and found himself among a
dozen men and horses.
The men were all armed, booted, and spurred. The camp had been pitched
beside a spring, and some were watering their horses, and others were
rolling up their blankets. Matt's sudden appearance drew the attention
of all, and there was a chorus of wondering exclamations as he brought
his machine to a halt.
"Blamed if here ain't one o' them new kind o' bicycles!" cried one of
the men. "Slid right in on us afore we suspected a thing! It kain't be
this kid's one o' the Dangerfield gang?"
A tall, broad-shouldered, red-whiskered man pushed through the crowd
that was gathering about Matt.
"Who are you?" the man asked sharply.
"I'm looking for Sheriff Burke," replied Matt.
"Then you've made a bull's-eye, first crack out of the box. I'm Burke."
"What time is it, Mr. Burke?" asked Matt, getting out of the saddle and
standing beside the machine.
"What's that got to do with it?" demanded the Prescott man, staring.
"Why, I was told to get here at five o'clock----"
"Ye was, hey?" asked one of the posse, looking at a watch. "Then ye're
ahead of time, my boy. It lacks five minutes of five."
Matt's delight must have been reflected in his face, for Burke's
interest in him manifestly deepened.
"Who told you to get here by five o'clock?" he asked.
"Governor Gaynor."
"Gaynor?" repeated the sheriff.
"Yes. I left Phoenix at quarter-past twelve----"
"Last night?"
"No--at noon to-day."
"An' you've come a hundred miles in five hours on _that_ thing?"
"Yes."
The bystanders were astonished. Not only that, but their respect for
the _Comet_ visibly increased.
"What's the governor got to say?" proceeded Burke.
Matt took the letter out of his pocket.
"Read that, Mr. Burke," replied Matt, "and it will tell you. Don't
throw away the envelope. Just write on the back of it, 'Received at
five minutes of five, Thursday afternoon and sign your name. I want to
take it back and show it to the governor."