ON TO PHOENIX!
This was the biggest surprise the mysterious Bascomb had yet sprung.
Clip stared at him for a moment, with jaws agape, then trundled his
motor-cycle forward and lifted it into the rumble. He fixed himself on
the seat, and leaned down to help Matt lift up the _Comet_. Neither of
the boys spoke--they were too bewildered.
"What you got in that canteen?" asked Bascomb.
"Gasoline," said Clip.
"Good enough! Hand it over here."
Clip unlashed the canteen and gave it to Bascomb. He at once began
emptying it into the roadster's tank.
"I was afraid the fuel would play out on us," remarked Bascomb, when he
had emptied the canteen, "but now we're safe for the run to town. Are
you as handy with an automobile as you are with a motor-cycle, Matt?"
he asked.
"I guess yes," Matt answered.
"Then get in behind the steering-wheel. I'm not much good at it, and
we've got to go over the line for a record. See how quick you can get
us to Phoenix."
Matt went down to the foot of the hill to turn around. When they had
toiled up the bank to a level stretch, he let the roadster out, and
they went through Frog Tanks like a red streak.
Jem, who had driven the car, and the other man who had left Phoenix
with him, were sitting on the steps of the _tienda_. They made no move
to stop the car, but watched moodily as it passed them.
Matt could not see Clip's face, but he knew his chum must have been
thunderstruck. Matt himself had begun to take all these surprises as a
matter of course.
"You thought I was running away from you, I reckon?" said Bascomb.
Matt nodded.
"Well," went on Bascomb, "I didn't have time to explain. I was afraid
the roadster would get away before I could reach the _tienda_."
"Did you have any trouble getting it?" Matt asked.
There was a bitter undernote in the laugh Bascomb flung back.
"Why should I have any trouble?" he returned. "Those two men are not
in the gang, but they're friendly toward Dangerfield. When I told them
it was Dangerfield's business that was taking me to Phoenix, they were
willing I should have the machine. Who's your friend, Matt?"
"My name's Tom Clipperton," said Clip, answering for himself.
Bascomb started.
"A relative of Pima Pete?" he inquired, turning around.
"What's that to you?"
"Nothing; but it may mean a lot, one of these days, to you and to Motor
Matt."
There was a veiled meaning in the words, but Bascomb was full of veiled
meanings. Neither Matt nor Clip pressed him for an explanation.
The power of sixty horses was tucked away under the long hood of the
roadster. All this energy was under Matt's control. As always, whenever
he had anything to do with motors, his delight grew as their headlong
rush increased.
Up the slope they dashed, and past the place where Matt and Clip had
had their encounter with Jem and the other ruffian. The little adobe at
the desert well leaped at them and fell away behind with the swiftness
of thought.
Three men and two horses were standing in front of the adobe. One of
the men was Gregory. The other two were put to it to keep their horses
from getting away. Matt recognized both the horsemen as belonging to
Sheriff Burke's posse.
"Do you know those two with the horses?" shouted Bascomb, in Matt's ear.
Matt ducked his head.
"And you didn't stop! A good thing for you, Motor Matt. You're
beginning to trust me a little, and you'll not lose by it."
The afternoon sun was half-way down the sky. The gray desert sparkled
and gleamed in front of the roadster, but behind it was blotted out by
the dust of that mad flight.
And _why_ they were racing, Matt did not know. "Hit 'er up! Hit 'er
up!" was the constant cry of Bascomb.
In the narrow seat behind, Clip lurched, and swayed, and rattled the
motor-cycles.
"Hang on, Clip!" yelled Matt. "We don't want to drop you off."
"Never mind me," roared Clip. "I'm in the seat about half the time. On
the motor-cycles the other half. But you can't loose me."
They reached the Black Cañon road and went spinning into it, some of
the wheels in the air. Down the old familiar Black Cañon road they
shot, and fairly jumped the bridge at the canal.
"You're a wonder, Motor Matt!" cried Bascomb huskily. "I've seen
driving, in my time, but never any like this!"
"If it's speed you want----"
"You're giving it to me! It may be a race with Death who--who knows?"
Matt pondered those words as well as he could with every faculty
centered in the running of the car.
"You're mighty anxious to get yourself behind the bars, Bascomb," said
he.
"Bars!" burst out the man. "What do I care for bars and stone walls
at a time like this? Take me to the house where you left Ollie--the
shortest way."
"Ollie?"
"The little girl. Didn't she tell you her name?"
"She said it was 'Rags.'"
A groan came from Bascomb's lips.
"That's what it's been for the two years I've been in Arizona. Now that
everything was going to be different, _this_ had to happen. Hit 'er up,
King! Can't you do better?"
Every pound of power was purring in the cylinders. No motor ever made
had run as sweetly, nor hurled a car over a road so surely and easily.
The machinery responded instantly to the slightest touch.
Matt's blood tingled with the joy of it all. He ceased to bother his
brain with Bascomb and his affairs, wrapping himself completely in the
noble work of the roadster.
It was not necessary to go through Phoenix to reach the McReady
home. A cross-road from the Black Cañon road would place them in the
thoroughfare that ran past the house.
Matt took the cross-road on two wheels, and, half a minute later,
lurched into the main thoroughfare in the same way.
A horse and buggy were standing in front of the McReady gate. Matt
slowed down so as not to frighten the horse.
"Why are you doing that?" asked Bascomb hoarsely.
Matt nodded toward the rig.
"We don't want to have a runaway," he answered.
"How much farther have we got to go?"
"That horse and buggy are in front of the house. They belong to the
doctor."
"That means," faltered Bascomb, "that--that----"
"That the doctor's making a call."
Matt brought up the roadster beside the walk, a little way from the
horse. Bascomb was over the side of the car before it had fairly
stopped. He ran to the gate, threw it open, and hurried along the front
walk to the porch.
Matt followed him as quickly as he could. He got to the gate in time to
see Welcome Perkins and Chub confronting Bascomb at the steps.
"What's the matter with ye?" Welcome was demanding. "Don't ye know we
got sick folks in this house? Ye're slammin' around like ye didn't care
how much noise ye made."
"Is the little girl here?" queried Bascomb, lowering his voice.
"She's here, all right, but she can't be disturbed. The doctor's in
there----"
"Matt!" exclaimed Chub, catching sight of his chum for the first time.
"Well, I wasn't expectin' to see you. Who is this feller? Put me wise.
What's the matter with him?"
"He wants to see Rags," said Matt. "Let him into the house."
"But she can't last long, Matt, and the doctor said she wasn't to be
disturbed."
Bascomb leaped up the steps, pushed Welcome and Chub right and left
with his strong arms, opened the door, and disappeared inside the house.
"Shade o' Gallopin' Dick!" scowled Welcome. "That feller acts like he
owned the place. What in tarnation ails him?"
Matt did not take time to answer. Stepping to the open door, he looked
in.
Bascomb, just over the threshold, was confronted by the doctor and
Susie.
"What's the meaning of this?" asked the doctor, in a low tone.
"I want to see the girl," panted Bascomb. "This is no time to say no to
me."
"Who are you?"
"That's nothing to you. I've got as good a right here as anybody."
Bascomb hurried on to the couch. Rags, her tangled hair lying all
about her on the pillow, was lying quietly, with closed eyes. Bascomb
stumbled to his knees beside the couch.
"Ollie!" he murmured. "Ollie?"
Matt saw the eyes open and stare upward into the face bowed over the
couch. Then, as he, and the doctor, and Susie breathlessly watched and
listened, the little girl's arms went up and twined about the man's
neck.
"Dad!" she murmured. "Am I dreamin', 'r w'at? Is it yous, dad?"
The doctor started, then, seizing his hat, he vanished from the room,
got into his buggy, and whipped away as fast as his horse could travel.