CHAPTER XII.
COOL VILLAINY.
It was several hours before Matt regained consciousness. His first tangible feeling was one of nausea. Opening his eyes, he found himself in a bare little room, lighted by a candle planted in its own drippings on the hard earth floor.
Matt's hands and feet were tied, and his limbs felt terribly numb and cramped. As his wits slowly returned, he began to note his surroundings more in detail.
The walls of the room were of adobe clay, but they had caved in in several places and parts of the thatched roof had fallen to the floor. The litter of clay and tule thatching had been brushed aside to leave the center of the room clear.
On the floor near Matt lay his leather cap. Close to the sputtering candle, squatting tailor-fashion, a doubled elbow on one of his knees and a black pipe in his fingers, was a resolute-looking man in cowboy clothes. Alongside of him lay a broad-brimmed hat and a coiled riata.
"Where am I?" called Matt.
The man turned his grizzled face in Matt's direction.
"Oh, ho!" he chuckled. "Come back ter earth, have ye? I was allowin' it ort ter be time. Whar be ye? Why, ye're in a desarted Mexican jacal in the foot-hills o' the Phœnix Mountains, about twenty miles from the capital of Arizony Territory. Anythin' else ye're pinin' ter know?"
"Who brought me here?" demanded Matt.
"You was brought in one o' them hossless kerriges, bub. That was a hull lot o' style, now, wasn't it? I've heern tell that lots o' people pays five dollars an hour ter ride in them benzine buggies, but you got yer ride fer nothin'. Ain't ye pleased?"
"This is no time for foolishness," said Matt. "I was dragged away from Phœnix against my will, and the best thing you can do is to take these ropes off me and let me go."
"The best thing fer you, mebby, but not exactly the best thing fer myself, not hardly. Jest lay thar an' be as comfortable as ye can, bub. We'll git along fine if ye're only peaceable. I'm goin' ter let ye go, bumby."
"By and by? When will that be?"
"After them races are over in Phœnix."
Matt's freshly awakened brain was just beginning to get a grasp of the situation.
"This is Hawley's doing!" he cried. "He had me captured, there on the bank of the canal, and brought out here in his machine! This is his scoundrelly way for keeping me out of that bicycle-race. Who are you?" Matt asked angrily.
"Me?" grinned the cowboy; "oh, don't worry none about that. I'm only jest the feller that helps. Roll over an' go ter sleep. I'll sit up an' see that nothin' comes in ter pester ye."
"There's a way to take care of people like you and Hawley," threatened Matt. "If you want to save yourself trouble, you'll release me."
"Waal, I don't figger it jest that way, bub," drawled the cowboy. "To let ye go afore Saturday night would be a mighty short cut ter trouble fer yours truly."
"But I'm to ride in that bicycle-race to-morrow!"
"Ter-day, bub, not ter-morrer. That bicycle-race is ter-day, since it's some little past midnight. We passed the fag-end o' Friday clost ter an hour ago. Yep, I understood ye was goin' ter race with O'Day at four o'clock p. m. But ye've changed yer mind about that."
"I haven't changed my mind," answered Matt desperately.
"Then somebody else changed yer mind fer ye, which don't make a particle o' difference, seein' as how ye can't help yerself. Good night, bub. I'll jest set here an' smoke an' doze an' make shore that nothin' don't happen. The man as got me ter do this was powerful pertickler about that."
There was nothing to be gained by talking with the fellow—Matt was not slow in making up his mind to that. The terrible pains he had felt when he had first opened his eyes were leaving him slowly, and this afforded him some comfort. Turning a little in order to make his position more easy, he closed his eyes and fell to thinking.
When he went to that place on the canal to meet Clipperton he had walked into a trap—but it was not a trap of Clipperton's setting. Hawley—and Perry, perhaps—had, as usual, used Clipperton as a tool. Matt was positive of this from the way Clipperton had acted when the trap was sprung. There were things about that challenge of Clipperton's which he did not understand, and probably never would understand until some one of his enemies explained the matter to him.
But, with the passing of recent events, fresh light was thrown upon the story told by Welcome Perkins. If Matt could not get back to Phœnix before 4 o'clock, Saturday afternoon, Perry would ride against O'Day—and Major Woolford's club would lose the bicycle-race. Incidentally, Hawley's scheming would enable him to win a lot of money.
The betting part of Hawley's schemes Matt cared little about. What he did worry over was Major Woolford's disappointment, and the fact that the Comet would go to O'Day—and go to him unfairly. Besides, Matt had set his heart on having the Comet for his own, and all his future plans clustered about his ownership of that splendid machine. He must get away, he must! By hook or crook he was in duty bound to get back to Phœnix in time for the bicycle-race, and to confront Hawley and Perry and foil their villainous plans. But how was he to escape?
Carefully he began tugging at the ropes about his wrists. They were discouragingly tight, and he soon discovered that he could do nothing with them. While he was racking his brain in an endeavor to think of something that would serve his turn, the craving of his tired body for rest and sleep gradually overcame him and his thoughts faded into slumber.
When he opened his eyes again it was broad day. The sun must have been two or three hours high, for its beams were shining in through an opening in the eastern wall that had once served as a window.
"Mornin', bub," drawled the voice of the cowboy. "Had a fine snooze, didn't ye? An' ye jest woke up in time fer grub. I've had my snack, an' I kin give my hull attention ter passin' ye yours."
The cowboy began fishing some crackers and cheese out of a paper bag.
"Can't you take the ropes off my hands while I eat?" asked Matt.
"Waal, I'd like ter, mighty well, seein' as how I'm the most obligin' feller by natur' you most ever set eyes on, but I give my promise that I wouldn't take them ropes off'n yer hands until sundown. 'Course ye wouldn't have a feller go back on his word, would ye?"
There was no satisfaction to be got out of the fellow, and Matt was obliged to wriggle to a sitting posture and have his jailer feed him. From time to time the cowboy would press a canteen of water to his lips.
Matt had a good appetite and he ate heartily, feeling that if he found a chance at attempting anything he could not do his best on an empty stomach.
"Thar ain't much variety to this here grub," apologized the cowboy, "but thar's plenty of it an' it does me proud ter see ye eat so hearty. I'm twicet as glad ter see ye chipper as I would be ter see ye down in the mouth."
"I try to be a good loser," said Matt.
"That's you! Bicycle-races ain't all thar is in this world."
"What time is it?"
"I ain't got no watch, but I kin figger purty clost by the sun." Stepping to the doorway the cowboy cast a critical glance at the cabin's shadow. "Half-past eleven, bub," he went on, turning back into the room, "is what I make it."
A thrill of dismay passed through Matt's nerves. Half-past eleven and the bicycle-race, the last event on the list, was to be at four o'clock! Only four hours and a half! And there was Matt, a prisoner, and twenty miles from Phœnix!
"You seem to be a pretty good fellow," said Matt eagerly, "and why is it you can help Hawley in this cool villainy of his? That bicycle-race means a lot to me! I don't know how much Hawley is paying you to keep me here, but if you will let me go, and give me a few weeks to pay it, I will double the money."
The cowboy shook his head. "I'm some pecooliar, thataway," he observed. "When I give my word I'll do a thing, you can bank on it I'm right thar with the goods. Now, if ye had a million, which it ain't in reason a boy yore age would have, an' if ye offered me half of it, I'd shore spurn yer money. When I hire out I goes ter the highest bidder, an' I sticks thar like a wood-tick ter a yaller dog. Sorry, bub, but that's the way I stack up."
There was no beating down the cowboy's resistance. He was there to do the work Hawley had paid him for, and nothing could swerve him from what he believed to be his duty.
Apparently not caring to have any further conversation with Matt, the cowboy began walking back and forth in the room, whistling to himself and now and then humming a snatch of song. Finally he sat down, picked up his coiled riata and began braiding the brushy end of the rope and overlaying it with twine.
The minutes passed. For a time Matt tried to count them, his heart all the while growing heavier and heavier. This was a time when it was hard indeed to be a "good loser."
There was a tremendous rivalry between the two athletic clubs—a rivalry in which the separate towns that claimed them took active part. In the contests the year before the Prescott club had got the better of the Phœnix club in the matter of points. Phœnix had won the one-mile dash, the broad jump, the bicycle-race and the hammer-throw, but Prescott had cleaned up all the other events. Matt knew how eager the major was to have Phœnix get the better of the rival town, and the loss of the bicycle-race, which counted high in the final summing-up, might turn the scale in favor of Prescott.
In his mind, as he lay helpless there on the floor of that abandoned jacal, the boy pictured the throngs of people moving along Washington Street toward the park. He heard the horns, the megaphones, the band, and he saw the white and blue of Phœnix High waving defiance to the red and white of Prescott High. Above everything came the school yells, and he stifled the groan that rose to his lips. He ought to be there, and he was twenty miles away! Yes, it was hard to be a good loser.
The cowboy must have divined something of what was going on in Matt's mind, for, as he laid aside his repaired riata and got up, he looked toward Matt.
"I'm sorry, bub, honest," said he, "but thar ain't a pesky thing I kin do except watch ye till sundown. Why, I ain't even got a hoss here. It's clost to two o'clock, now, an' if ye was loose ye couldn't git ter Phœnix in time fer that bicycle-race."
Matt made no reply. He could not trust himself to speak. The cowboy picked up the water-canteen and tried to drink, but the canteen was empty.
"I'm goin' ter the spring, bub," he remarked, starting for the door. "It ain't fur, an' I'll be back in a few minits. I'm dryer'n the desert o' Sahary, an' I reckon you wouldn't mind havin' a drink neither."
With that he left the room and vanished around the wall of the hut. Matt could hear his thin-soled, high-heeled boots crunching the sand as he moved away.
It was then that something happened which fairly took Matt's breath. A face appeared in the door—a swarthy face set sharply in lines that suggested a fierce strain and failing strength. Two gleaming black eyes looked in at the boy on the floor. The next moment a dusty form staggered into the room, reeled across the floor to Matt and went down on its knees.
"Clipperton!" whispered Matt, scarcely knowing whether he was awake or dreaming.
Without a word Clipperton began cutting at the ropes with a jack-knife. Slash, slash. It was quickly done, the severed coils falling from Matt's wrists and ankles.
"Come!" breathed Clipperton huskily. "Time is short. The man will be back."
Matt was groggy on his feet. Clipperton, none too steady himself, contrived to support him to the door. Once outside they started hurriedly across the bare hills, Matt speechless with the wonder of it all.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLUEBELL.
The two boys got out of sight in a swale before the cowboy returned from the spring. Looking back, just before they dropped from view of the jacal, they were unable to see anything of the man.
Taking Matt's arm, Clipperton drew him along the swale, then over the western bank of it and into a shallow valley between two low hills.
"It's nearly two o'clock," Clipperton was muttering. "Twenty miles—four o'clock. We'll get a horse at the Bluebell. You can make it if you ride."
"Where did you come from, Clipperton?" asked Matt.
"Phœnix."
"How did you come?"
"On foot. Didn't dare look for a horse. Afraid they'd find out and stop me."
Matt halted and laid a hand on Clipperton's arm.
"Did you come out here, all the way from Phœnix, on foot, to help me?" he asked quietly.
"Why not?" flamed Clipperton. "I got you into the trouble. I was afraid you might think I knew what Perry and the rest were doing. I didn't. It was a put-up job, but I didn't know until too late. I—I could kill Perry! He told me to write that letter. Said he'd keep his hands off and stay away. You saw how he did it."
Swirling hate poured out with the words. Clipperton was breathing hard and talked in husky gasps.
"You were to do that mile race at two o'clock," said Matt.
"I did a twenty-mile race; somewhat earlier."
"Why, that race was as good as a hundred dollars to you!"
"If I win this it'll please me more."
"You've won it, Clip," said Matt, in a low tone. "You've got me away from that hut."
"I haven't won it!" cried Clipperton. "It's won when you face the starter on your wheel and cut out Perry. The coyote!"
"You've found out about Perry?"
Clipperton muttered something in a savage undertone. Matt put out his hand and Clipperton clasped it quickly.
"I guess we understand each other, Clip," said Matt. "How far away is the Bluebell?"
"At the end of this valley. Hurry. You've got to get to Phœnix in time."
"I don't see how I can, even with a horse."
"You can. You must!"
They made their way down the valley as fast as they could, Matt's benumbed limbs slowly regaining their strength, and Clipperton keeping up by sheer force of will. From time to time they gazed behind them, but they could see nothing of the cowboy. If he was looking for them he was evidently searching in the wrong direction.
"How did you find out where I had been taken, Clip?" queried Matt.
"Tubbits Drake knew," replied Clipperton. "I went to him early this morning. I made him tell me. Then I started. It was a long twenty miles. I had to wait at the hut until the man went away. If he hadn't gone when he did he would have had to fight. Perry, Drake, Spangler and three men furnished by Hawley captured you. They were hiding by the canal all the time, Hawley's motor-car brought you out here. Hawley wasn't with it. He sent his driver. I was a fool. But I know a few things now."
By the time Clipperton had finished, he and Matt had come to the end of the valley. Rounding the base of one of the hills an ore-dump broke into view, surmounted by a derrick. From the top of the derrick swung one of the aerial wires of Chub's wireless telegraph-line.
A few yards from the foot of the derrick was a small house. A man in his shirt-sleeves sat tilted back in a chair in the shade. He was watching the two boys curiously as they hastened toward him.
"Hello, neighbors!" he called, when they had come close. "Kind of queer to see a couple of lads loose in these hills on foot. What are you—— Jumping Jerushy!" the man suddenly exclaimed. "If it ain't Matt King! Why, I thought——"
"I know what you thought, Delray," said Matt hurriedly. "I was abducted from Phœnix last night in order to keep me out of the race. I was being held a prisoner——"
"At Pedro Garcia's old jacal," interpolated Clipperton.
"And Clip, here, got me away," went on Matt. "I have to get to Phœnix by four o'clock."
Delray whistled. "Mebby you could do it if you had wings, Matt," said he. "Why, it's nearly two o'clock, and there's twenty long miles between here and Phœnix. That's a deuce of a note. Abducted by Hawley! Thunder! What did he do that for?"
"Let him take your horse," cried Clipperton, sinking down in the shade. "He can make it!"
"Horse?" echoed Delray. "I haven't got a horse. There isn't a horse this side of the Arizona Canal, eight miles away. Give it up, Matt. There'll be bicycle-races after you're dead and gone."
A half-stifled groan broke from Clipperton's lips. Matt and Delray, looking toward him, saw that he had his face in his hands.
"What's the matter with him, Matt?" asked Delray.
"I've lost the race for King," said Clipperton, lifting his haggard face. "I did it! But I got to him as quick as I could. Perry—I—I——" The words died huskily away on Clipperton's lips and he finished by shaking his fist menacingly in the direction of Phœnix.
Matt walked over to Clipperton.
"You didn't lose the race for me, Clip," said he, "and I want you to understand that here and now. You were no more to blame for it than the man in the moon. I ought to have——"
Matt halted abruptly. In front of him was the derrick, the lightning-rod point of Chub's aerial wire glistening in the sun. He whirled and jumped like a madman for Delray.
"Great Cæsar's ghost!" cried Delray, "have you gone dippy, Matt?"
"Is that wireless apparatus working?" shouted Matt.
"It was, last night."
"If it's working now," went on Matt excitedly, "maybe I can put this trick through yet. Get at your key, Delray! Try and get Chub."
"What the blazes——" Delray stared. "Say, Matt, do you think I can send you through to Phœnix by wireless?"
"Get Chub!" yelled Matt. "Don't stand there like a stick, Delray. Get Chub, I tell you! I'll tell you what to say when you get him. There's a chance, a chance!"
While the dazed Delray went into the house and sat down at his sending-key, Matt hovered frantically around him. The minute Delray touched the key the Hertzian waves got busy, crackling and flashing between the two polished balls of the terminals.
"I don't know why you think I can get anybody in Phœnix this afternoon, Matt," complained Delray. "The whole town must have emptied itself into the park. It's a safe guess, anyhow, that Chub will be there."
Matt's heart went down into his shoes. He hadn't thought of that. Of course, Chub would be at the track! Chub was there to see Matt win the motor-cycle! Oh, the irony of fate!
Clipperton thrust his drawn face in at the door. His eyes glowed with a hope which was past his understanding.
Delray rattled the key and the flashes quivered back and forth between the balls, jumped off the lightning-rod tip at the top of the derrick and darted in every direction with the swiftness of thought.
Suddenly the sounder began to click. "What's this, what's this?" mumbled Delray, bending over the relay instrument and listening intently. Scarcely breathing, Matt and Clipperton kept their eyes on Delray's face. "Why, it's Susie McReady!" exclaimed Delray. "Matt King is missing—Chub and Perk at the park hunting for him—everybody in town hunting—Susie came back to the house to ask me to hunt—now, what do you think of that? Talk about luck! But what good is it going to do? That's what gets me."
"Tell Susie I'm here," said Matt; "tell her I was abducted from Phœnix last night to keep me out of the race; tell her to call up Major Woolford on the phone at the park; tell her to have the major lay quick hands on Ed Penny and send him along the Black Cañon road on the Comet as fast as he can come; have Susie tell the major to tell Penny that everything depends on the record he makes between Phœnix and the Bluebell, and that I'll walk along the Black Cañon road to meet him and save a little time. Shoot 'er through! Hustle, old chap."
"Oh, tell, tell, tell!" groaned Delray. "Why, you're talking like a house afire. Here goes."
Click, click, clickety-click, sang the key, the crackle of the spark keeping a merry accompaniment. Delray repeated the message. As he was finishing, Matt started for the door.
"Wait," called Delray, "here's an answer." The sounder began to click and then stopped dead. "No, there ain't," muttered Delray; "something's slipped a cog and the home-made machine is out of commission. Anyhow, Matt, she held together until we got your message through. Go it, and good luck to you!"
Matt was already through the door and striking a bee-line for the Black Cañon road, which ran past the derrick. Clipperton had caught his second wind and was following him.
CHAPTER XIV.
COMING OF THE "COMET."
Matt hardly dared hope for success. There was a chance—perhaps one chance in a hundred—that everything would work as it should, and Penny arrive along the Black Cañon road with the Comet in time for Matt to make such a run into Phœnix as was never heard of before. But when Matt thought of the many things on which success hinged, his heart stood still before the very audacity of his thought of winning out.
In the first place, everything depended on the quickness with which a number of intricate details were accomplished in Phœnix—and all these were left in the hands of a girl! True, Susie McReady was a girl in a hundred, quick-witted, and able to hustle in a pinch, but it was not to be supposed that she could do as well as Chub would have done.
Then, Susie would have to take chances getting Major Woolford on the phone. In the crowd at the park it might be impossible to find the major for an hour—and it was quite likely a loss of ten minutes would spell disaster. But if Susie could get the major on the phone, Matt knew that the energetic president of the Phœnix Club would move heaven and earth to find Penny and start him along the Black Cañon road.
The major, too, would delay the start of the bicycle-race as long as he could. Prescott, however, if it saw a chance to pull off the race without Matt, was allowed to insist, under the rules governing the contests, that the starter bring the racers to the mark on the dot.
As the difficulties before him piled steadily up under Matt's mental view, he halted his pace, almost discouraged by the outlook. Clipperton toiled up alongside of him.
"You shouldn't have tried to chase along with me, Clip," said Matt. "You're pretty near all in, old man. Jupiter! but you've made a record this day!"
"You can make a better one," panted Clipperton. "I want you to make good. But how are you going to? Put me next."
Matt explained about Chub's wireless line, about the seven-horse-power motor-cycle which could do sixty-five miles an hour on the high speed if a rider was reckless enough and had the right kind of a road, and he finished by giving the situation at the Phœnix end of the route.
Clipperton's eyes snapped and sparkled. He had been born to champion forlorn hopes, and certainly this idea of Matt's was desperate enough to make the biggest kind of a hit with him.
"Great!" he muttered breathlessly. "If you win it will be the biggest thing on record. Won by wireless, and a jump of twenty miles on the Comet. Fine! Motor Matt, Mile-a-minute Matt, King of the Wheel. Say, you're a wonder."
"Not so you can notice it, Clip, not yet. Just now, all I can do is to hope for the best."
For some time they continued on through the hills, finally reaching a high part of the road which gave them a view of a flat stretch of desert leading away to the Arizona Canal.
There were several canals in Salt River Valley and contiguous to Phœnix, all constructed for irrigation purposes. It was the "Town Canal" that ran past the McReady home, and between that and the Arizona Canal there was still another of the artificial streams. The Arizona Canal, however, formed the outpost of the waterways.
Pausing on the "rise," Matt and Clipperton peered across the glimmering yellow sands. A fork in the road lay below them.
"The branch goes to Pedro Garcia's old jacal and beyond," said Clip. "Look!" he added excitedly.
Matt followed Clip's extended finger with his eyes. Off along the branch road, trudging slowly toward the main trail, a distant form could be seen.
"The cowboy!" muttered Matt. At that distance he could not identify the figure, but intuition told him who it must be.
"Yes," returned Clipperton grimly. "He thinks we started for Phœnix."
"What time is it now, Clip?"
"We're four miles from the Bluebell. It's taken us an hour. So it must be nearly three."
"Sixteen miles from Phœnix and only a little more than an hour left! I'm expecting too much, Clip. Susie has had an hour to find the major and get Penny started this way with the Comet. Somebody hasn't been able to make good and I guess I'm let out."
"No!" shouted Clip. "What's that coming this way? See!"
Clipperton pointed along the main road where it ran in a light streak across the desert. A cloud of dust, more like a column of smoke than anything else, was sweeping toward the hills.
Matt held his breath as he gazed. The dust cloud seemed fairly to jump at them; then, suddenly, the wind whipped it aside, and brave Ed Penny, glorious old Penny, could be seen crouching upon the saddle of the Comet. He was shooting for the hills like a cannon-ball.
"Hurrah!" yelled Clipperton, jerking off his cap and throwing it into the air. "Motor Matt is going to win!"
The Comet took the "rise" like a bird on the wing. Penny, covered with dust and half-blinded, halted only when he heard Matt's voice calling to him. Clip sprang to support the machine while Penny got off.
"That you, King?" queried Penny, dizzy and staggering.
"Yes!" shouted Matt, gripping the brave fellow's hand. "Bully boy, Penny! How's everything at the park?"
"Panic! Mile race lost because Clip wasn't there. All Phœnix wild because King is missing. Major red-headed. Jerked me out of the high-school bunch and snatched me into town in his automobile; threw me onto the Comet and offered me twenty-five dollars if I'd get the machine to you inside of an hour, and fifty dollars if you got to the park in time for the race. Jinks, but that machine is a dandy!"
Matt and Clip were lifting the Comet around. Clip held the machine while Matt rose to the saddle.
"Wait!" roared Penny; "don't start yet."
"Why not?" asked Matt.
"Hawley is coming! See that dust? Pull the Comet out here beside the road and crouch down so we can't be seen when the dust blows away. The driver of the car may take the other road at the forks."
Here was startling news—news that might snatch success out of Matt's hands just when the prospect of victory seemed brightest.
Another dust cloud was coming. As the three boys drew aside and crouched down the cloud dissipated slightly and through it they could see Dirk Hawley's motor-car, hitting nothing but high places and reaching for the hills like a streak.
"He saw the major grab me and rush me away from the park," explained Penny, referring to Hawley. "His driver and another man were in the car besides himself. They took after me. I led them by a quarter of a mile at the bridge over the Arizona Canal. They stopped there and the man in the tonneau with Hawley got out. The whole bunch means trouble! What's Hawley got to do with this, anyhow?"
"He's got a lot to do with it," muttered Matt, "but I haven't time to explain now. Ah, look at the cowboy, Clip!"
The cowboy, who was coming across fairly high ground, could be seen waving his arms. Evidently he saw the motor-car and recognized those who were in it.
"That does the trick!" whispered Clipperton excitedly. "Hawley was coming along the Bluebell trail. The cowboy is drawing them into the other road. Luck! That will clear the way so you can get past on the Comet. Wait until the car is close to the cowboy. Then make a rush."
"For heaven's sake," begged Penny, "beat him in, Matt! The Comet can do it."
"The Comet is going to do it," said Matt, between his teeth.
All three of the boys watched while the motor-car flung itself up the gentle slope toward the cowboy.
"Now!" said Clip, starting up and laying hold of the Comet.
They trundled the machine back into the road and Matt got into the saddle and laid hands on the grip-control.
"Ready?" cried Penny.
"Let her go!" answered Matt.
Penny and Clip gave him a shove. Pop, pop, pop, snapped the motor, the explosions presently coming so fast that they sounded like a dull roar. Off went the exhaust, and Motor Matt slipped down the slope like a brown streak, kicking the dust up behind him.
"He'll win, he'll win!" cried Clipperton. "The men in the motor-car see him. The cowboy is getting into the front seat alongside the driver. They can't head him! Hurrah for Motor Matt!"
Hawley and those with him had seen the sliding streak rushing down from the hill and making for the canal. There was a scramble about the motor-car, a frantic cranking-up and jumping start on the high-gear. But it was plain to the two boys on the hill that Matt would pass the forks of the road before the car and its passengers could get there.
Penny danced around excitedly.
"Why did Hawley drop that man off at the bridge?" he fumed. "That's what I can't understand. That man at the bridge spells trouble with a big T. What's Hawley butting into this game for, anyway?"
"He's been plunging on O'Day," answered Clip. "He knows O'Day loses if Matt gets to the park in time. Of course, he wants to stop him. Put two and two together, Penny."
"That's right, Clip," explained Penny. "It's up to Matt, now."
"Leave it to him. The game couldn't be in better hands."
Then, with staring eyes, Clip and Penny watched the two dust flurries. The cloud kicked up by the Comet passed the forks of the road a full minute ahead of the fog raised by the motor-car.
"Three groans for Hawley!" chortled Clip.
"But that man at the bridge," groaned Penny. "He sure is worrying me."
CHAPTER XV.
THE FLIGHT OF THE "COMET."
Matt King was on his mettle. Phœnix was sixteen miles away, and he had, as he figured it, forty minutes to get there and make his way to the park. Could he do it? He could and would!
The presence of Hawley in his crack machine added an element of danger, but Matt knew in his soul he could slide away from the motor-car as a jack-rabbit slips clear of a bounding greyhound.
He saw the dust-fog of the coming car as he whirled past the forks of the road. It was jumping at him with terrific speed, and he saw the chauffeur and the cowboy in front of the big machine and Hawley in the tonneau, standing and leaning over their heads in his excitement and determination.
If Matt got clear, Dirk Hawley stood to lose a lot of money; and to touch the gambler in his pocketbook was to touch him in his tenderest spot.
Matt laughed as he rushed onward. He felt that the race was his, barring accidents; and the Comet was brand-new, and careful handling made accidents a remote possibility.
Seven horses were purring in the cylinders, whirling the racing tires, and showing heels such as seven horses never showed before. The steady murmur of the machine filled Matt's heart with exultation. He was flying, and the tires seemed scarcely to touch the ground they covered. Cactus, rock, greasewood brush shot toward him and were lost behind.
At the start he was four miles from the bridge over the Arizona Canal; now the bridge lay before him at the foot of a long slope with a slight curve at the end. In two minutes he would be there!
As the dust was left behind, he saw a dim figure standing by the bridge. Then he remembered what Penny had said about Hawley dropping one of his passengers at that point, and a sudden fear shot through Matt's nerves. The man waved his hand, ducked downward and disappeared under the canal. In the space of a breath, almost, he reappeared and dashed back toward the roadside. Then on Matt's startled ears there burst the dull boom of an explosion. Under his eyes the bridge seemed to rise up and drop back into the canal.
Matt slowed down, his heart in his throat and his nerves in rags. Hawley had left that man behind to blow up the bridge, well knowing that Matt could not pass the chasm on his motor-cycle, and that the nearest bridge he could reach was miles away.
The whirr of the car behind him grew loud and louder in his ears, and above it came yells of triumph. Dazed and feeling himself all but beaten, Matt nevertheless continued on toward the wrecked bridge.
The next moment he saw something that aroused his hopes. One stringer was left, spanning the gulf from bank to bank—a square timber that offered possibilities, albeit dangerous ones. A nail in the stringer would mean a bursted tire! Even a sliver might cause damage that would stop the Comet's flight. Gritting his teeth Matt speeded up the machine, tore down the slope and took the end of the timber at a bound.
The motor-car was close and he dared not look behind him. Every faculty had to be centered upon that narrow, dangerous path over which he was rushing at perilous speed. He could not see what the cowboy was doing, nor know how a scant forty feet of rope fell short, for the cowboy, past master at throwing the lariat, had leaned forward over the long bonnet and made a cast.
"A thousand dollars if you stop that boy!" Motor Matt heard this yelled fiercely in Hawley's voice, and behind him the noose fell short!
If there were nails or slivers in that square timber, the rubber tires missed them. Matt gained the opposite side of the canal and sped up the bridge approach. The man who had set off the explosion leaped into the road, swinging his arms and shouting; then very suddenly he leaped out again, for the hundred-and-fifty-pound motor-cycle was coming toward him at deadly speed. Matt was abreast of the man and beyond him in the space of a heart-beat, and he stole a quick look behind.
Dirk Hawley had overreached himself. His evil machinations had resulted in destroying the bridge, but he had foiled himself and not the daring youngster who had taken a bold risk and crossed the gap. The motor-car was at a dead stop on the other side of the canal, and a baffled group of three surrounded it and called wild words to the man on the other side.
A loud laugh escaped Matt's lips and dwindled behind him in a mere wisp of sound. He was safe! Now his race was against time alone.
Fortunately there were few travelers on the Black Cañon road. The traveling for that part of the day had mostly been done, and people from all the ranches were at the park. He had to slow down and turn out for a Mexican wood-hauler, and the few other people he passed gave him a wide berth and watched wonderingly as he whizzed by.
Alfalfa-fields sped past him, and the cottonwood-trees lining the roadside ditches trooped behind so quickly that they became a mere blur. The road was like asphalt and rubber tires never had better going.
Like a dart Matt hurled onward, minute after minute, ranch-houses doing strange dances as he met and left them. Before he fairly realized it he was turning into Grand Avenue and plunging along beside the street-car track. Into the Five Points he whirled, striking pavement that appreciably increased his gait. The stores seemed deserted, and only here and there could a man be seen on the streets. A yellow cur pranced yipping out at him, then whirled with his tail between his legs and ran howling from the monster that devoured distance with the combined speed of a dozen dogs.
Turning into Washington Street, Matt found himself with a straight-away stretch clear to the park. There was more travel here, for this was the main thoroughfare of the town. Every store and shop was dressed in bunting. Matt must have been recognized as he raced, for everything got out of his way, and more than one cheer went up as he flickered by.
In passing the Court House Plaza he caught the time from the face of the big clock. Six minutes of four! He opened her out a little more, and the Comet ate up the miles as she had not yet done. Mile-a-minute Matt! He was true to the name, now, and Phœnix had never been traversed from end to end as he was doing it.
Presently he was in the outskirts of the city, another minute and he was close to the park fence, another and he had slowed down for the wagon-gate. The man on duty there recognized him and leaped aside.
"Hoop-a-la!" roared the man, waving his hat. "In with you! Not a minute to spare."
Toward the race-course he guided the Comet. Everywhere the edge of the great oval was black with people. Like wild-fire the word traveled, "King is coming! Here comes King! Bully for King!"
Close to the dressing-rooms Matt pulled up. The major was there, Chub was there, Susie was there—and Perk. They knew he would arrive, and they had everything ready.
"Oh, you!" howled the delighted Chub, throwing his arms about Matt and pulling him out of the saddle. "King of the Motor Boys, that's what you are."
Susie grabbed him and, in her excitement, landed an ecstatic kiss on his dusty face.
"Motor Matt!" she cried, waving the high-school colors. "Now will Prescott High be good?"
"Shade o' Gallopin' Dick!" yelled Welcome, doing an odd war-dance on his wooden pin. "He's my pard, he is! Watch me soothe my turbulent soul with a grip o' his honest pa'm."
Matt was torn from the selfsame grip by Major Woolford.
"You're the boy!" said the major. "No time to lose, for the starter is calling the men for the race. Here's your wheel. No time to change your clothes, but you can peel off your coat. McReady, help with his shoes."
Matt threw off his cap and coat. Chub had unlaced one shoe and Susie the other. Matt kicked out of them and into lighter foot-gear. Then, with time for hardly a word, he grabbed the racing-wheel that was waiting for him, and made his way to the track.
"Matt King is entered to race for Phœnix in the one-heat one-mile bicycle contest," the starter was yelling through a megaphone. "As King is not here, and as, according to the rules, the race starts at four sharp, Phœnix substitutes her second choice, Dace——"
"King is here!"
It was the booming voice of Major Woolford, just crossing the track to take his place in the judges' stand.
Simultaneously with the words, Matt, in his nondescript racing-attire, made his way along the track toward the tape.
There followed a breathless pause. Although the word had gone around that King was coming, the Prescott rooters tried to treat it as a canard. They didn't want King.
Dace Perry, as Matt walked toward him, reeled back from his machine. His face went white as death, and a hopeless look arose in his eyes. Without a word he caught his machine by the handle-bars and made for the paddock. His thunderstruck adherents, Spangler, Drake and the others, were waiting to offer what consolation they could give.
Following the breathless pause, a veritable roar went up from the grand stand and all around the track. It was a Phœnix roar, of course, and it was Phœnix people who stood on their seats, threw up hats and shook canes and handkerchiefs. The high-school boys, clustered together, let loose with their triumphant yell. Colors were waved—Phœnix colors—and the flags of Prescott High were temporarily retired.
"King, King, King-King-King!" chanted Phœnix High, in unison.
"Oh, he ain't so much!" came a feeble wail through a megaphone. "Hold your shouting until after the race!"
"Drown him!" whooped Phœnix. "Send him to the asylum! Back, back to the padded cell!"
O'Day took Matt's sizing with a troubled eye, then clenched his teeth. He would do his best—but he had doubts. A half-confidence is worse than no confidence at all.
"Buck up, O'Day!" implored the Prescott rooters. "You can do the trick! Don't let him throw a scare into you. He's ridden twenty miles and he must be about all in!"
That last was the key-note. When O'Day heard it he brightened. Matt was in from a trying trip, just in, and he had to go the round on a pound of crackers and cheese! But Prescott didn't know him.
The two racers took their places, hugged by a couple of men at the saddles.
"All ready?" Bang!
Matt was hurled down the track. For the first time since he had left Clip and Penny his feet were busy, more than busy.
CHAPTER XVI.
MOTOR MATT, KING OF THE WHEEL!
There have been walkaways and walkaways, but never before such a walkaway as King had over O'Day, the crack cyclist from Prescott. For Matt all that had gone before seemed only to have paved the way for the best that was in him. He was "on his toes" every second, and left O'Day at the quarter; at the half O'Day was twice the length of his wheel behind and pedaling like mad; at the three-quarters O'Day was hopelessly in the rear and working his feet in a mechanical way, merely as a matter of duty. Matt crossed the tape a winner by fifteen feet and Prescott put its head in its hands and groaned.
Phœnix swarmed down from the grand stand and tumbled over fences all around the oval. The Phœnix high-school boys charged down upon the victor, yanked him off his machine, took him on their shoulders and galloped up and down the track.