CHAPTER XII.

"UNCLE SAM" TAKES HOLD.

"Them fellers stopped me," said Jake, "an' was allowin' to unload the flyin' machine. What could I do agin' the lot of 'em, and armed like they was? But the fust I knowed they intended ter smash the thing was when Siwash begun talkin' with you. He'd have shot ye, too. I know him, an' I know he's desprit, so I took a chanst with the blacksnake. Gosh-all-hemlocks, but I shore made a good throw of it."

"You certainly did," said Matt, "and I'm much obliged to you."

Matt turned away from the wagon to talk with the officer in charge of the troopers. The soldiers had come to a halt, and one of them, in the uniform of a lieutenant, had spurred forward.

"What's the ruction here?" he demanded. "Benner rushed up to the fort and said some one had stolen the Traquair aëroplane. He showed us a telegram he had received, told us he had started Jake for Oberon with the machine, and that a couple of young fellows had happened along, pronounced the telegram a forgery, and had started in pursuit of Jake in an automobile. Are you one of the lot that chased up Jake?"

"Yes," said Matt. "Harry Traquair was killed in Jamestown——"

"That's stale news," interrupted the lieutenant, sitting back in his saddle and taking Matt's sizing at his leisure.

"Well," went on the king of the motor boys, "I've come to Totten to try out the aëroplane for the government."

"You?" The lieutenant laughed. "Why, my lad, the machine will do for you just as it did for Traquair. Who are you?"

"Matt King."

The lieutenant almost fell out of his saddle.

"Not Motor Matt?" he asked.

"That's what I'm called more often than anything else."

"Well, this certainly takes the cake!" muttered the lieutenant, pulling at his mustache. "My name's Cameron, and I'm a lieutenant in the signal corps. By a coincidence, I'm here to watch the trials of the aëroplane for the government."

"Where does the coincidence come in, lieutenant?" asked Matt.

"Do you remember a young fellow called Ensign Glennie?"

"Remember Glennie?" cried Matt. "Well, I guess I do. Why, he went around South America with me in a submarine."

"Representing the government, wasn't he?"

"Yes."

"Well, Glennie's my cousin, and he wrote me all about you and that trip in the submarine. So that's where the coincidence comes in. He watched your work with the submarine for the government, just as I'm to watch your work with the aëroplane. Give us your hand, Motor Matt! I feel as though we were old friends."

Matt was delighted. It was one of those meetings which sometimes happen, and which make a fellow overjoyed with the occasional workings of fate. McGlory, Black, and Ping were introduced, and then Matt took the lieutenant off by himself and narrated the events that had taken place, and which had led up to the villainous work of Siwash Charley.

Lieutenant Cameron was properly indignant.

"Siwash Charley's a whelp," he averred, "and this Murgatroyd is a thoroughbred scoundrel. But the aëroplane seems to be safe, and you'll have no further trouble with those villains. From this on, Motor Matt, you and your friends and the Traquair aëroplane are under the protecting wing of Uncle Sam. We'll have the flying machine guarded, and you and your friends will stay at the fort with us. There's only a handful of boys at Totten, now, but we're more than enough to look after Siwash Charley."

The lieutenant rode over to the wagon.

"Jake," said he, "you'd better drive back with that machine."

"That's what I was calculatin'," grinned Jake. "Somebody hand up my whip."

McGlory gathered in the blacksnake, and tossed it to the teamster.

"Sergeant," called the lieutenant to one of the troopers, "you and the rest will convoy the aëroplane back to Totten. If Siwash Charley or any of his gang show up, shoot them on sight."

"All roight, sor," answered the sergeant, touching his cap.

"Ride back with us in the car, lieutenant," suggested Matt. "One of the troopers can bring in your horse."

"I'll go with you," said Cameron promptly.

He dismounted at once, and turned his horse over to the Irish sergeant. He and Matt rode in the tonneau, with Ping, where they could talk to better advantage, and McGlory mounted to the front seat alongside of Black.

"My orders instructed me to be of all the assistance I could to Traquair," remarked Cameron, when they were sliding off toward the hills on the return trip; "so, of course, now that you represent the Traquair interests, I consider it my duty to help you."

"Glad of that, lieutenant," responded Matt. "After I get the aëroplane together I'll not need much help. You see, I've got to learn to run the machine. There's a knack I've got to get hold of."

"You'll get hold of it, never fear. A fellow like you can learn whatever he sets out to."

"But I've only got two weeks," laughed Matt, "and there's a fair chance, according to a good many people, of breaking my neck."

"That's what I was thinking, when I heard Traquair had been killed, and that there was an advertisement in the newspapers for a man of nerve. But, somehow, I feel pretty confident of the outcome, now that I know you are to boss the air flights. Let's see. I think Glennie wrote me you had had some experience with a dirigible balloon?"

"Yes, I served my apprenticeship at that sort of flying before I tied up with the submarine."

"Then you can't be called a new hand at the game."

"Sailing a dirigible balloon is a whole lot different from driving an aëroplane."

"Learn it well, Motor Matt, whatever you do. According to conditions governing the aëroplane trial, you've got to stay in the air two hours, make not less than thirty miles an hour, and carry a passenger. I'm to be the passenger."

So long as Matt had only his neck to think about, the situation was tolerably clear; but, now that he knew he had to carry the lieutenant along, he began to worry a little.

"I didn't know that part of it before," said Matt gravely.

"Don't fret, pard," put in McGlory, turning around in his seat. "If the lieutenant hasn't got the nerve, why, I'll go with you. And I reckon you know about how much I enjoy the prospect of flyin'."

"You can't cut me out of that, McGlory," declared Cameron. "Why, if Mrs. Traquair hadn't found some one to navigate the aëroplane, I was thinking seriously of offering to do it myself. I was attached to the balloon corps, for a while, but I'm handicapped by a very imperfect knowledge of gas engines. You're the fellow for the job, all right, Matt, and you can bet something that I'll not pass up the chance of flying with you. Know anything about the Traquair aëroplane?"

"Only what I've found out from a study of the model. Apart from that, I've been looking into the subject of aëroplanes for some time. It was the hope of adding to my knowledge of the subject that brought me to North Dakota."

"And you dropped into a villainous conspiracy right at the start off!" exclaimed Cameron. "I'll send a message to Oberon, just as soon as we reach the post, and see if Siwash Charley and his mates can be headed off."

"It won't do any good to send a message, lieutenant," said Matt. "Siwash knows enough to make himself scarce. Better let the matter drop—for the present, anyhow."

"But there's Murgatroyd. He's got himself into a pretty kettle of fish. You can go after him."

"I don't want to bother with him, nor with any one nor anything else but the aëroplane for the next two weeks."

"I guess your head's level on that point," mused Cameron. "However, if Siwash Charley shows up on the reservation while you're at work, we'll lay him by the heels and throw him into the guardhouse. When are you going to put the aëroplane together?"

"This afternoon," replied Matt. "There's no time to lose."

An hour later they were at the post. Black had made up his mind to remain over until the following day, and Matt paid him his fifty dollars, and thanked him for his work with the motor car.

Following a late breakfast at the post, Matt went down to meet Jake and superintend the unloading of the aëroplane. Selecting a favorable site for the experiments with the aëroplane required time, and dinner was ready at the post before Matt and Cameron had picked out a spot which they considered most favorable for the initial trials.

Following dinner, Matt and McGlory, in their working togs, and accompanied by the lieutenant, hustled down the hill to begin work with the aëroplane.

CHAPTER XIII.

ON THE WING.

The ground Matt selected for his initial experiments lay about a quarter of a mile from the post trader's store on the road toward Lallie, Minnewaukon, and Oberon. For a long distance, at this place, the road was level, flat as a board, and smooth as asphalt. It was just the right bottom to give the aëroplane a good start on the bicycle wheels.

This part of the road, too, was free from timber, so there could be no accidents from collisions with stationary objects.

Lieutenant Cameron had a large "A" tent brought down from the post, and pitched in a place convenient to Matt's field of operations. Here the young motorist and his assistants could rest, when they so desired, and make their headquarters at all times.

Four dismounted cavalrymen were to be constantly on guard, each detail relieving the other, morning and night.

The post farrier placed his working tools at Matt's disposal, and hammers, hatchets, and wrenches were carried down to "Camp Traquair," as the aëroplane headquarters came to be called, and Matt set actively to work uncrating the machine.

The two big planes of the flying machine measured thirty-two feet in length by five in width. For convenience in packing, carrying, and stowing, these planes had been cut into halves, one half dovetailing into the other by means of iron sockets.

In assembling the aëroplane, Matt worked from memory alone—his study of the model serving him in good stead.

Both of the thirty-two-foot planes were put together first, and then joined, in a double-deck arrangement, by tough spruce rods, which held the planes six feet apart. The rods were further braced by wire guys, which could be tightened at will by means of turn-buckles.

For a width of about five feet the middle section of the lower plane was reënforced with light, tough boards. This platform formed a bed for the engine, the gasoline tank, the mechanism-operating propeller and bicycle wheels, and afforded seats for the operator and one passenger, as well as giving a rigid support for the various levers controlling motor and rudders.

The sliding wing extensions, so necessary for keeping the machine's equilibrium while in the air, gave Matt the most trouble of all. They slid on ball bearings from under each plane, and were so adjusted that when one extended the other contracted in the same proportion; for, if there was too much air pressure under one wing, it was necessary that the area of that wing should be reduced, while the area of the other was enlarged.

The putting together of the two large planes consumed the afternoon; and when Matt, weary and tired, answered the mess call of the colored cook sent down from the post, he was able to see that the aëroplane was gradually taking shape.

"Looks about as much like a bird as I do," commented McGlory.

The next morning Matt went to work on the two smaller planes which, in flight, went ahead of the machine, guiding up or down, and doing something toward distributing the air pressure. The vertical plane, which had its place in the rear, was likewise adjusted.

So rapidly did the work proceed that, by noon, Matt was ready to install the motor.

Traquair, it was evident, had built the aëroplane, put it together, and adjusted every part before shipping it to Fort Totten. The result of this forethought was apparent in the installing of the engine. Every piece had its place and dropped into it readily. The exact point for every bolt and screw was marked.

By seven o'clock the second night the aëroplane was ready.

McGlory, just before he, Matt, and Ping went for their belated supper, stood in front of the forward planes.

"Every boat, pard," said he, "whether she sails the ocean or the sky, has got to have a name; therefore I, by virtue of my authority as assistant to the big high boy who is to navigate the craft, name this aëroplane the June Bug."

With that, the cowboy broke a bottle of Adam's ale over the lower plane.

"No likee June Bug," chattered Ping. "Him velly bum name. Why you no callee him Fan Tan, huh?"

"Fan Tan!" jeered McGlory. "Why, you squint-eyed heathen, this ship's no gamble, but a sure thing. Remember the lines of that beautiful poem:

"That's good enough," laughed Matt. "I'm going to eat and turn in, for to-morrow I fly."

The motor was a four-cylinder, and Matt judged, after taking measurements, that it would develop about twenty-five horse power.

The next day came on with a very high wind, so high that Matt deemed it worse than foolish to attempt his first flight. It was hoped that, later in the day, the wind would go down. Time was not lost while waiting, however. Gasoline was secured from the fort, together with a quantity of oil, and the motor was disconnected and given its own particular try-out.

It worked splendidly.

Next the power was connected with the bicycle wheels, and the June Bug was sent along the road under its own power. Matt, in the driver's seat, came very near taking a fly in spite of himself, for the wings caught the wind and lifted the aëroplane some four feet in the air. With a twist of the lever, Matt quickly pointed the smaller planes downward, and glided into the road again without a jar.

The wind held until nightfall, and, of course, all hope of a fly for that day went down with the sun.

On the following morning there was hardly a breath of air stirring. All the troopers came down from the fort, and every person from the immediate vicinity of the trader's store assembled to see how well Matt would acquit himself of his first attempt at flight in an aëroplane.

After making sure that everything was properly adjusted and in perfect working order, Matt had the June Bug pushed to the centre of the hard road. McGlory was stationed at one wing, and Lieutenant Cameron at the other, in order to run with the machine and help give it a start.

"Nervous, Matt?" queried Cameron, as the king of the motor boys took his place on the seat and lifted his feet to the foot rest.

"Not half so nervous as you are, old chap," smiled Matt. "Here, feel my pulse."

"I'll take your word for it. Don't go very high."

"So far as results are concerned, if I'm going to fall it might just as well be from five hundred feet as from fifty. All ready?"

"All ready!"

McGlory's voice was a bit husky, for he was even more nervous than Cameron.

The engine was already humming like a swarm of bees.

"Let her go," said Matt, switching the power into the bicycle wheels.

In less than a dozen feet, the aëroplane was traveling too fast for Cameron and McGlory, and they dropped out. Standing breathless where the June Bug had left them, they watched the machine rush faster and faster along the road, then, suddenly, swing into the air and glide upward.

Cheers rang out from half a hundred throats, only to be suddenly stifled as the great wings tilted, fifty feet above ground, into an almost vertical position. Matt, they could see, was almost hurled from his seat.

A groan was wrenched from Cameron's lips, and he turned away.

"Sufferin' thunderbolts, but that was close!" the lieutenant heard McGlory mutter, and then the cheering was renewed.

Cameron looked again. The June Bug had righted herself, and was rushing off toward the lake, mounting steadily, higher and higher.

"That feller's head's level, all right," remarked Benner.

"How's that?" asked Cameron.

"Why," laughed the post trader, "if he takes a tumble he intends comin' down in the water."

"Don't you believe it!" cried McGlory. "He don't intend to take a tumble. That pard of mine has his head with him, at every stage of the game."

At the watchers judged, the June Bug passed over the post some two hundred feet in the air. The contortions of the machine were alarming. First one side would tilt, and then the other. Half a dozen times it looked as though the June Bug must surely go over on its back, and come down a wreck with her intrepid young driver mangled in the machinery.

But Motor Matt, calm and clear brained, was working to "get the knack." Every second he was studying. Not once did thoughts of a mishap flash through his brain.

At the end of ten minutes he returned from the lake, glided downward, and brought the bicycle wheels to a rest in the road within a hundred feet of the place from which he had started.

His face was flushed, and his gray eyes shining as he stepped from the machine to receive the congratulations of everybody, even of the bluff post trader.

"I'll try it again this afternoon," said Matt. "That's enough for this morning. I want to think over my experience, and see if I can improve my work in any particular point."

"You wabble a good deal," said Cameron.

"I won't—when I get the knack."

So that afternoon, and day after day thereafter, Motor Matt went up and practiced to acquire the "knack." Little by little it came to him, every flight teaching him something that it was necessary for him to know.

He went up in still air, in light winds, and in breezes that made his friends tremble for his safety; but not once did he get a spill, not once did anything go wrong with the machinery, and not once did he fail to bring the June Bug back to earth as gently and easily as he had done on the morning of his first flight.

Greater and greater crowds assembled to witness the trials. The people came from Minnewaukon, from Oberon, and from Devil's Lake City. Even the Indians gathered from various parts of the reservation, and gazed stolidly while "Boy-That-Flies-Like-the-Eagle"—as they called Matt—continued to keep on the wing, and learn the knack.

As Tuesday—the day of the government test—drew nearer, the railroads advertised excursions, and from the Department of the Missouri came sundry men, high in the councils of the war department, to see how well Motor Matt would meet the supreme test.

On Monday afternoon, after Matt had finished a flight during which he had kept the June Bug almost level in the air, Lieutenant Cameron caught his hand in a convulsive grip.

"I'm ready, Matt," said he; "you've got the knack."

CHAPTER XIV.

DASTARDLY WORK.

Ping was a badly demoralized Chinaman. He had watched, with soulful admiration, every flight Matt had made; he had swelled out like a toad every time the work of his master was applauded in his hearing; and he crept around Matt as though he was a joss—a wizard more superhuman than a mere mortal.

But the June Bug seemed to have become a part of the Chinaman. He gloated over it, he patted it affectionately, he crooned strange gibberish to it, and he kept watch of it while in the air and on the ground as though it was the apple of his eye.

After Matt had finished his last flight before the Tuesday trials, Ping crept off into the woods by himself, dipped some water into a small china bowl, and dropped into it a cake of India ink. Then he stirred the ink until it was dissolved, found a big, smooth bowlder that answered for a table, and squatted down beside it.

First, he placed the china bowl on the bowlder; next, he brought from the breast of his blouse a camel's-hair brush, and half a dozen strips of rice paper; then, on each strip of paper, he began painting potent prayers.

Having finished his peculiar labors, he threw the little bowl into the lake, hid the slips of rice paper under the bowlder, put the brush in his pocket, and sneaked back to Camp Traquair, arriving just in time for supper.

That night Matt went to bed early, and McGlory soon followed him. The June Bug, drawn up to the left of the tent, looked like a ghost in the gathering dusk. Around her were the four armed and alert guards.

Then, again, Ping stole away to the bowlder. On its flat top he started a little fire of dried twigs, and one by one he dropped the slips of rice paper into the blaze.

When the last prayer was consumed, and the fire had died down to a little heap of white ashes, Ping felt that he had done everything possible to insure Motor Matt's safety and success.

It was nearly midnight when he stole back toward Camp Traquair. He saw a little glow of light in the vicinity of the aëroplane, and he wondered what it could be. Creeping forward, he investigated, and laughed at himself for his fears.

The guards had secured a lantern, and, in its light, they were smoking and playing cards on a blanket.

With the idea of curling up under one of the wings of the June Bug and passing the night near the machine, Ping made a wide detour around the soldiers, and started toward the aëroplane from the other side.

Suddenly his attention was arrested by a crawling form moving back and forth, now showing darkly against the white canvas of the planes, and now vanishing in the deeper shadow under them.

Presently he heard a queer, rasping note, as of a file biting into steel. In a second he knew what was going on.

Siwash Charley was meddling with the aëroplane—was weakening it here and there so that an accident would be certain on the following day.

With his heart in his throat, the Chinese boy arose to his feet, and started toward the soldiers, his lips framing a cry.

But the cry was never uttered.

Ping had not taken two steps toward the guards before he was felled by a cruel blow from behind, and a black, impenetrable pall dropped over his brain.

"Begorry, what was thot?" exclaimed Sergeant O'Hara, starting up from his seat on the ground and looking toward the machine.

"What's the matter with you, sarg?" asked one of the others.

"I've a notion, d'ye moind, thot I heard somethin'," answered O'Hara.

"Your wits are woolgatherin', old man," said another of the men.

"I'll make sure av it, annyways," averred the sergeant.

Taking the lamp, he walked over to the aëroplane, and looked under it, inside it, and all around.

"Iverything's all roight, so far as I can see," he reported, coming back to his comrades, "but divil another card do I play this noight. To yer posts, iviry wan o' ye, an' we'll kape our eyes peeled. Th' leftinnint an' Motor Matt sail in thot machine to-morrow, an' there's a rumor thot Siwash Charley was seen in Divil's Lake City th' day. Cut out th' card playin', b'ys. We've done too much of it already."

In the shadow of the woods, three men were carrying a senseless Chinaman.

"Let's toss him inter the lake, Siwash," suggested one of the men.

"What's the good, hey?" answered Siwash. "We'll rope an' gag him. He'll not be found till too late, an' mebby he'll never be found."

"But if he saw you, an' recognized who ye was——"

"He didn't; he didn't have time. Put the ropes on him. Twist a cloth into a gag, Pete."

"The lot o' us would swing fer this if it's ever found out," demurred Pete.

Ping opened his eyes before the scoundrels had left him. He recognized Siwash Charley by his voice, and he saw his face by a ray of moonlight that drifted in among the trees.

Ping tried to cry out, but his lips were sealed; and he tried to use his hands and feet, but found them bound.

With an inward groan, he sank back and the night of unconsciousness once more rolled over him.

When he again revived, the sun was high, and there was a murmur of life from far off in the direction of Camp Traquair. He lay on his back, his face upward, and he could see the high bluffs of the lake, over toward the post. They were covered with people.

What was the matter? he asked himself. How had he come there? Why was he bound, and why was the cloth tied between his jaws?

In a flash, his bewildered mind remembered all that had happened.

He heard again the rasp of the file biting into steel; he recalled his suspicions, his attempt to cry out to the soldiers, the blow that had felled him; then, too, the moment of consciousness in the woods came back to him, bringing the raucous voice and ill-omened face of Siwash Charley.

The aëroplane had been tampered with by Motor Matt's enemies! And this was Tuesday, the day of the trials!

If Matt attempted to fly in the June Bug, there would be an accident, and he would be killed!

Like a demon, the boy fought to free himself. He must get to Camp Traquair and tell what he had seen and heard. If he did not, the fiendish work of Siwash Charley would spell destruction for Motor Matt and the joss of the clouds.

What passed in that little heathen's mind will never be known. He was a Chinaman, and the workings of a Chinaman's mind, while following the same lines as the workings of a Caucasian's, are yet never quite the same.

Ping's fight with the cords that bound his wrists and ankles brought pain and drew blood, and his tongue, from a frenzied gnawing of the gag, was sore and swollen; but he could not free himself. Siwash Charley and his mates had performed their work only too well.

In sheer desperation, Ping attempted to roll in the direction of Camp Traquair.

He got perhaps twenty feet over the sharp stones and rough tree-roots, and then his mind faded into an oblivion—quite as much the result of his own horrifying thoughts as of his physical pain and weakness.

He awoke to hear cheers, and to piece together, once more, his battered notions of the trend of events.

As he lay staring dumbly upward, he saw the cloud joss winging across the woods like a huge bird, high, very high in the air.

Motor Matt was there, guiding the joss, and making it do his will; and beside Motor Matt was Lieutenant Cameron. Only a moment did the aëroplane show itself to Ping's restricted vision, and then the tops of the trees shut it from his sight.

Far away somewhere the helpless boy could hear wild cheering.

What good were choice prayers, painted on rice paper, and burned to the heathen deities?

This is what Ping's bruised and quivering mind asked itself.

By every means in his power, Ping had tried to avert disaster.

One prayer had been for a calm day. This seemed to have been answered, for there was hardly a breath stirring the tree tops.

Another prayer was for a safe start. That, likewise, must have been answered, or Matt would not now be on the wing.

Yet another prayer was for the flying machine's safety while in the air; a fourth had been for the machinery; a fifth for the wings; a sixth for a safe descent; a seventh had been general in its terms, and had most to do with Motor Matt's fame and fortune after the trial was over.

Ping had burned no prayer for Lieutenant Cameron. In some manner, he could not understand how, the lieutenant had escaped his mind.

While he lay there, miserably going over these heathen things which were all terribly real and important to him, a roar of fear, horror, and consternation came from the distance.

Turning his head a little, Ping was able to see people scrambling over the bluffs, wildly excited.

The accident had happened.

With a groan, Ping closed his eyes, and turned his face to the earth.

CHAPTER XV.

THE GOVERNMENT TRIAL.

Matt awoke, on that memorable Tuesday, to find that fortune was favoring him with a clear sky and not enough wind to ripple the flag over the tent.

McGlory greeted him in a strangely subdued manner. The cowboy had a lot on his mind, and Matt rallied him about his odd reserve.

"Where's Ping?" asked Matt, noting that the little Chinaman was not hovering around his vicinity as usual.

"Give it up, pard," said McGlory. "Suppose he's off asking his joss to give you luck."

People were already gathering on the bluffs, and rounding up in wagons and automobiles in the near vicinity of Camp Traquair.

While Matt was looking over the aëroplane, Cameron brought several dignified, gold-laced officers, who had come from distant points to witness the trials. The lieutenant presented them, and the boyish, unaffected manner of the young motorist had a good effect on the representatives of the war department.

"You understand, do you, Motor Matt," said one of these gentlemen, "that you are to stay aloft two hours, with one passenger, and travel at the rate of thirty miles an hour?"

"Yes, sir," answered Matt. "I can stay aloft three hours just as well as two, and I think you will see the aëroplane do fifty miles instead of thirty."

The officers smiled at his enthusiasm. But they liked it, for it proved that his heart was in his work.

"Don't push the machine too hard," counseled one of the officers.

"I'll not do that, sir," said Matt. "Before I take up the lieutenant, I'll go up alone, to make sure that everything is working well. I have just found one of the propeller blades loosened—and that looks a good deal as though some one had been tampering with the machine. Of course, however," he added, "that's impossible, for the aëroplane has been guarded night and day."

"I'd wager my life on O'Hara," put in Cameron, confidently. "He had charge of last night's detail."

As Matt's examination went further, he found bolts loose, here and there. In fact, so many parts were weakened that the general result could hardly be called accidental. However, he liked O'Hara, and did not want to overturn the lieutenant's trust in him. So, saying nothing, he went on carefully with his examination, tightening everything that was loose.

At last he was satisfied that the aëroplane was in as good trim as ever.

"I'm a little late in starting," said he to McGlory and Cameron, "but it's always well to be on the safe side. Be ready, old chap," he added to the lieutenant, "when I come back from this little trial spin."

In a way that had become an old story to him and his friends, but which was intensely new and novel to nine out of every ten of the onlookers, Matt started the June Bug along the road, lifted her into the air, and sailed her far out over the bluff and the lake.

Everything was working as well as usual. The air craft met the strain in every part, seemingly as staunch as she had always been. At a leisurely jog—just enough to keep the aëroplane afloat with the wings but slightly tilted—Matt turned above the lake and glided back to his starting point.

He had done no manœuvring, attempted no speed, and had not tried to break his record for staying aloft. Nevertheless, the military representatives were enthusiastic.

"Wait until you see Matt put the machine through her paces," said the lieutenant, smiling confidently at his senior officer, as he took his place in the machine.

Two signal corps privates ran with the June Bug to give her a start. The added weight of the lieutenant made her a little slower in taking the air, and not quite so swift in mounting upward, but Matt soon found that she was more easily managed with this additional ballast.

"By Jove," cried the lieutenant delightedly, "but this is fine! North Dakota has turned out a lot of people to see this exhibition, Matt. The bluffs are black with them, and everywhere you look you can see people with their faces upturned, either gaping in wonder or yelling with delight. Hear 'em cheer! I should think it would make your blood tingle."

"I haven't any time for all that," said Matt, busy with his levers, and watching everything with a keen, alert eye; "I've got something else to keep track of. You're watching the time?"

"Yes. It was ten-fifteen when we started."

Matt slowly speeded up the engine. The route, as already determined on, was to be across Devil's Lake and back, and then to Minnewaukon and back, going over the course as many times as he could during the two hours the aëroplane must stay in the air.

At a height of fifty feet above the surface of the earth, their flight through the air became a swirling rush. At top speed—a speed which Matt reckoned as fifty miles an hour—he made a wide, sweeping turn over the roof tops of Devil's Lake City, and plunged off across the lake. A frenzy of cheering arose from the bluffs and Camp Traquair as the aëroplane darted over them on her way to Minnewaukon.

"Can't we go higher, Matt?" begged the lieutenant.

"We'll go higher after we make the turn over Minnewaukon," Matt replied.

After that, Cameron did not bother Matt with questions. The young motorist's every faculty was wrapped up in his work. His ear alone told him how well the motor was doing, and his eyes, ears, and his sense of touch were brought into play in preserving the aëroplane's equilibrium.

The merest rise of one wing caused a mechanical shifting of the lever on which Matt constantly held his left hand.

That left hand of the young motorist had been trained to its work in many an automobile race, and its quickness and cunning did not fail him now.

There were some people still left in Minnewaukon—not all the town's inhabitants had gone to the bluffs or to Camp Traquair. Those that remained in the place assembled on the streets or on the roof tops, and cheered wildly as the aëroplane veered in a circle and rushed back toward Totten.

The official recorder was here, as in Devil's Lake City, noting the time, and jotting it down on a pad of paper.

Once turned toward Camp Traquair, Matt sent the aëroplane resolutely upward. Up and still up the craft glided, forced by the whirling propeller and supported by the air under the planes.

"How high do you think we are now, Cameron?" asked Matt.

"Three hundred feet, I should say," replied Cameron.

"I guess that will do. It's easier sailing up here. The air close to the earth's surface is in a constant state of agitation, but at this height it's quieter. Don't you notice how much smoother we're gliding?"

"I've been noticing that," said Cameron. "It's like a boat on a mill pond, only we're traveling like an express train."

Again they were over Camp Traquair, and again the wild cheering of the crowds reached their ears. They crossed the lake, turned, once more hovered over Camp Traquair, then glided downward to a height of a hundred feet, and rushed over the air line to Minnewaukon.

Three times they made the round trip. As they were coming back from Minnewaukon the third time, Cameron looked at his watch.

"The two hours are up, Matt," he announced, "and I am almost sorry for it. We'd better go down. You have won the test on every point, and the sale of the aëroplane to the government is assured. If you had a hand free, I'd give you a hearty grip along with my congratulations."

"Keep that until we land," laughed Matt.

The cheering came up to them like Bedlam let loose as they drew near Camp Traquair, and Matt slackened the pace, preparatory to descending.

Then it was that the unexpected—so far as Matt was concerned—happened.

There came a snap like the crack of a pistol, and Matt had a sudden vision of a writhing wire rope coiling viciously in the air. It missed him, but struck the lieutenant on the forehead.

Instinctively the lieutenant arose on the footboard, and tossed his arms. It was a fierce blow he had received, and unconsciousness had claimed him. Staggering in midair, he would have tottered off into space had it not been for the king of the motor boys.

Quick as a flash, Motor Matt caught the lieutenant's arm just in time to keep him from falling.

The accident was witnessed by the thousands of spectators gathered below. For an instant it seemed as though the fluttering aëroplane would be overturned and come rushing earthward; then, as the horrified people watched, the reeling lieutenant was dragged out of sight between the canvas planes, the aëroplane righted suddenly, glided downward, and dropped on her wheels in the road.

Matt's face was white, but his voice was steady as he called to those who were rushing toward the machine.

"Cameron is only stunned—he'll be all right in a little while. Here, lift him out and lay him on the ground."

One of the epauletted, gold-laced officers brushed a handkerchief across his forehead with a shaking hand.

"If he lives," said the officer, "he'll owe his life to Motor Matt. I never saw anything like that before, and I hope I never shall again. Gad, how it strains a man's nerves."

When Cameron was removed from the machine, Matt passed to the forward planes and examined the end of the broken wire guy.

"It was notched with a file," he asserted, "and for more than two hours Cameron and I have been playing with death, hundreds of feet in the air."

He passed rapidly to the wire stay supporting the forward planes on the opposite side.

"This, also, is notched," he added. "If this guy had snapped, nothing could have saved us!"

"What murderous scoundrel could have done it?" demanded a dozen fierce voices.

"His name is Siwash Charley," said Matt. "It must have been done last night. Find the scoundrel, if you can; he should be made to answer for this."

CHAPTER XVI.

FAME—AND A LITTLE FORTUNE.

"The returns are in from Devil's Lake City and Minnewaukon. Time, two hours and seven minutes. Distance traveled, ninety miles. This was at the rate of a little less than forty-five miles an hour, and the government ought to be completely satisfied. I know I am. Motor Matt, allow me to congratulate you."

One of the officers was doing the speaking.

It was three hours after the sensational finish of the trial. The crowds had departed. McGlory, a few officers, Cameron, and Matt were in the tent at Camp Traquair. Cameron, his head bandaged, was lying on a cot, but he was wide awake and smiling.

"I knew he could do the trick," said Cameron; "in fact, I've been confident of that ever since I saw him wabble around on his first flight with the aëroplane. What beats me, though, is how those ropes became notched."

"Sergeant O'Hara thinks he knows how it happened," explained the officer who had read off the June Bug's record. "He and the other three guards were having a game of seven-up, last night, when they should have been giving their entire attention to watching the aëroplane. O'Hara thought he heard a noise around the machine. He investigated, but found no cause for uneasiness. After that, O'Hara declares, the card playing stopped; but, it now seems clear, the evil had already been done."

"We don't know that this fellow calling himself Siwash Charley was the scoundrel who filed the guy ropes," spoke up another officer.

"It's a positive certainty, in my own mind," declared Cameron.

"What your individual belief is, lieutenant, would hardly stand at a court-martial, or in a court of law."

"That's true, yes, sir. Siwash Charley was seen in Devil's Lake City yesterday——"

"Circumstantial, but hardly conclusive. He can't be found now. Fully a hundred men have been looking for him and are now on the trail, but Siwash Charley, if he was here, has vanished."

"I'm too happy over the way everything came out," put in Matt, "to waste any thoughts on Siwash Charley. The aëroplane has made good. There's no doubt about the sale to the government?"

"Not the slightest," came a chorus from the officers.

"There can't possibly be, Matt," added Cameron.

"That telegram of mine was sent to Mrs. Traquair?" Matt went on.

"It was sent from the post within half an hour after the aëroplane landed. By this time, Mrs. Traquair knows what Motor Matt has done for her."

"It wasn't that that I wanted her to understand, but the fact that a little fortune had come to her, and that she was no longer in the clutches of that loan shark, Murgatroyd."

"She knows that, too. A little fortune, I understand, has also come to Motor Matt."

"And more fame," put in McGlory, "than one modest young chap like my pard knows how to shoulder."

"What little fortune there is," smiled Matt, "is to be divided with my chum, Joe McGlory, who was a bigger help to me than I imagine he realized. Part of the fame should be his, too."

"Speak to me about that!" chuckled the cowboy. "Fame! Oh, yes, I ought to be plastered with it. Why, I wouldn't have gone up in the June Bug for all the fame they tacked onto Napoleon."

There was a general laugh at this.

"I wonder what's become of Ping?" Matt inquired anxiously. "It isn't like him to hide out on us, in this fashion. The last I saw of him was last night."

"There is something queer about that," averred McGlory. "He ought to have been around to exult, Ping had, and it's——"

O'Hara stuck his head in at the tent flap, just at that moment.

"Beggin' yer pardon, sors, but there's an Injun just come, totin' a half-baked Chink. Do yez want thim insoide?"

"Sure!" cried Matt. "Send them in."

A Sioux Indian, looking anything but the noble red man in his moccasins and coat, hat, and trousers, pigeon toed his way into the tent with a brief but respectful "How!"

Behind him, half carried and half dragged, came Ping!

The boy was a sight.

He was bareheaded and barefooted; his usually neat blouse and baggy trousers were torn and soiled; his hands were bleeding, and there was a wild, despairing look on his yellow face. The wildness and the despair vanished, however, when he caught sight of Matt.

"By Klismas!" he gurgled. "Shiwas Charley no killee Motol Matt? Hoop-a-la!" and Ping ran to Matt and dropped down on his knees in front of him, hugging one of his hands in a maudlin expression of joy.

"Where have you been, Ping?" asked Matt.

"Allee same woods. Shiwas makee tie hands and feet, stoppee talk with gag. Whoosh! My thinkee you go topside, my no come tellee what Shiwas do. Velly bad pidgin!"

Then, little by little, Matt got the whole story of Ping's experience.

"You are positive Siwash Charley was one of the men who knocked you down, here at the camp, and carried you into the woods?" asked Matt.

"My savvy Shiwas plenty much," declared Ping.

"I guess there's our proof, gentlemen," said Cameron. "Siwash can't dodge that."

"Hardly," said one of the officers. "If Siwash is caught, he'll be taken care of. What a dastardly piece of work! What made the fellow such an enemy of yours, Matt?"

"He was only a tool in the hands of another," said Matt. "That other man was an enemy of Traquair's, and the fellow didn't want the aëroplane to stand the test she faced to-day. The money Mrs. Traquair is to receive will enable her to pay a mortgage which this other scoundrel holds on a quarter section of land in Wells County."

"And all this double-dealing is about a mortgage on a quarter section of prairie land! It hardly seems possible."

"There is something about that land I don't understand," admitted Matt. "But that's the way the matter stands, anyhow, no matter what is back of the mortgage. The government, I presume," he added, "merely buys the aëroplane? What it pays for the machine isn't a purchase of Traquair's patents?"

"Not at all," went on the officer who had been doing most of the talking. "The government simply buys this aëroplane, called the—er—the June Bug—a name, by the way, which I don't fancy—and the government likewise secures the right to purchase any other aëroplane using the Traquair patents, or to build such machines itself, paying Traquair's heirs at law a royalty."

"That," said Matt, "is liable to make Mrs. Traquair a rich woman."

"Well, hardly, unless the government goes into the aëroplane business rather more extensively than I think. Still, Mrs. Traquair should be assured of a modest competence, say, a hundred thousand dollars, or such a matter."

McGlory reeled on his chair.

"Modest competence!" he gulped. "Sufferin' poorhouses! Why, Mrs. Traquair wouldn't know how to spend a quarter of that money. She——"

"Tillygram, sor," announced O'Hara, again thrusting his head through the tent flap. "It jist came down from th' post an' has th' name av Motor Matt on th' face av ut."

Matt took the envelope and tore it open. His face crimsoned as he read, and he started to put the yellow slip away in his pocket.

But McGlory grabbed it.

"Listen to this once," said he, and read aloud:

"'How can a poor woman thank you for what you have done? You, and you alone, have saved poor Harry Traquair's wife and children from more bitterness and hardship than you will ever realize. God bless you!

Mrs. Traquair.'"

THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (25) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt's Reverse;

OR,

CAUGHT IN A LOSING CAUSE.

Plotters Three—The New Aeroplane—Treachery and Tragedy—Murgatroyd's First Move—A Startling Plan—The Air-line into Trouble—Nothing Doing in Sykestown—Brought to Earth—The Coil Tightens—The Door in the Hillside—A Revelation for Matt—Pecos Takes a Chance—Besieged—The Broker's Game—Cant Phillips, Deserter—The Losing Cause.

NEW YORK, August 7, 1909.

TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

How to Send Money—By post-office or express money-order, registered letter, bank check or draft, at our risk. At your own risk if sent by currency, coin, or postage-stamps in ordinary letter.

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TRICKED BY TWO.

CONCLUSION.

Neatly ensconced under the bed clothes, and with its horrible fleshless head laid in ghastly mockery upon his pillow, was a human skeleton.

For a moment Guy Hereford stared at the hideous object. Then recovering himself with a strong effort, he shouted violently for his boy Rufus.

The negro came into the room, showing a double row of magnificent ivories in a grin that stretched almost from ear to ear.

"What does this mean, Rufe?" demanded Guy angrily, pointing to the skull on his pillow.

"Doan' you get excited, boss," said the nigger, still grinning. "I done dat. I been all day gettin' him. Nebber had such a job in all my bawn days."

"Have you gone clean crazy?" cried Guy in amazed perplexity.

"No, sah. Dat you!" was Rufe's amazing reply. "Doan' you be angry, boss," he went on hurriedly, as Guy stepped suddenly toward him. "I done discovered a splendiferous plan to obfuscate dat dar Deacon, and dat am part ob de invention. I tell you dat am you."

Guy was beyond speech. He could only gaze helplessly at the beaming face of the negro.

Rufus, proud as a peacock, condescended to explain. "It dis way, sah. You going to build a new house soon, ain't you?"

"I was," replied Guy gloomily.

"Dat all right, den. Now, doan' you be down-hearted, sah. Dis niggah bossing dis heah job."

"For Heaven's sake explain, Rufe," exclaimed Guy.

"I goin' to, sah. It dis way. Dis am de time for burning de woods, ain't it?"

Guy nodded. For the life of him he could not imagine what the man was driving at.

"An' grass am good an' long right up to de back ob de garden?"

"Yes."

"Den dis my plan, sah. I set out fire in de woods to-night, set him in ten, twelve places. Dere's a win' blowin' from de west. Ef we doan' touch it de house burn down sure." He paused with an illuminating chuckle.

Light began to dawn on Guy.

"You mean," he said slowly, "that we're to burn down the shanty and make them think that I've burned in it. That skeleton's to be me."

"You done hit de bull's face in once, sah!" cried the negro in high delight. "Dat just de way I figure it out. In de morning dat no-'count Deacon, he come round to see you an' find out if you done got de money for him. Den he find nothin' but de burned-up house an' de burned-up bones."

"'Pon my soul, Rufe, I believe it's workable," exclaimed Guy, a light of hope appearing on his puzzled face.

"In course it am workable, sah. Deacon, he can't get no money from a daid man. Dat one thing mighty sure!"

"But won't he suspect anything?" suggested Guy.

"Not if dis niggah still alive," declared Rufe emphatically. "I tell you, Marse Guy, I goin' to do down dat man proper. He find me hyah, just a-howlin' and a-carryin' on ober dem ole bones, an' I tell him all about how de fire come in out ob de woods an' how it cotch de house, an' how I done try to pull you out. Oh, I fool him 'to eights.'"

Guy couldn't help laughing. Rufe's enjoyment over the prospective humbugging of Deacon was so intense.

"You see, Marse Guy," went on Rufe eagerly, "Deacon he be so glad to think you daid, he never bother to t'ink whether you foolin' him. He next heir, an' all he t'ink be to get de place an' all de t'ings dat belong to you. He nebber go to dat inquisition at all."

"And what's to become of me in the meantime?" asked Guy.

"You got money, ain't you?"

"Yes, luckily I've got twenty dollars or so in the house."

"Well, dat all right. Take de train an' go down to Tampa on de Gulf. Swimmin' in de sea do you a power o' good, boss. I reckon you better take some oder name an' den walk down an' cotch de train at some place furder down de line dan Pine Lake."

After a little more talk Guy and his man settled up all the details. It was agreed that the house should be sacrificed, and that Guy himself should temporarily disappear and go down to Tampa. After the inquest on Blissett, Rufe was to write to him there at the post office and tell him how things turned out.

The worst of it was that Dandy had to be left behind. It would arouse suspicion if the pony were taken away. But Guy, who was anxious above all things that his horse should not fall into Deacon's hands, even for a few days, thought of a way out of the difficulty. He gave Rufe a note for his wages for two months, and told him that on the following day he was to go into Pine Lake and file a lien on the pony for his pay.

Then the two set to work to take Guy's few articles of value out of the shanty and hide them. This they did by rolling them in a big rubber blanket and burying them in the dry, sandy soil in the orange grove.

This took some little time, and it was nearly eleven o'clock when Guy was at last ready to go.

"Now, mind you, Rufe," were his last words to the negro, "don't you overdo it, and don't let Deacon see that you hate him. A little soft sawder won't do any harm."

"Doan' you worry your haid, boss," replied Rufe consolingly. "I reckon I keep up my end agains' Deacon or any of dem folk. To-morrow, after I seen Deacon, I go to Pine Lake an' hear de inquest on Blissett. Den I write an' tell you all dat happen."

Guy nodded. "I shall be desperately anxious to hear the verdict," he said. "If Deacon doesn't give evidence, the worst they're likely to return is manslaughter."

"Doan' you worry, boss," said Rufe confidently. "I reckon it am going to be 'justificational homeyside.' Deacon, he won't give no evidence. He be too busy gettin' ready to move over heah."

"Only hope so," said Guy. "Now, good-by, Rufe. Remember all I've told you."

Master and man shook hands, and Guy, slinging a small bag across his shoulder on a stick, walked away from the shanty which had been his only home for four long years of hard work and happiness, and disappeared into the forest.

He had not gone far before a flickering glow gleamed redly on the serried ranks of tall, straight trunks.

He turned. Half a dozen pin points of fire were visible on the far side of the clearing. They grew rapidly, and presently the night sky was all aglow with leaping tongues of flame.

The soft breeze which soughed through the tops of the pines sent the flames sweeping down upon the little house, which stood a squat, black mass between the watcher and the blaze behind.

Fascinated by the sight, Guy stood motionless, watching the destruction sweep upon his home.

The many little fires joined forces, and Guy could plainly hear the roar and crackle as the tall, dry grass burst into hissing sparks. There was little chance of any one interfering to save the house. Now that Blissett was dead Guy had no neighbor within a mile, and in the spring of the year fires are too frequent in the Florida woods for any one to pay attention. The cattlemen are always busy burning off the old grass to get fresh pasture for their herds.

Now the whole sky was alight, and the blaze illuminated the sleeping woods far and near. Red-hot sparks were falling like rain upon the shingle roof of the cabin.

Another minute, and little streaks of red fire were winding like snakes about the eaves.

"She's going," muttered Guy sorrowfully.

Yes, once the fire got hold of the sun-dried pine of which the house was built the flames rushed up in great leaping columns. The place burned like a tar barrel, and the glow became so intense that Guy shrank away further into the woods for fear of being observed by any one who might possibly have been attracted by the blaze.

Still he could not tear himself away from the sight of the destruction of his old home. Sheltering behind a huge pine trunk, he watched till, with a loud crash and a hurricane of sparks, the roof fell in, and of the shanty no more remained than a shapeless pile.

With a deep sigh Guy Hereford turned away, and never stopped until at four o'clock in the morning he boarded the south-bound mail train at the small wayside station of Kissochee.

"Any letter for George Hatfield?"

The smart clerk took up a bundle of letters, ran them rapidly through, and flung them down. "Nope!"

Guy Hereford's face fell.

"Quite sure?" he asked.

The clerk glared.

"What do you think?" he asked sharply, and the other turned slowly away.

"What's happened?" he thought uneasily. "Why hasn't Rufe written?"

He was hardly outside the post office before a bare-legged nigger boy thrust a paper in his face. "Here y'are, boss. Tampa Sentinel! All de details ob de horrific tragedy up in Orange County."

Guy grabbed a paper, shoved a quarter into the astonished youngster's hand, and, without waiting for change, was off like a shot.

He reached his room in the boarding house where he had put up, and tore the paper open.

Yes, here it was—a whole column!

"Strange double tragedy near Pine Lake! Well-known cattleman killed. His nearest neighbor burned to death. Two inquests in one day."

So much for the headlines.

Guy gave a deep sigh of relief. "Nothing about murder, anyhow," he muttered.

Then he began to read rapidly. Slowly his expression of anxiety changed to relief, and then to amusement. Finally he burst into a fit of laughter.

"Fine! Dandy!" he cried. "My good Oliver, you are a peach, and no mistake. This is the absolute limit." And dropping the paper he lay back in his chair and laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

"Dat am too bad, Marse Guy. I nebber t'ink you heah it all from dat fool newspaper."

The deep voice made Guy fairly jump. Springing to his feet he swung round, and there was Rufe, dressed in his best Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes, and with an expression of deep annoyance on his ebony face.

"You Rufe?"

"Yes, sah. I come down all de way by de train to tell you de news, an' now dat blame paper done tole you de whole t'ing."

"Not a bit of it, Rufe. It hasn't told me half. If you hadn't turned up I should have taken the next train back to see you and find out just what has happened. Tell me, is Deacon in possession?"

Rufe, somewhat mollified, grinned. "Yes, boss, he dar right enough. He camping in de stable."

"Hasn't got Dandy, I hope?" put in Guy anxiously.

"No, sah. Dandy in de libery stable at Pine Lake."

"That's all right. Now go on. Tell me what happened. Did he come over yesterday morning?"

"Yes, sah; he come ober about ten. An' you ought to hab seen his face when he foun' de house burned!"

"He asked for me, I suppose?"

"Yes, he done ask for you at once, an' I show him de bones, an' tell him you all burned up. Fust he look flabbergasted, den he sort o' chuckle, and I feel like whanging him one ober de haid."

"What happened then?"

"He act like he think he boss an' I his niggah. He tell me go get a wagon an' carry de bones into Pine Lake. Say it sabe trouble hab one inquisition 'stead ob two. I act meek, an go borrow a spring wagon an' hitch Dandy up, an' we take de bones in, an' he tell de sheriff. I t'ink dat sheriff kind ob like you, Marse Guy. He mighty worried. Den he say; 'Quite right. Hab one inquisition on bofe de bodies.'"

"Did you go, Rufe?"

"You bet I go, boss. Firs' dey hab Blissett's body. All dem cracker chaps look at de haid, an' Deacon he gib evidence an say he seen it all. He say dat Blissett done tried to shoot you, and you didn't hab no pistol, but you was real brave an' ride hard at him, an' knock him off de hawse, an' de hawse kick him an' run away into de woods."

Rufe stopped to chuckle at the remembrance. Guy laughed too. He quite understood Deacon's motive.

His cousin wanted to pose in a good light before the jury, so that there could be no chance of suspicion falling on him that he was implicated in his—Guy's—death.

"Den de sheriff he get up an' say dat you was a very nice gen'elman," went on Rufe, "an' dat Mistah Deacon's evidence was very straight, an' dat dere was only one verdict for dem to give, an' dat he left de matter in dere hands.

"So dey just talk a bit among demselves, an' den de foreman, old Abe Mizell, he get up and say dat dey was all agreed dat Harvey Blissett was killed 'cause his skull not so hard as de heel ob his hawse.

"Den dey hab de bones in, an' I gib evidence." Rufe swelled with pride.

"What did you say, Rufe?"

"Dey ask me if I could 'dentify dem dere bones. I say I reckon dey mus' be you's, 'cause I find 'em in among de cinders ob your bed. I couldn't sw'ar, I tole 'em, because I warn't dar when it happens. I tell 'em I coming home from courting my gal, an' see de fire an' run; but t'ain't no good. I too late. All burned up before I get dar. Anyhow, I ain't seed you since."

"So they gave it accidental death?"

"Yes, sah. Dat's what dey said, and said dey was sorry, 'cause you was a promising young gen'elman."

"And what did Deacon do?" anxiously inquired Guy.

"He go round to de record office to get your land put in his name," chuckled Rufe. "Den I see him ride out on a libery stable hawse."

Guy roared.

"I reckon it going to be de wors' shock he ebber get in his life when you rides up to de ole place," remarked Rufe presently.

"I rather expect it will," replied Guy feebly, wiping his eyes. "Come on, Rufe. There's a train back at twelve-thirty. Just time for dinner, and then the sooner we're home again the better."

Guy's first task, when he arrived at Pine Lake, was to call on Anderson the sheriff.

Anderson, who was fat and fifty, went positively purple at sight of the man upon whom he had held an inquest!

Guy told him the whole story, all about the quarrel between himself and Blissett, about Deacon's threats and Rufe's plan. The only thing he did not mention was the fact that Deacon had stolen and sold Blissett's horse.

Anderson listened first in amazement, then with amusement, and finally went off into a fit of laughter.

"That Rufe's a wonder," he said. "I didn't reckon there was a nigger in Florida with that much sense. But, look here, young fellow, you've been taking mighty big liberties with the law. According to law you're dead, and buried, too. What d'ye reckon we're going to do about that?"

"Don't know, I'm sure, Mr. Anderson. That's what I came to you about," replied Guy coolly.

"Reckoned I could fix it for you, eh?" There was a sly twinkle in old Anderson's eyes. "I guess I'll have to try. But, say, don't you go wasting time in here. Ef that thar cousin o' yours hears as you ain't as dead as he hed supposed, chances are he'll be getting his gun."

"All right, sheriff," said Guy. "I'll get along. I am under obligations to you about the business. I'm afraid it's given you a lot of bother."

"I ain't kicking," said Anderson dryly. "The State pays my fees for an inquest. Good-by."

Ten minutes later Guy and Rufe were in a hired buggy, with Dandy in the shafts, spinning lightly homeward over the sandy roads.

It was dusk when they reached the gate.