THE TRAILING ROPE.

Motor Matt could not look behind and take note of how events were progressing on the hill. He could only hope that McGlory would carry out the rest of his plan without any setbacks, and that he and Ping would get safely away from the foiled cattlemen.

The ease with which the boys had played upon the ignorance and credulity of the high-handed cowpunchers, would have been laughable could the young motorist have known how successfully the rest of McGlory's plot was to be carried out. As the matter stood, Matt was worrying too much to enjoy the situation.

He carried away a memento of the recent trouble in the shape of the trailing rope. The forty-foot line hung downward, swinging to right and left and giving frightful pitches to the Comet in spite of Matt's manipulation of the wing ends.

Bending down, he tried with one hand to untie the riata and rid the machine of its weight, but the knot had been drawn too tight by the pulling of Spearman and Slim. As a compromise, Matt pulled the rope in and dropped it in the seats recently occupied by McGlory and Ping.

Now for the mouth of Burnt Creek, and the carrying out of the purpose that had brought Matt into that section. The mystery connected with the "George Hobbes" the cowboys were looking for, and the success or failure of McGlory and Ping in their final clash with the Tin Cup men, the king of the motor boys put resolutely from his mind. He was now to look for Newt Prebbles and advance the spark of friendship in behalf of the poor old man at Fort Totten.

Matt conceived that the easiest way to reach the mouth of Burnt Creek was to hover over the stream and follow it to its junction with the Missouri. This manoeuvre he at once put into operation.

The creek was as crooked as could well be imagined, and twisted and writhed among the coteaus, carrying with it, on either bank, a scant growth of cottonwoods. Matt cut off the corners, flying high enough to clear the tops of the neighboring hills, and soon had the broad stretch of the Upper Missouri in plain view ahead of him.

In a clump of cottonwoods, near the mouth of the creek, was a small shack. Matt's view of the shanty was not good, on account of the trees, and he could not tell whether or not there was any one about the place.

He was just looking for a spot, on the river bank, where he could make a comfortable landing, when he was startled by discovering a skiff.

The skiff was in the river, well off the mouth of the creek, and was heading for the western bank of the Missouri. There was one man in the boat, and he was using his oars frantically, watching the Comet as he rowed.

"That may be George Hobbes," thought Matt, "and it may be Newt Prebbles. In any event the fellow, whoever he is, thinks I'm pursuing him. I'll drop lower and give him a hail."

As the Comet settled downward over the surface of the river, the man in the skiff redoubled his efforts with the oars. He seemed to be seized with an unreasoning panic.

"Hello, below there!" shouted Matt.

To slow the aËroplane too much would mean a drop into the water, for a certain rate of flight was necessary in order to keep the machine aloft.

As Matt called, he passed on beyond the boat, described a turn over the middle of the river, and came back toward the eastern bank.

The man made no response.

"Are you Newt Prebbles?" yelled Matt.

The other shouted something, in an angry tone, the exact import of which the young motorist could not catch. Taking his right hand from the oar, the man jerked a revolver from his belt.

"Don't shoot!" cried Matt. "I'm a friend of yours."

The last word was snipped off in the incisive crack of the weapon. The bit of lead zipped past Matt's head and bored a hole through the upper wing of the air ship.

"Stop that!" called Matt sternly, pointing the aËroplane higher and turning again when over the eastern bank.

Whatever he did, he realized that he must not expose the motor and propeller to a stray bullet.

But no more shots were fired.

Matt wondered at this until he had faced the machine about and was able to observe what was going on below.

The man in the skiff had lost an oar. In releasing his hand to use the revolver, the oar had slipped from the rowlock into the water.

A frantic effort was being made by the man to recover the oar; and so wild and inconsidered was the attempt that the skiff went over, throwing its occupant into the river.

"Help!" came the cry, as the man, thrashing and floundering, bobbed to the surface of the river between the overturned boat and the oar.

It was evident, at a glance, that he could not swim, or that he could swim so little the mere weight of his clothes was enough to drag him under.

"Keep your nerve!" cried Matt encouragingly. "I'll help you in a minute."

The Comet was well to the westward of the man. Matt turned her sharply, at the same time bringing her as close to the water as he dared. Then, with one hand on the lever controlling the wing tips, with the other he reached for the rope on the seat beside him.

Laying a course to pass directly over the man, Matt leaned forward and flung the riata downward. The sinuous coils straightened out as the rope descended, the lower end swishing through the water.

"Catch the rope and hold fast!" cried Motor Matt, as the aËroplane skimmed over the surface of the river.

There would be a jolt when the Comet took up the slack in the riata, providing the man were successful in laying hold of the line. Would the jolt disengage the man's hands, or have any serious effect on the Comet?

By that time the aËroplane was so far beyond the man that Matt could not see what he was doing. Holding his breath, the king of the motor boys braced himself and waited.

In perhaps a second the Comet reeled and shivered as though under a blow. Quickly Matt turned full speed into the propeller, and the machine steadied itself and began to tug at the weight underneath and behind.

Then, slowly, the aËroplane mounted upward. At a height of fifty feet, Matt could look down and see a dripping form, swaying and gyrating at the end of the riata.

"Can you hang on?" called Matt.

"Yes," was the response from below, "if you don't want me to hang on too long."

"No more than a minute. By that time I'll have you ashore."

The heavy weight, swinging under the machine like a pendulum, made the aËroplane exceedingly difficult to manage. In the early stages of aËroplane flying, equilibrium had only been kept by swinging weights, and it had remained for the Wrights to discover that bending the wing tips upward or downward kept an aËroplane's poise much better than any shifting weight could do; and to Harry Traquair had fallen the honor of inventing sliding extensions, whereby either wing area could be increased or contracted in the space of a breadth.

Now that the Comet had both a shifting weight and wing manipulations to keep her steady, she was not steady at all—one balance seeming to counteract the other. In spite of the terrific dipping and plunging, however, Matt succeeded in getting to the shore.

The moment the man on the rope found himself over solid ground, he let go his hold and dropped five or six feet to the bank.

Instantly the Comet came fairly well under control again, and would have been entirely so but for the weight of the rope.

Matt selected a cleared spot in which to alight, shut off the power, and glided to the earth easily and safely.

Stepping out of the aËroplane, he hurried to the spot where the rescued man was lying.

"How are you?" asked Matt, kneeling beside him.

"I'm about fagged," he answered. "There's a cabin, about a rod up the creek on this side. Go there and get the bottle of whisky you'll find on the table. A pull at that bottle will put some ginger into me."

"You don't need that kind of ginger," replied Matt. "I'll help you to the cabin, and when we get there you can get into some dry clothes. That will do you more good than all the fire-water that ever came out of a still."

The man hoisted up on one elbow and peered at Matt with weak curiosity.

"That's your brand, is it?" he asked, with as much contempt as he was able to put into the words.

"Well, yes," replied Matt. "It's my brand, and you'd be a heap better off if it was yours."

He had been scrutinizing the man closely. He now saw that he was young, that he had blue eyes, and that he was wearing cowboy clothes. His hat, of course, was in the river.

"Who are you?" the young fellow asked.

"I'll tell you later," was the indefinite reply.

"How did you happen to be around here in that flying machine?" went on the other suspiciously.

"You'll find that out, too, at the proper time."

"If you're from the Tin Cup Ranch——"

"I'm not, so make your mind easy on that. But I know you. You're George Hobbes, and you robbed the cowboys at the Tin Cup Ranch in a game of cards, last night. You——"

With a fierce exclamation, the youth sat up, and his right hand darted toward his hip.

"You're not going to do any shooting," said Matt. "Your gun's in the river, and you'd have been there, too, but for me. What sort of way is that to act toward the man who saved you from drowning?"