CHAPTER X.

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A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

Small, and seemingly trifling, events sometimes pave the way for vital undertakings. The performance on the coteau, in which the Tin Cup men had so prominently figured, had left the Comet equipped with a forty-foot riata. On the flight to the Missouri Matt had tried to untie the rope and drop it from the machine. In this he had failed—a very fortunate circumstance for the dripping young man on the bank. But for that trailing rope, Matt would never have been able to effect a rescue.

"It may be," said the young man, "that you have only pulled me out of the river to give me into the hands of the Tin Cup outfit."

"I have already told you," returned Matt, "that I have nothing to do with the Tin Cup outfit."

"Why were you chasing me in that air ship, then?"

"I wasn't chasing you. You had a guilty conscience, and if a man had been coming this way on an elephant you would have thought he was after you."

The other was silent for a space, surveying Matt furtively and, apparently, trying to guess his business.

"You knew about that work in the Tin Cup bunk house, last night," said he tentatively.

"I heard of it from a party who are out looking for George Hobbes. That is your name, is it?"

"That's the way I was billed during that performance at the bunk house."

"What are you, by profession—a cowboy or a gambler?"

"Cowboy."

Matt glanced at the young fellow's hands. They looked more like a gambler's hands than a cowboy's. And yet, skillful though he must have been with the cards, Hobbes had not the appearance of a gambler.

"Do you live here?" Matt went on.

"Yes," was the answer. "I told you, a moment ago, where my shack was."

"Then you're not doing much in the cattle line if you hang out in this deserted spot."

Hobbes gave a grunt and got up.

"What are you trying to pry into my business affairs for?" he asked surlily. "Do you think saving my life gives you a right to do that?"

"Well," fenced Matt, "that depends. You don't talk like any cowboy I ever heard—your English is too good."

"There are a lot of punchers who use better English than I do."

"Possibly," answered Matt. "I haven't been in the cattle country very much. What was the amount of money you stole from the Tin Cup outfit?"

A flush of color ran into Hobbes' tanned face.

"I didn't steal their money," he cried angrily. "I played cards for it."

"You didn't play a square game. They found the pack you used, this morning, and there were extra aces, and the backs were printed in such a way that you could tell what cards your opponents held."

"What of that?" was the scoffing response. "They didn't find me out. They had the right to beat me at my own game—if they could."

"I'm not here to preach," said Matt, "but you've got yourself into a pretty bad mix. I'm willing to help you out if you'll send back the money."

"I'll not send back a soo," was the answer, "and you've got your nerve along to bat such a proposition up to me. Who asked for your help? I didn't."

Hobbes turned away in a huff and started for the creek, his wet clothes slapping about him as he walked.

"Just a minute, Hobbes," called Matt, "and I'll go with you. I want to rope this flying machine to a couple of trees, so that it won't be blown into the river if a wind should happen to come up."

Hobbes was very wet, very tired, and very sulky, but he could hardly refuse such a trifling request. With the rope that had saved his life, he helped Matt secure the Comet.

"Do you know any one, in these parts, by the name of Newt Prebbles?" Matt inquired, while they were moving toward the shack.

"You used that name while I was in the skiff," said Hobbes, "I remember, now. What's your business with Newt Prebbles?"

"I'll tell him that when I see him. It's important. Do you know the man?"

"Yes, I know him. He's a pal of mine and lives with me in the shack."

"Is he there, now?" asked Matt eagerly.

"No."

"When will he be back?"

"That's hard to tell. He won't come back at all if you don't tell me what your business is with him."

"Why so?"

"I'll warn him away. You've found out a lot about me, but how much have you told me about yourself? Not a thing. I haven't a notion who you are, and I'm blamed if I like mysteries."

They were close to the cluster of cottonwoods and the shack, and Matt fell silent. The house, as the king of the motor boys could see, now that he was close to it, was built of sod, and had a roof of grass thatched over cottonwood poles. It was in a fairly good state of repair and had evidently been occupied for some time.

The door stood open, and Hobbes stepped to one side to let Matt enter first. It looked like a mere act of courtesy, and may have been no more than that; but, in view of what immediately happened, Matt would have been entitled to suspicions.

Believing the shack to be empty, Matt crossed the threshold. He was instantly seized by some one who threw himself from behind the open door.

With a startled cry, the young motorist twisted around in the strong arms that held him and caught a look at the man's face.

It was Murgatroyd!

Another moment and all the fight in Matt's nature flew to the surface. Putting forth all his strength, he kicked and struggled until he had freed himself of the broker's grip.

He was no sooner clear of Murgatroyd, however, when Hobbes set upon him. Hobbes had not yet recovered his strength, and Matt would have made short work of him had not the broker come savagely to his aid. Between them Matt was forced to the clay floor of the house and lashed with a rope in such a manner that he was powerless to move.

Murgatroyd, panting from his exertions, lifted himself erect and gave the prisoner a vengeful kick.

"Wasn't expecting to find me here, eh?" he asked. "You've led me a pretty chase, Motor Matt, but here we are at the end of the trail, and I've got the upper hand."

Somehow Matt had fallen under the impression that the police of Bismarck would take care of Murgatroyd; hence, he had left the broker out of his calculations, and this meeting with him in that sod shack was like lightning out of a clear sky.

"You know this fellow, then?" said Hobbes.

"I know him too well, and that's the trouble. He's meddled with my affairs until they're in a pretty tangle, and I'll have all I can do to straighten them out again. I wasn't expecting a chance like this," and a jubilant note entered the broker's voice. "How did he happen to come here, Newt?"

"That's too many for me, Murg. He was in a flying machine. I saw him coming, and thought he was on my track for a little game that was pulled off at the Tin Cup Ranch, last night. In my hurry to get across the river I lost an oar, and in my hurry to get the oar I overturned the boat. I can't swim much, and with all my clothes on I'd have gone to the bottom if he hadn't snatched me ashore."

Motor Matt was not much surprised to hear Murgatroyd call the supposed Hobbes "Newt." The young motorist's mind had been working around to that view of the young fellow's identity. He was Newt Prebbles, and was on friendly terms with the master scoundrel, Murgatroyd.

The broker seated himself in a chair, and did not seem particularly well pleased with the news Prebbles had just given him. Perhaps, for his peace of mind, he was wishing that Matt had not rescued Newt, and it may be he resented the "hold" this rescue gave Matt on Newt's gratitude—providing Newt harbored such a sentiment, which seemed doubtful.

Newt began changing his clothes. Before he began, he took a bottle from the table and poured himself a drink of its fiery contents.

"When did you get here, Murg?" he demanded, as he got into his clothes.

"It must have been while you were having that trouble on the river. I didn't see anything of the flying machine, and I didn't hear anything of the fracas. Feeling sure you'd be back soon, I hitched my horse among the cottonwoods and came in here to wait. I heard you and Motor Matt talking as you walked this way, and I had to rub my eyes in order to make sure it was really Motor Matt who was coming. Jove, but this is a stroke of luck!"

"You'll have to tell me about that, for it's mighty dark to me. You got my letter all right?"

"Naturally, or I shouldn't be here. The letter arrived in Bismarck yesterday forenoon, and I pulled out of the town at once. Stayed last night with a farmer, more to make certain I wasn't followed than anything else." Murgatroyd scowled. "This being a fugitive," he finished, "gets on a man's nerves."

Newt laughed grimly.

"Did you bring the money?" he demanded.

"Don't talk about that here," and the broker flashed a significant glance at Matt.

"All right," agreed Newt. "Suppose we let this Motor Matt, as you call him, go free? We don't want him around, anyhow."

"Go free?" cried Murgatroyd. "I'll catch myself doing that! I owe him something," and here a demoniacal look crept into the broker's eyes, "and I guess, as my old friend Siwash used to say, I'll take advantage of this opportunity and 'saw off' with him."

This threat, however, did not make Matt feel at all uncomfortable. He had in his hands the material necessary to play off one of these men against the other. Out of this might come a good deal of benefit to himself, and much good for Newt Prebbles. In case he did not succeed in this plan, there was McGlory and Ping yet to be heard from. If they had safely escaped the Tin Cup men, it would not be long before they gained the mouth of Burnt Creek and played their part in events to come.

Just then Matt felt like congratulating himself on having been made a prisoner. Such a position gave him the advantage of being impartial in the hostility he was about to incite between his captors.


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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