THE TRAIL TO THE RIVER.

Joe McGlory and Ping were in a fine good humor. They had left the horses and rifles for the Tin Cup men and, from the top of a distant hill, they had watched the party recover the live stock and the guns. Then, laughing and congratulating themselves, the boys had ducked in among the cottonwoods of the creek bottom and started along the trail to the river.

"Plenty fine," chattered Ping. "By Klismus, my gettee heap fun this tlip. Woosh!"

"We played 'em to a fare-you-well," laughed McGlory, pausing to extend his hand to Ping. "Shake, my little heathen brother! You're the finest bit of the Yellow Peril that ever landed in the U. S. You've got a head on you, you have. Why, you savvied right off what I wanted you to do with those guns, and I didn't have to say a word."

"My savvy look you makee all same eye," chuckled Ping. "Top-side pidgin! One piecee fine bizness."

Then, abruptly, Ping had a swift, paralyzing thought.

"Mebbyso Melican men makee chase fo' McGloly and Ping, huh?" he cried. "Plaps we lun, ketchee Matt, no lettee Melican men ketchee us?"

"Oh, shucks, Ping!" exclaimed McGlory disgustedly. "When you forget yourself, now and then, and do a particularly bright thing, you spoil it all by some break of that sort. Those punchers don't know where we're going! And what sort of a trail are we leaving?" The cowboy turned and looked back over the ground they had covered. "All buffalo grass," he finished, "and the Tin Cup outfit couldn't run us down in a thousand years."

But Ping's fears persisted, in spite of McGlory's attempt to smother them.

"My no likee," he quavered, pausing again and again to look back as they traveled. "Mebbyso they ketchee, they takee scalp. My no likee. Losee pigtail, no go back to China ally mo'."

"Well, well, don't blubber about it!" exclaimed McGlory. "You'll keep the pigtail, all right, though what in Sam Hill it's good for is more than I know. Buck up, step high, wide, and handsome, and don't lose so much time looking around. Just stow it away in your mind, Ping, that every step on the trail to the river brings us that much closer to Pard Matt."

McGlory took the lead and set a brisk pace.

"Didn't Matt get away in great shape?" he called out, as he strode along. "And that rope Spearman tied to the machine didn't amount to a row of dobies."

"Cloud Joss heap fine fo' tlavel," remarked Ping. "Feet tlavel plenty tough fo' China boy."

"I guess the circus we pulled off, back there on that hill, was worth the price, Ping. Don't grumble. There was something doing, and you and I answered to roll-call during the height of the agitation. Little Chop Suey and your Uncle Joe had something to say and do every minute the curtain was up. Oh, shucks! I'm tickled to death with myself. I'll be plumb contented, now, if nothing happens to me for the next fifteen minutes. Wonder how Matt's getting along, advancing that spark? Something gives me a hunch and whispers in my ear that he's having his hands full. Put your best foot forward, Ping, and let's see how quick we can get to where we're going."

"No gottee best foot," complained Ping. "Both feets allee same bum. Cleek makee bend, makee bend, makee bend; heap walkee to go li'l way."

"That's right," agreed McGlory. "Sufferin' serpents, how the creek twists! Suppose we climb to the top of this hill on the right and see if we can't work a cut-off on the pesky stream."

"Awri'," agreed Ping, and followed McGlory to the top of the hill.

From the crest they had an extensive view in every direction; in fact, it was almost too extensive, for behind them they glimpsed the Tin Cup men, racing back and forth over the uplifts, scattered widely and hunting for "signs."

McGlory muttered to himself and slipped off the top of the hill like a shot. Ping gasped as he followed.

"They ketchee China boy," he wailed, "him losee pigtail."

"Oh, hush about that," growled McGlory. "Do you know where we was lame, Ping?"

"My plenty lame in feet," said Ping.

"I mean, where we made a hobble. It was by not keeping two of those horses and using them to take us to the mouth of Burnt Creek."

"Woosh! We ketchee Matt now, Melican men follow tlail, ketchee Matt, too. Motol Matt go top-side, we all go top-side. Plenty bad pidgin."

"If they're really following us, which I don't think," remarked McGlory, "we'll fool 'em."

"No fool 'em twice."

"You watch. We'll take the longest way to the river and get that bunch away from the creek."

Ping groaned at the thought of more walking. He could have stood the journey better if he had not been compelled to hang onto his grass sandals with his toes.

McGlory scuttled off between the coteaus, and every once in a while he would climb to the top of a hill to reconnoiter along the back track. Finally, to his great satisfaction, he lost sight of the Tin Cup men.

"That means," said he, when he reported the fact to Ping, "that we're free, once more, to get to the mouth of Burnt Creek as soon as we can."

From that on there was little talking. The boys needed their breath for the work before them. As before, McGlory led the way and Ping hopped and scuffled along behind him.

An occasional hill was scaled to get the bearings of the creek and watch out for the river. McGlory gave a shout of joy when he finally saw the broad ribbon of muddy water in the distance ahead.

"We're close to where we're bound for, Ping," he said cheerily. "We've been two or three hours on the hike, but you trail along and I'll land you at the junction of the creek and the river in less than twenty minutes. Whoop-ya! I'm guessing about Matt. Has it been make or break with him? And how has the spark worked? I'm all stirred up with the notion that he's having a time. Ever get a hunch like that and not be able to explain how you got it?"

"No savvy hunch," groaned Ping. "Let's findee place to makee sit in shade. Heap tired."

"We'll sit in the shade and rest and enjoy ourselves after we find Matt. Keep a-moving, Ping, keep a-moving."

A pass between two hills brought them out into the creek bottom again. The sun was getting low in the west, but it was still uncomfortably warm, and the shade of the cottonwood trees was refreshing. Ping tottered along with his eyes on McGlory's heels. Suddenly the cowboy stopped and whirled around.

"Look!" he murmured, pointing.

The Chinaman swerved his weary eyes in the direction indicated and saw the sod shack.

"Hoop-a-la!" he exclaimed.

"I hear voices in there," whispered McGlory, "and I'll bet Pard Matt's busy laying down the law to Newt Prebbles. Let's not interrupt, but slip carefully up to the door and get the lay of the land before we butt in."

Ping was for getting to a place of comfort and refreshment in the shortest possible time; but, as usual, he deferred to the superior wisdom of the cowboy.

Silently they stole toward the open door of the hut. Through the opening there came to them the sound of a voice. It was a strange voice, and the words were not distinguishable.

While they were still some distance from the door, the voice was blotted out by the impact of a blow; and immediately there came a crash as of something being overturned.

McGlory was no longer anxious to "get the lay of the land" before butting into Matt's argument with Newt Prebbles. In an instant he jumped for the door and stood peering into the hut.

The scene before him was difficult to comprehend. A chair had been overturned, and there was a form—no, two forms—lying on the floor beside it. Then, too, there was some one else, a man, bending over one of the forms.

The dark interior of the shack was not favorable to a clear survey of the scene by eyes but recently turned from the glaring sunshine.

McGlory, however, caught one detail of the picture that wrenched a sharp cry from his lips.

"Murgatroyd!" he shouted.

The bent form lifted itself with catlike quickness, Crack! The sharp note of a revolver rattled through the narrow room, followed by a warning shout in a well-known voice:

"Look out, Joe! It's Murgatroyd, and he's in a killing mood!"

Matt was in the room, bound and helpless. That was the next detail that flashed before the eyes of McGlory.

Murgatroyd's shot had missed. Mad with rage, he was making ready to fire again.

Blindly, desperately, the cowboy flung himself across the room. Pard Matt was there, and in danger. Think of himself, McGlory would not.

The demons in the broker's eyes glowered murderously along the sights of the leveled weapon. It seemed as though nothing could save the cowboy.

At just that moment, however, a window behind the broker crashed inward. A stone, hurled by Ping with all his force, had shattered the glass, plunged across the gap, and struck Murgatroyd's arm.

The arm dropped as though paralyzed, and the broker staggered sideways with a cry of pain. McGlory sprang upon him, and the two were struggling fiercely when Ping raced into the room and took a hand in the battle.

Murgatroyd, with only one hand, was no match for his wiry young antagonists.

As Newt and Murgatroyd had overpowered Matt, so the cowboy and the Chinaman wrestled and secured the advantage of Murgatroyd.

One of the forms on the floor slowly lifted itself and became busy with the cords around Matt's wrists.

"I can do the rest, Newt," said Matt, sitting up and freeing his ankles.

A few moments more and the tables had been completely turned. Murgatroyd was now the prisoner, and the king of the motor boys and his friends were in command of the situation.