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 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
which put up the bars between Murgatroyd and me. That last thump
on the head, of course, topped off the whole affair. Murgatroyd was
crazy mad, that's all. He hit me with something harder than his bare
knuckles. Was it the handle of his revolver?"
"Maybe it was this," and McGlory leaned forward and picked a pair of
brass knuckle dusters off the clay floor.
"That's what he used," declared Prebbles.
"I have always feared," said Matt, "that our dealings with
Murgatroyd would end in some violent work, like this. And it was all
for a hundred and sixty acres of coal land, which would have netted
Murgatroyd only a few thousand dollars, at the most!"
The broker's anger had vanished with his capture, and left him
miserable in spirit; but, even now, while his fortunes were at lowest
ebb, his crafty mind led him to think of some way out of his troubles.
"You've got me," said he, with a bitter laugh. "I didn't think you lads
could do it, but you've turned the trick. Are you any better off?"
"Speak to me about that!" muttered McGlory. "Matt's a heap better
off. I don't know what you were going to do, when Ping and I
showed up, but I'm feeling a whole lot easier to have this matter
just as it is."
"So am I better off," put in Newt Prebbles. "I've led a hard life, and
I've been a hard man, but I'm the only one to blame for that. And I
know this: Association with Amos Murgatroyd, for any length of
time, is an excellent passport to the penitentiary."
"That's right, Newt," said the broker scathingly. "You know on which
side your bread is buttered. Get on the side of the winning team, by
all means. But I wasn't talking to you or McGlory, but to Motor Matt."
His voice changed to a pleading tone.
"I'm wrecked, Motor Matt," he went on, "if you turn me over to the
authorities. There's nothing in my past life that's so very criminal. Of
course, knowing what I did about the Traquair homestead, I was
anxious to get hold of it. But that's out of my power, now. You've
been put to a good deal of inconvenience, but I'll make that all up to
you in dollars and cents if you'll take these ropes off me and let me
clear out."
"You say," said Matt, "that there's nothing in your past that is so very
criminal. If that's so, why are you afraid to face the music? Why do
you want to shirk the consequences?"
"Even a short term of imprisonment will ruin my loan business,"
answered Murgatroyd. "I have built that business up very carefully,
and I hate to see it go to smash. I tell you what I'll do. If you'll
release me, I'll wipe out that mortgage of one thousand dollars
which I hold on the Traquair homestead, and I'll give you and your
friends a thousand apiece, all around. What do you say?"
"I'm sorry for you, Murgatroyd," said Matt, "but I haven't any
authority to set you free, even if I was inclined that way. It's the
government that wants you; and the government wants you so
much that a price has been placed on your head. You've danced,
and now you've got to pay the fiddler."
"He says he hasn't done anything so very criminal," remarked Newt
Prebbles, as he tied a handkerchief around his head. "I'd like to
know what he calls criminal."
"Well," sneered the broker, "I haven't been bribed for keeping what I
know away from the authorities."
"As I was bribed," retorted Newt hotly, "with money my own father
paid you for forged duebills!"
Murgatroyd laughed, and it was the laugh of a wretch utterly devoid
of conscience.
"That was rather a neat play of mine," said he. "But you haven't
given me your answer yet, Motor Matt."
"Yes, I have," said Matt. "You're going to Fort Totten."
"And so am I," put in Newt Prebbles, "just as quick as I can get
there. I'll take Murgatroyd's horse and ride to Bismarck. There's a
night train I can catch for Jamestown, and I ought to be at the post
some time before noon, to-morrow."
"You can't get there any too quick," observed McGlory caustically.
He had no liking for Newt Prebbles. A man who would do what Newt
Prebbles had done could never stand very high in the cowboy's
estimation.
"You'd better watch that fellow, Motor Matt," called Murgatroyd.
"He'll not go to the post, but will clear out for parts unknown."
"He'll go to the post, I'm sure of it," said Matt.
"I will," declared Newt. "My father and I never agreed very well, but
I guess that was my fault, too. When you leave here, Motor Matt,
just lock the door and bring the key. I don't know whether I'll ever
come back to this shack or not—I don't think I will, as I feel now—
but it will be well for me to have the key. Good-by."
He stepped toward the king of the motor boys and extended his
hand.
"Haven't you forgotten something, Newt?" inquired Matt.
Prebbles gave him a blank look. The next moment he understood
what Matt had reference to, and pulled a jingling bag from his
pocket and tossed it upon the table.
"That's the whole of it," he said. "You'll see that it is returned?"
Matt nodded.
"That means that I'll have to walk to Totten, or ride Murgatroyd's
horse," Prebbles added, as he moved toward the door.
Matt was about to lend him the money for his railroad ticket, when a
form darkened the door and stepped into the room.
"Goin' somewheres?" queried a voice. "Well, I wouldn't, George—not
jest yet."
It was Jed Spearman. Behind him came Slim, and back of Slim
trailed the cowboy who had been referred to as "Hen."
Matt, greatly alarmed, sprang up and stepped forward.
"Don't lay a hand on that man, Spearman," said Matt. "His father is
sick at Fort Totten, and he's got to go there in a hurry."
"Oh, ho!" guffawed the foreman. "If here ain't Motor Matt, who was
flyin' this way on gov'ment bizness! An' the chink that run off with
the guns, an' t'other chap as lit out with our live stock. Waal, now,
ain't this here a pleasin' surprise—fer us? Don't git vi'lent, any o' ye.
Three o' us is in here, and thar's three more watchin' on the outside.
I reckon the boot's on the other leg, this deal, hey, Slim?"
"I reckon," agreed Slim. "This is a whole lot funnier than that other
game, over on the coteau."
"Don't ye ask us ter put down our guns an' do no more pushin',"
said Spearman. "Ye kain't work that joke on us twicet, hand-runnin'.
We've cut our eyeteeth, we hev. Got any weppins among ye?"
Newt Prebbles, glaring at the Tin Cup men, had backed into a
corner. He had his eye on the broken window, and Spearman
observed his intention.
"Don't ye never try that, George," he grinned. "Ye'd be riddled like a
salt shaker afore ye'd hit the ground."
"Spearman," said Matt, "you don't understand this matter. If you did
——"
"Thar was some parts o' it I didn't onderstand none too well, back
thar on the hill, a few hours ago. But ye heered me say we'd cut our
eyeteeth, didn't ye? I meant jest that."
"I came here on government duty, just as I said," went on Matt,
"and if you interfere with me in any way, you'll regret it."
"Will I? Waal, life is plumb full o' sorrers an' regrets. Who's the gent
on the floor?"
"I'm a helpless victim of these young scoundrels," said Murgatroyd
plaintively. "Release me, gentlemen, and do an act of simple justice!"
"His name is Murgatroyd," corrected Matt, "and the government has
offered a reward of a thousand dollars for his capture."
"That's your story fer it, young man. I ain't takin' your word fer
nothin'. Slim, step over an' cut the gent loose."
Slim started. Matt stepped in front of him.
"Leave that man alone!" ordered Matt. "You fellows, I suppose," he
continued, turning to Spearman, "have come here after the money
Prebbles took from you at the ranch. He was leaving it with me to
deliver to you, just as you came."
"Likely yarn," scoffed Jed Spearman, taking a chair in the doorway.
"Consider yerselves pris'ners, all o' ye. We ain't so terribly het up
over Motor Matt, and we ain't so mad at t'other feller or the chink as
we mout be, seein' as how they left us our hosses an' guns an' then
trailed straight fer this place whar we diskiver George Hobbes. It's
Hobbes we want, an' I tell ye plain we're goin' ter play bob with him
afore we're done. That's flat."
 CHAPTER XIV.
AN UNEXPECTED TURN.
Motor Matt was never more at sea than he was at that moment.
What could he, and McGlory, and Ping do against six armed cowboys
who, because of their hostility, would not listen to reason?
Jed Spearman and his companions could do exactly as they pleased.
They could take the law into their own hands, so far as Newt
Prebbles was concerned, and delay his departure for Fort Totten;
and, in reckless defiance of what Matt said, they could release
Murgatroyd.
Ping, so far from being a factor of strength in the slender force to be
mustered against the cowboys, was a decided element of weakness.
He was afraid he was going to lose his queue, and the fear had
made him almost daft.
"Slim," called Spearman, tilting back in his chair and fanning himself
with his hat, "jest count the dinero in that bag an' see how much it
foots up."
Slim slouched over to the table, Matt, meanwhile, standing guard
between him and Murgatroyd.
With elaborate ease, Slim dumped the contents of the pouch on the
table and proceeded to count the gold pieces.
"Why, Jed," he called, "I'm blamed if it ain't all here, an' a dollar
more'n what we lost."
"Keep the dollar fer int'rest, Slim," said Spearman generously. "Tell
me, Hen," he proceeded, "what we're goin' ter do to the low-down
tinhorn who run in them fancy tricks on us at the bunk house?"
"Hang 'im," replied Hen promptly.
"Oh, ye're altogether too desp'rit. Somethin' lighter'n that. What say,
Slim?"
"Waal," replied Slim, "I'd suggest runnin' him out o' the kentry, Jed.
We ain't got no room, in these parts, fer a robber like what this feller
is. The law kain't tech him, ye know."
"Hev we got ter waste our vallyble time pusson'ly conductin' sich a
missable galoot across the border?" asked Spearman.
"Thar's a hoss among the cottonwoods, Jed. Let's tie the tinhorn ter
his back, take off the hoss' bridle, an' then chase the critter fer a
ways. That 'u'd do the trick."
"Gentlemen," came the imploring voice of Murgatroyd, "that animal
belongs to me. I beg of you not to use him in your scheme of
punishment. How shall I get back to Bismarck after you release me?"
"Stop yer talkin', you!" scowled Spearman. "I reckon, if we turn ye
loose, that ort ter be about all ye kin ask. Slim," he added to his
comrade, "yer suggestion is in good taste, an' hes my approval. The
trick hes been done afore, an' allers, I make no doubt, with good an'
lastin' effects ter the community. Pris'ner, hev ye got anythin' ter
say?"
"Only this," replied Newt Prebbles. "My father is lying sick at Fort
Totten. He needs me. If you try to tie me to that horse and send me
across the border, I'll fight till I drop. What more do you want?" he
cried passionately. "I gambled with you, and I resorted to a
gambler's tricks, but I have returned more money than I took."
"Ye returned the money bekase ye had ter," said Spearman grimly.
"If us fellers hadn't blowed in here, we wouldn't 'a' got it."
"You're wrong there, Spearman," called Matt. "I have told you once,
and I repeat it now, that Prebbles gave up that moment before he,
or any of the rest of us, knew you were coming here. I protest
against such inhuman treatment as you're planning to give him."
"All right," grinned Spearman, "protest. Now, we'll let that drap while
we consider the case o' the gent on the floor. I reckon, Motor Matt,
ye're plumb anxious ter take him ter Totten, ain't ye?"
"I am," answered Matt. "As I told you, he's wanted by the
government."
"It 'u'd be a feather in yer cap if ye toted him in, wouldn't it?"
"I don't know anything about that, and I don't care. He's a
scoundrel, and ought to be punished."
"An' thar's a thousand out fer him?"
"Yes."
"Which ye'd git?"
"No. It goes to another man."
Spearman drew down an eyelid in a knowing wink.
"'Course I ain't swallerin' that, not noways. It was right funny, that
thing ye done over on the hill. I reckon ye've laughed a-considerable
about that, hey? I didn't git a chance ter fly with ye, an' the boys
hev been joshin' me ever sence about it. Ye ort ter be punished
somehow, an' I reckon the easiest and best way ter do that is by
letting yer pris'ner go. Ye won't hev no feather in yer cap, an' ye
won't hev no thousand dollars. Slim!"
"On deck, Jed."
"I ordered ye, a while ago, ter let that man loose. Now, I order ye
ag'in. This time, I want it done!"
"Wait a second!" cried Matt. "Spearman," he went on, "are you such
a fool you think you can punish me by allowing this man his
freedom?"
"Keerful!" warned the foreman. "Don't git ter callin' names. I won't
stand fer that, not fer a minit."
"If you allow this criminal to go, you'll be getting yourself into hot
water—you won't be hurting me."
"I know what I'm about. Slim!"
Slim started toward Motor Matt, swinging one hand carelessly but
significantly behind him.
"Keep away," said Matt, a dangerous light rising in his eyes. "You'll
not let this man go."
"Are you going to let yourself be bluffed by a fellow of his size?"
taunted Murgatroyd, taking another tack.
"No words from you," growled Spearman.
Slim undoubtedly felt that it was up to him to let the foreman and
Hen know what he was good for. He had a natural delicacy about
using a weapon against an unarmed youth, so he made the mistake
of thinking he could eliminate the barrier with his hands.
"Side-step!" he commanded.
Matt held his ground.
"Waal, if ye won't, then take that."
Slim swung his fist. What happened, then, must have astonished
him exceedingly.
His fist clove the empty air, and before he could recover his poise he
was struck a blow that heaved him over against Hen, and toppled
both of them against the wall.
"Jumpin' jee-mimy!" stuttered Slim, rubbing his chin. "He hits like
the kick of a mule—an' it was about as quick."
"Oh, blazes!" growled Spearman, in disgust. "Hen, you help. If the
two o' ye ain't enough, I'll join in."
McGlory had pressed closer to Matt's side. The two chums were now
shoulder to shoulder.
"I'm a cowboy myself," cried McGlory, "and if you longhorns have
come out prancin' for trouble, I guess we can accommodate you."
But the matter was never brought to an issue. A shrill whistle
echoed from the outside. Spearman jumped to his feet.
"That's from one o' our boys," said he. "What's doin'?"
The next moment Spearman knew. A khaki-clad officer appeared in
the doorway, covered with the dust of a hard ride. Standing there,
for an instant, he surveyed the interior of the shack.
"Cameron!" cried Matt joyfully.
"Whoop-ya!" roared McGlory. "Lieutenant Cameron, of the old U. S.
A. Speak to me about that! He's just in time."
"Who's Leftenant Cameron?" snorted Spearman. "I don't know him
from Adam."
"Possibly not," answered Cameron, "but, fortunately, I've got a man
with me whom you do know. Come in, Roscoe!" called the
lieutenant, stepping farther into the room.
A burly individual slouched through the doorway and stood looking
out from under his bushy brows at Spearman.
The foreman's careless air left him in a flash. He fell back a step.
"Roscoe!"
"Surest thing you know," replied the burly individual, "Roscoe,
Sheriff of Burleigh. Now, what's been going on here?"
There was something humorous, after that, in Spearman's attempt
to explain. The whole story was finally given by Matt, and listened to
with attention.
The sheriff, when all the details were in, drew a large slab of tobacco
from his pocket and nibbled off a corner.
"Who's got the money that was won at the bunk house?" he asked
calmly.
"Slim, thar," answered Spearman.
"Fork over, Slim."
Slim promptly tossed the bag to Roscoe.
"If you Tin Cup men haven't got sense enough to keep from being
skinned," remarked the sheriff, "you ought to be done out of your
eyeteeth. And, furthermore, you haven't any call to chase the man
that was too sharp for you and try to run him out of the country. You
fellows at the Tin Cup are a heap too lawless. I've had my eye on
you for quite a spell. The money goes to the man that took it. Here,
stranger! I'm not approving of the way it was come by, mark you,
but, so far as the ethics of this case are concerned, the money is
yours."
"I don't want it," was the astounding response from Newt Prebbles.
"I'm a different man from what I was when I got that away from the
Tin Cup fellows."
The sheriff stared, then calmly dropped the bag into his own pocket.
"I'll accept the donation," said he, "and pass it along to the Bismarck
Orphan Asylum. Now, Spearman," and he stepped over and tapped
the foreman on the chest, "I wish I could take you to town with me
for planning to release a badly wanted man. But I can't. All I can say
is that I've got my eye on you. Scatter out of this. That will be about
all."
The Tin Cup men "scattered." As the galloping hoofs died away in
the distance, Lieutenant Cameron stepped over and caught Matt's
hand.
"I guess I was of some use, after all, eh, Matt? You fellows have had
most of the fun, but I managed to get here in time to save you some
unpleasantness."
"You did," answered Motor Matt gratefully, wringing the brave
fellow's hand. "You've saved the prisoner, and made it possible for
Prebbles' son to get to the post in time to——"
"Wait," interrupted Cameron, pulling a yellow slip from his pocket.
"That reached me just as the sheriff and I were leaving Bismarck."
Matt took the telegram. It was brief, but terribly to the point.
 "Prebbles can't last more than twenty-four hours, at the outside.
Useless to bring his son."

This was signed by the doctor. Silently Matt passed the telegram to
Newt.
Young Prebbles read it, dropped into a chair, and buried his face in
his hands.
 CHAPTER XV.
A RISKY VENTURE.
While Roscoe was removing the ropes from Murgatroyd's hands and
replacing them with a pair of steel manacles, Matt and McGlory
stepped out of the shack for a brief talk.
"Young Prebbles is pretty badly cut up," said Cameron.
"He ought to be," said McGlory. "I reckon this is a lesson for him,
and for any other young fellow who feels like taking the bit in his
teeth."
"It's pretty tough," murmured Matt, shaking his head. "There's good
stuff in young Prebbles."
"That's Pard Matt for you, Cameron," said the cowboy. "He always
looks for the good stuff in a fellow and never sees much of anything
else."
"After all," approved Cameron, "that's the best way. But I'll warrant
Matt can't find much to commend in Murgatroyd."
"He's old enough to know right from wrong," said Matt, "and now
that he's made his bed, he's got to lie in it. Where did you find the
sheriff, Cameron?"
"Wired him I was coming, and he met me at the train with a couple
of riding horses. They couldn't remember anything definite at the
post office, although one of the clerks had a hazy recollection that
some one had called for a letter addressed to Hobbes. That's all we
had to go on. We hit the trail and rode hard."
"Good thing you did. If you hadn't ridden so hard you might have
got here too late."
"What a day this has been! I should think you fellows would be
about fagged."
Before Matt could make any response, Newt Prebbles came out of
the shack.
"I'm going, just the same," said he doggedly.
"There's no way you can get to the post in time, Prebbles," returned
Cameron kindly.
"I'll get there, anyhow, whether I'm late or not. Good heavens! You
don't understand what this means to me! You don't know——"
He bit his lips to keep back the emotion that grew with the words.
"I've just got to go," he finished. "I'll get through somehow."
"How'll you get from here to Bismarck?" inquired Cameron.
"On Murgatroyd's horse."
"Your connections are poor all the way through. You'll not be able to
reach Totten before to-morrow afternoon."
"I'm going."
"Wait," said Matt. "Are you willing to take a little risk, Prebbles?"
"Risk? I'd take any risk if it could shorten my trip to Totten by a
single hour."
"Do you know the country between here and Totten?"
"Every foot of it."
"By night as well as by day?"
"Any time."
"Let's get a little something to eat," said Matt, "and then I'll agree to
get you to Totten inside of three hours."
"How?"
"We'll use the aëroplane."
There was a silence, then a protest from McGlory.
"Pard, you're not made of iron. You can't stand that trip, after all
you've done. Sufferin' cats! Why, you're workin' every second you're
runnin' the Comet! And it's the hardest kind of work, at that."
"I can do it," said Matt, looking around at the gathering dusk. "But
we'll have to start before it gets too dark."
"Look at the risk!"
"We'll face it. Besides, it's not so much."
There was no arguing with Matt. He had his mind made up and was
like a rock.
"You and Ping, Joe," said Matt, "will come with Cameron and
Murgatroyd. Have you a lantern, Newt?"
"Yes."
"Get it."
The lantern was secured and lighted. After Matt had hastily bolted a
few mouthfuls of food, he took the lantern and started for the place
where he had left the Comet.
Cameron, Ping, and McGlory accompanied the king of the motor
boys and Newt Prebbles. Roscoe remained at the shack with
Murgatroyd.
The rope with which the aëroplane had been made fast to the trees
was taken off, and Matt, while he was going over the machine to see
that everything was in proper order, told McGlory to hunt for a
favorable place to make the start.
When Matt had finished his inspection, the cowboy had selected the
nearest spot which was at all promising.
"It's at the top of the bank, Matt," said McGlory. "There's a clear
stretch, sloping slightly to the east."
"Then let's get the machine up there."
The Comet, a ghostly monstrosity in the gloom, was pushed and
pulled to the top of the bank and pointed down the slight slope. Matt
walked over the course of the start with the lantern, to make sure
there were no stones in the way.
"We don't want the lantern," said Matt, coming back and handing
the light to McGlory. "Lock up the shack when you leave and bring
the key with you, Joe."
McGlory was nervous and apprehensive. He grabbed Matt's hand
before he took his seat.
"It's a risky venture," he breathed.
"A little risk, of course," answered Matt. "There always is."
"But this is night, pard. You never tried to fly the machine at night
before."
"There's always got to be a first time."
"There's some wind, too."
"Not enough to be dangerous."
"You'll win out, Motor Matt," said Cameron; "you always do."
"There's got to be a first time when he won't," croaked McGlory
dismally.
"Take your seat, Newt," said Matt.
Newt, without a word, placed himself as directed.
"I guess we're all ready," called Matt, starting the motor. "Help us in
the getaway, you fellows."
Cameron, McGlory, and Ping pushed the car down the slope through
the dusk. Finally it drew away from them, and they saw it, like a
huge spectre, sailing skyward.
Newt Prebbles undoubtedly remembered more about that daring
night trip than Motor Matt.
The king of the motor boys had eyes and ears for nothing but his
work. The propeller whirled the great planes on and on into the
gloom, and sense of touch alone told Matt when to meet the varying
points of air pressure by a shift of the wing tips.
Newt said little, and what he did say was in the nature of directions
for keeping the Comet on the right course. With eyes peering ahead
and downward, he watched the dusky panorama flitting away below
them.
Matt admired his courage. Calm and steady, he kept rigidly to his
place, interfered in no way with the freedom of Matt's movements,
and watched alertly for the landmarks with which he was familiar.
Whenever they swept over a cluster of lights, young Prebbles named
the town instantly.
The stars came out in the dusky vault overhead, and a big moon
crept up over the horizon.
Swinging through space, hung from the zenith as by invisible cords,
the Comet glided steadily and surely onward.
"Oberon," announced Newt, as they swept across a gleaming mat of
yellow.
"Great spark plugs!" exclaimed the king of the motor boys. "I don't
know, Newt, but I've a notion we're making a record flight."
"It's wonderful," mused young Prebbles; "but there's something
which, to my mind, is even more wonderful than this work of the
flying machine."
"What's that?"
"Why, that you're doing this for me—for a man who nearly drowned
himself trying to get away from you, and who tried his best to
cripple you, or the Comet, with a bullet."
"We all of us make mistakes, now and then," answered Matt. "It's a
mighty foolish man who won't rectify a mistake when he finds he
has made one."
From Oberon the course led north and east.
"There's the post trader's store," reported Prebbles.
"That means we're just about where we're going," said Matt.
"Where'll we come down?"
"On the parade ground at the post."
When near the old fort, they could hear the call of the sentries, and
were able to mark the fringe of oil lamps around the barracks and
officers' quarters.
Silently, like a wraith from the Unknown, they dropped downward,
struck on the bicycle wheels, and glided to a stop.
"Be hivins," cried a voice, "it's th' Comet. Now what would you be
afther thinkin' av that? Th' Comet, d'ye moind, rammin' around in th'
dark th' same as if it was broad day. Is that yerself, Motor Matt?"
"Yes," said Matt, stepping out of the machine. "How's Prebbles,
O'Hara?"
"Th' ould sawbones has given up hope, an' that's all I kin tell ye. But
who is it ye have along?"
"Prebbles' son. Take him up to Cameron's quarters at once, will
you?"
"Sure I will."
"I'll see you in the morning, Newt," Matt added.
Young Prebbles paused to grasp Matt's hand.
"I appreciate what you have done for me, don't forget that," he said.
Matt gave the Comet into the care of a guard, then hunted up a
place to sleep. His head had hardly dropped on the pillow before he
was off for the land of dreams.
 CHAPTER XVI.
CONCLUSION.
Doctors are not infallible, and the post doctor was no exception in
this respect. All his experience and skill in diagnosing the ills of
humanity, made him certain that Prebbles was booked for the other
world. But there was an error—and, more than likely, that error was
due to the arrival of Newt, who, it will be remembered, the doctor
had wired it would be useless to send.
Prebbles was singing his Salvation Army hymns when Newt stepped
into the sick room. All night he was marching the streets, in his
disordered mind, pounding the cymbals and exhorting. Occasionally
there crept into the oral wanderings a reference to the young man
watching at the bedside.
Most unexpectedly—most unaccountably, to the doctor—a lucid
moment came to Prebbles in the early morning. He saw his son, he
recognized him, and he felt his handclasp. There was a smile on the
old man's lips as he drifted back into his sea of visions.
But, from that moment, there was a noticeable change. There
seemed more resisting power in the wasted body of the old clerk, as
though hope for better things had grown up in him and was giving
him strength.
To Matt, Newt Prebbles told what he knew about the accident to
poor Harry Traquair.
Siwash Charley, under agreement with Murgatroyd, had tampered
with Traquair's machine before the fatal flight, just as he had
tampered with Matt's machine before the official trials at Fort Totten.
But Traquair had not been so fortunate as the king of the motor
boys.
Newt had learned of this villainous work through Siwash Charley,
and had received from Siwash, at a time when the ruffian was under
the influence of liquor, an incriminating note from the broker, signed
with his alias, "George Hobbes."
Prebbles had made use of this document, holding it over
Murgatroyd's head and extorting money from him on account of it.
This, of course, formed a sad commentary on the character of young
Prebbles. But Motor Matt, in "advancing the spark of friendship," so
played upon the facts in the case, and showed up the broker's
duplicity, that the old clerk's illness formed the turning point in his
son's career.
Such transformations are not so rare as it would seem.
Cameron, Matt, Ping, and Roscoe arrived at the post in the
afternoon following the arrival of Matt and young Prebbles.
Murgatroyd, of course, accompanied them.
Murgatroyd was tried, not on the Traquair charge, but on the later
one of conniving, with Siwash Charley, to injure the aëroplane at the
government trials, thus endangering the life, not only of Motor Matt,
but of Lieutenant Cameron as well.
His sentence was commensurate with the evil he had attempted,
and he followed Siwash Charley to the Leavenworth prison.
After a few days the post doctor was as certain Prebbles would
recover as he had been positive, at the time he sent his message to
Cameron, that he had not many hours to live.
The reward paid by the government for the capture of Murgatroyd
was made over to the old clerk. On this, he and his son were to
begin life anew.
One of the first things Matt did, after reaching the post with Newt
Prebbles, was to write to Mrs. Traquair, at Jamestown, settling a
mystery which had long puzzled every one who knew of
Murgatroyd's attempts to secure the Wells County homestead.
There was coal under the soil of the quarter-section, and the railroad
company wanted it. That was the secret, and Mrs. Traquair profited
handsomely by the knowledge of it.
The mortgage was paid, and the homestead passed into the hands
of the railroad company.
In a country so barren of trees as North Dakota, coal is a valuable
commodity.
Matt still kept the aëroplane, and still persistently refused to put it in
storage at the post, to be called for later.
"The Comet," said Matt, one evening when he and McGlory were
again with Cameron, "has got to earn something for Joe, and Ping,
and myself."
"Ping comes in on the deal, does he?" laughed Cameron.
"Share and share alike with the rest of us," averred Matt. "That
Chinese boy is loyalty itself. Down in that shelter tent, below the
post trader's, he spends his nights and days watching the
aëroplane."
"And talking to it, and singing about it, and burning rice-paper
prayers to the heathen josses, asking them to keep it carefully and
not let it go broke while up in the air," put in McGlory. "Oh, he's a
freak, that Ping boy; but, as Matt says, he's a mighty good sort of a
freak at that. Look how he ran off with the rifles when we fooled the
Tin Cup punchers on the hill! And remember how he slammed that
stone through the window when Murgatroyd had drawn a fine bead
on me and was about to press the trigger. Share and share alike?
Well, I should say."
"You're still determined to go into the show business, Matt?" asked
Cameron anxiously.
"I don't see why we shouldn't," said Matt. "Five hundred a week isn't
to be sneezed at. Joe's agreed, and so has Ping. When the first
favorable day arrives, we're going to fly to Fargo."
Two days later the favorable moment was at hand. All the soldiers at
the post were out to witness the start, and even the gruff post
trader was present to say good-by to the king of the motor boys and
his friends.
Matt's last call, at the post, was made on Prebbles. The old man was
practically out of danger, but his recovery would take time, and for a
long while yet he would have to remain in bed.
He was not able to say much, but what little he did say Matt
considered an ample reward for the strenuous adventures that had
befallen him and his chums on their flight to the upper Missouri.
Newt had become his sworn friend. Whenever Matt wanted any
help, in any way that was within Newt's power to grant, he was
surely to call on young Prebbles.
When finally Motor Matt took his way down the post hill for the last
time, he was in an exceedingly thoughtful mood.
He remembered when he had first come to Devil's Lake, knowing
nothing about aëroplanes, and had practiced with the June Bug until
he had acquired the knack of flying the machine and had made good
and sold the machine to the government for enough to give large
profit to himself and his friends, and, what pleased him most, to
place Mrs. Traquair above want.
He remembered, too, how he had sailed away alone into Wells
County on a fool's errand, had become entangled in a losing cause,
and had experienced a sharp reverse.
But, best of all, in his estimation, was the night journey back to the
post from the Missouri River, bringing Newt Prebbles to his father's
bedside.
Down into the cheering throng below the post trader's store went
the king of the motor boys, shaking hands with every one he met,
Indians, whites, or "breeds," receiving good wishes from all and
heartily returning them.
For the last time the aëroplane was dragged from the shelter tent,
given a strong start along the old familiar roadway, and then
watched as it climbed up and up into the air and winged swiftly
eastward, carrying Motor Matt, and Joe McGlory, and Ping into
untried ventures and fresh fields of endeavor.
THE END.

THE NEXT NUMBER (27) WILL CONTAIN

Motor Matt's Engagement;

OR,

ON THE ROAD WITH A SHOW.

"On the Banks of the Wabash"—In the Calliope Tent—An

Eavesdropper—Queer Proceedings—Motor Matt Protests—A
Blaze in the Air—Was it Treachery?—A Call for Help—Black
Magic—The Mahout's Flight—The Paper Trail—Carl Turns a Trick
—The Lacquered Box—The Hypnotist's Victim—"For the Sake of
Haidee"—The Rajah's Niece

MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING MOTOR
ADVENTURE FICTION
 NEW YORK, August 21, 1909.
TERMS TO MOTOR STORIES MAIL SUBSCRIBERS.
(Postage Free.)
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Smith,
George C. } Proprietors. 79-89 Seventh Avenue, New
York City.
Smith,
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