Chapter XI: Joe Bascomb

As Motor Matt walked toward the man with the leveled revolver, the wood-hauler cried out a startled "_Madre mia!_" and gave a jump for the other man's arm.

"What's the matter with you, José?" demanded the American, keeping his eyes on Matt as he talked.

José launched into a torrent of Spanish. Matt could not understand a word of what he was saying, any more than he could understand the talk which Clip had had with his uncle, the half-breed, but the change that came over the face of the American was remarkable.

In the American's eyes there was a look like that in the orbs of a cornered panther. He had fine features--features that told of an iron will and a fearless spirit; nevertheless, they had a gloomy cast. While José spoke, something akin to kindness crept through the hard, somber lines, the lips twitched and the eyes softened. The man lowered his revolver, tucked it away in the swinging holster, and turned to José.

Then, in the same language José had used, he spoke rapidly and at considerable length. Matt stood and waited, trying to guess what the wood-hauler had said to cause such a change in the man's bearing.

"Who are you, my lad?" inquired the man civilly enough.

"That's a fair question, all right," returned Matt; "but you might have asked it before you went through all those motions with the gun. And then, too, I don't know why I should talk about myself until I learn a little about you."

"That's straight, anyhow," said the man. "I like a fellow that comes out flat footed and says what he thinks. My name's Joe Bascomb, and I belong with Burke's crowd."

"You wasn't with Burke's crowd when I saw them here yesterday afternoon."

"No more I wasn't. Yesterday afternoon, you see, I was on detached duty. But I was in at the skirmish at the Wells!"

Bascomb frowned, as though the memory was not pleasant.

"There was a fight?" Matt asked eagerly. "Were Dangerfield and his gang captured?"

"There wasn't much of a fight. You see, the smugglers weren't expecting trouble, and Burke took them by surprise. A few shots were fired, mainly by Burke and his men, but they went wild. The smugglers were making for their horses. Six of their number were captured, but a few more got away. Among those who escaped was Dangerfield. I'm trying to get to Phoenix on business, and I wonder if five hundred dollars would tempt you to let me have that wheel?"

Bascomb pulled a roll of bills from his pocket as he spoke, and held it up for Matt to look at.

"Can you ride a wheel?" asked Matt.

"Never rode one in my life!"

"Then you couldn't use the motor-cycle. You'd go off the trail on the divide as sure as fate."

"Bring the machine down here and let me look at it."

Matt rolled the _Comet_ down. After Bascomb had studied it a while he shook his head disappointedly.

"I reckon you're right," he muttered. "What did you say your name was?"

"Matt King."

"Then you're the chap who covered the trail between Phoenix and Potter's Gap yesterday afternoon?"

"Yes."

"Well, Matt, I've got to get to Phoenix as soon as I can, and if you're not in very much of a hurry, I'll climb into my saddle and we'll go together. If----" Bascomb hesitated. "If any of Dangerfield's scattered gang happened to waylay me, there's something I'd like to have you do for me in Phoenix. That's why I'd like to have you along."

"If you're waylaid, Mr. Bascomb," said Matt, "they'd be liable to get me, too. Dangerfield and his men aren't feeling any too friendly toward me after what I did yesterday afternoon."

"No, they wouldn't get you," insisted Bascomb. "You could run away from 'em like a streak on that motor-cycle. If I ask you to do anything for me," he added significantly, "I'll pay you well for it."

"All right," said Matt, "we'll travel together."

Bascomb turned to José, and again spoke to him in Spanish. The Mexican immediately pulled off his ragged slouch-hat and his tattered coat. Removing his own hat and coat, Bascomb put on the Mexican's; then, after transferring his personal belongings from one garment to the other, he turned to Matt.

"Not much of a disguise, is it?" he remarked. "But maybe it's enough to keep the gang from spotting me."

"What's that Mexican doing here?" demanded Matt. "He was with Juan Morisco in Phoenix yesterday, when Morisco was arrested. This fellow cut out a horse from the runaway team and got away."

"Sure he did; and he rode all day and most of the night to find me. We came across each other by chance, not more than two miles from here."

"If he's a friend of yours," said Matt suspiciously, "and a friend of Morisco's, why----"

"You don't know Mexicans, King. José doesn't know any more than the law allows, but I rendered him a service once, and he's never forgotten it."

José, apparently paying no attention to the talk, was putting on Bascomb's expensive Stetson, and a coat which was infinitely better than the one he had exchanged for it.

"Here's where our trails divide, José," said Bascomb, in English, taking the roll of bills from his pocket and stripping a bank-note from it and handing it to the Mexican. "You've made some mighty bad mistakes, but I give you credit for doing your best. _Adios._"

"_Adios!_" answered José.

Both men mounted their horses; and when Bascomb and Matt made off, José, on his jaded beast, sat watching them until they got around the spur on their way to the Gap.

Bascomb led the way, spurring his animal into a slow gallop. Matt followed, accommodating the speed of the _Comet_ to the gait of the horse. The long flat was crossed and the mountain climbed and descended--all without mishap, and without a word of talk between the two travelers.

Matt's mind was busy. To pull the wool over his eyes was not an easy matter, and the story told by Bascomb was figuratively speaking, too full of holes to hold water.

José had been with Juan Morisco. Juan was one of the Dangerfield gang. José would not have run from the sheriff unless he had had a guilty conscience. Yet, when he had run away, he had taken the trouble to ride a hundred miles and hunt for Bascomb. Bascomb had explained that José was indebted to him, and had hunted him up for that reason. But that, as Matt looked at it, was no reason at all.

Then what did that exchange of coats and hats mean? Why was it necessary for an officer of the law to disguise himself? Here, again, Bascomb's explanation did not explain.

Although these reflections shattered Matt's confidence in his companion, the boy did not allow it, for the present, to make any difference in his treatment of the man.

Bascomb grew talkative when they reached Castle Creek Cañon and started over the clear stretch of road toward Hot Springs.

"What became of the little girl that figured in that runaway?" he asked. There was an eagerness in his voice which Matt did not fail to notice. "José said you stopped the horses, picked up the little girl, and was going to carry her into the house when Juan Morisco interfered. José didn't see any more, as the sheriff came up just then."

"I took her into the house," answered Matt, "and we sent for a doctor."

The man started in his saddle and bent his piercing eyes on the boy.

"Was she as badly hurt as that?" he demanded.

"The doctor said he didn't think she could live."

"What!" Bascomb's eyes were glaring like an animal's as they met Matt's. "No, no," he added, dropping back in the saddle and brushing a hand across his forehead, "it can't be. I won't believe it. You stopped the horses, and I don't see how she could have been so badly hurt as all that."

"She was tied to the 'reach' of the wagon," explained Matt, "and the front wheels broke away from those behind just before we got the horses stopped. The girl was dragged for a ways. If she hadn't been tied, she wouldn't have been hurt so bad."

"She's been living at José's for a month," muttered Bascomb to himself, but in a voice loud enough for Matt to hear, "and she could stand him, but José said she couldn't bear Juan Morisco. It was bad business sending Juan after her. José had to tie her to the wagon to keep her from running off when Morisco came. But that doctor was wrong!" and Bascomb raised his voice and once more turned to Matt.

This soliloquy of Bascomb's gave Matt fresh food for thought. Bascomb spurred his tired horse cruelly, and they got past Hot Springs at a fairly good gait.

"What did the girl say?" asked Bascomb, when they were well to the south of Hot Springs, and picking their way among the litter of stones. "Did she say anything about herself, or about her folks?"

"She wouldn't say anything about herself or her people," replied Matt.

"True-blue!" muttered Bascomb huskily. "She'll pull through--she always had grit; but I wish I was sure!"

A mile north of the notch Bascomb's horse fell under him. He had been forcing the animal ahead impatiently, and as he fell floundering to the ground over the horse's head, he swore a fierce oath.

One of the revolvers had dropped out of Bascomb's belt. Unseen by its owner, Matt picked it up.

Bascomb, in spite of his temper over the giving out of the horse, knelt beside the animal and unrove the cinches. Pulling the saddle loose, he cast it aside; then he removed the bridle and threw it after the saddle.

"You served me well, you poor brute," said he, "but not well enough."

He whirled away. Matt was looking at him along the barrel of the revolver. He started back with another oath.

"What do you mean by that?" he cried. "Haven't I got enough to torture me without----" He bit the words short, and glared.

"Take that other gun from your belt," commanded Matt, "and throw it away. You can't fool me, Bascomb! You're one of the Dangerfield gang. I don't think you intended going to Phoenix, but you're going now, whether you want to or not!"

Matt's voice was steady, and his gray eyes snapped in a way that meant business.