Chapter XI: A Revelation for Matt

Motor Matt, in spite of his helpless situation, was not at all worried about his own safety. What did alarm him, though, was the plot which Murgatroyd seemed to be putting through with so much success.

Why had the broker written the letters to Cameron, McGlory, and Mrs. Traquair? What did they contain? And why should a letter be written to Mrs. Traquair when she, like Matt, was supposed to be a prisoner of Murgatroyd's?

These were all matters of grave import, and the king of the motor boys turned them over and over in his mind.

He knew that Murgatroyd, for some reason of his own, was intensely eager to secure the Traquair homestead. Probably he could have bought it for a fair amount, but that was not the broker's way. He had made his money by lending on mortgages, and then foreclosing, thus securing property for a fraction of its value. This seemed to be his desire in the present instance, and he was taking long chances to put his plans through.

Siwash Charley, after the broker was gone, was in great good humor. He gave Matt a drink of water from a pail on the earthen shelf, and then filled and lighted his pipe and dropped down on a cot. For purposes of ventilation the door was left open, and Matt, his brain puzzled and bewildered, watched the sun sinking into the west.

The afternoon was drawing to a close. Somewhere, along the road to Sykestown, McGlory, Cameron, and Ping were making their way in the borrowed motor car. During the night, if all went well, the party should reach Sykestown. Matt would not be there to meet them in the morning: but Murgatroyd would be there, and would scarcely be able to evade Cameron and McGlory.

What Matt's friends would do when they encountered the broker was problematical. Matt had abundant faith in Cameron's good judgment, and in his cowboy pard's courage and determination. Something of importance would happen, the king of the motor boys was sure, and that something would be of help to Mrs. Traquair.

"What's Murgatroyd up to, Siwash?" asked Matt.

"He knows, an' I know, but you don't," answered Siwash, "an' what's more, ye ain't a-goin' to. So stop yer quizzin'."

"Why is he writing to Mrs. Traquair if she's a prisoner of his, out on the Traquair homestead?"

Once more Siwash enjoyed himself.

"He's goin' ter send the letter out thar," replied Siwash. "Now stop askin' questions. Ye'd better be congratulatin' yerself that we're handlin' ye so keerful. Arter what ye've done ter Murg an' me, knockin' ye on the head an' drappin' ye inter some slough wouldn't be none too good. Howsumever, ye're wuth more ter us alive than ye air with yer boots on--which is mainly whar yer luck comes in. Hungry?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll git ye a snack."

Siwash went to the cupboard from which he had brought the writing materials and secured some dried beef and crackers. Removing a knife from his pocket, he began cutting the dried beef into small pieces.

There was something about the knife that reminded Matt of the rusty dagger Ping had found in the woods, and recalling the dagger brought Cameron's story of Goff Fortescue abruptly to Matt's mind.

The prisoner eyed Siwash sharply. There was that about the ruffian that suggested the soldier--a certain precision of movement acquired in the ranks. Matt began to whistle softly.

For a moment Siwash Charley paid no attention; then, as the air Matt was whistling came to him, he lifted suddenly and glared.

"Stop yer whistlin'," he snapped.

"Do you know what that is, Siwash?" he asked.

"No!" almost shouted the scoundrel.

"They call it reveille up at the post. Here's 'stable call'----"

Siwash made one spring at Matt, the knife still gripped in his fist. He flashed the blade in front of Matt's eyes.

"If I thought--if I thought----"

Siwash breathed the words hoarsely and stared menacingly at Matt. There followed an awkward silence. Presently Siwash turned away and went on carving the dried beef.

"I don't want ter hear 'stable call' nor nothin' else," he snarled. "Don't like whistlin' nohow. Shut up, or I'll put a gag between yer jaws."

Matt deemed it best to keep silent after that. Nevertheless, it seemed to him as though he had touched a raw spot in Siwash Charley's past history. Had Cameron got the matter right? Was Siwash Charley really the deserter, Cant Phillips?

When the food was ready, Matt asked Siwash to release his hands so that he could help himself. But Siwash refused, and the prisoner was compelled to take his food from the ruffian's hairy paws.

A change appeared to come over Siwash Charley. He was moody and reflective, and kept his pipe going continuously.

Leaning back against the earthen wall of the room, he surrounded himself with a fog of vapor, which, because of the poor ventilation of the dugout, almost stifled Motor Matt.

The sun went down in a blaze of red, night fell, and Siwash closed the door and lighted the lamp. He neglected to curtain the window, however, which may have been an oversight on his part.

Matt fell to musing upon the aëroplane, and about the watch which he had left on the aëroplane seat.

Would anything happen to the machine while he was a prisoner in the hands of Murgatroyd and Siwash? He roused up suddenly.

"Siwash," he asked, "what's going to be done with that flying machine?"

"I've had all I want out o' you," growled the ruffian, with savage emphasis. "If ye know when ye're well off, ye'll hush."

Matt "hushed." Frogs began to croak, and their husky voices came faintly to the prisoner's ears. Somewhere inside the dugout a cricket chattered. A rat ran over Matt's feet and a lizard crawled slowly along the earthen shelf at his side.

"A pleasant hole, this," muttered Matt grimly; then, again and again, thoughts of those three letters recurred to his puzzled mind.

Siwash fell asleep in his chair, and his snores were added to the weird sounds that drifted in from the prairie.

Matt's limbs, bruised and sore from the fall out of the aëroplane, felt numb from the bonds. His whole body was aching, and his head throbbed as though a thousand demons were pounding it with hammers. But, in spite of his pain and discomfort, he fell to wondering if there was not some way by which he could free himself from his bonds.

He had an invincible nature, and never gave up a fight so long as there was breath in his body. Slowly he began an effort to free himself. It was a fruitless attempt, doubly bound as he was, and his desperate labors caused the chair to overturn and land him sprawling on the clay floor.

The noise awoke Siwash Charley.

"Tryin' ter git loose, hey?" he cried with an oath. "I ought ter make ye sit up all night fer that, an' I got a blame' good notion."

Roughly he jerked the chair upright and began removing the coils of rope. When they were off, he examined the cords at Matt's wrists.

"Go over an' lay down on the cot," he ordered.

Matt's feet were free, and, had the door been open, he would have been tempted to make a dash through it and try to lose himself from his captor in the darkness of the open prairie.

Passing over to the cot he dropped down on it, and Siwash tied him there with more coils of rope, passing them around and around the side pieces of the cot, under and over it.

The change of position was a rest, in a measure, although the tight wrist cords kept Matt's arms numb clear to his shoulders. It had been a trying day, and Matt presently dropped off to sleep. The hour was late when he closed his eyes. Although he had no means of telling the exact time, yet he knew it could not be far from midnight.

A mellow chink as of metal awoke him. He opened his eyes and saw daylight shining through the window.

Siwash was at the table, humped over it and counting a small store of yellow gold. An old leather pouch lay on the table beside the coins.

Matt, cramped and in an agony of discomfort, was on the point of crying out and asking to be untied from the cot and put back in the chair, but he saw a head push across the window on the outside of the dugout, and the call died suddenly on his lips.

It was the face of Hackberry!

Hope arose in Motor Matt's breast. Hackberry was a friend, in some manner he had learned where Matt had been taken, and he had come to his rescue!

Scarcely breathing, Matt watched the face of the man at the window.

Hackberry was not looking at Matt, but had centred his attention on Siwash. The latter, finishing his count of the gold pieces, swept them from the table and into the pouch; then, crossing to the wall by the cupboard, he knelt down, removed a flat stone, and pushed his yellow wealth into its cache. After placing the stone in position once more, Siwash Charley got up and stepped toward the door.

Before he could open it, the door was pushed ajar in his face.

"Pecos!" exclaimed Siwash, startled.

"Shore," laughed Pecos. "Ye didn't think it would take me more'n a day and a night to git back from Totten, did ye? The hoss is plumb tired, an' I've jest picketed him close to water an' grass. And the scheme worked, hey?" he went on, with a grin at Matt. "I reckoned I'd put up a purty good bluff."

Here was a revelation for Matt, a revelation that broke over him in a flash and brought with it a grievous disappointment.

A clever trap had been laid by Murgatroyd, and, in spite of all his precautions in testing Hackberry's story, Matt had walked into it!