Chapter VI: The Air Line Into Trouble

Motor Matt had the Wells County country firmly fixed in his mind. He had never been over it, but he had studied the map and secured a fairly good theoretical knowledge. Sykestown was at the end of the branch road, the railroads east and west, and north and south, forming a right angle with respect to Fort Totten. Carrington, the junction point, was at the corner of the angle.

By using the aëroplane, Matt believed he could fly straight across the gap between Fort Totten and Sykestown, giving Carrington a wide berth. There were some hills, but what were hills and roads to him while in the air? Rough country would bother the automobile--it could not affect the aëroplane.

Aëroplanes, Matt had gathered from his reading on the subject, were peculiar in this, that no two machines ever conduct themselves exactly the same in flight. A pair of "flyers" may be built exactly on the same model, with all dimensions and power equipment identical, and yet the moment they leave earth and launch themselves into the blue each develops eccentricities peculiar to itself. In a great measure, every machine has to be "learned."

This was the one point that bothered Matt. Would the new aëroplane be easy or difficult to learn? If difficult, he might have to make a few trial flights at Camp Traquair before setting off for Sykestown.

Morning dawned propitiously. The sun was bright, the day cloudless, and only a breath of air stirring.

While the boys were at breakfast, Cameron came chugging into camp with a powerful touring car--a six-cylinder, sixty horse, so trim and "classy"-looking that Matt had to smother a fierce desire to drop into the driver's seat and change his plans.

Soldiers, under Sergeant O'Hara, were to strip the camp while the boys were away, removing everything to the post.

In building the aëroplane, Matt had made a number of departures from Traquair's original designs. One of these was the equipping of the flying machine with two gasoline tanks instead of one, the supply of fuel being taken from either at will.

With tanks full and oil chambers brimming, McGlory and Cameron pushed the aëroplane into the road. Just before Matt took his seat the lieutenant tried to force upon him a loaded six-shooter.

Matt waved it away with a laugh. "I'd rather trust to my heels, Cameron," he said, "than to one of those things."

"But you might need it," insisted Cameron.

"Couldn't use it if I did. When a fellow's up in an aëroplane both hands are occupied."

"We'll keep up with you, pard," said McGlory.

"I don't think you will, Joe, if everything works as I hope and expect. I'm going in an air line, while you fellows will have to follow the road. Where'll we meet in case we get separated?"

"Sykestown, to-morrow morning," suggested Cameron.

"All right," Matt answered as he took his seat on the lower plane and swung his feet to the foot rest. "Don't run with her to give her a start--let's see if I can't get her off without any help."

McGlory, Cameron, and Ping drew away and watched. The motor began to pop, and then to settle into a steady hum. A pull at a lever sent the power into the bicycle wheels. The aëroplane leaped off along the hard road, gradually increasing its speed as the air under the wings continued to lighten the weight on the wheels. At a distance of a hundred feet the aëroplane soared into the air, under perfect control.

Those on the ground, as well as the soldiers engaged in stripping the camp, gave three hearty cheers.

"Hoop-a-la!" chattered Ping. "Him plenty fine Cloud Joss."

"Matt's aëroplane is a better one than that of Traquair's--it flies steadier," averred Cameron, enthusiastically.

"Speak to me about this!" muttered the cowboy, his eyes on the great white machine as it swooped upward and onward toward the west. "Let's dig out, pards," he added, suddenly starting toward the automobile. "We've got to put in some mighty good licks if we keep up with Mile-a-minute Matt."

Ping had already thrown a bag of rations into the tonneau of the motor car, and Cameron sprang around in front and began cranking. Just as the engine took up its cycle, and Cameron was starting to take his seat at the steering wheel, McGlory called his attention to a trooper who was galloping down from the direction of the post trader's.

"What do you suppose that swatty is after, Cameron?" the cowboy asked. "He's coming this way just a-smoking, and look how he's waving his arms. Something's up."

"We've got to wait for him," growled the lieutenant, "and that means we lose a couple of minutes. And we haven't got many minutes to waste," he added, with a look at the swiftly diminishing white speck in the western sky.

"Telegram for Motor Matt, leftenant," cried the trooper, reining in his horse and jerking a yellow envelope from his belt.

"You're too late, Latham," said Cameron. "Motor Matt's swinging against the sky, a mile away."

"The operator says it's important," insisted Latham.

"I hate to tamper with Pard Matt's telegrams," remarked McGlory, "but I reckon I'd better read this one. What do you say, Cameron?"

"Read it--and be quick. I'll start, as I don't think there'll be any answer to send back. Anyhow, if there should be an answer we'll forward it from Minnewaukon."

The fretting motor had its power thrown into the wheels. As it glided away at steadily increasing speed, McGlory tore the end off the envelope and drew out the inclosed sheet. The next moment he gave a wild yell.

The cowboy was on the seat beside Cameron, and the latter caught his breath and gave him an amazed sidelong look. McGlory's face had gone white under its tan and he had slumped back in his seat.

"What in Sam Hill is the matter, McGlory?" cried Cameron.

The cowboy jerked himself together and leaned toward the lieutenant.

"Overhaul the flyin' machine!" he shouted hoarsely. "You've got to! If we don't get a word with Matt something's sure going to happen to him."

"How's that?" asked the startled Cameron.

Ping, catching the general alarm, leaned over the back of the seat.

"Telle pidgin!" he implored. "What tleleglam say, huh?"

"It's from Mrs. Traquair," replied McGlory.

"From Mrs. Traquair?" echoed Cameron. "Then she's got away from Murgatroyd and his rascally hirelings."

"Got away from 'em?" bellowed McGlory. "Why, they never had her at that homestead! The whole blooming business is a frame-up, just as I thought, all along. Murgatroyd and Siwash Charley are trying to play even with Matt. Hit her up, can't you, Cameron? For Heaven's sake, let her out! If you don't Matt will get away from us and drop right into the hands of those scheming scoundrels."

Cameron pushed the automobile for all it was worth. The ground raced out from under the flying wheels. The road was like asphalt, and the speedometer indicator ran up and up until it pointed to fifty miles an hour.

"Do better than that!" cried McGlory, his wild eyes on the white speck in the sky. "You've got to do better than that, Cameron. Matt said he could do sixty miles. If you can't equal that, Murg and his men will beat us out."

Cameron had sixty horses under the touch of his fingers, but there was nothing he could do to send the automobile at a faster gait.

"Where did the telegram come from?" he shouted, bending over the wheel and watching the road as it rushed toward the swaying car.

"From Jamestown," yelled McGlory.

They had to talk at the top of their voices in order to make themselves heard in the wind of their flight.

"What does it say?"

"It says that Mrs. Traquair has been making a little visit with friends in Fargo; that she has just got back and found Matt's telegram; and that she is well. That proves that this whole game is a trap--Hackberry, Hackberry's letters, and all. Oh, sufferin' tinhorns! I'm crazy to fight, crazy to do something to stop Matt and to put a crimp in in that gang of sharks and double-dyed villains. Can't you do any better than this, Cameron?"

Cameron was doing all that he possibly could. The aëroplane was a mere speck against the blue of the sky, steadily increasing the distance that separated it from the racing automobile.

"We no ketchee!" panted Ping. "By Klismus, Motol Matt all same eagle bird. Woosh! No ketchee!"

"The Chink's got it right, McGlory," cried Cameron. "Unless something happens to the aëroplane we'll never overhaul it. Matt's gaining on us right along."

"And all we can do is to watch and let him gain," fumed the cowboy. "I feel like I did, once, when I was tied hand and foot and gagged while a gang of roughs were setting fire to a boathouse in which Pard Matt lay asleep. Oh, speak to me about this!"

Then, all at once, the motor went wrong, and the car lost speed until it came to a dead stop. McGlory groaned.

"Of course this had to happen," he stormed. "If you're ever in a hurry something is bound to go wrong with these blooming chug carts. We're out of the race, Cameron. Take your time, take your time. Hang the confounded luck, anyway."

Cameron got down and went feverishly to work locating the trouble. Ping tumbled out of the tonneau and fluttered around, dancing up and down in his excitement and anxiety.

McGlory did not get out of his seat. Gloomily he kept his eyes on the fading speck in the heavens until he could see it no more.

"It's out of sight," he muttered heavily.

"The aëroplane?" asked Cameron, fumbling with the sparking apparatus.

"What else do you think I mean?" snapped the cowboy, in his worst humor. "Matt's done for, and all we can do is sit here and let him rush on at the rate of a mile a minute straight into the trap that has been set for him. Sufferin' snakes! Did you ever run into anything like this before?"