Motor Matt's Make-and-Break; or, Advancing the Spark of Friendship Read online

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE TRAILING ROPE.

  Motor Matt could not look behind and take note of how events wereprogressing on the hill. He could only hope that McGlory would carryout the rest of his plan without any setbacks, and that he and Pingwould get safely away from the foiled cattlemen.

  The ease with which the boys had played upon the ignorance andcredulity of the high-handed cowpunchers, would have been laughablecould the young motorist have known how successfully the rest ofMcGlory's plot was to be carried out. As the matter stood, Matt wasworrying too much to enjoy the situation.

  He carried away a memento of the recent trouble in the shape of thetrailing rope. The forty-foot line hung downward, swinging to right andleft and giving frightful pitches to the _Comet_ in spite of Matt'smanipulation of the wing ends.

  Bending down, he tried with one hand to untie the riata and rid themachine of its weight, but the knot had been drawn too tight by thepulling of Spearman and Slim. As a compromise, Matt pulled the rope inand dropped it in the seats recently occupied by McGlory and Ping.

  Now for the mouth of Burnt Creek, and the carrying out of the purposethat had brought Matt into that section. The mystery connected withthe "George Hobbes" the cowboys were looking for, and the success orfailure of McGlory and Ping in their final clash with the Tin Cup men,the king of the motor boys put resolutely from his mind. He was now tolook for Newt Prebbles and advance the spark of friendship in behalf ofthe poor old man at Fort Totten.

  Matt conceived that the easiest way to reach the mouth of Burnt Creekwas to hover over the stream and follow it to its junction with theMissouri. This manoeuvre he at once put into operation.

  The creek was as crooked as could well be imagined, and twisted andwrithed among the coteaus, carrying with it, on either bank, a scantgrowth of cottonwoods. Matt cut off the corners, flying high enough toclear the tops of the neighboring hills, and soon had the broad stretchof the Upper Missouri in plain view ahead of him.

  In a clump of cottonwoods, near the mouth of the creek, was a smallshack. Matt's view of the shanty was not good, on account of the trees,and he could not tell whether or not there was any one about the place.

  He was just looking for a spot, on the river bank, where he could makea comfortable landing, when he was startled by discovering a skiff.

  The skiff was in the river, well off the mouth of the creek, and washeading for the western bank of the Missouri. There was one man in theboat, and he was using his oars frantically, watching the _Comet_ as herowed.

  "That may be George Hobbes," thought Matt, "and it may be NewtPrebbles. In any event the fellow, whoever he is, thinks I'm pursuinghim. I'll drop lower and give him a hail."

  As the _Comet_ settled downward over the surface of the river, theman in the skiff redoubled his efforts with the oars. He seemed to beseized with an unreasoning panic.

  "Hello, below there!" shouted Matt.

  To slow the a?roplane too much would mean a drop into the water, for acertain rate of flight was necessary in order to keep the machine aloft.

  As Matt called, he passed on beyond the boat, described a turn over themiddle of the river, and came back toward the eastern bank.

  The man made no response.

  "Are you Newt Prebbles?" yelled Matt.

  The other shouted something, in an angry tone, the exact import ofwhich the young motorist could not catch. Taking his right hand fromthe oar, the man jerked a revolver from his belt.

  "Don't shoot!" cried Matt. "I'm a friend of yours."

  The last word was snipped off in the incisive crack of the weapon. Thebit of lead zipped past Matt's head and bored a hole through the upperwing of the air ship.

  "Stop that!" called Matt sternly, pointing the a?roplane higher andturning again when over the eastern bank.

  Whatever he did, he realized that he must not expose the motor andpropeller to a stray bullet.

  But no more shots were fired.

  Matt wondered at this until he had faced the machine about and was ableto observe what was going on below.

  The man in the skiff had lost an oar. In releasing his hand to use therevolver, the oar had slipped from the rowlock into the water.

  A frantic effort was being made by the man to recover the oar; andso wild and inconsidered was the attempt that the skiff went over,throwing its occupant into the river.

  "Help!" came the cry, as the man, thrashing and floundering, bobbed tothe surface of the river between the overturned boat and the oar.

  It was evident, at a glance, that he could not swim, or that he couldswim so little the mere weight of his clothes was enough to drag himunder.

  "Keep your nerve!" cried Matt encouragingly. "I'll help you in aminute."

  The _Comet_ was well to the westward of the man. Matt turned hersharply, at the same time bringing her as close to the water as hedared. Then, with one hand on the lever controlling the wing tips, withthe other he reached for the rope on the seat beside him.

  Laying a course to pass directly over the man, Matt leaned forward andflung the riata downward. The sinuous coils straightened out as therope descended, the lower end swishing through the water.

  "Catch the rope and hold fast!" cried Motor Matt, as the a?roplaneskimmed over the surface of the river.

  There would be a jolt when the _Comet_ took up the slack in the riata,providing the man were successful in laying hold of the line. Wouldthe jolt disengage the man's hands, or have any serious effect on the_Comet_?

  By that time the a?roplane was so far beyond the man that Matt couldnot see what he was doing. Holding his breath, the king of the motorboys braced himself and waited.

  In perhaps a second the _Comet_ reeled and shivered as though undera blow. Quickly Matt turned full speed into the propeller, and themachine steadied itself and began to tug at the weight underneath andbehind.

  Then, slowly, the a?roplane mounted upward. At a height of fifty feet,Matt could look down and see a dripping form, swaying and gyrating atthe end of the riata.

  "Can you hang on?" called Matt.

  "Yes," was the response from below, "if you don't want me to hang ontoo long."

  "No more than a minute. By that time I'll have you ashore."

  The heavy weight, swinging under the machine like a pendulum, madethe a?roplane exceedingly difficult to manage. In the early stages ofa?roplane flying, equilibrium had only been kept by swinging weights,and it had remained for the Wrights to discover that bending the wingtips upward or downward kept an a?roplane's poise much better than anyshifting weight could do; and to Harry Traquair had fallen the honorof inventing sliding extensions, whereby either wing area could beincreased or contracted in the space of a breadth.

  Now that the _Comet_ had both a shifting weight and wing manipulationsto keep her steady, she was not steady at all--one balance seeming tocounteract the other. In spite of the terrific dipping and plunging,however, Matt succeeded in getting to the shore.

  The moment the man on the rope found himself over solid ground, he letgo his hold and dropped five or six feet to the bank.

  Instantly the _Comet_ came fairly well under control again, and wouldhave been entirely so but for the weight of the rope.

  Matt selected a cleared spot in which to alight, shut off the power,and glided to the earth easily and safely.

  Stepping out of the a?roplane, he hurried to the spot where the rescuedman was lying.

  "How are you?" asked Matt, kneeling beside him.

  "I'm about fagged," he answered. "There's a cabin, about a rod up thecreek on this side. Go there and get the bottle of whisky you'll findon the table. A pull at that bottle will put some ginger into me."

  "You don't need that kind of ginger," replied Matt. "I'll help you tothe cabin, and when we get there you can get into some dry clothes.That will do you more good than all the fire-water that ever came outof a still."

  The man hoisted up on one elbow and peered at Matt with weak curiosity.

  "That's your brand, is it
?" he asked, with as much contempt as he wasable to put into the words.

  "Well, yes," replied Matt. "It's my brand, and you'd be a heap betteroff if it was yours."

  He had been scrutinizing the man closely. He now saw that he was young,that he had blue eyes, and that he was wearing cowboy clothes. His hat,of course, was in the river.

  "Who are you?" the young fellow asked.

  "I'll tell you later," was the indefinite reply.

  "How did you happen to be around here in that flying machine?" went onthe other suspiciously.

  "You'll find that out, too, at the proper time."

  "If you're from the Tin Cup Ranch----"

  "I'm not, so make your mind easy on that. But I know you. You're GeorgeHobbes, and you robbed the cowboys at the Tin Cup Ranch in a game ofcards, last night. You----"

  With a fierce exclamation, the youth sat up, and his right hand dartedtoward his hip.

  "You're not going to do any shooting," said Matt. "Your gun's in theriver, and you'd have been there, too, but for me. What sort of way isthat to act toward the man who saved you from drowning?"