Chapter XII: The Old Hopewell Tunnel

"Well, great centipedes!" gasped Chub, staring. "That's a nice way to hand a fellow a letter. Why didn't he get a cannon an' shoot it in! Suppose one of us had been in front of that window when the mail-wagon came through?"

Matt, his fingers none too steady, had been busy taking off the twine and getting at the folded paper. The paper was soaked through, and called for great care in opening it out. When it was finally straightened and laid on the table, this penciled message met the eager eyes of the boys:

"ole hoaPwel tunNNel 8 tirty muNdy morning Keap it quite"

"More news from our old friend that wrote the first note," said Chub. "He hasn't improved any in his spelling, and he handles his capitals like a Hottentot. Give us a free translation, Matt."

"It's plain enough," said Matt. "'Be at the old Hopewell tunnel at eight-thirty Monday morning. Keep it quiet.' Do you know anything about the old Hopewell tunnel, Chub?"

"Why, yes. It's a played-out mine. We passed it coming into town."

"Could you go there?"

"Easy."

"How far away is it?"

"About three miles."

"Good! Now let's go to bed and sleep--if we can. To-morrow," and Matt slapped his chum jubilantly on the shoulder, "we're going to do something for Clip. I had a hunch all the while that if we waited long enough something would come our way."

"We'll be making quick connections with that nine-o'clock train, Matt. It's Moody's run, too, and I was going back on the engine."

"This rain hasn't hurt the going any if the Hopewell tunnel is out along the road we followed into town. Even Clip's machine can turn those three miles in six minutes. That's twelve, going and coming, with a margin of eighteen at the tunnel. I'm feeling better to-night than at any time since we struck Prescott."

Contrary to his expectations, Matt slept, and slept well. He had been so loaded down with worry that this ray of hope brought him a feeling of intense relief. It was that, no doubt, that calmed his excited nerves and gave him some rest.

He was up bright and early and rousing Chub.

"Turn out, you little runt!" he laughed. "See what a nice, large morning we've got for our work. We're going to get in some good licks for Clip--I feel it in my bones."

Chub hopped out of bed and took a squint through the window. The sun was up, the sky was clear, and everything was glistening with the wet.

"Seven-thirty," announced Matt, as they finished dressing; "that gives us half an hour for breakfast and plenty of time to get to the old Hopewell tunnel. Hope-well! That certainly sounds good to me."

At sharp eight they were on the road, picking their way around street puddles in the direction of the railroad-station. They were to cross the track, close to the station, and reach out along the good road, smooth as macadam, for two miles, after which there was to be a little harder going across country.

The train from Phoenix was just pulling out for the north when they reached the tracks. The station-agent was out on the platform.

"How's Number Twelve?" yelled Chub.

"Thirty minutes to the bad," answered the agent. "She'll be along at nine-thirty."

"We're fools for luck, and no mistake, Matt," said Chub.

"That's the way with luck," returned Matt. "When it makes a turn it comes your way in a bunch."

The road along the railroad-track had perfect drainage, and it was already so nearly dry that the tires took firm hold without skidding. Even after the boys left the road and took a little-used trail across country, they were not bothered to any appreciable extent. The road was sandy, and had soaked up the moisture like a sponge.

It was a quarter past eight by Matt's watch when they came opposite a tunnel opening in the hillside. There was a platform of rocks at the mouth of the tunnel where the useless matter from the bore had been dropped.

"There's where we're going," said Chub, pointing to the tunnel, "but we're ahead of time and----"

"Well, maybe the other fellow's ahead of time, too," broke in Matt. "Let's go up and see."

Leaving their machines against the rocks, the boys climbed a twenty-foot bank and arrived at the mouth of the tunnel. There was no one waiting for them, and Matt and Chub sat down on a couple of boulders to pass the time until some one should come.

"Who are you expecting to see, anyhow?" asked Chub.

"Don't know," replied Matt, "but certainly it's some one who's able and willing to give us a helping hand."

"Yes; and then again, Matt, it may be those two men who tried to corral us at the break in the road. Burke hasn't found them yet, or he'd have told you about it long before this. Suppose they're working a dodge on us?"

This was a startling suggestion, but Matt wouldn't take any stock in it.

"You're forgetting the writing, Chub," said he. "That first note, and the last one, were both by the same fist. There's no doubt about it."

The time passed quickly--all too quickly for the anxious boys who were hoping for so much from their interview with the Unknown.

Eight-thirty came, then a quarter to nine, and Matt's spirits were fast falling, when there was a noise inside the tunnel. Both boys started quickly, and exchanged significant glances. The sounds were like the swishing fall of moccasined feet, and were approaching steadily along the dark passage.

Presently a swarthy face showed through the murk of the tunnel, and a roughly dressed man pushed into sight. Matt bounded up as though touched by a livewire.

"Pima Pete!" he cried.

A gleam darted through the half-breed's eyes.

"You savvy um, hey?" he returned. "You git um paper-talk, come plenty quick. Ugh! _Bueno!_"

Matt stood like one in a daze. He had not been expecting to see Pima Pete, although he wondered later how he could have expected to see any one else.

"You know Clipperton's in trouble, don't you?" said Matt, suddenly getting control of his wits. "He's arrested, and being tried for stealing Josh Fresnay's money, and----"

"All same savvy," interrupted Pima Pete, waving his hand. "Savvy plenty before me leave Phoenix, send paper-talk to Motor Matt. How we save um? Clip heap fine boy. White men make um big mistake. You think um Pete better go Phoenix, give himself up?"

"You told us to be here Thursday," said Matt. "Why didn't you send word to us sooner?"

"Me no can make um. Find trouble. Two men b'long to ole gang make um trouble. No let um go to Prescott. They hike off last night, then Pete write um note, go Prescott, throw um note through window. Ugh! How we save um Clip? Odder two men want Clip to go to prison. Me no want um. What we do, huh?"

"Where are those other two men?" asked Matt.

"No savvy."

"Clip don't want you to come to Phoenix," said Matt. "If his lawyer can make the jury believe that you and he really dug up that gold, and that it was Dangerfield's, there's a chance. Understand?"

"We dug um, sure!" declared Pima Pete.

An idea rushed through Matt's head, an idea that called for quick work.

"If I write that out, Pete," he continued, speaking quickly, "will you make oath that it's correct."

"Make um swear? Sure. But how me swear, huh?"

"We'll have to bring a man out here----"

"No!" cried Pete, and drew back. "Me all same worth one thousan' dol'. You bring um man, he ketch um Pete. Huh! _Muy malo!_ No like um."

"There'll be only one man, Pete," begged Matt, "and he couldn't capture you. Remember," he added solemnly, "if you don't make an affidavit there's nothing can save Clip!"

Pima Pete straightened up. His mind was none too keen, and he frowned as he thought the matter over. "Hurry!" urged Matt. "We haven't any time to lose. Clip saved your life when the deputy sheriff was going to shoot at you. Now's your chance to do something for him."

"All ri'," said Pima Pete suddenly. "You bring um man, me make um swear."

Matt whirled on Chub, his watch in his hand.

"It's five minutes of nine, Chub," said he, speaking hurriedly, "and here's what you're to do. Get on the motor-cycle and rush for Prescott. Send out that notary public who took my deposition--or any other notary you can find the quickest. Have him bring his seal along--don't forget that. We'll meet him at the road that runs along the railroad-track----"

"But what good'll that do?" interposed Chub. "Think I can do all that, come out here, and then both of us get back to the station in time to catch the----"

"Wait!" broke in Matt: "I've got this all figured out. After you start the notary in this direction, leave your motor-cycle at the hotel and go down to the station. If I can get there in time for the train, I will; if I can't, you get aboard, and when you see me along the road have your friend, the engineer, stop----"

"Stop! Jack Moody, with thirty minutes to make up! Why, Matt, he wouldn't stop for love or money."

"Then," and the old resolute gleam shone in Matt's gray eyes, "you stand ready to take Pima Pete's affidavit from me as I ride alongside the train on the _Comet_!"

"You can't do it," murmured Chub, standing like one in a trance; "you'll be----"

"I can, and I will!" cried Matt. "It's for Clip. Hustle and do your part and _I'll do mine_!"

Matt's very manner was electrifying. Chub caught his spirit and arose to the occasion in his best style.

"Count on me!" he yelled, and tore down the steep slope to the place where he had left the motor-cycle.

As Matt watched him, he mounted, started the motor with two turns of the pedals--half a turn was all the _Comet_ ever needed--and was off.