Chapter XIII: Quick Work

Motor Matt's work was mapped out for him, and he had plenty to do. Whirling on the grim-faced half-breed, he dropped down on a boulder and pulled a small motor-cycle catalogue from his pocket. Ripping off the cover, which was bare of printing on the inside, he laid it on top of his leather cap, which he placed on his knees.

"This will be a queer-looking affidavit," said he, fishing a lead-pencil from his pocket, "but we'll have to make the most of what we have. You see, Pete, we're working against time, and every second counts. Now listen:

"You met Tom Clipperton in the hills, on the night of the robbery, and took him to the place where Dangerfield had buried his money. Then you dug it up, went back to the trail, and were set upon by the two deputies. Is that it?"

"Yes," nodded Pima Pete.

"Where did Dangerfield get that money?"

"He sell um cattle two month ago. Money heap heavy, him no like to carry um. Odder ombrays in gang mebbyso they get bad hearts, want to take um. Dangerfield say, 'Pete, we bury um; anyt'ing happen to me, you savvy where to find um' Ugh! me help Dangerfield bury um. He t'ink mebbyso when we ride to Mexico from Tinaja Wells, he dig up gold. But him captured. You savvy. Dangerfield send um note by big dog to Pima Pete, say for him, bymby, have Motor Matt take um money, send some to Emmetsburg, Iowa, Motor Matt keep some, Clipperton keep some. Whoosh! Him bad business. No win out."

"And you will swear that all of Dangerfield's money was in gold double eagles, and that there was just ten thousand dollars of it?"

"Sure!"

Matt's pencil traveled rapidly over the paper. He was careful, however, to make the writing plain and to bear down hard.

"What's your real name, Pete?" asked Matt.

"Huh?"

Matt repeated the question.

"All same Sebastian," said the half-breed, catching Matt's drift, "Pete Sebastian, but me like um Pima Pete better."

Matt went back to the beginning of the affidavit and put in the full name, then dropped farther down and resumed his writing. Presently it was finished, and Matt looked at his watch. It was a quarter past nine!

What if Jack Moody, Matt suddenly asked himself, had made up some of his lost time? What if the train was already whipping along the rails on its way out of Prescott?

Matt leaped up frantically and grabbed Pete's arm. "Come on!" he called. "We'll go down toward the main road and meet the notary."

Pete drew back.

"Mebbyso somebody see um Pima Pete," he demurred, "mebbyso ketch um?"

"Take a chance, can't you?" flung back Matt. "It's for Clip! He'd do more than that for you."

Pima Pete hung back no longer, but scrambled down the slippery rocks with Matt.

"You ride," Pete suggested, when they reached the motor-cycle, "me run along. Heap good runner. You see."

Matt followed out the suggestion, and in this way they reached the road. There was no sign of any rig coming from the direction of Prescott, and by then it was nine-twenty-five!

"See um smoke," said the half-breed, pointing.

Matt gave a jump as his eyes followed Pima Pete's pointing finger. An eddying plume of black vapor was hanging against the sky in the vicinity of the Prescott station. The smoke issued from a point that was stationary, and that meant, if it meant anything, that No. 12 was alongside the Prescott platform.

As he watched, scarcely breathing, the fluttering fog of black began moving southward. At that moment a horse and buggy appeared in the road, the one passenger in the vehicle plying a whip briskly. But the horse was tired, and moved slowly.

"There's the man we're waiting for!" cried Matt. "Come on! We'll meet him. I've got to have this acknowledged before that train gets here!"

Whether this was clear in Pima Pete's mind or not, was a question. But there was one thing too plain to escape him, and that was Matt's wild eagerness to get the work over with as soon as possible.

The two started down the road, Matt still on his machine and Pete running alongside. They could hear the low murmur of the rails, heralding the approach of the train, as they drew to a halt beside the man in the buggy.

"Well, if it ain't Matt King!" exclaimed the notary. "I wasn't expecting to meet you this side the old----"

"Quick!" shouted Matt, handing up the paper. "Acknowledge that. I've got to get it aboard this train."

"You can't," gasped the notary, "you----"

"I _must_!"

There was a compelling note in that "must" which caused the notary to jab his spectacles down on his nose and begin, in a rapid mumble, to read off what Matt had written. The document began: "I, Peter Sebastian, otherwise Pima Pete, formerly one of the Dangerfield gang of smugglers."

In the excitement of the moment it is quite likely that those ominous words did not strike the notary with their full meaning. At any rate, he did not cease his droning mumble. As he read, he laid the paper down on his lifted knee, humped over it, and mechanically pulled a fountain pen from his pocket. Equally as mechanically, and while he was still reading, he uncapped the point of the pen. His seal was on the seat beside him.

Matt pulled a five-dollar bill from his pocket; also an empty envelope. He wanted to enclose the affidavit in a cover so as to safeguard the pencil-work.

"Hurry!" he called.

Jack Moody, on No. 12, was eating up the two miles that separated the Prescott station from that point in the road with tremendous rapidity. The rumble was growing louder and louder.

The notary was using the fountain pen.

"Do you solemnly swear," he asked as he wrote, "that this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

"Ugh!" grunted the dazed Pima Pete.

"Yes or no!" roared the notary.

"Yes!" cried Pete, with a jump.

"There's your pay!" cried Matt. "Put the affidavit in that envelope, and be quick."

The notary had dropped his fountain pen in the bottom of the buggy, had pulled the seal to his lap, and was bearing down on the handle. The train was almost abreast of them, and the horse, tired though he was, made a frantic jump for the opposite side of the road.

Pima Pete rushed for the animal's head. The notary had come within one of going by the board, but he straightened up and tucked the document into the envelope.

Matt had turned the _Comet_ so that it was pointing south.

"There's your letter," called the notary, as Matt came past.

Matt grabbed it, took it in his teeth, and dropped both hands on the grip-control. The last car of the train was opposite him, and the thick, acrid smoke of the engine streamed in his face.

Nothing daunted by the lead the limited had of him, he opened the _Comet_ up for a record run.

It was to be the _Comet's_ last flight--and it came within a hair's breadth of being Motor Matt's.