Chapter 6 SURMOUNTING THE DIFFICULTY.

While this clash was going forward between the rancher and Clip, Matt's mind had been busy. The result of his thinking forced the conclusion that Gregory was innocent of any underhand work.

First, the rancher seemed to be alone at the ranch. If that was really the case, then there had been no one belonging to the place to interfere with the machines. Furthermore, some knowledge of the mechanism of the motor-cycles had been necessary in order to strip the machines of their gasoline in the short space of time in which the work had been done. It was not to be supposed that any confederate of Gregory's could have had this knowledge.

"Hold up, Clip," said Matt, dropping a hand on his chum's arm. "You're on the wrong track. I'm sure Gregory didn't do this, or have any one do it."

"There wasn't any one else," flared Clip. "If Gregory didn't do it, he knows who did."

"The red roadster may have stopped farther along the trail, and one of the men may have come back. Have you got any gasoline, Gregory?" inquired Matt.

"Nary, I ain't," answered the rancher. "That's what them other two fellers wanted ter know."

Clip cast a quick look at Matt.

"Mebby they're running short themselves," said Clip. "They found Gregory didn't have any. Then they made a dead set at ours."

"Or," went on Matt, "those fellows may have asked Gregory just to make sure we couldn't get a fresh supply from him when they had taken what we had. We'll go on for a while and use the pedals."

"We've lost out," cried Clip angrily. "Just at the start, too. Nice thing for you to tell the governor."

Matt looked gloomily at his watch, then started off with all the speed he could throw into the pedals. But the weight of the machinery, now suddenly useless, pulled him back.

His hopes were down, way down. His mysterious enemies had scored a telling stroke at the very start-off.

"What time is it, Matt?" asked Clip, in a discouraged tone, toiling along beside his chum.

"Twenty-five minutes of two," was the answer.

"We've got three hours and twenty-five minutes to go sixty-five miles!" Clip laughed gruesomely. "We couldn't do it in two days, at this rate."

While the boys were talking they came to a long slope that ran downward through a thick chaparral of greasewood, palo-verde, and ironwood. The road twisted serpentlike to avoid rough ground. From somewhere in the thicket below a muffled thump, thump, thump came up to them, as though some one was wielding an ax.

"What's that?" queried Matt, looking at Clip.

"Mexican wood-cutters, I reckon," was the response.

The boys went on down the slope, coasting at a rapid gait. Half-way down the descent, a turn brought them into the proximity of an automobile, and so suddenly that they had to clap on the brakes in order to avoid a collision.

The car was a red roadster. It was at a standstill in the middle of the trail, and neither of the two men was near it.

Astounded at this stroke of luck, Matt and Clip, for a moment, could do no more than stare at each other. The blows of the ax, off in the chaparral, were louder in their ears now, and they could hear a mumble of voices.

"Wow!" gasped Clip. "Am I dreaming? Can I believe what I see? Say, Matt, this is too blamed good to be true!"

Matt, getting quick control of his wits, had been running his eyes over the roadster. One of the rear tires was flat. On the ground near the flattened tire lay a new one, just taken out of the brackets that had supported it.

"Well, well, this is luck!" breathed Matt, getting off his machine and hurrying to the automobile. "A tire blew up on them. They haven't a jack along, and they've gone into the brush to cut a couple of pieces of ironwood, in order to lift the axle and get on a new tire."

"They may be back--"

"Sure, and we've got to hustle." Matt was already on the running-board. "Here are our canteens," he went on excitedly, picking both of the gasoline-cans out of the rumble. "And they're full, too," he added. "Take one, Clip, and empty it into your gasoline-tank."

It was a time for action rather than words. The chopping had ceased in the chaparral, but the talking was still going on, and, from the sound of it, the two men were not as yet coming any nearer.

"We're using up our reserve supply," said Clip, while they were emptying the canteens into the tanks.

"We'll fill the canteens again out of the car-tank," returned Matt, "if we have time."

"Bully!" chuckled Clip. "Then let the rest of the gasoline out into the road. Give 'em a dose of their own medicine. It'll serve 'em right."

Clip was a lad of quick temper. The Indian blood in his veins undoubtedly lay at the root of this, but the resentment he felt at being looked down upon by some of the Ph?nix boys who regarded the mixed blood as a taint had had a good deal to do with it.

Had Matt not interfered at the well, Clip would certainly have set upon Gregory, for rarely did Clip's temper allow him time to reason a matter out. This reprisal against the two men who had the roadster, however, had already taken form in Matt's mind before Clip had suggested it. By stranding the car in the desert, thirty-five miles from a gasoline-filling station, Matt could clip the claws of his enemies and render them harmless.

The moment the Comet's tank had been filled and capped, Matt carried the canteen to the motor-car and proceeded to replenish it out of the supply belonging to his two enemies.

Then, while he was filling Clip's canteen, Clip was busy making Matt's fast to the head of the Comet. Both boys were so hard at work that they did not notice the sound of voices had died out in the chaparral. As Matt stepped back from the motor-car and finished screwing the cap on the canteen, a man jumped out into the road. The man was carrying a six-foot length of ironwood. With a yell of anger, he hurled the heavy stick straight at Matt.

Matt dodged, and the timber just grazed his head.

"Jem!" whooped the man; "this way-on the jump!"

Running around the front of the automobile, Matt made a rush for his machine, at the same time yelling to Clip to get into the saddle and make off with a rush.

The man, darting around the rear of the roadster, started to plant himself in Matt's way. Matt feinted as though he would pass on the right side. When the man had thrown himself in that direction, Matt plunged by on the left, whirling the canteen by the strap and striking his enemy a fierce crack on the side of the head.

The man toppled over against the automobile. By then Matt had reached the Comet. Still hanging to Clip's canteen, he jerked the motor-cycle away from the bushes, got into the saddle, and started the pedals. Clip had already started, but was going slow and looking back to see if his help would be needed.

Jem, the driver of the roadster, crashed through the bushes just as the Comet was getting under its own headway. He carried an ax and another piece of freshly cut ironwood.

"That's King!" whooped Jem's companion. "Stop him! You've got to stop him!"

Clip flung back a taunt. Matt, as the Comet gathered speed like a mettlesome racer, wondered how Jem was going to cover the fast-widening gap and do anything to stop either of the motor-cycles.

The next moment he understood what the last resource was the two men were going to fall back upon.

There came a "pop" like an exploding fire-cracker, and a bullet whistled past Matt's ear. Bending lower over the handlebars, he opened the throttle with a twist of his left hand. The road was down-hill and the Comet was going like a thunderbolt.

In about two seconds Matt had caught up with Clip; then, in an instant more, both boys were screened from their enemies by a turn in the road.

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