It was a situation of the gravest peril, but Matt could not go away and leave the aëroplane to be wrecked.
"Are ye goin'?" yelled Siwash furiously. "If ye think I dasn't shoot, I'll show ye I ain't afeared o' nothin'."
"Put down that gun!" ordered Matt.
The scoundrel's finger flexed on the trigger. In another instant the trigger would have been pressed. But something happened. Jake, standing in the front of the wagon, whirled a long blacksnake whip about his head by the lash. Suddenly he let it go, and the weighted handle shot through the air, and struck Siwash Charley's fated right arm. The end of the whip handle landed at about the place where McGlory's missile had struck, the day before.
With a swirling bellow of pain, Siwash dropped the rifle and staggered back, clasping his right forearm with his left hand.
He swore terribly, but the torrent of profanity was cut short by one of his pals.
"Sojers!" cried the man, sweeping Siwash Charley's gun off the ground. "Hustle out o' this, or we're done fer!"
"Swatties!" jubilated McGlory, waving his hat. "Speak to me about this!"
Matt faced the other way. There, sure enough, were half a dozen mounted troopers galloping toward the scene.
The pop of the other car's motor could be heard, and when Matt looked around, once more, Siwash Charley and his comrades were kicking up the dust in the direction of Oberon.