"I know what you thought, Delray," said Matt hurriedly. "I was abducted from Phœnix last night in order to keep me out of the race. I was being held a prisoner——"
"At Pedro Garcia's old jacal," interpolated Clipperton.
"And Clip, here, got me away," went on Matt. "I have to get to Phœnix by four o'clock."
Delray whistled. "Mebby you could do it if you had wings, Matt," said he. "Why, it's nearly two o'clock, and there's twenty long miles between here and Phœnix. That's a deuce of a note. Abducted by Hawley! Thunder! What did he do that for?"
"Let him take your horse," cried Clipperton, sinking down in the shade. "He can make it!"
"Horse?" echoed Delray. "I haven't got a horse. There isn't a horse this side of the Arizona Canal, eight miles away. Give it up, Matt. There'll be bicycle-races after you're dead and gone."
A half-stifled groan broke from Clipperton's lips. Matt and Delray, looking toward him, saw that he had his face in his hands.
"What's the matter with him, Matt?" asked Delray.
"I've lost the race for King," said Clipperton, lifting his haggard face. "I did it! But I got to him as quick as I could. Perry—I—I——" The words died huskily away on Clipperton's lips and he finished by shaking his fist menacingly in the direction of Phœnix.
Matt walked over to Clipperton.