"But that man at the bridge," groaned Penny. "He sure is worrying me."
[CHAPTER XV.]
THE FLIGHT OF THE "COMET."
Matt King was on his mettle. Phœnix was sixteen miles away, and he had, as he figured it, forty minutes to get there and make his way to the park. Could he do it? He could and would!
The presence of Hawley in his crack machine added an element of danger, but Matt knew in his soul he could slide away from the motor-car as a jack-rabbit slips clear of a bounding greyhound.
He saw the dust-fog of the coming car as he whirled past the forks of the road. It was jumping at him with terrific speed, and he saw the chauffeur and the cowboy in front of the big machine and Hawley in the tonneau, standing and leaning over their heads in his excitement and determination.
If Matt got clear, Dirk Hawley stood to lose a lot of money; and to touch the gambler in his pocketbook was to touch him in his tenderest spot.
Matt laughed as he rushed onward. He felt that the race was his, barring accidents; and the Comet was brand-new, and careful handling made accidents a remote possibility.
Seven horses were purring in the cylinders, whirling the racing tires, and showing heels such as seven horses never showed before. The steady murmur of the machine filled Matt's heart with exultation. He was flying, and the tires seemed scarcely to touch the ground they covered. Cactus, rock, greasewood brush shot toward him and were lost behind.