"My name's King," said Matt. "Can you tell me where I'll find Sheriff Burke, of Prescott?"
"You bet I can! Go right around that projectin' rock an' ye'll be in our camp. What ye lookin' up Burke fer?"
Matt did not stop to answer. Turning his machine the other way, he sped on around a projecting spur of the ridge, and found himself among a dozen men and horses.
The men were all armed, booted, and spurred. The camp had been pitched beside a spring, and some were watering their horses, and others were rolling up their blankets. Matt's sudden appearance drew the attention of all, and there was a chorus of wondering exclamations as he brought his machine to a halt.
"Blamed if here ain't one o' them new kind o' bicycles!" cried one of the men. "Slid right in on us afore we suspected a thing! It kain't be this kid's one o' the Dangerfield gang?"
A tall, broad-shouldered, red-whiskered man pushed through the crowd that was gathering about Matt.
"Who are you?" the man asked sharply.
"I'm looking for Sheriff Burke," replied Matt.
"Then you've made a bull's-eye, first crack out of the box. I'm Burke."
"What time is it, Mr. Burke?" asked Matt, getting out of the saddle and standing beside the machine.