"If you're figuring on having some of the gang meet you in the notch, and side-track me," said Matt, "I don't think we'll stop there at all."
"I give you my word," protested Bascomb, "that I'm not going to make you any trouble."
"Your word's not worth very much."
Bascomb made no answer to this, but gave his undivided attention to the road and swung into a dog-trot. In less than a quarter of an hour afterward he reached the notch, Matt wheeling into it close at his heels.
Bascomb halted and looked around expectantly. Apparently he did not see what he wanted to find, and he placed his fingers on his lips and gave a shrill whistle.
Matt had the revolver in his hand, and as he waited and watched his fingers closed resolutely on the stock.
Following the whistle, there was a sound of quick movements up the steep wall. A form bounded off the shelf and came tearing down the slope in the direction of Bascomb.
A startled exclamation escaped Matt's lips. The newcomer was a dog, and the dog was the Great Dane!
It was plain that the dog recognized Matt. As the animal crouched at Bascomb's feet, his baleful eyes turned in the boy's direction, and he growled menacingly.
"I'll shoot the brute if he comes near me!" shouted Matt.