The surprise, it may be observed, was mutual.
The man by the spring was a Chinaman—a lean, hatchet-faced individual whose blouse and baggy trousers gave evidence of rough work in the undergrowth.
"Sam Wing!" yelled McGlory.
Yes, it was the treacherous Celestial, there was not the slightest doubt about that.
Simultaneously with his shout, McGlory leaped forward, closely followed by Matt. Sam Wing awoke to his peril not a second too soon. Casting the cup of water full in the cowboy's face, the Chinaman gave vent to a defiant yell, whirled, and vanished among the trees.
McGlory sputtered wrathfully as he shook the water out of his eyes. Matt bounded on in frantic pursuit of the fugitive.
"Come back!" cried Martin, thinking of nothing but the stolen car. "What's the use of chasing the chink?"
"You freeze to the automobile, Martin," the cowboy paused to answer. "Matt and I will put the kibosh on this yellow grafter and then we'll rejoin you. We'll not be gone long."
The words faded in a rattle and crash of violently disturbed bushes, and McGlory had vanished along his chum's trail.