The bicycle wheels began to take the push, and the Comet started down the slope, the two cowboys ahead pulling, and the four at the wings pushing.
Naturally, the descent aided the motor. There had not been as much rain, in that part of the State, as there had been in the Devil's Lake country, and the turf was fairly dry and afforded tolerably good wheeling.
The cowboys roared with delight as they ran awkwardly in their tight, high-heeled boots. What happened was only natural, in the circumstances, although quite unexpected to the ignorant cattlemen.
In less than fifty feet the aëroplane was going too fast for the runners. The four at the wings had to let go; and the two at the rope, finding themselves in imminent danger of being run over, dropped the rope and leaped to one side.
All six of the cowboys watched while the Comet, catching the air under her outspread pinions, mounted gracefully—and then continued to mount, the riata trailing beneath.
"He ain't comin' back fer ye, Jed!" howled Slim.
"Here, you!" bellowed the foreman. "Whar ye goin'? What kinder way is that ter treat a feller? Come back, or I'll send a bullet arter ye!"
Matt paid no attention. He was following, to the very letter, the plan McGlory had formed, and was rushing at speed in the direction of the Missouri and the mouth of Burnt Creek.
"Git yer guns!" cried the wrathful Spearman. "Shoot him up!"
It is doubtful whether the cowboys would have been able to retrace their way up the hill and secure their guns before Matt had got out of range. But they had not a chance to put their purpose to the test, for the contingency had been guarded against.