The mountain was low, oblong in shape, and covered with pine timber. Carl, stealing a covert look behind, now and then, saw that Tomlinson was staring at the tree-covered slope with uneasy eyes.
"This is a good road, King," said Tomlinson presently, "and I think it would be well to let the car out. A better place than this for a hold-up could hardly be imagined, and——"
The words were hardly out of his mouth when a thumping of hoofs was heard in the trail behind.
"Hold up, there!" yelled a voice; "wait!"
Matt took one look rearward. Two mounted men were behind—rough-looking fellows in slouch-hats and blue flannel shirts. It was plain that they had ridden into the road from the timber, probably intending to get ahead of the car, but making a miscalculation.
"Hit 'er up!" cried Tomlinson, crouching down in the tonneau. "Those are two of the men who tried to rob me before! Dig out, King! Don't let any grass grow under this car now!"
Matt advanced the spark, and sent the Red Flier ahead at a furious speed. The horsemen were armed, but made no attempt to shoot. They spurred wildly, and slapped their horses with their hats, but, of course, a six-cylinder machine could walk away from anything on hoofs. In less than a minute the two men were out of sight.
Matt, keenly watching the road and keeping steady hands on the steering-wheel, was wondering if those were the same men who had been prowling about the barn the night before. He judged that they were, and he wondered at their foolish attempt to try to chase the Red Flier and bring the car to a halt from the rear.
Three minutes later, and while they were still making for the point of the mountain, Tomlinson leaned over the back of the seat and gave a surprising order.
"Stop her, King! I'm going to get out here."