"Listen!" said Matt. "Somebody is coming this way."
There was a crashing of brush up the slope, growing louder by swift degrees. Matt sprang out, cranked up the engine, and hurriedly got back into the car.
"Vat now?" queried Carl.
"I'm going to turn around," said Matt, "and be ready to rush Trymore back to Ash Fork. He's coming—I'm sure of it. That means that we capture him and recover the pearls. A big day's work, Carl!"
"Meppy ve ged some rake-offs, den, hey?" returned Carl. "Ve don'd got mooch luck so far, oudt oof dis shake-oop."
Matt, having turned the Red Flier, brought the machine to a halt and sprang out to be ready with the crank. If Trymore came, with Hank hot at his heels, not a second could be lost in getting away.
The scrambling noise was still coming down the mountainside, growing louder and louder, but with no one breaking into view. As Matt stood by the front of the machine, trying to follow the sound with his eyes, he saw a horseman appear in an opening among the timber. It was Hank. He slid across the open space like a streak, bound down the slope and evidently in pursuit of Trymore.
Just as Hank disappeared, a form tore through the bushes close to the trailside and rushed for the car.
"Help!" cried the man. "Get me out of this or I'll be killed."
Poppety-pop! spluttered the engine, as Matt bent to the crank.