"Your lease of liberty is short," fumed Tomlinson; "I'll spend my last dollar, if I have to, in bringing you and the rest of your infernal gang to book."
"Fer the last time, King!" growled Spangler, moving his revolver significantly. "I've chinned all I'm goin' ter about that bag. Either pass it over or take what's comin'."
Matt had got around behind the bench. He had done this in a casual manner so as not to arouse Spangler's suspicions. Just as the ruffian finished, Matt kicked the bench against his legs.
Spangler staggered back. He did not lose his balance, but, in order to keep from falling, he had to throw up his arms.
This was the opportunity Matt wanted. Like a flash he jumped over the bench and his right fist shot out in a blow straight from the shoulder.
It was no light tap, for the young motorist put all his heart and science into that darting right-hander. Spangler was caught on the point of the jaw and driven against the crumbling adobe wall. The revolver fell from his hand, and Matt pounced upon it and brought it level with Spangler's breast.
"By gad!" cried the admiring Tomlinson. "What do you think of that, Gregory? Did you ever see anything neater than that? King, you're a wonder! Bravo!"
"He's quicker'n chain lightning!" averred Gregory.
Spangler was having recourse to his usual tactics whenever things went wrong with him, and was swearing like an army teamster.
"That will do, Spangler!" said Matt sternly. "Swearing never helped anybody and it's not going to help you. Stow it."