The stolen runabout, while Spangler had been at the hut, had doubled the fork of the trail. Running along the east road it had put about and was now charging along the west.
The Red Flier was facing the direction from which the runabout was coming, and would have to be turned.
"Get Tomlinson aboard, Gregory!" shouted Matt, dropping the Denver man's arm and springing to the front of the machine.
Frantically he turned the lever, then jumped for the driver's seat.
By that time, Gregory had got Tomlinson into the back of the Flier, and had scrambled for a place alongside of Matt.
"Can you run 'er?" he asked.
"Watch me," flung back Matt.
To make a turn, in that narrow roadway, called for plenty of skill, but it was accomplished swiftly. By the time the nose of the Red Flier was pointed the other way, however, the runabout was dangerously close.
Hank was still in front with the captive driver, and still overawing him with the revolver. Matt bent to his levers and steering-wheel. For him there was nothing but the road in front—his eyes saw nothing else.
But how could they hope to win that race, with a better car against them?