"Confound Jurgens for carryin' 'em!" fumed Bangs, hurling himself after Whistler.
Matt's time to get active had now arrived. With an exultant heart he jumped to his feet and raced for the automobile.
He had to kick aside some of the brush to get at the crank, and the engine was slow in turning over; but, finally, he had the motor popping and settling down into a steady hum.
Into the car he leaped, there was a moment's work with the handle bars, a twist at the steering wheel and the car leaped toward the road, scattering the brush right and left.
Once on the highway and headed westward, fresh difficulties confronted Matt. His carefully laid plan had been only partly carried out, owing to the untimely yell from Jurgens.
Carl and Dick had had no time to get very far down the road, and Dashington would be put to it to double back and get around Whistler and Bangs.
Matt slowed the car and snailed along on the low speed, looking anxiously the while into the timber that edged the road.
He saw nothing of Dashington, who would presumably be the first one he picked up, and off somewhere in the dusky confines of the wood he heard the snarling report of a rifle.
His heart almost stood still at that.
At whom had the shot been fired? And had it reached its mark?