"Count on me!" he yelled, and tore down the steep slope to the place where he had left the motor-cycle.
As Matt watched him, he mounted, started the motor with two turns of the pedals—half a turn was all the Comet ever needed—and was off.
[CHAPTER XIII.]
QUICK WORK.
Motor Matt's work was mapped out for him, and he had plenty to do. Whirling on the grim-faced half-breed, he dropped down on a boulder and pulled a small motor-cycle catalogue from his pocket. Ripping off the cover, which was bare of printing on the inside, he laid it on top of his leather cap, which he placed on his knees.
"This will be a queer-looking affidavit," said he, fishing a lead-pencil from his pocket, "but we'll have to make the most of what we have. You see, Pete, we're working against time, and every second counts. Now listen:
"You met Tom Clipperton in the hills, on the night of the robbery, and took him to the place where Dangerfield had buried his money. Then you dug it up, went back to the trail, and were set upon by the two deputies. Is that it?"
"Yes," nodded Pima Pete.
"Where did Dangerfield get that money?"