Matt leaped up frantically and grabbed Pete's arm. "Come on!" he called. "We'll go down toward the main road and meet the notary."
Pete drew back.
"Mebbyso somebody see um Pima Pete," he demurred, "mebbyso ketch um?"
"Take a chance, can't you?" flung back Matt. "It's for Clip! He'd do more than that for you."
Pima Pete hung back no longer, but scrambled down the slippery rocks with Matt.
"You ride," Pete suggested, when they reached the motor-cycle, "me run along. Heap good runner. You see."
Matt followed out the suggestion, and in this way they reached the road. There was no sign of any rig coming from the direction of Prescott, and by then it was nine-twenty-five!
"See um smoke," said the half-breed, pointing.
Matt gave a jump as his eyes followed Pima Pete's pointing finger. An eddying plume of black vapor was hanging against the sky in the vicinity of the Prescott station. The smoke issued from a point that was stationary, and that meant, if it meant anything, that No. 12 was alongside the Prescott platform.
As he watched, scarcely breathing, the fluttering fog of black began moving southward. At that moment a horse and buggy appeared in the road, the one passenger in the vehicle plying a whip briskly. But the horse was tired, and moved slowly.