"The Flier's a dandy car!" declared Matt.
"She's got a dandy driver, an' dat's no dream. W'ere'd we been widout Motor Matt at de steerin'-wheel? Yous is a four-time winner, an' dere's odders dat'll hear me say it."
"The runabout will be hot after us as soon as we hit the level ground again."
"Dey'll never ketch us, cull. I don't care how hot dey come, wit' yous handlin' de Flier."
With a final spurt the red car rushed through the rocks, and, for the first time since it had taken that up-and-down trail, both ends were on a level.
As they glided out onto the plain, Matt cast a look backward. There was a feeling of relief came over him at sight of the runabout charging through the rocks at the mountain's foot.
But, as he looked, and just as the runabout was on the point of striking level ground, there was a jerk to the left, a crash, and a sudden stop.
Brisco pitched forward over the wheel, shot clear past the hood, and doubled up and rolled along the stony trail.
Spangler went out on the left side, ricochetting into the air and turning a couple of grotesque somersaults. Like Brisco, when he dropped, he lay still.
A sharp breath escaped Matt's lips. Turning the Red Flier, he started back until he had come almost upon the silent form of Brisco; then he brought the Flier to a halt and jumped out.