"Hoop-a-la!" chattered Ping. "Him plenty fine Cloud Joss."
"Matt's aëroplane is a better one than that of Traquair's—it flies steadier," averred Cameron, enthusiastically.
"Speak to me about this!" muttered the cowboy, his eyes on the great white machine as it swooped upward and onward toward the west. "Let's dig out, pards," he added, suddenly starting toward the automobile. "We've got to put in some mighty good licks if we keep up with Mile-a-minute Matt."
Ping had already thrown a bag of rations into the tonneau of the motor car, and Cameron sprang around in front and began cranking. Just as the engine took up its cycle, and Cameron was starting to take his seat at the steering wheel, McGlory called his attention to a trooper who was galloping down from the direction of the post trader's.
"What do you suppose that swatty is after, Cameron?" the cowboy asked. "He's coming this way just a-smoking, and look how he's waving his arms. Something's up."
"We've got to wait for him," growled the lieutenant, "and that means we lose a couple of minutes. And we haven't got many minutes to waste," he added, with a look at the swiftly diminishing white speck in the western sky.
"Telegram for Motor Matt, leftenant," cried the trooper, reining in his horse and jerking a yellow envelope from his belt.
"You're too late, Latham," said Cameron. "Motor Matt's swinging against the sky, a mile away."
"The operator says it's important," insisted Latham.
"I hate to tamper with Pard Matt's telegrams," remarked McGlory, "but I reckon I'd better read this one. What do you say, Cameron?"