"From Mrs. Traquair?" echoed Cameron. "Then she's got away from Murgatroyd and his rascally hirelings."
"Got away from 'em?" bellowed McGlory. "Why, they never had her at that homestead! The whole blooming business is a frame-up, just as I thought, all along. Murgatroyd and Siwash Charley are trying to play even with Matt. Hit her up, can't you, Cameron? For Heaven's sake, let her out! If you don't Matt will get away from us and drop right into the hands of those scheming scoundrels."
Cameron pushed the automobile for all it was worth. The ground raced out from under the flying wheels. The road was like asphalt, and the speedometer indicator ran up and up until it pointed to fifty miles an hour.
"Do better than that!" cried McGlory, his wild eyes on the white speck in the sky. "You've got to do better than that, Cameron. Matt said he could do sixty miles. If you can't equal that, Murg and his men will beat us out."
Cameron had sixty horses under the touch of his fingers, but there was nothing he could do to send the automobile at a faster gait.
"Where did the telegram come from?" he shouted, bending over the wheel and watching the road as it rushed toward the swaying car.
"From Jamestown," yelled McGlory.
They had to talk at the top of their voices in order to make themselves heard in the wind of their flight.
"What does it say?"
"It says that Mrs. Traquair has been making a little visit with friends in Fargo; that she has just got back and found Matt's telegram; and that she is well. That proves that this whole game is a trap—Hackberry, Hackberry's letters, and all. Oh, sufferin' tinhorns! I'm crazy to fight, crazy to do something to stop Matt and to put a crimp in in that gang of sharks and double-dyed villains. Can't you do any better than this, Cameron?"