"There's no Melican lady to rescue, and that's the worst of it."
At this moment Cameron issued from the hotel. He had his khaki jacket over his arm and the handles of a brace of six-shooters showed above the tops of his hip pockets.
"No sign of Matt yet, eh?" he asked cheerily.
"Nary a sign, Cameron," replied McGlory. "Unless something had gone crossways, he'd have been on here early this morning."
"I don't believe in crossing bridges until you get to them," said Cameron, dropping down on a bench. "You know Motor Matt better than I do, McGlory," he went on, "but I'm well enough acquainted with him to know that he keeps his head with him all the time and never gets rattled."
"He's the boy on the job, all right," averred the cowboy, with a touch of pride. "But what good's a cool head and plenty of pluck if a flying machine up-ends with you a couple of hundred feet in the air?"
Cameron grew silent, and a little bit thoughtful.
"There was a still day yesterday," said he, at last, "and only a bit of a breeze this morning. It's not at all likely that any accident of that kind happened."
"I'm not thinking of that so much as I am of Murgatroyd and his gang," went on McGlory. "That bunch of tinhorns may have laid for Matt somewhere between Sykestown and Minnewaukon."
"Hardly. They wouldn't be expecting him by air ship, and across country, the way he started."