When two or three miles had been covered, Murgatroyd turned the machine from the road and drove toward a range of hills, or coteaus, that fringed the horizon in the northwest.
Over the crisp, crackling grass the heavy car passed, now and then chugging into a gopher hole and slamming Matt around in the tonneau.
When they had reached the foot of the hills, Murgatroyd followed along the foot of the range and finally halted.
"This will do," said the broker. "Take the ropes off his feet, Siwash, and make him walk. I guess he won't try to get away. You can keep a grip on him and I'll trail along with the rifle."
"Oh, I guess he won't try any foolishness with me," cried Siwash, swinging down from the car, "not if he knows what's best fer him."
Opening the tonneau door, Siwash Charley reached in and removed the rope from Matt's ankles.
"Come out here," he ordered.
Murgatroyd stood up in front, rifle in hand, and watched to see that the order was obeyed. Matt supposed that all this was to keep him from going to Traquair's homestead and helping Mrs. Traquair. But, bound as he was, and with two desperate men for captors, he was helpless.
Without a word he got up and stepped out of the car. Siwash Charley caught his arm and led him toward a steep hillside, Murgatroyd following with the rifle. At the foot of the almost perpendicular wall of earth they stopped.
"Hold the gun on him, Murg," said Siwash, "while I fix the winder so'st ter throw a little light inter the dugout."