Matt adjusted one of the battery wires, then crawled under the car with a wrench. The cowboy could hear him at work; but he could hear something else, too, and that was a patter of hoofs and a grind of wheels.
“Horse and buggy coming, Matt!” he called. “Miles and Barney are hot after us. I took Miles’ gun away from him, and I can use it, if you say so.”
“Not on your life, Joe!” Matt answered, crawling from under the car and looking back over the road. “That would complicate the affair. We’re not to do any fighting, but just show our heels. We’re on the defensive entirely—remember that.”
The horse, driven by Miles, was coming at a gallop.
“I don’t see what they want horses and buggies at that big house for,” growled McGlory. “Automobiles go with a place like that—and when the family’s in Europe, the bubble-wagons ought to all be in a Boston garage. Will the motor work now, Matt, or have we got to use our heels?”
The car started. The motor was still somewhat out of order, but gave the car a speed that easily carried it away from the horse and buggy.
“I reckon we’ll get clear, pard,” observed McGlory, albeit with an anxious, questioning note in his voice.
“We’ll kill the engine again,” answered Matt, “if we keep running it while it’s out of order.”
“Then, kill it, but get as far away from Miles and Barney, and as near a telegraph office, as you can, before we have to take to the woods.”
“I don’t know anything about this country,” said Matt. “What is the nearest town in this direction, Joe?”