An idea suddenly popped into McGlory's head.
"This way, Matt," said he, stepping off to one side and beckoning Matt to follow.
The cowboys were a little suspicious, but their curiosity prompted them to inspect the _Comet_ and leave Matt and McGlory to their own devices.
"What do you think, pard?" asked McGlory, when he and Matt were by themselves.
"I think it won't do to have any delay," replied Matt, "but I don't just see how we're going to avoid it. If it wasn't for those rifles----" He cast a look at the cowboys and shrugged his shoulders.
"I've got a notion we can fool the punchers," said McGlory, "but Ping and I will have to be left behind, if we do it. You'll be going it alone, from here on. Think you can manage it?"
"I'll try anything," answered Matt. "All I want is to get away. Who this gambler the cowboys call George Hobbes is, I haven't the least idea. Their description of the fellow doesn't tally with the description of Murgatroyd, and the whole affair is beginning to have a queer look. I don't think there's any time to be lost."
"No more there isn't," replied McGlory. "Ping and I can wander on to the mouth of Burnt Creek on foot as soon as we can shake the punchers, and you can look for us there. What I'm plannin' is this."
Thereupon McGlory hastily sketched his swiftly formed plan. It had rather a venturesome look, to Matt, and might, or might not, win out. There was nothing to do, however, but to try it.
"What you shorthorns gassin' about?" yelled Jed Spearman. "I'm all ready ter fly, an' time's skurse."
Matt and McGlory, having finished their brief talk, walked back to the cowboys.
"If you're bound to make Motor Matt take you to the ranch, Spearman," said McGlory, "that means that the chink and me'll have to wait here till you get back."
"Which is what I was expectin'," answered Spearman. "I don't want ter feel cramped in that thar machine."
"The rest of you will have to give the machine a start down the hill," went on McGlory innocently. "When the craft gets a start, and is in the air, you'll have to watch your chance, Spearman, and jump aboard."
"Jump on when she's goin' sixty miles an hour?" howled Spearman. "Say, what d'ye think my scalp's wuth?"
"It won't be going sixty miles an hour," parried McGlory.