He went immediately to the hotel at which his friends were supposed to be. But when he stated his object to the hotel clerk, the latter gazed at him blankly. "There are no parties of that name stopping here," he said. "I guess you have the wrong address, young man." Bert showed him the telegram, but the clerk only shook his head. "There's something wrong somewhere," he said; "suppose you see Bently, the telegrapher. He could probably give you a description of the person that sent the telegram, anyway."

"Thanks, I will," said Bert, and hastened out. A dim idea of the true state of affairs was beginning to form in his brain, but it hardly seemed possible his suspicions could be true. He soon reached the telegraph office, and accosted the operator.

"Can you tell me," he asked, "who sent that telegram early this morning?"

The station agent glanced at the telegram, and replied: "Why, I can't give you a very good description of the man, for I didn't take special notice of him. He was a young man of medium build, though, with light hair, and now I come to think of it, he wore goggles. Seems to me I heard some one say he was riding a motorcycle in some cross country race, but that I can't vouch for."

"I think I know who he was, all right," said Bert, "and I'm much obliged to you."

"Don't mention it," returned the other, and turned again to his work.

Bert walked out of the station with clenched fists and blazing eyes.

"It's Hayward who sent that telegram," he muttered, between clenched teeth. "I'd stake my soul on it. But I'll win this race in spite of that crook and his tricks. And anyway," he thought, with his eyes softening, "old Tom _isn't_ sick after all, and that's almost enough to make me forgive Hayward. I feel as though I had just awakened from an awful nightmare."

It was characteristic of Bert that his anger and chagrin at being tricked in this dastardly way were swallowed up in his relief at finding the report of his friend's illness false.

Bert consulted his map, and found that by taking a different route than that by which he had come he could save quite some distance, and started out again, after filling the "Blue Streak's" tanks with oil and gasoline, with the grim resolve to have revenge for the despicable trick that had been played on him, by s.n.a.t.c.hing from Hayward the prize that he was willing to stoop to such depths to gain.

Up hill and down he flew, around curves, over bridges that shook and rattled at the impact of racing man and machine. Steadily the mileage indicator slipped around, as league after league rolled backward, and Bert exulted as he watched it. "We'll make it ahead of everybody else or die in the attempt, won't we, old fellow?" he said, apostrophizing the "Blue Streak." "n.o.body's going to play a trick like that on us and get away with it, are they?"

Only once on the return trip did he stop, and then only long enough to s.n.a.t.c.h a little food. Then he was off again like the wind, and as dusk began to fall rode into Louisville. As he entered the hotel, after leaving his machine in a garage, d.i.c.k and Tom swooped down upon him.

"What's up?" they demanded, both in the same breath, "who sent that telegram, do you know?"

"I think I know," replied Bert. "I haven't a doubt in the world that it was sent by Hayward. You remember that we heard he was more or less crooked, and now we know it."

"I wish I could lay my hands on him," exclaimed d.i.c.k, with flashing eyes. "I'd make him regret the day he was born. Just you wait till the next time I come across him, that's all."

"If I see him first there won't be anything left for you," said Tom. "Of all the dirty, underhanded tricks I ever heard of, that is the limit."

"Well, I won't contradict you," said Bert, grimly, "but all he'll ever gain out of it will be a sound thrashing. Don't you believe for a minute that it's going to help him win this race. I'll ride day and night until I've made up for this lost time."

And ride he did, crowding three days' mileage into two, until at last he felt that he had recovered the time lost in answering the call of the forged telegram.

CHAPTER IX

IN DEADLY PERIL

It was after he reached the Western deserts that Bert experienced the hardest going. The roads, if mere trails could be dignified by that name, were unspeakably bad, and time and again he was forced to ride on the railroad embankment, between the tracks. Of course, progress in this manner was necessarily slow, and again and again Bert had occasion to feel grateful for the wonderful springing system of his mount. Without some such aid, he felt his task would be well nigh hopeless.

As it was, he had to let a little air out of the tires, to reduce the shocks caused by contact with the rough ballast and uneven ties. In some places, where the roadbed was exceptionally well ballasted he was able to open up a little, but such stretches were few and far between. In places he was forced to dismount because of drainage culverts running under the tracks. When this happened he would lift the "Blue Streak" up on a rail and trundle it over. It was back-breaking work, and tested even his courage and endurance to the utmost.

His oil and gasoline supply ran low, but by great good fortune he was able to secure almost a gallon of gasoline from an agent at a lonely little station, and about a quart of very inferior lubricating oil. But he comforted himself with the thought that "half a loaf is better than none" and went on. After a while he noticed that a pa.s.sable looking road skirted the railroad to the left, and he resolved to try it.

Accordingly, he scrambled down the steep embankment, the "Blue Streak"

half rolling and half sliding down with him. He arrived safely at the bottom, and a minute later was on the road. It proved to be fairly good at first, but became more and more sandy, and at last Bert was brought to a standstill.

"I guess I'm through for to-day," he reflected, and gazed anxiously in every direction for any sign of human habitation. His searching gaze met nothing but empty sky and empty desert, however, and he drew a sigh of resignation. "I guess there's nothing for it but to camp out here and make the best of things," he thought, and set about unstrapping his impedimenta from the luggage carrier.

His preparations for the night were soon made. He smoothed out a patch of sand and spread his thick army blanket over it. "Now that that's done," he thought, "I'll just have a bite to eat, and turn in. This isn't half bad, after all. It's a lot better than some of the hotels I've put up at on this trip, and the ventilation is perfect."

He always carried a substantial lunch with him, to guard against emergencies, and of this he now partook heartily. When he had finished, he busied himself in cleaning and thoroughly inspecting his faithful mount, and found it in fine condition, even after such a strenuous day.

"No need to worry about your not delivering the goods, is there, old boy?" he said, affectionately. "As long as you stick to the job, we'll pull through all right."

By the time he had completed his inspection and made some adjustments it was almost dark, and Bert rolled himself in his blanket and was soon sleeping soundly.

Meantime Tom and d.i.c.k were awaiting him at Boyd, a small town in Northern Texas. When he failed to arrive, they decided that some unforeseen event had delayed him, and were not much worried.

Nevertheless, they were not quite easy about him, and Tom made a proposition that met with instant approbation from d.i.c.k.

"Why wouldn't it be a good idea," Tom proposed, "to hire an automobile early to-morrow morning and meet him outside the town on his way in? It will break up the trip a little for him, and then, in case he's had a breakdown we can help him out."

"Fine!" agreed d.i.c.k, enthusiastically, "let's go out right now and make arrangements with the garage keeper so we'll be sure to get the machine in the morning. We might as well be on the safe side."

They immediately sallied out to put this plan in execution. They experienced no difficulty in making the necessary arrangements. They paid the proprietor of the garage a deposit, and so secured the use of a fast, two-seated runabout for the following morning.

Before they left d.i.c.k asked the proprietor at what time the place was open. "Oh, it's always open," he replied, "come and get the car any time you want it. It's all the same to me, so long as it's paid for."

"All right, we'll take you at your word," they promised, and returned to the hotel.

"We'll get a good early start," planned Tom, "we ought to leave the garage before six o'clock if we expect to meet Bert in time."

"We'll do just that," agreed d.i.c.k, "and maybe I won't be glad to set eyes on the old reprobate again."

"I, too," said Tom, "he'll be a sight for sore eyes."

"That's what," agreed d.i.c.k, "but if we're going to get started at that unearthly hour, we'd better turn in early to-night."

This proposition being self-evident, it met with no opposition, and shortly afterward they retired, leaving an early call at the office.

They were awakened punctually the next morning, and tumbled hastily into their clothes. They did not even stop for breakfast, arguing "that there would be plenty of time for that later on." In a very short time they presented themselves at the garage, and the party in charge, following instructions left with him by the owner of the place, turned the automobile over to them.

d.i.c.k took the wheel, and they were soon spinning rapidly through the quiet streets of the town. Once outside the limits, d.i.c.k "cracked on speed," and they went along at a fast clip. They pa.s.sed right by the place where Bert had encamped at a distance of several miles, and before long came to a village, where they inquired if Bert had been through.

No, the villagers said, he had not been through there, but they had heard that a motorcyclist had been seen riding on the railroad embankment, and there could be little doubt that the rider was Bert.

"You must have pa.s.sed him somewhere," concluded one of their informants, an old native whose tanned and weather-beaten face was seamed by a thousand wrinkles. "P'raps he stuck to the railroad tracks clean through, an' is in Boyd by this time."

But d.i.c.k shook his head. "If he'd followed the tracks right along he'd probably have reached town last night," he said, with an anxious look in his eyes. "I'm afraid he's left the track for one reason or another, and lost his way."

"Is there any road near the track that he might have used?" queried Tom.

"No, there ain't," replied the veteran, "leastways, nothin' except the old Holloway trail, and you can't rightly call that a road. It's most wiped out now, an' jest leads plumb to nowhere."

"Just the same," exclaimed d.i.c.k, excitedly, "that's just what has happened." He explained hurriedly the race and its object, and ended by entreating the old plainsman to guide them to the road he had spoken of.

"Waal, all right," exclaimed the old man, after a moment of hesitation, "I'll go ye. But whareabouts in that gasoline buggy o' yourn am I goin'

to sit? Thar don't seem to be much room to spare."