CHAPTER III. THE MOTOR WIZARD.

As Clancy drew nearer the group at the foot of the slope, it became apparent that the stout gentleman was “laying down the law” to the driver of the big car. Rockwell continued to hang discreetly in the background.

Into this group Fortune plunged like a whirlwind. In half a minute he had laid violent hands on the chauffeur, and the two fell to struggling with might and main.

The chauffeur was older than Fortune, although about the same size, and he protected himself with a good deal of vigor. In spite of his utmost efforts, however, the wanderer threw him and dropped on his chest with both knees; then, as he drew back his fist to strike, the stout man grabbed his arm.

“What do you mean, you young savage?” the man cried. “Here, Rockwell! Help me get these two apart.”

Rockwell helped, and so did Clancy. In a little time the two antagonists were dragged away from each other and held firmly at a distance. Their glances crossed angrily.

“If it’s a fight you want,” snarled the chauffeur, “I’m willing to accommodate. No one can jump me like that without takin’ his medicine, by gorry!”

“Y’ought to have your face pounded in!” shouted Fortune. “You run me down on the narrer trail, up the mountain, and I had to roll over the edge o’ the clift to get away from you. What d’you mean by whalin’ along a road like that, without ever givin’ a feller who’s hoofin’ it a chanst for himself?”

“Look here, Dirk Hibbard,” called the stout man, fastening a stern glance on the chauffeur, “is that what you did?”

“You can’t believe that whelp, judge,” answered Hibbard. “You know I’m a careful driver. He’s making up that yarn out of whole cloth. I slowed up and sounded the Gabriel--and he knows it!”

“Slowed up!” jeered Fortune. “You tore past me at forty miles an hour. Ain’t that so, pard?” and he appealed to Clancy.

“Yes,” said Clancy, “it’s so. He sounded the horn, but never slackened speed at all. I had to be quick to get out of his way.”

The judge favored Clancy with a keen look. Evidently he was impressed by the youth’s appearance and truthfulness.

“Well,” remarked the judge, “maybe Hibbard deserves a licking--but he’ll get worse than that before I’m done with him. You keep hands off,” he added to Fortune; “I’ll not stand for any rough-house.”

He pushed Fortune away and nodded to Clancy to take charge of him and restrain his hostile ardor. Clancy at once passed to the side of his friend and caught his arm restrainingly. Rockwell, who did not seem to recognize Fortune as a relative, got off into the background once more.

“So,” went on the judge, in scathing tones, again giving attention to Dirk Hibbard, “you take my car out without permission and go over mountain trails with it at forty miles an hour! What have you to say for yourself?”

“Judge Pembroke,” answered Hibbard, “these two hoboes are pullin’ the wool over your eyes. I don’t see why you are taking their word against mine. You know me, and they’re strangers. Is that right?”

“Did I, or did I not, tell you never to take that machine out of the garage without permission?” flared the judge.

“Why, yes, but----”

“You knew my wishes. To-day you thought I was going to Prescott, and you deliberately disobeyed instructions. I changed my mind about going north and telephoned the garage for the car. Rockwell told me you had taken the car and gone north by this road. He and I followed you, and found you at the foot of the mountain, with the car disabled. Where have you been, Hibbard?”

The chauffeur wore a guilty look, but he made a show of defending himself.

“The motor wasn’t workin’ well, judge,” said he, “and I took the car over the trail to get it in shape.”

“Oh, you did!” answered the judge. “You took it over the mountain trail at forty miles an hour--just to get the motor in shape! Likely yarn! You seem to have got it in excellent condition, for the car is disabled and can’t turn a wheel. Why don’t you fix it?”

“I’m trying to,” answered Hibbard, “but it promises to be a long job. I don’t know just where the difficulty is.”

The judge whirled on Rockwell.

“Can you locate the trouble?” he asked. “I want to take this car back to the garage--I’m not going away and leave it here.”

The garage proprietor came up to the machine. Both sides of the hood had been lifted, and he stooped down and looked the motor over critically.

“Engine seems all right,” said he. “Maybe there’s no gasoline in the tank.”

“Tank’s half full,” returned Hibbard, with a scowl.

“Then maybe the carburetor----”

“Carburetor’s in apple-pie order,” averred the chauffeur.

“All that being the case,” went on Rockwell reflectively, “I reckon we better hitch a rope to the machine and haul it back to the garage for an overhauling.”

Clancy’s keen eyes had been going over the motor. At a glance he had located the difficulty, and he was amazed to hear the garage owner and the chauffeur assert their ignorance of it.

“The trouble’s plain enough,” he blurted out. “I can locate it from here.”

Instantly the red-headed fellow captured the complete attention of the judge, Rockwell, and Hibbard.

“You must be a wonder!” sneered Hibbard. “I’ve been drivin’ a car for four years, but maybe you know a heap more’n I do. You act like one of these chaps that know it all!”

“Are you a mechanic?” inquired Rockwell.

“Mechanic!” jeered Hibbard. “He’s an expert. Can’t you tell that by lookin’ at him? Regular red-headed fix it. You don’t know what’s wrong, Rocks, and I don’t. Let’s see if he can go ahead and make good.”

Clancy, under this fire of ill-natured talk, kept his temper well in hand. Fortune grew restive, and was plainly eager to give Hibbard as good as he sent, but his “pard” checked him with a look.

“It doesn’t take an expert, nor much of a mechanic, to tell what is wrong with that engine,” said he. “If the rest of the car is in order, I can settle the difficulty in thirty seconds.”

“Wow!” cried Hibbard, with an ugly laugh. “He’s a wizard, a regular motor wizard. He rolls up out of the desert, and----”

“That will do!” cut in the judge sharply. “What is your name, young man?” he asked, turning to Clancy.

Clancy told him. Rockwell, when he heard the name, gave a start and looked at the lad more closely.

“You say,” continued the judge, pulling a gold timepiece from his vest, “that you can make my car ready for the road in thirty seconds. Go ahead and make good. I’ll time you.”

Clancy smiled as he stepped forward.

“All right,” said he.

He bent down and manipulated a couple of wires leading from the magneto to the spark plug. Then he straightened up.

“That’s all,” he remarked.

“You’ve got fifteen seconds more,” said the judge. “Go on.”

“It’s all over, judge. The wires were crossed, that’s all. Easy enough to see and easy enough to fix.”

Rockwell and Hibbard exchanged a quick glance. It was a significant glance and did not escape either Clancy or Fortune, although it was entirely lost upon the judge.

“You mean to say the trouble is remedied?” inquired Judge Pembroke incredulously.

“I think so,” Clancy answered, “providing the rest of the car is in condition. The crossing of wires from magneto to spark plugs will disable any car.”

“See if you can crank the machine.”

Clancy lowered the sides of the hood, fastened them in place, and then walked back and adjusted the spark. One spin of the crank set the engine to humming.

“Well, by George!” exclaimed the judge; “and neither Rockwell nor Hibbard could tell what was wrong! What do you know about that?” he asked, turning to the garage proprietor.

Rockwell merely grunted and began cranking his own machine preparatory to a return to town. Hibbard’s face was like a thundercloud. The animosity he had previously shown toward Fortune had seemingly shifted to Clancy. Like Rockwell, however, Hibbard had nothing to say.

“I suppose you can drive a car, Clancy?” the judge asked.

“Certainly,” was the reply.

“Then I’d like to have you drive me back to town.”

“I don’t want to take the place of your chauffeur, judge,” said Clancy, “and, besides, I’ve a little business with Mr. Rockwell and would like to ride with him. We can transact the business very nicely on the way to town.”

Rockwell, who was behind the wheel of the other machine, shot another quick glance at Clancy.

“I reckon I’ll take the rumble seat o’ the other car, and ride with you, pard,” spoke up Fortune.

“I reckon you won’t,” snapped Rockwell. “You’ll either ride with the judge, young man, or else you’ll walk.”

Judge Pembroke seemed surprised at this ugly show of temper.

“You’re welcome to ride in my car,” said he to Fortune.

“Wait for me at the garage, Jimmie,” said Clancy, “providing you get there before we do. If we get there first, I’ll wait.”

“Correct,” returned Fortune, and climbed into the tonneau of the judge’s machine.

The judge, with no very good grace, motioned Hibbard to climb to the driver’s seat, and then followed and took the seat beside him.

“I’ll see you again, Clancy,” called the judge, as the big car started off. “I want to have a talk with you.”

Clancy got in with Rockwell, and the smaller machine got under way. For several minutes Rockwell sat bowed over the steering wheel and did not speak. At last he thawed out enough to remark:

“I wouldn’t have had that happen for a hundred dollars! What business have you butting into my affairs? If it comes to that, what’s your business with me, anyway? Come across with it.”