The man, urging his horse into the river, looked up, amazed, then grinned to see a boy trying to keep _him_ back! He didn’t know that the boy, instead of being frightened, was doing some grinning himself, thinking, “Gee—wish he didn’t look so much like Martin Priest—but here goes. Going to be a surprise-party, right here.” He shot at the leader’s horse three times, paused, saw the animal topple over into the river, and then began firing at the horses of the others—sorry for the animals, but never stopping pumping lead into them. But the men were like savages. While he was firing at one section, another bunch rode down a little farther along, and began to ford. Then Poodle heard a “Bang, bang, bang!” near him, and saw the young man whom they were rescuing lying on his stomach, holding a revolver. The young man seemed happy, now that he was in action. Stopping only to yell, “The Cap’n, yonder, ordered me on the firing line,” he began to shoot without stopping. But their revolvers were not good for the long range, and it would have taken Gatling guns to stop that crowd of desperate cattle-rustlers. The black-bearded leader had run back up the bank, across the river. He mounted the horse which the young man had abandoned when he got in the tetrahedral. Again he was fording, yelling like a wild man. Some of the bunch were across. Poodle and the young man ran back to the _Hustle_, and continued firing from its shelter as the horse-thieves circled about, discharging their rifles. Hike kept working as calmly and swiftly over the engine as though he were in the aerodrome. Suddenly the bandits turned and galloped away, as an infernal cracking, like a Gatling gun, came from the _Hustle_. Hike had started the engine. “Quick, in!” shouted Hike, and the three swung into their seats. The _Hustle_ ran, darted up and they soared, over the heads of the bandits, who shot at them wildly and vainly. The machine never stopped till she had reached the young man’s town, fifty miles farther on. There they descended in the town-park, the young man and his rescued lady climbed out, and started to thank Hike and Poodle. But about the time they had got out three words, they stopped, for the _Hustle_ was darting away over the town, at a hundred and fifty miles an hour, to make up time. “Them’s nice boys,” said the young man. “Lovely,” said the young lady. “They must be going awful far in that contraption—maybe as far as Chicago!” CHAPTER VIII A FIGHT IN THE SKY A hundred and fifty miles an hour!