The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories

by George Barr McCutcheon

  “Why—why, dod-gast you, sir, what do you think I am—a hitchin’-post?” exploded on the lips of the new detective. His face was flaming red.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, my good man, but I thought I saw a hitching-rack as I drove up. Ah, here it is. How careless of me. But say, I won’t be in the store more than a second, and it doesn’t seem worth while to tie the old crow-bait. If you’ll just watch him—or her—for a minute I’ll be greatly obliged, and—”

  “Watch your own horse,” roared the marshal thunderously.

  “Don’t get huffy,” cried the young man cheerily. “It will be worth a quarter to you.”

  “Do you know who I am?” demanded Anderson Crow, purple to the roots of his goatee.

  “Yes, sir; I know perfectly well, but I refuse to give it away. Here, take the bit, old chap, and hold Dobbin for about a minute and half,” went on the stranger ruthlessly; and before Anderson Crow knew what had happened he was actually holding the panting nag by the bit. The young man went up the steps three at a time, almost upsetting Uncle Gideon Luce, who had not been so spry as the others in clearing the way for him. The crowd had ample time in which to study the face, apparel and manner of this energetic young man.

  That he was from the city, good-looking and well dressed, there was no doubt. He was tall and his face was beardless; that much could be seen at a glance. Somehow, he seemed to be laughing all the time—a fact that was afterward recalled with some surprise and no little horror. At the time, the loungers thought his smile was a merry one, but afterward they stoutly maintained there was downright villainy in the leer. His coat was very dusty, proving that he had driven far and swiftly. Three or four of the loungers followed him into the store. He was standing before the counter over which Mr. Lamson served his soda-water. In one hand he held an envelope and in the other his straw hat. George Ray, more observant than the rest, took note of the fact that it was with the hat that he was fanning himself vigorously.

  “A plain vanilla—please rush it along,” commanded the stranger. Mr. Lamson, if possible slower than the town itself, actually showed unmistakable signs of acceleration. Tossing off the soda, the stranger dried his lips with a blue-hemmed white handkerchief. “Is this the post-office?” he asked.

  “Yep,” said Mr. Lamson, who was too penurious to waste words.

  “Anything here for me?” demanded the newcomer.

  “I’ll see,” said the postmaster, and from force of habit began looking through the pile of letters without asking the man’s name. Mr. Lamson knew everybody in the county.

  “Nothing here,” taking off his spectacles conclusively.

  “I didn’t think there was,” said the other complacently. “Give me a bottle of witch hazel, a package of invisible hair-pins and a box of parlor matches. Quick; I’m in a hurry!”

  “Did you say hat-pins?”

  “No, sir; I said hair-pins.”

  “We haven’t any that ain’t visible. How would safety-pins do?”

  “Never mind; give me the bottle and the matches,” said the other, glancing at a very handsome gold watch. “Is the old man still holding my horse?” he called to a citizen near the door. Seven necks stretched simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the affirmative. The stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. “Needn’t mind wrapping up the bottle,” he said.

  “Don’t you care for these matches?” asked Mr. Lamson in mild surprise.

  “I’ll donate them to the church,” said the other, tossing a coin upon the counter and dashing from the store. The crowd ebbed along behind him. “Gentle as a lamb, isn’t he?” he called to Anderson Crow, who still clutched the bit. “Much obliged, sir; I’ll do as much for you some day. If you’re ever in New York, hunt me up and I’ll see that you have a good time. What road do I take to Crow’s Cliff?”

  “Turn to your left here,” said Anderson Crow before he thought. Then he called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow.

  “How far is it from here?”

  “Mile and a half,” again answered Mr. Crow helplessly. This time he almost swore under his breath.

  “But he can’t get there,” volunteered one of the bystanders.

  “Why can’t he?” demanded the marshal.

  “Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?”

  “Of course not,” promptly replied Mr. Crow, who had forgotten it; “But, dang it, he c’n swim, can’t he?”

  “You say the bridge is gone?” asked the stranger, visibly excited.

  “Yes, and the crick’s too high to ford, too.”

  “Well, how in thunder am I to get to Crow’s Cliff?”

  “There’s another bridge four miles upstream. It’s still there,” said George Ray. Anderson Crow had scornfully washed his hands of the affair.

  “Confound the luck! I haven’t time to drive that far. I have to be there at half-past twelve. I’m late now! Is there no way to get across this miserable creek?” He was in the buggy now, whip in hand, and his eyes wore an anxious expression. Some of the men vowed later that he positively looked frightened.

  “There’s a foot-log high and dry, and you can walk across, but you can’t get the horse and buggy over,” said one of the men.

  “Well, that’s just what I’ll have to do. Say, Mr. Officer, suppose you drive me down to the creek and then bring the horse back here to a livery stable. I’ll pay you well for it. I must get to Crow’s Cliff in fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m no errant-boy!” cried Anderson Crow so wrathfully that two or three boys snickered.

  “You’re a darned old crank, that’s what you are!” exclaimed the stranger angrily. Everybody gasped, and Mr. Crow staggered back against the hitching-rail.

  “See here, young man, none o’ that!” he sputtered. “You can’t talk that way to an officer of the law. I’ll—”

  “You won’t do anything, do you hear that? But if you knew who I am you’d be doing something blamed quick.” A dozen men heard him say it, and they remembered it word for word.

  “You go scratch yourself!” retorted Anderson Crow scornfully. That was supposed to be a terrible challenge, but the stranger took no notice of it.

  “What am I to do with this horse and buggy?” he growled, half to himself. “I bought the darned thing outright up in Boggs City, just because the liveryman didn’t know me and wouldn’t let me a rig. Now I suppose I’ll have to take the old plug down to the creek and drown him in order to get rid of him.”

  Nobody remonstrated. He looked a bit dangerous with his broad shoulders and square jaw.

  “What will you give me for the outfit, horse, buggy, harness and all? I’ll sell cheap if some one makes a quick offer.” The bystanders looked at one another blankly, and at last the concentrated gaze fell upon the Pooh-Bah of the town. The case seemed to be one that called for his attention; truly, it did not look like public property, this astounding proposition.

  “What you so derned anxious to sell for?” demanded Anderson Crow, listening from a distance to see if he could detect a blemish in the horse’s breathing gear. At a glance, the buggy looked safe enough.

  “I’m anxious to sell for cash,” replied the stranger; and Anderson was floored. The boy who snickered this time had cause to regret it, for Mr. Crow arrested him half an hour later for carrying a bean-shooter. “I paid a hundred dollars for the outfit in Boggs City,” went on the stranger nervously. “Some one make an offer—and quick! I’m in a rush!”

  “I’ll give five dollars!” said one of the onlookers with an apologetic laugh. This was the match that started fire in the thrifty noddles of Tinkletown’s best citizens. Before they knew it they were bidding against each other with the true “horse-swapping” instinct, and the offers had reached $21.25 when the stranger unceremoniously closed the sale by crying out, “Sold!” There is no telling how high the bi
ds might have gone if he could have waited half an hour or so. Uncle Gideon Luce afterward said that he could have had twenty-four dollars “just as well as not.” They were bidding up a quarter at a time, and no one seemed willing to drop out. The successful bidder was Anderson Crow.

  “You can pay me as we drive along. Jump in!” cried the stranger, looking at his watch with considerable agitation. “All I ask is that you drive me to the foot-log that crosses the creek.”

  CHAPTER II

  The Pursuit Begins

  Fifteen minutes later Anderson Crow was parading proudly about the town. He had taken the stranger to the creek and had seen him scurry across the log to the opposite side, supplied with directions that would lead him to the nearest route through the swamps and timberland to Crow’s Cliff. The stranger had Anderson’s money in his pocket; but Anderson had a very respectable sort of driving outfit to show for it. His wife kept dinner for him until two o’clock, and then sent the youngest Crow out to tell her father that he’d have to go hungry until supper-time.

  It is no wonder that Anderson failed to reach home in time for the midday meal. He started home properly enough, but what progress could he make when everybody in town stopped him to inquire about the remarkable deal and to have a look at the purchase. Without a single dissenting voice, Tinkletown said Anderson had very much the “best of the bargain.” George Ray meant all right when he said, “A fool for luck,” but he was obliged to explain thoroughly the witticism before the proud Mr. Crow could consider himself appeased.

  It was not until he pulled up in front of the Weekly Banner establishment to tell the reporter “the news” that his equanimity received its first jar. He was quite proud of the deal, and, moreover, he enjoyed seeing his name in the paper. In the meantime almost everybody in Tinkletown was discussing the awful profligacy of the stranger. It had not occurred to anybody to wonder why he had been in such a hurry to reach Crow’s Cliff, a wild, desolate spot down the river.

  “The hoss alone is worth fifty dollars easy,” volunteered Mr. Crow triumphantly. The detective’s badge on his inflated chest seemed to sparkle with glee.

  “Say, Anderson, isn’t it a little queer that he should sell out so cheap?” asked Harry Squires, the local reporter and pressfeeder.

  “What’s that?” demanded Anderson Crow sharply.

  “Do you think it’s really true that he bought the nag up at Boggs City?” asked the sceptic. Mr. Crow wallowed his quid of tobacco helplessly for a minute or two. He could feel himself turning pale.

  “He said so; ain’t that enough?” he managed to bluster.

  “It seems to have been,” replied Harry, who had gone to night school in Albany for two years.

  “Well, what in thunder are you talking about then?” exclaimed Anderson Crow, whipping up.

  “I’ll bet three dollars it’s a stolen outfit!”

  “You go to Halifax!” shouted Anderson, but his heart was cold. Something told him that Harry Squires was right. He drove home in a state of dire uncertainty and distress. Somehow, his enthusiasm was gone.

  “Dang it!” he said, without reason, as he was unhitching the horse in the barn lot.

  “Hey, Mr. Crow!” cried a shrill voice from the street. He looked up and saw a small boy coming on the run.

  “What’s up, Toby?” asked Mr. Crow, all a-tremble. He knew!

  “They just got a telephone from Boggs City,” panted the boy, “down to the Banner office. Harry Squires says for you to hurry down—buggy and all. It’s been stole.”

  “Good Lord!” gasped Anderson. His badge danced before his eyes and then seemed to shrivel.

  Quite a crowd had collected at the Banner office. There was a sudden hush when the marshal drove up. Even the horse felt the intensity of the moment. He shied at a dog and then kicked over the dashboard, upsetting Anderson Crow’s meagre dignity and almost doing the same to the vehicle.

  “You’re a fine detective!” jeered Harry Squires; and poor old Anderson hated him ever afterward.

  “What have you heerd?” demanded the marshal.

  “There’s been a terrible murder at Boggs City, that’s all. The chief of police just telephoned to us that a farmer named Grover was found dead in a ditch just outside of town—shot through the head, his pockets rifled. It is known that he started to town to deposit four hundred dollars hog-money in the bank. The money is missing, and so are his horse and buggy. A young fellow was seen in the neighbourhood early this morning—a stranger. The chief’s description corresponds with the man who sold that rig to you. The murderer is known to have driven in this direction. People saw him going almost at a gallop.”

  It is not necessary to say that Tinkletown thoroughly turned inside out with excitement. The whole population was soon at the post-office, and everybody was trying to supply Anderson Crow with wits. He had lost his own.

  “We’ve got to catch that fellow,” finally resolved the marshal. There was a dead silence.

  “He’s got a pistol,” ventured some one.

  “How do you know?” demanded Mr. Crow keenly. “Did y’ see it?”

  “He couldn’t ha’ killed that feller ’thout a gun.”

  “That’s a fact,” agreed Anderson Crow. “Well, we’ve got to get him, anyhow. I call for volunteers! Who will join me in the search?” cried the marshal bravely.

  “I hate to go to Crow’s Cliff after him,” said George Ray. “It’s a lonesome place, and as dark as night ’mong them trees and rocks.”

  “It’s our duty to catch him. He’s a criminal, and besides, he’s killed a man,” said Crow severely.

  “And he has twenty-one dollars of your money,” added Harry Squires. “I’ll go with you, Anderson. I’ve got a revolver.”

  “Look out there!” roared Anderson Crow. “The blamed thing might go off!” he added as the reporter drew a shiny six-shooter from his pocket.

  The example set by one brave man had its influence on the crowd. A score or more volunteered, despite the objections of their wives, and it was not long before Anderson Crow was leading his motley band of sleuths down the lane to the foot-log over which the desperado had gone an hour before.

  It was at the beginning of the man-hunt that various citizens recalled certain actions and certain characteristics of the stranger which had made them suspicious from the start. His prodigal disposition of the box of matches impressed most of them as reckless dare-devilism; his haste, anxiety, and a single instance of mild profanity told others of his viciousness. One man was sure he had seen the stranger’s watch chain in farmer Grover’s possession; and another saw something black on his thumb, which he now remembered was a powder stain.

  “I noticed all them things,” averred Anderson Crow, supreme once more.

  “But what in thunder did he want with those hair-pins?” inquired George Ray.

  “Never mind,” said Anderson mysteriously. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Do you know Anderson?” some one asked.

  “Of course I do,” responded the marshal loftily.

  “Well, what were they for, then?”

  “I’m not givin’ any clews away. You just wait a while and see if I’m not right.”

  And they were satisfied that the detective knew all about it. After crossing the foot-log the party was divided as to which direction it should take. The marshal said the man had run to the southeast, but for some inexplicable reason quite a number of the pursuers wanted to hunt for him in the northwest. Finally it was decided to separate into posses of ten, all to converge at Crow’s Cliff as soon as possible. There were enough double-barrelled shotguns in the party to have conquered a pirate crew.

  At the end of an hour Anderson Crow and his delegation came to the narrow path which led to the summit of Crow’s Cliff. They were very brave by this time. A small boy was telling them he had seen the fugitive about dinner-time “right where you fellers are standin’ now.”

  “Did he have any blood on him?” demanded Anderson Crow.<
br />
  “No, sir; not ’less it was under his clothes.”

  “Did he say anythin’ to you?”

  “He ast me where this path went to.”

  “See that, gentlemen!” cried Anderson. “I knew I was right. He wanted—”

  “Well, where did he go?” demanded Harry Squires.

  “I said it went to the top of the clift. An’ then he said, ‘How do you git to the river?’ I tole him to go down this side path here an’ ’round the bottom of the hill.”

  “Didn’t he go up the cliff?” demanded the marshal.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, what in thunder did he ask me where the cliff was if he—”

  “So he went to the river, eh?” interrupted Squires. “Come on, men; he went down through this brush and bottomland.”

  “He got lost, I guess,” volunteered the boy.

  “What!”

  “’Cause he yelled at me after he’d gone in a-ways an’ ast—an’ ast—” The boy paused irresolutely.

  “Asked what?”

  “He ast me where in hell the path was.”

  “By ginger, that’s him, right out an’ out!” exclaimed Mr. Crow excitedly.

  “’Nen he said he’d give me a quarter if I’d show him the way; so I—”

  “Did he give you the quarter?” questioned one of the men.

  “Yep. He’d a roll of bills as big as my leg.” Everybody gasped and thought of Grover’s hog-money.

  “You went to the river with him?” interrogated the reporter.

  “I went as fur as the clearin’, an’ then he tole me to stop. He said he could find the way from there. After that he run up the bank as if some one was after him. There was a boat waitin’ fer him under the clift.”

  “Did he get into it?” cried Squires.

  “He tole me not to look or he’d break my neck,” said the boy. The posse nervously fingered its arsenal.

  “But you did look?”

  “Yep. I seen ’em plain.”

  “Them? Was there more than one?”

  “There was a woman in the skift.”

  “You don’t say so!” gasped Squires.

  “Dang it, ain’t he tellin’ you!” Anderson ejaculated scornfully.