“But we’ll have to bury her, like as not,” said Isaac Porter.
“Yes,” said Anderson reflectively. “She’ll have to be buried. But—but—” and here his face lightened up in relief—”not fer a day er two; so what’s the use worryin’.”
When the coroner arrived, soon after six o’clock, a jury was empanelled and witnesses sworn. In ten minutes a verdict of suicide was returned and the coroner was on his way back to Boggs City. He did not even know that a hip had been dislocated. Anderson insisted upon a post-mortem examination, but was laughed out of countenance by the officious M.D.
“I voted fer that fool last November,” said Anderson wrathfully, as the coroner drove off, “but you c’n kick the daylights out of me if I ever do it ag’in. Look out there, Bud! What in thunder are you doin’ with them pistols? Doggone, ain’t you got no sense? Pointin’ ’em around that way. Why, you’re liable to shoot somebody—”
“Aw, them ain’t pistols,” scoffed Bud, his mouth full of something. “They’re bologny sausages. I ain’t had nothin’ to eat sence last night and I’m hungry.”
“Well, it’s dark out here,” explained Anderson, suddenly shuffling into the jail. “I guess I’ll put them fellers through the sweat box.”
“The what?” demanded George Ray.
“The sweat-box—b-o-x, box. Cain’t you hear?”
“I thought you used a cell.”
“Thunderation, no! Nobody but country jakes call it a cell,” said Anderson in fine scorn.
The three prisoners scowled at him so fiercely and snarled so vindictively when they asked him if they were to be starved to death, that poor Anderson hurried home and commanded his wife to pack “a baskit of bread and butter an’ things fer the prisoners.” It was nine o’clock before he could make up his mind to venture back to the calaboose with his basket. He spent the intervening hours in telling Rosalie and Bonner about the shocking incident at the jail and in absorbing advice from the clear-headed young man from Boston.
“I’d like to go with you to see those fellows, Mr. Crow,” was Bonner’s rueful lament. “But the doctor says I must be quiet until this confounded thing heals a bit. Together, I think we could bluff the whole story out of those scoundrels.”
“Oh, never you fear,” said the marshal; “I’ll learn all there is to be learnt. You jest ask Alf Reesling what kind of a pumper I am.”
“Who is Alf Reesling?”
“Ain’t you heerd of him in Boston? Why, every temperance lecturer that comes here says he’s the biggest drunkard in the world. I supposed his reputation had got to Boston by this time. He’s been sober only once in twenty-five years.”
“Is it possible?”
“That was when his wife died. He said he felt so good it wasn’t necessary to get drunk. Well, I’ll tell you all about it when I come back. Don’t worry no more, Rosalie. I’ll find out who’s back of this business an’ then we’ll know all about you. It’s a long lane that has no turn.”
“Them prisoners must be mighty near starved to death by this time, Anderson,” warned Mrs. Crow.
“Doggone, that’s so!” he cried, and hustled out into the night.
The calaboose was almost totally dark—quite so, had it not been for the single lamp that burned in the office where the body of the old woman was lying. Two or three timid citizens stood afar off, in front of Thompson’s feed yard, looking with awe upon the dungeon keep. Anderson’s footsteps grew slower and more halting as they approached the entrance to the forbidding square of black. The snow creaked resoundingly under his heels and the chill wind nipped his muffless ears with a spitefulness that annoyed. In fact, he became so incensed, that he set his basket down and slapped his ears vigorously for some minutes before resuming his slow progress. He hated the thought of going in where the dead woman lay.
Suddenly he made up his mind that a confession from the men would be worthless unless he had ear witnesses to substantiate it in court. Without further deliberation, he retraced his steps hurriedly to Lamson’s store, where, after half an hour’s conversation on the topics of the day, he deputised the entire crowd to accompany him to the jail.
“Where’s Bud?” he demanded sharply.
“Home in bed, poor child,” said old Mr. Borton.
“Well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain’t he here to—”began Anderson, but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he expected Bud to act as leader in the expedition. “I wanted him to jot down notes,” he substituted. Editor Squires volunteered to act as secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing tongue could utter.
“Well, go ahead, then,” said Anderson, pushing him forward. Harry led the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary; few in the crowd could keep pace with him. A majority fell hopelessly behind, in fact.
Straight into the office walked Harry, closely followed by Blootch and the marshal. Maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied the centre of the floor. Without a word, the party filed past the gruesome, silent thing and into the jail corridor. It was as dark as Erebus in the barred section of the prison; a cold draft of air flew into the faces of the visitors.
“Come here, you fellers!” called Anderson bravely into the darkness; but there was no response from the prisoners.
For the very good reason that some hours earlier they had calmly removed a window from its moorings and by this time were much too far away to answer questions.
CHAPTER XXIV
The Flight of the Kidnapers
Searching parties were organised and sent out to scour the country, late as it was. Swift riders gave the alarm along every roadway, and the station agent telegraphed the news into every section of the land. At Boggs City, the sheriff, berating Anderson Crow for a fool and Tinkletown for an open-air lunatic asylum, sent his deputies down to assist in the pursuit. The marshal himself undertook to lead each separate and distinct posse. He was so overwhelmed by the magnitude of his misfortune that it is no wonder his brain whirled widely enough to encompass the whole enterprise.
Be it said to the credit of Tinkletown, her citizens made every reasonable effort to recapture the men. The few hundred able-bodied men of the town rallied to the support of their marshal and the law, and there was not one who refused to turn out in the cold night air for a sweeping search of the woods and fields.
Rosalie, who had been awakened early in the evening by Mr. Crow’s noisy preparations for the pursuit, came downstairs, and instantly lost all desire to sleep. Bonner was lying on a couch in the “sitting-room,” which now served as a temporary bedchamber.
“If you’ll just hand me those revolvers, Mr. Crow,” said he, indicating the two big automatics he had taken from Davy and Bill, “I’ll stand guard over the house as best I can while you’re away.”
“Stand guard? What fer? Nobody’s goin’ to steal the house.”
“We should not forget that these same rascals may take it into their heads to double on their tracks and try to carry Miss Gray away again. With her in their possession they’ll receive their pay; without her their work will have been for nothing. It is a desperate crowd, and they may think the plan at least worth trying.”
Rosalie’s grateful, beaming glance sent a quiver that was not of pain through Bonner’s frame.
“Don’t worry about that,” said the marshal. “We’ll have ’em shot to pieces inside of an hour an’ a half.”
“Anderson, I want you to be very careful with that horse pistol,” said his wife nervously. “It ain’t been shot off sence the war, an’ like as not it’ll kill you from behind.”
“Gosh blast it, Eva!” roared Anderson, “don’t you suppose I know which end to shoot with?” And away he rushed in great dudgeon.
Edna Crow sat at the front window, keeping watch for hours. She reported to the other members of the household as each scurrying band of searchers passed the place. Bonner commanded Rosalie to keep away from the windows, fearing a s
hot from the outside. From time to time Roscoe replenished the big blaze in the fireplace. It was cosey in the old-fashioned sitting-room, even though the strain upon its occupants was trying in the extreme.
Great excitement came to them when the figure of a man was seen to drop to the walk near the front gate. At first it was feared that one of the bandits, injured by pursuers, had fallen to die, but the mournful calls for help that soon came from the sidewalk were more or less reassuring. The prostrate figure had a queer habit from time to time of raising itself high enough to peer between the pickets of the fence, and each succeeding shout seemed more vigorous than the others. Finally they became impatient, and then full of wrath. It was evident that the stranger resented the inhospitality of the house.
“Who are you?” called Edna, opening the window ever so slightly. Whereupon the man at the gate sank to the ground and groaned with splendid misery.
“It’s me,” he replied.
“Who’s me?”
“’Rast—’Rast Little. I think I’m dyin’.”
There was a hurried consultation indoors, and then Roscoe bravely ventured out to the sidewalk.
“Are you shot, ’Rast?” he asked in trembling tones.
“No; I’m just wounded. Is Rosalie in there?”
“Yep. She’s—”
“I guess I’ll go in, then. Dern it! It’s a long walk from our house over here. I guess I’ll stay all night. If I don’t get better tomorrow I’ll have to stay longer. I ought to be nursed, too.”
“Rosalie’s playin’ nurse fer Mr. Bonner,” volunteered Roscoe, still blocking the gate through which ’Rast was trying to wedge himself.
“Mr. who?”
“Bonner.”
“Well,” said ’Rast after a moment’s consideration, “he ought to be moved to a hospital. Lemme lean on you, Roscoe. I can’t hardly walk, my arm hurts so.”
Mr. Little, with his bandages and his hobble, had joined in the expedition, and was not to be deterred until faintness overcame him and he dropped by the wayside. He was taken in and given a warm chair before the fire. One long look at Bonner and the newcomer lapsed into a stubborn pout. He groaned occasionally and made much ado over his condition, but sourly resented any approach at sympathy. Finally he fell asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of the way. Plainly, ’Rast had forgotten Miss Banks in the sudden revival of affection for Rosalie Gray. The course of true love did not run smoothly in Tinkletown.
The searchers straggled in empty handed. Early morning found most of them asleep at their homes, tucked away by thankful wives, and with the promises of late breakfasts. The next day business was slow in asserting its claim upon public attention. Masculine Tinkletown dozed while femininity chattered to its heart’s content. There was much to talk about and more to anticipate. The officials in all counties contiguous had out their dragnets, and word was expected at any time that the fugitives had fallen into their hands.
But not that day, nor the next, nor any day, in fact, did news come of their capture, so Tinkletown was obliged to settle back into a state of tranquility. Some little interest was aroused when the town board ordered the calaboose repaired, and there was a ripple of excitement attached to the funeral of the only kidnaper in captivity. It was necessary to postpone the oyster supper at the Methodist Church, but there was some consolation in the knowledge that it would soon be summer-time and the benighted Africans would not need the money for winter clothes. The reception at the minister’s house was a fizzle. He was warned in time, however, and it was his own fault that he received no more than a jug of vinegar, two loaves of bread and a pound of honey as the result of his expectations. It was the first time that a “pound” party had proven a losing enterprise.
Anderson Crow maintained a relentless search for the desperadoes. He refused to accept Wicker Bonner’s theory that they were safe in the city of New York. It was his own opinion that they were still in the neighbourhood, waiting for a chance to exhume the body of Davy’s mother and make off with it.
“Don’t try to tell me, Mr. Bonner, that even a raskil like him hasn’t any love fer his mother,” he contended. “Davy may not be much of a model, but he had a feelin’ fer the woman who bore him, an’ don’t you fergit it.”
“Why, Daddy Crow, he was the most heartless brute in the world!” cried Rosalie. “I’ve seen him knock her down more than once—and kick her, too.”
“A slip of the memory, that’s all. He was probably thinkin’ of his wife, if he has one.”
At a public meeting the town board was condemned for its failure to strengthen the jail at the time Anderson made his demand three years before.
“What’s the use in me catchin’ thieves, and so forth, if the jail won’t hold ’em?” Anderson declared. “I cain’t afford to waste time in runnin’ desperite characters down if the town board ain’t goin’ to obstruct ’em from gittin’ away as soon as the sun sits. What’s the use, I’d like to know? Where’s the justice? I don’t want it to git noised aroun’ that the on’y way we c’n hold a prisoner is to have him commit suicide as soon as he’s arrested. Fer two cents I’d resign right now.”
Of course no one would hear to that. As a result, nearly five hundred dollars was voted from the corporation funds to strengthen and modernise the “calaboose.” It was the sense of the meeting that a “sweat box” should be installed under Mr. Crow’s supervision, and that the marshal’s salary should be increased fifty dollars a year. After the adoption of this popular resolution Mr. Crow arose and solemnly informed the people that their faith in him was not misplaced. He threw the meeting into a state of great excitement by announcing that the kidnapers would soon be in the toils once more. In response to eager queries he merely stated that he had a valuable clew, which could not be divulged without detriment to the cause. Everybody went home that night with the assurance that the fugitives would soon be taken. Anderson promised the town board that he would not take them until the jail was repaired.
It was almost a fortnight before Wicker Bonner was able to walk about with crutches. The wound in his leg was an ugly one and healed slowly. His uncle, the Congressman, sent up a surgeon from New York, but that worthy approved of “Doc” Smith’s methods, and abruptly left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse, Rosalie Gray. Congressman Bonner’s servants came over every day or two with books, newspapers, sweetmeats, and fresh supplies from the city, but it was impossible for them to get any satisfaction from the young man in reply to their inquiries as to when he expected to return to the big house across the river. Bonner was beginning to hate the thought of giving up Rosalie’s readings, her ministrations, and the no uncertain development of his own opinions as to her personal attractiveness.
“I don’t know when I’ll be able to walk, Watkins,” he said to the caretaker. “I’m afraid my heart is affected.”
Bonner’s enforced presence at Anderson Crow’s home was the source of extreme annoyance to the young men of the town. “Blootch” Peabody created a frightful scandal by getting boiling drunk toward the end of the week, so great was his dejection. As it was his first real spree, he did not recover from the effect for three days. He then took the pledge, and talked about the evils of strong drink with so much feeling at prayer meeting that the women of the town inaugurated a movement to stop the sale of liquor in the town. As Peabody’s drug store was the only place where whiskey could be obtained, “Blootch” soon saw the error of his ways and came down from his pedestal to mend them.
Bonner was a friend in need to Anderson Crow. The two were in consultation half of the time, and the young man’s opinions were not to be disregarded. He advanced a theory concerning the motives of the leader in the plot to send Rosalie into an exile from which she was not expected to return. It was his belief that the person who abandoned her as a babe was actuated by the desire to possess a fortune which should have been the child’s. The condition
s attending the final disposition of this fortune doubtless were such as to make it unwise to destroy the girl’s life. The plotter, whatever his or her relation to the child may have been, must have felt that a time might come when the existence of the real heiress would be necessary. Either such a fear was the inspiration or the relationship was so dear that the heart of the arch-plotter was full of love for the innocent victim.
“Who is to say, Miss Gray,” said Bonner one night as they sat before the fire, “that the woman who left you with Mr. Crow was not your own mother? Suppose that a vast estate was to be yours in trust after the death of some rich relative, say grandparent. It would naturally mean that some one else resented this bequest, and probably with some justice. The property was to become your own when you attained a certain age, let us say. Don’t you see that the day would rob the disinherited person of every hope to retain the fortune? Even a mother might be tempted, for ambitious reasons, to go to extreme measures to secure the fortune for herself. Or she might have been influenced by a will stronger than her own—the will of an unscrupulous man. There are many contingencies, all probable, as you choose to analyse them.”
“But why should this person wish to banish me from the country altogether? I am no more dangerous here than I would be anywhere in Europe. And then think of the means they would have employed to get me away from Tinkletown. Have I not been lost to the world for years? Why—”
“True; but I am quite convinced, and I think Mr. Crow agrees with me, that the recent move was made necessary by the demands of one whose heart is not interested, but whose hand wields the sceptre of power over the love which tries to shield you. Any other would have cut off your life at the beginning.”
“That’s my idee,” agreed Anderson solemnly.
“I don’t want the fortune!” cried Rosalie. “I am happy here! Why can’t they let me alone?”
“I tell you, Miss Gray, unless something happens to prevent it, that woman will some day give you back your own—your fortune and your name.”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 299