“Ain’t you goin’ to let ’em show here, pop?” asked Roscoe in distress.
“Show here? What air you talkin’ about?”
“He means the train robbers, Roscoe,” explained the lad’s mother. The boy breathed again.
“They are a dangerous lot,” volunteered Gregory, who had been in Albany for two days. “The papers are full of their deeds. Cutthroats of the worst character.”
“I’d let them alone, Anderson,” pleaded his wife. “If you corner them, they’ll shoot, and it would be jest like you to follow them right into their lair.”
“Consarn it, Eva, don’t you s’pose that I c’n shoot, too?” snorted Anderson. “What you reckon I’ve been keepin’ them loaded revolvers out in the barn all these years fer? Jest fer ornaments? Not much! They’re to shoot with, ef anybody asks you. Thunderation, Mr. Gregory, you ain’t no idee how a feller can be handicapped by a timid wife an’ a lot o’ fool childern. I’m almost afeard to turn ’round fer fear they’ll be skeered to death fer my safety.”
“You cut yourself with a razor once when ma told you not to try to shave the back of your neck by yourself,” said one of the girls. “She wanted you to let Mr. Beck shave it for you, but you wouldn’t have it that way.”
“Do you suppose I want an undertaker shavin’ my neck? I’m not that anxious to be shaved. Beck’s the undertaker, Mr. Gregory.”
“Well, he runs the barber shop, too,” insisted the girl.
During the next three days Tinkletown saw but little of its marshal, fire chief and street commissioner. That triple personage was off on business of great import. Early, each morning, he mysteriously stole away to the woods, either up or down the river, carrying a queer bundle under the seat of his “buckboard.” Two revolvers, neither of which had been discharged for ten years, reposed in a box fastened to the dashboard. Anderson solemnly but positively refused to allow any one to accompany him, nor would he permit any one to question him. Farmers coming to town spoke of seeing him in the lanes and in the woods, but he had winked genially when they had asked what he was trailing.
“He’s after the train robbers,” explained all Tinkletown soberly. Whereupon the farmers and their wives did not begrudge Anderson Crow the chicken dinners he had eaten with them, nor did they blame him for bothering the men in the fields. It was sufficient that he found excuse to sleep in the shade of their trees during his still hunt.
“Got any track of ’em?” asked George Ray one evening, stopping at Anderson’s back gate to watch the marshal unhitch his thankful nag. Patience had ceased to be a virtue with George.
“Any track of who?” asked Mr. Crow with a fine show of innocence.
“The robbers.”
“I ain’t been trackin’ robbers, George.”
“What in thunder have you been trackin’ all over the country every day, then?”
“I’m breakin’ this colt,” calmly replied the marshal, with a mighty wink at old Betty, whom he had driven to the same buckboard for twenty years. As George departed with an insulted snort, Andrew Gregory came from the barn, where he had been awaiting the return of Mr. Crow.”
“I’m next to something big,” he announced in a low tone, first looking in all directions to see that no one was listening.
“Gosh! Did you land Mr. Farnsworth?”
“It has nothing to do with insurance,” hastily explained the agent. “I’ve heard something of vast importance to you.”
“You don’t mean to say the troupe has busted?”
“No—no; it is in connection with—with—” and here Mr. Gregory leaned forward and whispered something in Anderson’s ear. Mr. Crow promptly stopped dead still in his tracks, his eyes bulging. Betty, who was being led to the water trough, being blind and having no command to halt, proceeded to bump forcibly against her master’s frame.
CHAPTER XXXI
“As You Like It”
“You—don‘t—say—so! Whoa! dang ye! Cain’t you see where you’re goin’, you old rip?” Betty was jerked to a standstill. “What have you heerd?” asked Anderson, his voice shaking with interest.
“I can’t tell you out here,” said the other cautiously. “Put up the nag and then meet me in the pasture out there. We can sit down and talk and not be overheard.”
“I won’t be a minute. Here, you Roscoe! Feed Betty and water her first. Step lively, now. Tell your ma we’ll be in to supper when we git good an’ ready.”
Anderson and Andrew Gregory strode through the pasture gate and far out into the green meadow. Once entirely out of hearing, Gregory stopped and both sat down upon a little hillock. The agent was evidently suppressing considerable excitement.
“Those train robbers are in this neighbourhood,” he said, breaking a long silence. Anderson looked behind involuntarily. “I don’t mean that they are in this pasture, Mr. Crow. You’ve been a good friend to me, and I’m inclined to share the secret with you. If we go together, we may divide the ten-thousand-dollar reward, because I’m quite sure we can land those chaps.”
“What’s your plan?” asked Anderson, turning a little pale at the thought. Before going any further into the matter, Gregory asked Anderson if he would sign a paper agreeing to divide the reward equally with him. This point was easily settled, and then the insurance man unfolded his secret.
“I have a straight tip from a friend in New York and he wouldn’t steer me wrong. The truth about him is this: He used to work for our company, but took some money that didn’t belong to him. It got him a sentence in the pen. He’s just out, and he knows a whole lot about these robbers. Some of them were in Sing Sing with him. The leader wanted him to join the gang and he half-way consented. His duty is to keep the gang posted on what the officers in New York are doing. See?”
“Of course,” breathed Anderson.
“Well, my friend wants to reform. All he asks is a slice of the reward. If we capture the gang, we can afford to give him a thousand or so, can’t we?”
“Of course,” was the dignified response.
“Here’s his letter to me. I’ll read it to you.” In the gathering dusk Gregory read the letter to the marshal of Tinkletown. “Now, you see,” he said, at the close of the astounding epistle, “this means that if we observe strict secrecy, we may have the game in our hands. No one must hear a word of this. They may have spies right here in Tinkletown. We can succeed only by keeping our mouths sealed.”
“Tighter’n beeswax,” promised Anderson Crow.
Briefly, the letter to Andrew Gregory was an exposure of the plans of the great train-robber gang, together with their whereabouts on a certain day to come. They were to swoop down on Tinkletown on the night of the open-air performance of “As You Like It,” and their most desperate coup was to be the result. The scheme was to hold up and rob the entire audience while the performance was going on. Anderson Crow was in a cold perspiration. The performance was but three days off, and he felt that he required three months for preparation.
“How in thunder are we goin’ to capture that awful gang, jest you an’ me?” he asked, voicing his doubts and fears.
“We’ll have to engage help, that’s all.”
“We’ll need a regiment.”
“Don’t you think it. Buck up, old fellow, don’t be afraid.”
“Afeerd? Me? I don’t know what it is to be skeered. Didn’t you ever hear about how I landed them fellers that kidnaped my daughter Rosalie? Well, you jest ast some one ’at knows about it. Umph! I guess that was a recommend fer bravery. But these fellers will be ready fer us, won’t they?”
“We can trick them easily. I’ve been thinking of a plan all afternoon. We don’t know just where they are now, so we can’t rake them in tonight. We’ll have to wait until they come to us. My plan is to have a half-dozen competent private detectives up from New York. We can scatter them through the audience next Thursday night, and when the right time comes we can land on every one of those fellows like hawks on spring chickens. I know the chief of a b
ig private agency in New York, and I think the best plan is to have him send up some good men. It won’t cost much, and I’d rather have those fearless practical men here than all the rubes you could deputise. One of ’em is worth ten of your fellow-citizens, Mr. Crow, begging your pardon for the remark. You and I can keep the secret and we can do the right thing, but we would be asses to take more Tinkletown asses into our confidence. If you’ll agree, I’ll write to Mr. Pinkerton this evening. He can have his men here, disguised and ready for work, by Thursday afternoon. If you don’t mind, I’d like to have you take charge of the affair, because you know just how to handle thieves, and I don’t. What say you?”
Anderson was ready and eager to agree to anything, but he hesitated a long time before concluding to take supreme charge of the undertaking. Mr. Gregory at once implored him to take command. It meant the success of the venture; anything else meant failure.
“But how’n thunder am I to know the robbers when I see ’em?” demanded the marshal, nervously pulling bluegrass up by the roots.
“You’ll know ’em all right,” said Andrew Gregory. Thursday came and with it the “troupe.” Anderson Crow had not slept for three nights, he was so full of thrills and responsibility. Bright and early that morning he was on the lookout for suspicious characters. Gregory was to meet the detectives from New York at half-past seven in the evening. By previous arrangement, these strangers were to congregate casually at Tinkletown Inn, perfectly diguised as gentlemen, ready for instructions. The two arch-plotters had carefully devised a plan of action. Gregory chuckled secretly when he thought of the sensation Tinkletown was to experience—and he thought of it often, too.
The leading members of Boothby’s All Star Company “put up” at the Inn, which was so humble that it staggered beneath this unaccustomed weight of dignity. The beautiful Miss Marmaduke (in reality, Miss Cora Miller) was there, and so were Miss Trevanian, Miss Gladys Fitzmaurice, Richmond Barrett (privately Jackie Blake), Thomas J. Booth, Francisco Irving, Ben Jefferson and others. The Inn was glorified. All Tinkletown looked upon the despised old “eating house” with a reverence that was not reluctant.
The manager, a busy and preoccupied person, who looked to be the lowliest hireling in the party, came to the Inn at noon and spread the news that the reserved seats were sold out and there was promise of a fine crowd. Whereupon there was rejoicing among the All Star Cast, for the last legs of the enterprise were to be materially strengthened.
“We won’t have to walk back home,” announced Mr. Jackie Blake, that good-looking young chap who played Orlando.
“Glorious Shakespeare, thou art come to life again,” said Ben Jefferson, a barn-stormer for fifty years. “I was beginning to think you were a dead one.”
“And no one will seize our trunks for board,” added Miss Marmaduke cheerfully. She was a very pretty young woman and desperately in love with Mr. Orlando.
“If any one seized Orlando’s trunks, I couldn’t appear in public tonight,” said Mr. Blake. “Orlando possesses but one pair of trunks.”
“You might wear a mackintosh,” suggested Mr. Booth.
“Or borrow trunks of the trees,” added Mr. Irving.
“They’re off,” growled Mr. Jefferson, who hated the puns he did not make.
“Let’s dazzle the town, Cora,” said Jackie Blake; and before Tinkletown could take its second gasp for breath, the leading man and woman were slowly promenading the chief and only thoroughfare.
“By ginger! she’s a purty one, ain’t she?” murmured Ed Higgins, sole clerk at Lamson’s. He stood in the doorway until she was out of sight and remained there for nearly an hour awaiting her return. The men of Tinkletown took but one look at the pretty young woman, but that one look was continuous and unbroken.
“If this jay town can turn up enough money tonight to keep us from stranding, I’ll take off my hat to it for ever more,” said Jackie Blake.
“Boothby says the house is sold out,” said Miss Marmaduke, a shade of anxiety in her dark eyes. “Oh, how I wish we were at home again.”
“I’d rather starve in New York than feast in the high hills,” said he wistfully. The idols to whom Tinkletown was paying homage were but human, after all. For two months the Boothby Company had been buffeted from pillar to post, struggling hard to keep its head above water, always expecting the crash. The “all-stars” were no more than striving young Thespians, who were kept playing throughout the heated term with this uncertain enterprise, solely because necessity was in command of their destinies. It was not for them to enjoy a summer in ease and indolence.
“Never mind, dear,” said she, turning her green parasol so that it obstructed the intense but complimentary gaze of no less than a dozen men; “our luck will change. We won’t be barn-storming for ever.”
“We’ve one thing to be thankful for, little woman,” said Jackie, his face brightening. “We go out again this fall in the same company. That’s luck, isn’t it? We’ll be married as soon as we get back to New York and we won’t have to be separated for a whole season, at least.”
“Isn’t it dear to think of, Jackie sweetheart? A whole season and then another, and then all of them after that? Oh, dear, won’t it be sweet?” It was love’s young dream for both of them.
“Hello, what’s this?” exclaimed Orlando the Thousandth, pausing before a placard which covered the lower limbs of his pictorial partner. “Ten Thousand Dollars reward! Great Scott, Cora, wouldn’t I like to catch those fellows? Great, eh? But it’s a desperate gang! The worst ever!”
Just then both became conscious of the fact that some one was scrutinising them intently from behind. They turned and beheld Anderson Crow, his badges glistening.
“How are you, officer?” said Jackie cheerily. Miss Marmaduke, in her happiness, beamed a smile upon the austere man with the chin whiskers. Anderson was past seventy, but that smile caused the intake of his breath to almost lift him from the ground.
“First rate, thanks; how’s yourself? Readin’ the reward notice? Lemme tell you something. There’s goin’ to be somethin’ happen tarnation soon that will astonish them fellers ef—” but here Anderson pulled up with a jerk, realising that he was on the point of betraying a great secret. Afraid to trust himself in continued conversation, he abruptly said: “Good afternoon,” and started off down the street, his ears tingling.
“Queer old chap, isn’t he?” observed Jackie, and immediately forgot him as they strolled onward.
That evening Tinkletown swarmed with strangers. The weather was fine, and scores of the summer dwellers in the hills across the river came over to see the performance, as the advance agent had predicted. Bluff Top Hotel sent a large delegation of people seeking the variety of life. There were automobiles, traps, victorias, hay-racks, and “sundowns” standing all along the street in the vicinity of Hapgood’s Grove. It was to be, in the expansive language of the press agent, “a cultured audience made up of the élite of the community.”
Late in the afternoon, a paralysing thought struck in upon the marshal’s brain. It occurred to him that this band of robbers might also be engaged to carry off Rosalie Gray. After all, it might be the great dominant reason for their descent upon the community. Covered with a perspiration that was not caused by heat, he accosted Wicker Bonner, the minute that gentleman arrived in town. Rosalie went, of course, to the Crow home for a short visit with the family.
“Say, Wick, I want you to do me a favour,” said Anderson eagerly, taking the young man aside. “I cain’t tell you all about it, ’cause I’m bound by a deathless oath. But, listen, I’m afraid somethin’s goin’ to happen tonight. There’s a lot o’ strangers here, an’ I’m nervous about Rosalie. Somebody might try to steal her in the excitement. Now I want you to take good keer of her. Don’t let ’er out o’ your sight, an’ don’t let anybody git ’er away from you. I’ll keep my eye on her, too. Promise me.”
“Certainly, Mr. Crow. I’ll look out for her. That’s what I hope to do all the rest of�
�’
“Somethin’s liable to happen,” Mr. Crow broke in, and then quietly slipped away.
Bonner laughed easily at the old man’s fears and set them down as a part of his whimsical nature. Later, he saw the old man near the entrance as the party passed inside the inclosure. The Bonner party occupied prominent seats in front, reserved by the marshal. There were ten in the group, a half-dozen young Boston people completing the house party.
The side walls of a pavilion inclosed the most beautiful section of the grove. In one end were the seats, rapidly filling with people. At the opposite end, upon Mother Earth’s green carpet, was the stage, lighted dimly by means of subdued spot lights and a few auxiliary stars on high. There was no scenery save that provided by Nature herself. An orchestra of violins broke through the constant hum of eager voices.
Anderson Crow’s heart was inside the charmed inclosure, but his person was elsewhere. Simultaneously, with the beginning of the performance of “As You like It,” he was in his own barn-loft confronting Andrew Gregory and the five bewhiskered assistants from New York City. Gregory had met the detectives at the Inn and had guided them to the marshal’s barn, where final instructions were to be given. For half an hour the party discussed plans with Anderson Crow, speaking in low, mysterious tones that rang in the marshal’s ears to his dying day.
“We’ve located those fellows,” asserted Mr. Gregory firmly. “There can be no mistake. They are already in the audience over there, and at a signal will set to work to hold up the whole crowd. We must get the drop on them, Mr. Crow, Don’t do that! You don’t need a disguise. Keep those yellow whiskers in your pocket. The rest of us will wear disguises. These men came here disguised because the robbers would be onto them in a minute if they didn’t. They know every detective’s face in the land. If it were not for these beards and wigs they’d have spotted Pinkerton’s men long ago. Now, you know your part in the affair, don’t you?”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 304