“Yes, sir,” respectfully responded Anderson, his chin whisker wobbling pathetically.
“Then we’re ready to proceed. It takes a little nerve, that’s all, but we’ll soon have those robbers just where we want them,” said Andrew Gregory.
The second act of the play was fairly well under way when Orlando, in the “green room,” remarked to the stage director:
“What’s that old rube doing back here, Ramsay? Why, hang it, man, he’s carrying a couple of guns. Is this a hold-up?” At the same instant Rosalind and two of the women came rushing from their dressing tent, alarmed and indignant. Miss Marmaduke, her eyes blazing, confronted the stage director.
“What does this mean, Mr. Ramsay?” she cried. “That old man ordered us out of our dressing-room at the point of a revolver, and—see! There he is now doing the same to the men.”
It was true. Anderson Crow, with a brace of horse pistols, was driving the players toward the centre of the stage. In a tremulous voice he commanded them to remain there and take the consequences. A moment later the marshal of Tinkletown strode into the limelight with his arsenal, facing an astonished and temporarily amused audience. His voice, pitched high with excitement, reached to the remotest corners of the inclosure. Behind him the players were looking on, open-mouthed and bewildered. To them he loomed up as the long-dreaded constable detailed to attach their personal effects. The audience, if at first it laughed at him as a joke, soon changed its view. Commotion followed his opening speech.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Luck of Anderson Crow
“Don’t anybody attempt to leave this tent!” commanded Mr. Crow, standing bravely forth with his levelled revolvers. The orchestra made itself as small as possible, for one of the guns wavered dangerously. “Don’t be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. The train robbers are among you.”
There were a few feminine shrieks, a volume of masculine “Whats!” a half-hearted and uncertain snigger, and a general turning of heads.
“Keep your seats!” commanded Anderson. “They can’t escape. I have them surrounded. I now call upon all robbers present to surrender in the name of the law. Surrender peaceful and you will not he damaged; resist and we’ll blow you to hell an’ gone, even at the risk of injurin’ the women and childern. The law is no respecter of persons. Throw up your hands!”
He waited impressively, but either through stupefaction or obstinacy the robbers failed to lift their hands.
“You’re cornered, you golderned scamps!” shouted Anderson Crow, “an’ you might jest as well give up! Twenty Pinkerton men are here from New York City, an’ you can’t escape! Throw up your hands!”
“The damned old fool is in earnest,” gasped Judge Brewster, from across the river.
“He’s crazy!” cried Congressman Bonner.
“Let everybody in this crowd throw up their hands!” called a firm, clear voice from the entrance. At the same instant five bewhiskered individuals appeared as if by magic with drawn revolvers, dominating the situation completely. The speaker was Andrew Gregory, the insurance agent.
“Now, what have you got to say?” cried Anderson gaily. “I guess me an’ the detectives have you cornered all right, ain’t we?”
The audience sat stupefied, paralysed. While all this was going on upon the inside, a single detective on the outside was stealthily puncturing the tires of every automobile in the collection, Mr. Bracken’s huge touring car being excepted for reasons to be seen later on.
“Good heavens!” groaned old Judge Brewster. A half dozen women fainted and a hundred men broke into a cold perspiration.
“Hands up, everybody!” commanded Andrew Gregory. “We can take no chances. The train robbers are in this audience. They came to hold up the entire crowd, but we are too quick for you, my fine birds. The place is surrounded!”
“Mr. Gregory, the insurance—” began Anderson Crow, but he was cut short.
“Mr. Crow deserves great credit for this piece of detective work. His mere presence is a guaranty of safety to those of you who are not thieves. You all have your hands up? Thanks. Mr. Crow, please keep those actors quiet. Now, ladies and gentlemen, it is not always an easy matter to distinguish thieves from honest men. I will first give the desperadoes a chance to surrender peaceably. No one steps forward? Very well. Keep your hands up, all of you. The man who lowers his hands will be instantly regarded as a desperado and may get a bullet in his body for his folly. The innocent must suffer with the guilty. Mr. Crow, shall we proceed with the search?”
“Yes, sir; go right ahead, and be quick,” replied Anderson Crow.
“Very well, then, in the name of the law, my men will begin the search. They will pass among you, ladies and gentlemen, and any effort to retard their progress will be met with instant—well, you know.”
Before the petrified audience could fully realise what was taking place, three of the detectives were swiftly passing from person to person, stripping the women of their jewels, the men of their money and their watches. A half-hearted protest went up to Anderson Crow, but it was checked summarily by the “searching party.” It was well for the poor marshal that he never knew what the audience thought of him at that ghastly moment.
It was all over in five minutes. The detectives had searched every prosperous-looking person in the audience, under the very nose and guns of Marshal Crow, and they were sardonically bidding the assemblage a fond good-bye from the flapping doorway in the side wall. Andrew Gregory addressed the crowd, smiling broadly.
“We found a good many more robbers in the crowd than we could conveniently handle, ladies and gentlemen. In fact, I never came across such a rare collection of hold-up men outside of Wall Street. The only perfectly honest man in Tinkletown tonight is Anderson Crow, your esteemed marshal. Believe me, he is ridiculously honest. He may be a damn fool, but he is honest. Don’t blame him. Thanking you, one and all, for your generous help in our search for the train robbers, we bid you an affectionate farewell. We may meet again if you travel extensively on express trains. Good-night!”
With a taunting laugh, Andrew Gregory dropped the flap and leaped after his companions. Bracken’s chauffeur lay senseless by the roadside, and one of the “detectives” sat in his seat. Even as the audience opened its collective mouth to shout its wrath and surprise, the big touring car, with six armed men aboard, leaped away with a rush. Down the dark road it flew like an express train, its own noise drowning the shouts of the multitude, far behind.
Bonner, recovering from his stupefaction and rage, led the pursuit, first commanding Rosalie to hurry home with the women and lock herself safely indoors.
Anderson Crow, realising what a dupe he had been in the hands of the clever scoundrels, was covered with fear and shame. The outraged crowd might have killed him had not his escape been made under cover of darkness. Shivering and moaning in abject misery, the pride of Tinkletown fled unseeing, unthinking into the forest along the river. He was not to know until afterward that his “detectives” had stripped the rich sojourners of at least ten thousand dollars in money and jewels. It is not necessary to say that the performance of “As You Like It” came to an abrupt end, because it was not as they liked it. Everybody knew by this time that they had seen the celebrated “train robbers.”
Jackie Blake was half dressed when he leaped to his feet with an exclamation so loud that those preceding it were whispers.
“Holy smoke!” fell from his lips; and then he dashed across the green to the women’s dressing tent. “Cora! Cora! Come out!”
“I can’t,” came back in muffled tones.
“Then good-bye; I’m off!” he shouted. That brought her, partially dressed, from the tent. “Say, do you remember the river road we walked over today? Well, those fellows went in that direction, didn’t they? Don’t you see? Aren’t you on? The washout! If they don’t know about it the whole bunch is at the bottom of the ravine or in the river by this time! Mum’s the word! There’s a chance, darling; the reward said ‘dead o
r alive!’ I’m off!”
She tried to call him back, but it was too late. With his own revolver in his hand, the half Orlando, half Blake, tore down the rarely travelled river road south. Behind him Tinkletown raved and wailed over the great calamity, but generally stood impotent in the face of it all. But few felt inclined to pursue the robbers. Blake soon had the race to himself. It was a mile or more to the washout in the road, but the excitement made him keen for the test. The road ran through the woods and along the high bluff that overlooked the river. He did not know it, but this same road was a “short cut” to the macadam pike farther south. By taking this route the robbers gave Boggs City a wide berth.
Blake’s mind was full of the possibilities of disaster to the over-confident fugitives. The washout was fresh, and he was counting on the chance that they were not aware of its existence. If they struck it even at half speed the whole party would be hurled a hundred feet down to the edge of the river or into the current itself. In that event, some, if not all, would be seriously injured.
As he neared the turn in the road, his course pointed out to him by the stars above, he was startled half out of his boots by the sudden appearance of a man, who staggered from the roadside and wobbled painfully away, pleading for mercy.
“Halt, or I’ll shoot!” called Jackie Blake, and the pathetic figure not only halted, but sat down in the middle of the road.
“For the Lord’s sake, don’t shoot!” groaned a hoarse voice. “I wasn’t in cahoots with them. They fooled me—they fooled me.” It was Anderson Crow, and he would have gone on interminably had not Jackie Blake stopped him short.
“You’re the marshal, eh? The darned rube—”
“Yes, I’m him. Call me anything, only don’t shoot. Who are you?” groaned Anderson, rising to his knees. He was holding his revolvers by the muzzles. “Never mind who I am. I haven’t time. Say, you’d better come with me. Maybe we can head off those villains. They came this way and—”
“Show ’em to me,” roared Anderson, recognising a friend. Rage surged up and drove out the shame in his soul. “I’ll tackle the hull caboodle, dang ’em!” And he meant it, too.
Blake did not stop to explain, but started on, commanding Mr. Crow to follow. With rare fore-thought the marshal donned his yellow beard as he panted in the trail of the lithe young actor. The latter remembered that the odds were heavily against him. The marshal might prove a valuable aid in case of resistance, provided, of course, that they came upon the robbers in the plight he was hoping for.
“Where the dickens are you a-goin’?” wheezed the marshal, kicking up a great dust in the rear. The other did not answer. His whole soul was enveloped in the hope that the washout had trapped the robbers. He was almost praying that it might be so. The reward could be divided with the poor old marshal if—
He gave a yell of delight, an instant later, and then began jumping straight up and down like one demented. Anderson Crow stopped so abruptly that his knees were stiff for weeks. Jackie Blake’s wild dream had come true. The huge automobile had struck the washout, and it was now lying at the base of the bluff, smashed to pieces on the rocks! By the dim light from the heavens, Blake could see the black hulk down there, but it was too dark to distinguish other objects. He was about to descend to the river bank when Anderson Crow came up.
“What’s the matter, man?” panted he.
“They’re down there, don’t you see it? They went over the bluff right here—come on. We’ve got ’em!”
“Hold on!” exclaimed Anderson, grasping his arm. “Don’t rush down there like a danged fool. If they’re alive they can plug you full of bullets in no time. Let’s be careful.”
“By thunder, you’re right. You’re a wise old owl, after all. I never thought of that. Let’s reconnoitre.”
Tingling with excitement, the two oddly mated pursuers descended stealthily by a roundabout way. They climbed over rocks and crept through underbrush until finally they came to a clear spot not twenty feet from where the great machine was lying, at the very edge of the swift, deep current. They heard groans and faint cries, with now and then a piteous oath. From their hiding place they counted the forms of four men lying upon the rocks, as if dead. The two held a whispered consultation of war, a plan of action resulting.
“Surrender!” shouted Jackie Blake, standing forth. He and Anderson had their pistols levelled upon the prostrate robbers. For answer there were louder groans, a fiercer oath or two and then a weak, pain-struck voice came out to them:
“For God’s sake, get this machine off my legs. I’m dying. Help! Help! We surrender!”
Ten minutes later, the jubilant captors had released the miserable Andrew Gregory from his position beneath the machine, and had successfully bound the hands and feet of five half-unconscious men. Gregory’s legs were crushed and one other’s skull was cracked. The sixth man was nowhere to be found. The disaster had been complete, the downfall of the great train robbers inglorious. Looking up into the face of Anderson Crow, Gregory smiled through his pain and said hoarsely:
“Damned rotten luck; but if we had to be taken, I’m glad you did it, Crow. You’re a good fool, anyway. But for God’s sake, get me to a doctor.”
“Dang it! I’m sorry fer you, Mr. Gregory—” began Anderson, ready to cry.
“Don’t waste your time, old man. I need the doctor. Are the others dead?” he groaned.
“I don’t know,” replied Jackie Blake. “Some of them look like it. We can’t carry you up that hill, but we’ll do the next best thing. Marshal, I’ll stay here and guard the prisoners while you run to the village for help—and doctors.”
“And run fast, Anderson,” added Gregory. “You always were so devilish slow. Don’t walk-trot.”
Soon afterward, when Anderson, fagged but overjoyed, hobbled into the village, the excited crowd was ready to lynch him, but with his first words the atmosphere changed.
“Where is Jackie Blake?” sobbed a pretty young woman, grasping the proud marshal’s arm and shaking him violently.
“Derned if I know, ma’am. Was he stole?”
She made him understand, and together, followed by the actors, the audience and the whole town, they led the way to the washout, the fair Rosalind dragging the overworked hero of the hour along at a gait which threatened to be his undoing.
Later on, after the five bandits had been carried to the village, Jackie Blake gladly informed his sweetheart that they could have easy sailing with the seven thousand dollars he expected. Anderson Crow had agreed to take but three thousand dollars for his share in the capture. One of the robbers was dead. The body of the sixth was found in the river weeks afterward.
“I’m glad I was the first on the ground,” said Blake, in anticipation of the reward which was eventually to be handed over to him. “But Anderson Crow turned out to be a regular trump, after all. He’s a corker!” He was speaking to Wicker Bonner and a crowd of New Yorkers.
Tinkletown began to talk of a monument to Anderson Crow, even while he lived. The general opinion was that it should be erected while he was still able to enjoy it and not after his death, when he would not know anything about its size and cost.
“By gosh! ’Twas a great capture!” swelling perceptibly. “I knowed they couldn’t escape me. Dang ’em! they didn’t figger on me, did they? Pshaw! it was reediculus of ’em to think they c’d fool me entirely, although I’ll have to confess they did fool me at first. It was a desprit gang an’ mighty slick.”
“You worked it great, Anderson,” said George Ray. “Did you know about the washout?”
“Did I know about it?” snorted Anderson witheringly. “Why, good Gosh a’mighty, didn’t I purty near run my legs off to git there in time to throw down the barricade before they could get there with Mr. Bracken’s automobile? Thunderation! What a fool question!”
CHAPTER XXXIII
Bill Briggs Tells a Tale
Tinkletown fairly bubbled with excitement. At last the eyes of the world were upon
it. News of the great sensation was flashed to the end of the earth; every detail was gone into with harrowing minuteness. The Hemisphere Company announced by telegraph that it stood ready to hand over the ten thousand dollars; and the sheriff of Bramble County with all the United States deputy marshals within reach raced at once to Tinkletown to stick a finger in the pie.
The morning after the “great pavilion robbery,” as it was called in the Banner, Anderson Crow and Bonner fared forth early to have a look at the injured desperadoes, all of whom were safely under guard at the reincarnated calaboose. Fifty armed men had stood guard all night long, notwithstanding the fact that one robber was dead and the others so badly injured that they were not expected to survive the day.
A horseman passed the marshal and his friend near the post-office, riding rapidly to the north. He waved his crop pleasantly to them and Bonner responded. Anderson stopped stock still and tried to speak, but did not succeed for a full minute; he was dumb with excitement.
“That’s him!” he managed to gasp. “The feller I saw the other day—the man on horseback!”
“That?” cried Bonner, laughing heartily. “Why, that is John E. Barnes, the lawyer and probably a United States Senator some day. Good heavens, Mr. Crow, you’ve made a bad guess of it this time! He is staying with Judge Brewster, his father-in-law.”
“What! Well, by Geminy! I thought I knowed him,” cried Anderson. “They cain’t fool me long, Wick—none of ’em. He’s the same feller ’at run away with Judge Brewster’s daughter more’n twenty year ago. ’y Gosh, I was standin’ right on this very spot the first time I ever see him. He sold me a hoss and buggy—but I got the money back. I arrested him the same day.”
“Arrested John Barnes?” in amazement.
“Yep—fer murder—only he wasn’t the murderer. We follered him down the river—him an’ the girl—to Bracken’s place, but they were married afore we got there. Doggone, that was a busy day! Some blamed good detective work was did, too. I—”
“And Mr. Barnes was interested in Rosalie?” asked Bonner suddenly. “How could he have known anything about her?”
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 305