so's my name at the head of the list will drag other suckers into--"
"Not at all, sir--not at all. We are not book-agents, Mr. Marshal."
"Well, what are ye?"
"Metallurgists," said the florid one.
"I see, I see," said Anderson, who didn't see at all. "You started off
just like a book-agent, er a lightnin'-rod salesman."
"My name is Bacon,--George Washington Bacon,--and my friend bears an
even nobler monicker, if that be possible. He is Abraham Lincoln
Bonaparte--a direct descendant of both of those illustrious gentlemen."
"You don't say! I didn't know Lincoln was any connection of
Bonaparte's."
"It isn't generally known," the descendant informed him, with becoming
modesty.
"Well, I'm seventy-three years old an' I never heard--"
"Seventy-three!" gasped Mr. Bonaparte, incredulously. "I don't believe
it. You can't be more than fifty, Mr. Crow."
"Do you suppose I fought in the Union Army before I was born?" demanded
Mr. Crow. "Where'd I get this G. A. R. badge, lemme ast you? An' you
don't think the citizens of this here town would elect a ten-year-old
boy to the responsible position of town marshal, do you? Why, gosh snap
it, I been Marshal o' Tinkletown fer forty years--skippin' two years
back in the nineties when I retired in favour of Ed Higgins, owin' to a
misunderstandin' concernin' my health--an'--"
"It is incredible, sir. You are the youngest-looking man for your years
I've ever seen. But we are digressing. Proceed, Mr. Bacon. Pardon the
interruption."
Marshal Crow had drawn himself up to his full height,--a good six
feet,--and, expanding under the influence of a just pride, his chest
came perilously near to dislodging a couple of brass buttons. His keen
little grey eyes snapped brightly in their deep sockets; his sparse chin
whiskers, responding to the occasion, bristled noticeably. Employing his
thumb and forefinger, he first gave his beard a short caress, after
which he drew it safely out of line and expectorated thinly between his
teeth with such astounding accuracy that both of the strangers stared.
His objective was a narrow slit in the tree-box across the sidewalk.
"I couldn't do that in a thousand years," said Mr. Bacon, deeply
impressed.
"You could do it in half that time if you lived in Tinkletown," was
Anderson's cryptic return. "You ought to see Ed Higgins. He's our
champeen. His specialty is knot-holes. Ed c'n hit--"
"Are you interested in metallurgy, Mr. Crow?" broke in Mr. Bacon, a
little rudely.
Anderson pondered a few seconds, squinting at the tree-tops. The two
strangers waited his reply with evident concern.
"Sometimes I am, an' sometimes I ain't," said he at last, very
seriously. He even went so far as to shake his head slowly, as if to
emphasize the fact that he had made a life-long study of the subject and
had not been able to arrive at a definite conclusion.
"Good!" exclaimed Mr. Bonaparte. "That proves, Mr. Crow, that you are a
man of very great discernment, very great discernment indeed."
Mr. Crow brightened perceptibly. "I have to know a little of everything
in my line of work, Mr. Lincoln."
Mr. Bonaparte made no attempt to correct him. As a matter of fact, for a
moment or two he was in some doubt himself; it was only after indulging
in a hasty bit of mental jugglery that he decided his friend couldn't
possibly have introduced him as Bonaparte Abraham Lincoln, or Abraham
Bonaparte Lincoln. He wished, however, that he had paid a little closer
attention when Mr. George Washington Bacon arranged his names for him.
"We should like to have a few minutes' private conversation with you,
Mr. Marshal," said Bacon, lowering his voice.
"Fire away, gents."
"I--ahem!--I said private, Mr. Crow."
"Well, if it's anything you don't want the birds to hear, I guess we'd
better go up to the house. If you don't mind that woodpecker up yander
an' them two sparrers out there in the road, I guess this is about as
private a place as you'll find in Tinkletown."
"Haven't you--an office, Mr. Crow?" demanded Mr. Bacon.
"Yes, but it ain't private. Whenever I've got anything private to 'tend
to--er even _think_ about--I allus go out in the middle of the street.
Shoot ahead; nobody'll hear you."
"It will take some little time," explained Mr. Bonaparte, anxiously.
"Have you had your dinner?"
Anderson looked at him keenly. "What's that got to do with it?"
"Mr. Bonaparte means supper," explained Mr. Bacon. "He is a bit excited,
Mr. Crow."
"He _must_ be," agreed Anderson, glancing at his watch. "Half-past six.
Go ahead. We won't be interrupted now till it's time to go to bed."
The two strangers in Tinkletown drew still closer--so close, indeed,
that the town marshal, having had his pocket picked once or twice at the
County Fair, fell back a little from the fence.
"You must be careful to show no sign of surprise, Mr. Crow," said Bacon.
"What I am about to say to you may startle you, but you--"
Anderson reassured him with a gesture.
"Perceed," he said.
Whereupon the spokesman, Mr. Bacon, did a tale unfold that caused the
town marshal to lie awake nearly all night and to pop out of bed the
next morning fully an hour earlier than usual. For the time being,
however, he succeeded so admirably in simulating indifference that the
men themselves were not only surprised but a trifle disturbed. He wasn't
conducting himself at all as they had expected. At the conclusion of
this serious fifteen minutes' recital,--rendered into paragraphs by
Anderson's frequent interruptions,--the eager Mr. Bonaparte exclaimed:
"Well, Mr. Crow, doesn't it completely bowl you over?"
"What's that? Bowl me over? I should say not! Why, I knowed fer I can't
tell you how long that there's gold up yander in my piece of timberland
on Crow's Mountain. Knowed it ever since I was a boy."
His hearers blinked rapidly for a few seconds.
"Really?" murmured Mr. Bacon.
"Do you mean to say there actually _is_ gold--" began Mr. Bonaparte, but
he got no farther. Whether accidentally or otherwise, Mr. Bacon's foot
came sharply into contact with the speaker's shin, and the question
terminated in a pained look of surprise, directed with some intensity
and a great deal of fortitude at nothing in particular.
"Well, you _are_ a wonder, Mr. Crow," said Mr. Bacon hastily. "I am
immensely relieved that you _do_ know of its existence. It simplifies
matters tremendously. It has been there all the time and you've never
known just how to go about getting it out of the ground--isn't that the
case, Mr. Crow?"
"Exactly," said Mr. Crow.
Mr. Bacon shot a significant look at Mr. Bonaparte, and that worthy put
his hand suddenly to his mouth.
"Well, that's what we're here for, Mr. Crow--to get that gold out of the
earth. If our estimates are correct--or, I should say, if our
investigations establish the fact that it is a real vein and not merely
a little pocket, there ought to be a million dollars in that piece of
land of yours. Now, let me see. Just how much land do you own up there,
Mr. Crow?"
"I own derned near all of it," said the marshal promptly. "'Bout
seventy-five acres, I should say."
"Nothing but timberland, I assume--judging from what we have been able
to observe."
"All timber. Never been cleared, 'cept purty well down the slope."
"And it is about five miles as the crow flies from Tinkletown, eh?"
"I ginerally say as the wild goose flies," said Mr. Crow, somewhat
curtly.
"Well, you have heard the proposition I bring from my employers in New
York City. Think it over tonight, Mr. Crow. Then, we will meet tomorrow
morning at your office to complete our plans. I shall be prepared to
hand you a draft for two hundred dollars to bind the bargain. What time
do you reach your office?"
"Ginerally some'eres between six and a quarter-past."
"My God!" muttered Mr. Bonaparte.
"We will be there at six-fifteen," said Mr. Bacon firmly. "Good evening,
Mr. Crow."
Far in the night, Mrs. Crow peevishly mumbled to her bedfellow: "What
ails you, Anderson Crow? Go to sleep!"
"Never mind, never mind. I can't tell you, so don't pester me. All I ast
of you is to wake me at five if I happen to oversleep."
"Well, of all the--do you suppose I'm goin' to lay awake here all night
waitin' for five o'clock to----"
"How in thunder do you expect me to go to sleep, Eva, if you keep
jabberin' away to me all night long like this? Ding it all to gosh, here
it is after one o'clock an' you still talkin'. Don't do it, I say.
Don't ast another question till five o'clock, an' then all you got to do
it to ast me if I'm awake."
"Umph!" said Mrs. Crow.
* * * * *
Messrs. Bacon and Bonaparte were an hour and forty minutes late.
It was nearly eight o'clock when the two gentlemen came hurrying around
the corner into Sickle street, piloted by Alf Reesling, the town
drunkard.
A long, important-looking cigar propitiated Mr. Crow, and after Mr.
Reesling and other citizens had been given to understand that the
strangers were figuring on buying all the timber on Crow's Mountain, the
three principals set forth in Anderson's buckboard.
In due time they arrived at the top of the "Mountain." Now Crow's
Mountain was no mountain at all. It was a thickly wooded hill that had
achieved eminence by happening to be a scant fifty feet higher than the
knolls surrounding it. From the low-lying pastures and grain-fields to
the top of the outstanding pine that reared its blasted storm-stripped
tip far above its fellows, the elevation was not more than three hundred
feet. Nevertheless, it was the loftiest hill in all that region and
capped Anderson Crow's agricultural possessions.
Just before the Boggs City National Bank at the county seat closed that
afternoon Mr. Crow appeared at the receiving-teller's window. He
deposited two hundred dollars in currency. Mr. Bacon had decided that a
draft on New York might excite undue curiosity.
"If people were to get wise to what we are really after up here on this
mountain, Mr. Crow," said he, "it would play hob with everything. If it
gets out that we are after gold--why, the price of land would be so high
we couldn't--"
"Lot of these hayseeds been wantin' to sell fer years, the derned
rubes," broke in Anderson, pityingly.
"Well, you get me, don't you? Keep our eyes open and our mouths closed,
and we will be millionaires inside of a year--or two, at the outside."
"Mum's the word, as the feller said," agreed Mr. Crow.
"And of course you see the advisability of having our articles of
incorporation filed secretly in New Jersey. This contract we have signed
will be ratified by our employers in New York, and the regular articles
drawn up at once. Wait till you see the names of the men who are behind
this enterprise. The first meeting of the board of directors will bring
together a dozen of the greatest--"
"Where will the meetin' be held?" broke in Anderson, somewhat anxiously.
"New York City, of course. It wouldn't surprise me in the least to see
you elected President of the Corporation, Mr. Crow."
"Oh, gosh-a-mighty! I--I can't accept the honour, Mr. Bacon. It's too
much of a responsibility. Besides, I don't see how I'm goin' to be able
to get away from Tinkletown this fall to attend the meetin'. The County
Fair opens next week at Boggs City, an' the second week in October
there's to be a Baptist revival--"
"You can send in your proxy, Mr. Crow," explained Mr. Bacon. "It will be
all the same to us, you know."
"Well, I guess I better," said Anderson thoughtfully.
A fortnight went by. Crow's Mountain had become the scene of sharp but
stealthy activity. Anderson went about the streets of Tinkletown as if
in a daze. Acting upon the stern, almost offensive, advice of his new
partners, he did not go near the "Mountain" after the first couple of
days. They made it very plain to him that _everything_ depended on his
shrewdness in staying away from the "Mountain" altogether.
The Tinkletown _Banner_, in reporting the vast transaction, incorporated
an interview with Mr. G. W. Bacon, who announced that the syndicate he
represented had in mind a project to erect a huge summer hotel on top of
the "most beautiful mountain east of the Rockies," in the event that
satisfactory terms could be arranged with Mr. Crow. As a matter of fact,
explained Mr. Bacon, he had been instructed to make certain preliminary
investigations in regard to construction, and so forth--such as
ascertaining how far down they would have to go to bed-rock, and all
that sort of thing.
Practically all of the syndicate's preparatory work on Crow's Mountain
was done under cover of night. Motor-trucks that were said to have been
driven all the way from Pittsburgh--on account of the dreadful
congestion on the railroads--delivered machinery, tools, drills, rods,
bolts, rivets and thin jangling strips of structural steel.
Marshal Crow, assuming an importance he did not feel, strutted about
Tinkletown.
* * * * *
His abstraction had a good deal to do with the accident to old Mrs.
Twiggers. He was dreamily cogitating at the time she was run down by
Schultz's butcher-wagon, and as the catastrophe took place almost under
his nose, more than one citizen called him names he wouldn't forget. The
old lady had her spectacles smashed and lost a dozen eggs in the
confusion. Moreover, Ed Higgins's hen-roost was robbed; and three tramps
spent as much as half a day on Main Street before Anderson took any
notice of them. Ordinarily, he was death on tramps. Crime, as Mr. Harry
Squires put it in a caustic editorial in the _Banner_, was rampant in
Tinkletown. It was getting so rampant, he complained, that it wasn't
safe to cross the street--especially while eggs were retailing at
forty-two cents a dozen.
It remained for Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, to bring order out of
chaos. Not that he seized the opportunity to go on a spree while
Anderson was moon-gazing,--not at all. Alf loathed intoxicating liquors.
He did not drink himself, and he had a horror of any one who did. He had
been drunk just three times in his life, but as he had managed to crowd
the three exhibitions into the space of one week--some twenty years
before--Tinkletown elected him forthwith for life to the office of town
sot.
Now, Alf had a grievance. He finally got the ear of Marshal Crow and let
loose in a way that startled the old man out of his daze.
"Here you been watchin' me, an' trailin' me, an' lecturin' me for twenty
years, dern ye,--an' pleadin' with me to keep sober fer the sake of
Tinkletown's fair name, an' you let this feller Bonyparte git full an'
keep people awake half the night. He's been drunk more times in the last
three weeks than I ever was in all my life. He--"
"What's that? Did you say drunk?" demanded Anderson, blinking. "Who told
you he was drunk?"
"_He_ did," said Alf. "He don't make any bones about it. He tells
everybody when he is drunk. He's proud of it."
"An' I suppose everybody believes him," said Anderson scathingly. "The
people of this here town will believe _any_ thing if--"
"Las' night that pardner of his'n an' two other fellers from up the hill
had to take him up to his room an' lock him in. He was tryin' to sing
the Star Spangled Banner in _Dutch_. Gosh, it was awful! He orter be
arrested, same as anybody else, Anderson Crow. You got me under
suspicion every minute o' the time--night _and_ day--"
"That'll do, that'll do, now Alf. No more back talk out o' you,"
exclaimed Anderson menacingly. "You might as well _be_ drunk as to _act_
drunk. Don't you know any better'n--"
"Are you goin' to arrest this Bonyparte feller?"
Anderson eyed him sternly for a moment. "I got half a notion to run you
in, Alf Reesling, fer interferin' with an officer."
"How'm I interferin'?"
"You're preventin' me from arrestin' a violater of the law, dern you.
Can't you see I'm on my way over to Justice Robb's to swear out a
warrant against Abraham Lincoln Bonaparte for bein' intoxicated? What do
you mean by stoppin' me an'--"
"I'll go along, Andy," broke in Alf, suddenly affable. "I'll swear to it
if you--"
"'Tain't necessary," announced Anderson loftily. "I c'n attend to my own
business, if you can't. Nobody c'n sing the Star Spangled Banner in
Dutch without havin' a charge of intoxication filed ag'in him, lemme
tell you that. Git out o' my way, Alf."
Mr. Crow's pride had been touched. The shaft of criticism had gone home.
He would arrest Mr. Abraham Lincoln Bonaparte, no matter what came of
it. He did not like Mr. Bonaparte anyway. It was Mr. Bonaparte who had
ordered him off Crow's Mountain--his own mountain, mind you--and told
him not to come puttering around there any more.
On second thoughts, he accepted the nominal town sot's offer to make
affidavit against a real offender, but declined his company and
assistance in effecting the arrest. Down in the old Marshal's heart
lurked the fear that his new partners would put up such strenuous
objections to the arrest that he would have to give way to them. It was
this misgiving that caused him to make the trip to Crow's Mountain
instead of confronting his man that evening at the hotel or in the
street, in the presence of an audience.
Arriving at the cross-roads half a mile from the foot of Crow's
Mountain, he encountered two men tinkering with the engine of a big
automobile. They stopped him and inquired if there was a garage nearby.
While he was directing them to Pete Olsen's in town, he espied two more
men reposing in the shade of a tree farther up the lane.
As he drove on, leaving them behind, he found himself possessed of the
notion that the two men were strangely nervous and impatient. He
decided, after he had gone a half mile farther that they had, as a
matter-of-fact, acted in a very suspicious manner,--just as automobile
thieves might be expected to act in the presence of an officer of the
law. He made up his mind that if they were still there when he returned
with his prisoner, he would yank 'em up for investigation.
He went through the motions of hitching old Hip and Jim to a sapling
near the top of the "Mountain." They went to sleep almost instantly.
In the little clearing off to the left, a couple of hundred yards away,
Marshal Crow observed several men at work constructing a "shanty."
Closer at hand, almost lost to view among the pines, rose the thin,
open-work steel tower from which the "drill" was to be operated.
Standing out among the tree-tops were the long cross-bars of steel, and
from them ran the "guy" wires to the ground below. Mr. Crow had never
seen a "drill" before, but he had been told by Mr. Bacon that this was
the newest thing on the market.
The Marshal started off in the direction of the "shanty" and suddenly a
most astonishing thing happened. Mr. Crow disappeared from view as if by
magic!
[Illustration: _The Marshal started off in the direction of the
"shanty"_]
In order to give the drill as wide a berth as possible, he had deployed
widely to the left of the path, making his way somewhat tortuously
through a rough lot of underbrush. Without the slightest warning, the
earth gave way beneath him and down he shot, clawing frantically at the
edges of a well-camouflaged hole in the ground, taking with him a vast
amount of twigs, branches and a net-work of sapling poles.
Not only did he drop a good twelve feet, but he landed squarely upon
the stooping person of Mr. Bacon, who emitted a startling sound that
began as a yell and ended as a grunt. He then crumpled up and spread
himself out flat, with Mr. Crow draped awkwardly across his prostrate
form. For the time being, Mr. Bacon was as still as the grave. He was
out.
Anderson scrambled to his feet, pawing the air with his hands, his eyes
tightly shut. He was yelling for help.
Now, it was this yelling for help that deceived the astonished Mr.
Bonaparte. He jumped at once to the conclusion that the Marshal was
calling for assistance from the _outside_.
So he threw up his hands!
"I--surrender! I give in!" he yelled. "Keep them off! Don't let them get
at me!"
[Illustration: _"I--I surrender! I give in!" he yelled_]
Anderson opened his eyes and stared.
He found himself in a small, squat room lighted by a lantern which stood
upon a crudely made table in the corner beyond Bonaparte. There was a
board floor well littered with soil and shavings. In another corner
stood a singular looking contraption, not unlike a dynamo.
Marshal Crow bethought himself of his mission. Although the breath had
been jarred out of his body, he managed to say,--explosively:
"I--I got a warrant for your arrest. Come along now! Don't resist. Don't
make a fuss. Come along peaceably. I--"
"I'll come, Mr. Crow. I was dragged into this thing against my will.
_Gott in Himmel! Gott!--_"
"Never mind what you got," exclaimed Anderson sharply. "You come along
with me or you'll get something worse'n that."
"Is--is he dead!" groaned Bonaparte, his eyes almost starting from his
head.
Anderson backed away from the sprawling, motionless figure on the floor.
"I--I--gosh, I hope not. I--I was as much surprised as anybody. Say, you
see if he's breathin'. We got to git him out o' this place right away
an' send for a doctor. The good Lord knows I didn't intend to light on
him like that. It was an accident, I swear it was. You know just how it
happened, an'--you'll stand by me, won't you, if--"
Just then a loud voice came from above.
"Hey, down there!" A second's pause. Then: "We've got you dead to
rights, so no monkey business. Come up out o' that, or we'll pump enough
lead down there to--"
"Don't shoot,--don't shoot!" yelled Mr. Bonaparte shrilly. "Tell your
men not to fire, Mr. Crow!"
"Tell--tell _who_?" cried Anderson blankly. Suddenly he sprang to his
companion's side; seizing him by the arm, he whispered hoarsely: "By
gosh, I thought there was somethin' queer about that gang. Have you got
any of the gold here? I recollect that feller's voice, plain as day.
They're after the gold. They've heard about--"
"Are you coming up?" roared the voice from the outer world.
"Who are you?" called back Anderson stoutly.
"Oh, I guess you'll recognize United States marshals when you see 'em.
Come on, now."
Abraham Lincoln Bonaparte faced Marshal Crow, the truth dawning upon him
like a flash.
"You damned old rube!" he snarled, and forthwith planted his fist under
Anderson's chin-whiskers, with such surprising force that the old man
once more landed heavily on the prostrate form of the unfortunate Bacon.
"O-oh, gosh!" groaned Anderson, and as his eyes rolled upward he saw a
million stars chasing each other around the ceiling.
"I'll get _that_ much satisfaction out of it anyhow," he heard some one
say, from a very great distance.
Sometime afterward he was dimly aware of a jumble of excited voices
about him. Some one was shouting in his ear. He opened his eyes and
everything looked green before them. In time he recognized pine trees,
very lofty pine trees that slowly but surely shrank in size as he gazed
wonderingly at them.
There were a lot of strange men surrounding him. Out of the mass, he
finally selected a face that grew upon him. It was the face of Alf
Reesling.
"By jinks, Anderson, you done it _this_ time," Alf cried excitedly. "I
told 'em you was on your way up here to arrest these fellers, an' by
jinks, I knowed you'd get 'em."
"Le--lemme set down, please," mumbled Anderson, and the two men who
supported him lowered him gently to the ground, with his back against a
tree trunk. "Come here, Alf," he called out feebly.
Alf shuffled forward.
"Who are these men?" whispered Anderson.
"Detectives--reg'lar detectives," replied Alf. "United States
detectives--what do you call 'em?"
"Scotland Yard men," replied Anderson, who had done a good deal of
reading in his time.