gaunt figure of Anderson Crow. A frightful scowl transfigured his face.
Mr. Crow involuntarily drew back a step and reversed the pistol in his
hand, so that its muzzle was pointing at the enemy instead of at
himself. Between imprecations the prisoner managed to convey the fact
that he realized for the first time that it was a human being and not a
log that had brought him to earth.
* * * * *
Mr. Crow found his voice and some of his wits at the same time.
"I'll learn you not to go rampagin' around these parts carryin'
concealed weapons, you good-fer-nothin' scamp! I've got your gun, blast
ye!" He turned triumphantly to the surprised secret-service man. "I took
it away from him soon as I had him down, an'--"
"Holy mackerel!" gasped the operative. "Did--did you head him off
and--and down him? You? Well, I'll be hanged!"
"I sorter knowed he'd strike about here, tryin' to make the woods up
yonder, so I hustled down here to head him off while you fellers--"
"Never mind now," broke in the other. "Tell it to me later. Come on,
both of you. We're not through yet." He urged the burly captive through
the hedge. Marshal Crow followed very close behind.
They found a terrified, excited group on the front porch--three sturdy
females in nightgowns, all with their hands up! Below, revealed by the
light streaming through the open door, stood a man covering them with a
revolver. Fifteen or twenty minutes later Mr. Crow dug the shivering
Eliphalet Loop out of the hay-mow and ordered him forthwith to join his
family in the kitchen, where he would hear something to his advantage.
The happiest man in Bramble County was Eliphalet Loop when he finally
grasped the truth. The prisoner turned out to be his wife's first
husband--he grasped that fact some little time before he realized that
_he_ wasn't even her second husband, owing to certain fundamental
principles in law--and a fugitive from justice. The man was an escaped
convict, the leader of a gang of counterfeiters, and he was serving a
term in one of the federal prisons when he succeeded in his break for
liberty. For many months the United States Secret Service operatives had
been combing the country for him, hot and cold on his trail, but always,
until now, finding themselves baffled by the crafty rogue, who,
according to the records, was one of the most dangerous, desperate
criminals alive. Finally they got track of his wife, who had lived for a
time in Hoboken, but it was only within the week that they succeeded in
locating her as the wife of Eliphalet Loop. The remainder of the story
is too simple to bother about.
"Of course, Mr. Loop," said one of the secret-service men, "you can
prosecute this woman for bigamy."
Mr. Loop shook his head. "Not much! I won't take no chance. She might
prove that she wasn't ever married to _this_ feller, an' then where
would I be? No, sirree! You take her along an' lock her up. She's a
dangerous character. An' say, don't make any mistake an' fergit to take
her mother an' sister, too."
* * * * *
The next evening Mr. Crow sat on the porch in front of Lamson's store.
His fellow-townsmen were paying up more promptly than he had expected.
Practically three-fourths of the reward was in his coat pockets--all
silver, but as heavy as lead.
"Yes, sir," he was saying in a rather far-reaching voice, for the outer
rim of the crowd was some distance away, "as I said before several
times, I figgered he would do just what he did. I figgered that I'd have
to outfigger him. He is one of the slickest individuals I have ever had
anything to do with--an' one of the most desperit. I--er--where was I
at, Alf?... Oh, yes, I recollect. He was a powerful feller. Fer a second
or two I thought maybe he'd get the best of me, being so much younger
an' havin' a revolver besides. But I hung on like grim death, an'
finally--Thanks, Jim; I wasn't expectin' you to pay 'fore the end of the
month. Finally I got my favourite holt on him, an' down he went. All
this time I was tryin' to git his revolver away from him. Just as I got
it, the secret-service men came dashin' up an'--What say, Deacon? Well,
if the rest of the crowd ain't tired o' hearin' the story, I don't mind
tellin' it all over."
Harry Squires, perched on the railing, assured him that the crowd
wouldn't mind in the least.
"The real beauty of the story Anderson," he added dryly, "is that it has
so much of the spice of life in it."
"What's that?"
"I mean variety."
NO QUESTIONS ANSWERED
REWARD!!!
$25.00 For the Apprehension or Capture of Person or Persons Who
Successfully Stole the Fashionable Bulldog Belonging to Mrs. M.
Fryback on or About Friday of Last Week!
N. B.--Said dog occasionally answers to the name of Marmaduke, but
mostly to Mike.
An Additional Reward of Three Dollars Cash will be paid for the
return of said dog, with or without said Criminals. No Questions
asked.
A. CROW, Marshal of Tinkletown.
The foregoing poster, fresh from the press of the _Banner_ printing
office, made itself conspicuous at no less than a dozen points in the
village of Tinkletown on a blustery February morning. Early visitors to
the post office in Lamson's store were the first to discover it, tacked
neatly on the bulletin board. Others saw it in front of the Town Hall,
while others, who rarely took the trouble to look at a telephone pole
before leaning against it, found themselves gazing with interest at the
notice that covered the customary admonition:
"Post No Bills."
Of course every one in Tinkletown knew, and had known for the matter of
a week or more, that Mort Fryback's bulldog was "lost, strayed or
stolen," but this was the first glaring intimation that Mort had also
lost his mind. In the first place, Mike--as he was familiarly known to
every inhabitant--wasn't worth more than a dollar and a half when he was
in his prime, and that, according to recollection, must have been at
least twelve or fifteen years prior to his unexplained disappearance. In
the second place, it was pretty generally understood that Mike--recently
Marmaduke--had surreptitiously taken a dose of prussic acid in a shed
back of Kepsal's blacksmith shop and was now enjoying a state of perfect
rejuvenation in the happy hunting ground.
Mr. Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, after having scanned four of the
notices on his way to the post office, informed a group of citizens in
front of Brubaker's drugstore that Anderson Crow would do almost
anything to get his name into print. Alf and the town marshal had had
one of their periodical "fallings out," and, for the moment at least,
the former was inclined to bitterness.
"To begin with," explained Alf, "there ain't a dog in this town that's
worth stealin', to say nothin' of three dollars. You can't tell me that
Mort Fryback would give three dollars to get that dog back, not even if
he was alive--which he ain't, if you c'n believe Bill Kepsal. No, sir;
it's just because Anderson wants to see his name in print, that's what
it is. I bet if you was to ask Mort if he has agreed to pay--how much is
it all told?--twenty-eight dollars--if he has agreed to pay all that
money for _nothin'_, he'd order you out of his store."
"Mrs. Fryback told my wife a couple of weeks ago that Marmaduke was a
prize bull, and she wouldn't take a hundred dollars for him," said Newt
Spratt. "Seems that she had somebody look up his pedigree, and he turns
out to be a stepson or something like that of a dog that won first prize
at a bench show--whatever that is--in New York City."
"Ever since that actress woman was here last fall,--that friend of Harry
Squires, I mean,--every derned dog in town has turned out to be related
some way or other to a thoroughbred animal in some other city," said
Alf. "Why, even that mangy shepherd dog of Deacon Rank's--accordin' to
Mrs. Rank--is a direct descendant of two of the finest Boston terriers
that ever came out of Boston. She told me so herself, but, of course, I
couldn't ask how he happened to look so much like a shepherd dog and so
little like his parents, 'cause there's no use makin' poor Mrs. Rank
any more miserable than she already is--she certainly don't get any fun
out of life, livin' with the deacon from one year's end to the other.
Yes, sir; just because that actress woman paraded around here for a
month or so last fall with a French poodle, is no reason, far as I can
see, why all the women in town should begin puttin' leashes on their
dogs and washin' 'em and trimmin' 'em and tying red ribbons around their
necks--yes, and around some of their tails, too. I'll never forget that
stub-tail dog of Angie Nixon's going around with a blue bow stickin'
straight up behind him, and lookin' as though he'd lost something and
got dizzy looking for it. And Mort's dog, Mike--poor old Mike,--why, he
got so he'd go down to Hawkins' undertakin' shop every time he could get
a minute off and bark till Lem would let him in, and then he'd lay down
in a corner and go to sleep, and Lem always swore the poor dog was as
mad as a hornet when he woke up and found he was still alive."
"What puzzles me is why Mort Fryback's offerin' this reward, and all
that, if he knows the dog is dead. It costs money to have bills like
this printed at the _Banner_ office." So spoke Elmer Pratt, the
photographer. "Wasn't he present at the obsequies?"
"No, he wasn't," said Alf. "He claims now that he don't know anything
about it, and, besides, Bill Kepsal says he'll beat the head off of
anybody that says Mike passed away on his premises--including Mort. So
naturally Mort denies it. He told me yesterday he would deny it even if
he had both of his legs; but what chance, says he, has a one-legged man
got with big Bill Kepsal?"
"Here comes Anderson now," said Mr. Spratt, his gaze fixed on an
approaching figure.
It was zero weather in northern New York State, and the ancient Marshal
of Tinkletown was garbed accordingly. The expansive collar of his
brass-buttoned ulster was turned up, completely obscuring the ear-flaps
and part of the coonskin cap he was wearing. An enormous pair of arctics
covered his feet; his grey and red mittens were of the homemade variety;
a muffler of the same material enveloped his gaunt neck, knotted loosely
under his chin in such a way as to leave his whiskers free not only to
the wind but to the vicissitudes of conversation as well. The emblem of
authority, a bright silver star, gleamed on the breast of his ulster.
He stopped when he reached the group huddled in front of the drugstore,
and glared accusingly at Alf Reesling.
"I thought I told you to keep off the streets," he said ominously.
"Didn't I tell you yesterday I'd run you in if I caught you drunk in the
streets again?"
"Yes, you did," replied Alf, in a justifiably bellicose manner; "but I
still stick to what I said to you at first when you said that to me."
"What was that?"
"I said you couldn't ketch me even if I was dead drunk and unconscious
in the gutter, that's what I said."
"For two cents, I'd show you," said Anderson.
"Well, go ahead. Just add two cents to what you claim I already owe you,
and go ahead with your runnin' me in. But before you do it, lemme warn
you I'll sue you for false arrest, and then where'll you be? I got five
witnesses right here that'll swear I ain't drunk now and haven't been in
twenty-three years."
"That shows just how drunk you are," said Anderson triumphantly. "Far as
I can see, there are only four men here."
"Don't you call yourself a man?"
"What say?"
"I mean I got five witnesses includin' you, that's what I mean. I'm
gettin' sick of you all the time tellin' me I been drinkin' again, when
you know I ain't touched a drop since 1896. Why, dog-gone you, Andy
Crow, if it wasn't for me an' the way you keep on talkin' about juggin'
me, you wouldn't have any excuse at all fer bein' town marshal. You--"
"That'll do now," interrupted Anderson severely. "You have said them
very words to me a thousand times, Alf Reesling, and--Who's that coming
out of the post office?"
The group gradually turned to look up the street. Tinkletown is a slow
place. Its inhabitants do everything with a deliberation that suggests
the profoundest ennui. For example, a gentleman of Tinkletown rarely
raised his hat on meeting a lady. He invariably started to do so, but as
the ladies of the place were in the habit of moving with more celerity
than the gentlemen, he failed on most occasions to complete the
undertaking. What's the sense of takin' your hat off to a woman, he
would argue, if she's already got past you? So far as anybody knew,
there wasn't a woman in town with an eye in the back of her head.
"Looks like a stranger," said Newt Spratt.
"It certainly does," agreed Anderson. "Yes, I'm right," he added an
instant later.
The object of interest was crossing the street in the direction of the
Grand View Hotel. The group watched him with mild interest. In front of
the two-story frame building that seemed to stagger, or at least to
shrink, under the weight of its own importance, the stranger--a
man--paused to glance at one of the placards heralding the misfortune
and at the same time the far from parsimonious regard of the lady who
had been despoiled of a fashionable bulldog. Having perused the
singularly comprehensive notice, he deliberately tore it down, folded it
with some care, and stuck it into his overcoat pocket. Then he entered
the Grand View Hotel.
"Well, I'll be ding-blasted!" exclaimed Marshal Crow.
Mr. Reesling's animosity gave way to civic pride. "By jingo, Anderson,"
he cried, "if you want any help arrestin' that scoundrel, call on me!
Comin' around here defacin' things like that--he ought to go to jail."
Elmer K. Pratt, the photographer, voiced a time-tried but fruitless
criticism. "If you'd paste 'em up instead of tackin' 'em up, people
couldn't take 'em down like that. I've told you--"
"If you got any complaints to make about me, Elmer, you'd better make
'em to the town board and not to Alf Reesling and Newt Spratt,"
interrupted Marshal Crow testily. "Besides I do paste 'em up when I run
out of tacks."
He started off toward the Grand View, his head erect, his whiskers
bristling with indignation.
"Shall we go with you, Anderson?" inquired Alf.
"'Tain't necessary," replied the Marshal, "but you might go over and
wait for me in front of the hotel."
"If you need any help, just holler," said Alf.
Entering the office of the Grand View Hotel, Marshal Crow looked around
for the despoiler. Save for the presence of the proprietress, Mrs.
Bloomer, relict of the founder of the hostelry, the room was quite
empty. Mrs. Bloomer, however, filled it rather snugly. She was a large
person, and she had a cold in the head which made her feel even larger.
She was now engaged in sweeping the floor.
"Mornin', Jennie," was Anderson's greeting. "Where's the feller that's
stoppin' here?"
Mrs. Bloomer had the sniffles. "He's gone up to his room," she said.
Then after another sniffle: "Why?"
"I want to see him."
"Well his room's at the head of the stairs, to your right."
Anderson twisted his whiskers in momentary perplexity.
"Might be better if you asked him to come down."
"Ask him yourself," she said. "I don't want to see him."
Marshal Crow made a mental reservation to yank Mrs. Bloomer up before
Justice Robb the next time she left the garbage can standing on the
sidewalk overnight.
He hesitated about going up to the guest's bedroom. It wasn't quite the
legal thing to do. The more he thought of it, the longer he hesitated.
In fact, while he was about it, he thought he would draw a chair up to
the big sheet-iron stove and sit down.
"Won't you take off your overcoat and goloshes?" inquired the landlady,
but in a far from hospitable manner.
"How long has this feller been here?" demanded Anderson, moving his left
foot a little, but not quite far enough to avoid the broom.
"Last night."
"Um-m! What's his name and where's he from?"
"Go and look at the register, and then you'll know as much as I do. It's
a public register. Nothing secret about it."
Anderson got up suddenly. "I guess I'll go look while you're sweepin'
around here."
The register on the little counter in the corner revealed the name of a
single arrival below the flowing Spencerian hand of Willie Spence, the
clerk, head waiter, porter and bell-boy of the Grand View Hotel. Willie,
because of his proficiency as a chirographer, always wrote the date line
in the register. He was strong on flourishes, but somewhat feeble in
spelling. Any one with half an eye could see that there was something
wrong with a date line that read: "Febury 25nd 1919." The lone guest's
name, written in a tight "running" hand with total disregard for the
elementary formation of letters, might have been almost anything that
occupied less than two inches of space. Even his place of residence was
a matter of doubt.
The Marshal put on his spectacles and studied the signature. As far as
he could make out, the man's name was something like "Winnumnn
Millmmmln." It was a name that baffled him. The longer he studied it,
the worse it became.
"Seems to me, Jennie, if I was runnin' this hotel, I'd have Willie
Spence register for the guests, and save 'em the trouble."
"Can't you make it out?"
"Course I can," he replied promptly. "It's as plain as day to me, but
I'll bet you a good cigar you can't make it out."
She fell into the trap. "All right, I take you up. It's Mr. & Mrs.
George F. Fox."
Mr. Crow stared at her for a second or two. Then he recovered himself.
"You're right," he said. "What kind of a cigar do you smoke, Jennie?"
As he had feared, she promptly named the highest-priced cigar she had in
stock, a three-for-a-quarter brand, and then coolly announced that if
he'd leave a dime on the show case, she'd get it.
"Got his wife with him, I see," remarked Anderson.
"Yep," said Mrs. Bloomer.
"What's his business?"
"I asked him last night," said she, pausing in her work to fix Anderson
with a rather penetrating look. "He said he was a trained elephant."
"A--a what?"
"A trained elephant."
"You don't say so!"
"And his wife is a snake-charmer," she added uneasily.
Anderson blinked rapidly. "Well, of all the--But what on earth's he
doing here in Tinkletown?"
"I didn't ask any more questions after that," said she, with a furtive
glance up the stairway. "I'd give a good deal to know what they've got
in them big black valises they brought with 'em. Three times as big as
regular valises, with brass trimmin's. I hope she aint got any reptiles
in 'em."
Marshal Crow took that instant to consult the office clock. "By ginger!"
he exclaimed, with some sprightliness. "I got to be movin' along. I'm
follerin' up a clue in that dog case."
Mrs. Bloomer's anxious gaze was bent on a dark corner back of the
stairway.
"I do hope, if she _has_ got any snakes in them valises, she won't let
'em get loose and go crawlin' all over the place. I----"
Mr. Crow sent a quick, searching look about the office as he strode
toward the door.
"Ain't you going up to his room?" inquired Mrs. Bloomer.
"Not just now," replied Anderson, and closed the door quickly behind
him.
Alf Reesling and his companions were waiting impatiently on the
sidewalk. They were actively disappointed when the Marshal emerged
empty-handed.
"Was he too much fer you?" was Alf's scathing inquiry.
"How many times have I got to tell you, Alf, that I'm able to deduce
these cases without your assistance? Now, this is a big case, and you
leave it to me to handle. When I get ready to act, you'll hear something
that will make your hair stand on end. Hold on, Newt! Don't ask any
questions. Don't----"
"I wasn't going to ask any questions," snapped Newt. "I was going to
tell you something."
"You was, eh? Well, what was you going to tell me?"
"Mort Fryback went by here a couple of minutes ago an' he says for you
to come into his store right away."
Anderson frowned. "I bet he's confessed."
"Who? Him? What's he got to confess?" demanded Alf.
"Never mind, never mind," said the Marshal quickly. "I'll step in and
see him now."
Leaving his "reserves" standing in front of the Grand View, Mr. Crow
hurried into Fryback's hardware store.
Mort was pacing--or, strictly speaking, stumping--back and forth behind
the cutlery counter. His brow was corrugated with anxiety. The instant
he saw the Marshal he uttered an exclamation that might have been
construed as either relief, dismay or wrath. It was, as a matter of
fact, inarticulate and therefore extremely difficult to classify.
Anderson, however, deduced it as dismay. Mr. Fryback came out from
behind the counter, stumped over to the stove, in which there was a
crackling fire and, after opening the isinglass door, squirted a
mouthful of tobacco juice upon the coals. Whereupon it became possible
for him to articulate.
"I been lookin' everywhere fer you," said he, somewhat breathlessly.
"Where you been?"
"'Tendin' to business," retorted Anderson. "What's the matter?"
Mr. Fryback took the precaution to ascertain that there were no
listeners in the store. "Somebody--some woman, you c'n bet on that--told
my wife last night that I poisoned old Mike."
"Well, you did, didn't you?"
"Of course I did. That is, I hired Charlie Brubaker to do it. But she
says I did it with my own hands, and--my gosh, Anderson, I never went
through such a night in my life as last night." He mopped his brow.
"You'd think I was a murderer. Course, I denied it. I swore he wasn't
dead, and that I'd increase the reward to a hundred dollars just to show
her. What I want you to do, right away, is to have a new set of bills
printed, offerin' a hundred dollars reward for that dog, instead of
three. It's the only chance I've got of ever being able to live in my
own house again."
The Marshal eyed him reflectively. "If you could get her to agree to let
you offer the reward for Mike, dead or alive--"
"She wants him alive, and no other way."
"Can't you buy her off?"
Mr. Fryback groaned. "I could--" he began dismally, and then fell to
chewing with great vigour.
"What would it cost?" inquired Anderson, feelingly.
"An automobile," replied Mr. Fryback, after opening and closing the
stove-door once more. "It would be cheaper, you see, to offer a hundred
dollars for Mike," he explained, ingenuously.
"It certainly would," agreed the Marshal, "seein' as you wouldn't have
to pay fer anything except the printin' of the notices. If you wanted to
show how much you think of your wife, and how anxious you are to please
her, you could go as high as a thousand dollars, Mort."
"Would you, reely, Anderson?"
"Sure. She could lord it over all these women--includin' my wife--who've
been sayin' Mike wasn't worth fifty cents and didn't have a pedigree any
longer than his tail. Why, if she wanted to go on lyin' about the value
of that old dog, she could tell people she had been offered a thousand
dollars for Marmyduke by a well-known dog collector in New York."
"That _might_ please her," reflected Mort. "Course, this thing has
already cost me quite a lot of money, outside the printin'. I've had to
give Bill Kepsal a receipt in full fer what he owes me, and that young
Brubaker's been in twice to price base-burner stoves. He says if he c'n
get a good one fer ten dollars he'll take it, and his heart seems to be
set on that seventy-dollar Regal over yonder. I'm in an awful fix,
Anderson."
"Well, you can't say I didn't advise you to let Mike die a natural
death."
"I wish to goodness I had," lamented Mort.
The door opened at that juncture, and in walked a man and a woman. The
former was carrying a square black "valise," inadequately described by
Mrs. Bloomer as twice the natural size. As a matter of fact, it was more
like a half-grown trunk, to quote no less an authority than the town
marshal.
The proprietor of the hardware store was, at a glance, qualified to pass
an opinion on the personal appearance of the two strangers. His
companion's attention, however, was devoted so earnestly to the big
black "valise," that he couldn't have told, for the life of him, whether
the customers were young or old, black or white. His fascinated gaze was
riveted upon the object the man deposited carefully on the floor near
the door.
"You are a locksmith, I perceive," remarked the strange man, addressing
Mort. "I'd like to have you see if you can open this box for me. We've
lost or mislaid the key."
"What fer sort of a lock is it?" asked Mort, approaching.
"Hold on, Mort!" called out Mr. Crow. "Don't monkey with that trunk."