"That's it! Where is he?"
"Best way to find out is to send a boy up to the house." He called a boy
and sent him scurrying up the street.
The crowd now grew sober and discussed possibilities.
"If that's true, it's the worst crack on the head I ever had," said
McIlvaine. "Seventeen hundred dollars is my pile in there." He took a
seat on the window-sill.
"Well, I'm tickled to death to think I got my little stake out before
anything happened."
"When you think of it--what security did he ever give?" McIlvaine
continued.
"Not a cent--not a red cent."
"No, sir; we simply banked on him. Now, he's a good fellow, an' this may
be a joke o' Link's; but the fact is, it might 'a' happened. Well,
sonny?" he said to the boy, who came running up.
"Link ain't to home, an' Mrs. Sanford she says Jim's sick, an' can't come
down."
There was a silence. "Anybody see him this morning?" asked Wilson.
"Yes; I saw him," said Vance. "Looked bad, too."
The crowd changed; people came and went, some to get news, some to carry
it away. In a short time the whole town knew the bank had "bu'sted all to
smash." Farmers drove along, and stopped to find out what it all meant.
The more they talked, the more excited they grew; and "Scoundrel," and
"I always had my doubts of that feller," were phrases growing more
frequent.
The list of the victims grew until it was evident that nearly all of the
savings of a dozen or more depositors were swallowed up, and the sum
reached was nearly twenty thousand dollars.
"What did he do with it?" was the question. He never gambled or drank. He
lived frugally. There was no apparent cause for this failure of a trusted
institution.
It was beginning to snow in great, damp, driving flakes, which melted as
they fell, giving to the street a strangeness and gloom that were
impressive. The men left the sidewalk at last, and gathered in the
saloons and stores to continue the discussion.
The crowd at the railroad saloon was very decided in its belief. Sanford
had pocketed the money and skipped. That yarn about his being at home
sick was a blind. Some went so far as to say that it was almighty curious
where Link was, hinting darkly that the bank ought to be broken into, and
so on.
Upon this company burst Barney and Sam Mace from "Hogan's Corners." They
were excited by the news and already inflamed with drink.
"Say!" yelled Barney, "any o' you fellers know anything about Jim
Sanford?"
"No. Why? Got any money there?"
"Yes; and I'm goin' to git it out, if I haf to smash the door in."
"That's the talk!" shouted some of the loafers. They sprang up and
surrounded Barney. There was something in his voice that aroused all
their latent ferocity. "I'm goin' to get into that bank an' see how
things look, an' then I'm goin' to find Sanford an' get my money, or
pound--out of 'im, one o' the six."
"Go find him first. He's up home, sick--so's his wife."
"I'll see whether he's sick 'r not. I'll drag 'im out by the scruff o'
the neck! Come on!" He ended with a sudden resolution, leading the way
out into the street, where the falling snow was softening the dirt into a
sticky mud.
A rabble of a dozen or two of men and boys followed Mace up the street.
He led the way with great strides, shouting his threats. As they passed
along, women thrust their heads out at the windows, asking, "What's the
matter?" And some one answered each time, in a voice of unconcealed
delight:
"Sanford's stole all the money in the bank, and they're goin' up to lick
'im. Come on if ye want to see the fun."
In a few moments the street looked as if an alarm of fire had been
sounded. Half the town seemed to be out, and the other half
coming--women in shawls, like squaws; children capering and laughing;
young men grinning at the girls who came out and stood at the gates.
Some of the citizens tried to stop it. Vance found the constable looking
on, and ordered him to do his duty and stop that crowd.
"I can't do anything," he said, helplessly. "They ain't done nawthin'
yet, an' I don't know--"
"Oh, git out! They're goin' up there to whale Jim, an' you know it. If
you don't stop 'em, I'll telephone f'r the sheriff, and have you arrested
with 'em."
Under this pressure, the constable ran along after the crowd, in an
attempt to stop it. He reached them as they stood about the little porch
of the house, packed closely around Barney and Sam, who said nothing, but
followed Barney like his shadow. If the sun had been shining, it might
not have happened as it did; but there was a semi-obscurity, a weird
half-light shed by the thick sky and falling snow, which somehow
encouraged the enraged ruffians, who pounded on the door just as the
pleading voice of the constable was heard.
"Hold on, gentlemen! This is ag'inst the law--"
"Law to--!" said some one. "This is a case f'r something besides law."
"Open up there!" roared the raucous voice of Barney Mace, as he pounded
at the door fiercely.
The door opened, and the wife appeared, one child in her arms, the other
at her side.
"What do you want?"
"Where's that banker? Tell the thief to come out here! We want to talk
with him."
The woman did not quail, but her face seemed a ghastly yellow, seen
through the falling snow.
"He can't come. He's sick."
"Sick! We'll sick 'im! Tell 'im t' come out, or we'll snake 'im out by
the heels." The crowd laughed. The worst elements of the saloons
surrounded the two half-savage men. It was amusing to them to see the
woman face them all in that way.
"Where's McPhail?" Vance inquired, anxiously. "Somebody find McPhail."
"Stand out o' the way!" snarled Barney, as he pushed the struggling woman
aside.
The wife raised her voice to that wild, animal-like pitch a woman uses
when desperate.
"I sha'n't do it, I tell you! Help!"
"Keep out o' my way, or I'll wring y'r neck f'r yeh."
She struggled with him, but he pushed her aside and entered the room.
"What's goin' on here?" called the ringing voice of Andrew McPhail, who
had just driven up with Link.
Several of the crowd looked over their shoulders at McPhail.
"Hello, Mac! Just in time. Oh, nawthin'. Barney's callin' on the banker,
that's all."
Over the heads of the crowd, packed struggling about the door, came the
woman's scream again. McPhail dashed around the crowd, running two or
three of them down, and entered the back door. Vance, McIlvaine, and
Lincoln followed him.
"Cowards!" the wife said, as the ruffians approached the bed. They swept
her aside, but paused an instant before the glance of the sick man's eye.
He lay there, desperately, deathly sick. The blood throbbed in his
whirling brain, his eyes were bloodshot and blinded, his strength was
gone. He could hardly speak. He partly rose and stretched out his hand,
and then fell back.
"Kill me--if you want to--but let her--alone. She's--"
The children were crying. The wind whistled drearily across the room,
carrying the evanescent flakes of soft snow over the heads of the
pausing, listening crowd in the doorway. Quick steps were heard.
"Hold on there!" cried McPhail, as he burst into the room. He seemed an
angel of God to the wife and mother.
He spread his great arms in a gesture which suggested irresistible
strength and resolution. "Clear out! Out with ye!"
No man had ever seen him look like that before. He awed them with the
look in his eyes. His long service as sheriff gave him authority. He
hustled them, cuffed them out of the door like school-boys. Barney backed
out, cursing. He knew McPhall too well to refuse to obey.
McPhail pushed Barney out, shut the door behind him, and stood on the
steps, looking at the crowd.
"Well, you're a great lot! You fellers, would ye jump on a sick man? What
ye think ye're all doin', anyhow?"