Produced by Judith Boss
THE OAKDALE AFFAIR
By Edgar Rice Burroughs
Chapter One [And only chapter ED.]
The house on the hill showed lights only upon the first floor--in
the spacious reception hall, the dining room, and those more or less
mysterious purlieus thereof from which emanate disagreeable odors and
agreeable foods.
From behind a low bush across the wide lawn a pair of eyes transferred
to an alert brain these simple perceptions from which the brain deduced
with Sherlockian accuracy and Raffleian purpose that the family of the
president of The First National Bank of--Oh, let's call it Oakdale--was
at dinner, that the servants were below stairs and the second floor
deserted.
The owner of the eyes had but recently descended from the quarters of
the chauffeur above the garage which he had entered as a thief in
the night and quitted apparelled in a perfectly good suit of clothes
belonging to the gentlemanly chauffeur and a soft, checked cap which was
now pulled well down over a pair of large brown eyes in which a rather
strained expression might have suggested to an alienist a certain
neophytism which even the stern set of well shaped lips could not
effectually belie.
Apparently this was a youth steeling himself against a natural
repugnance to the dangerous profession he had espoused; and when, a
moment later, he stepped out into the moonlight and crossed the lawn
toward the house, the slender, graceful lines which the ill-fitting
clothes could not entirely conceal carried the conviction of youth if
not of innocence.
The brazen assurance with which the lad crossed the lawn and mounted
the steps to the verandah suggested a familiarity with the habits and
customs of the inmates of the house upon the hill which bespoke long and
careful study of the contemplated job. An old timer could not have moved
with greater confidence. No detail seemed to have escaped his cunning
calculation. Though the door leading from the verandah into the
reception hall swung wide to the balmy airs of late Spring the prowler
passed this blatant invitation to the hospitality of the House of Prim.
It was as though he knew that from his place at the head of the table,
with his back toward the great fire place which is the pride of the
Prim dining hall, Jonas Prim commands a view of the major portion of the
reception hall.
Stooping low the youth passed along the verandah to a window of the
darkened library--a French window which swung open without noise to his
light touch. Stepping within he crossed the room to a door which opened
at the foot of a narrow stairway--a convenient little stairway which
had often let the Hon. Jonas Prim pass from his library to his second
floor bed-room unnoticed when Mrs. Prim chanced to be entertaining the
feminine elite of Oakdale across the hall. A convenient little stairway
for retiring husbands and diffident burglars--yes, indeed!
The darkness of the upper hallway offered no obstacle to this familiar
housebreaker. He passed the tempting luxury of Mrs. Prim's boudoir, the
chaste elegance of Jonas Prim's bed-room with all the possibilities of
forgotten wallets and negotiable papers, setting his course straight
for the apartments of Abigail Prim, the spinster daughter of the First
National Bank of Oakdale. Or should we utilize a more charitable and at
the same time more truthful word than spinster? I think we should, since
Abigail was but nineteen and quite human, despite her name.
Upon the dressing table of Abigail reposed much silver and gold and
ivory, wrought by clever artisans into articles of great beauty and some
utility; but with scarce a glance the burglar passed them by, directing
his course straight across the room to a small wall safe cleverly hidden
by a bit of tapestry.
How, Oh how, this suggestive familiarity with the innermost secrets of a
virgin's sacred apartments upon the part of one so obviously of the
male persuasion and, by his all too apparent calling, a denizen of that
underworld of which no Abigail should have intimate knowledge? Yet,
truly and with scarce a faint indication of groping, though the room was
dark, the marauder walked directly to the hidden safe, swung back the
tapestry in its frame, turned the knob of the combination and in a
moment opened the circular door of the strong box.
A fat roll of bills and a handful of jewelry he transferred to the
pockets of his coat. Some papers which his hand brushed within the safe
he pushed aside as though preadvised of their inutility to one of his
calling. Then he closed the safe door, closed the tapestry upon it and
turned toward a dainty dressing table. From a drawer in this exquisite
bit of Sheraton the burglar took a small, nickel plated automatic, which
he slipped into an inside breast pocket of his coat, nor did he touch
another article therein or thereon, nor hesitate an instant in the
selection of the drawer to be rifled. His knowledge of the apartment of
the daughter of the house of Prim was little short of uncanny. Doubtless
the fellow was some plumber's apprentice who had made good use of an
opportunity to study the lay of the land against a contemplated invasion
of these holy precincts.
But even the most expert of second story men nod and now that all seemed
as though running on greased rails a careless elbow raked a silver
candle-stick from the dressing table to the floor where it crashed
with a resounding din that sent cold shivers up the youth's spine and
conjured in his mind a sudden onslaught of investigators from the floor
below.
The noise of the falling candlestick sounded to the taut nerved
house-breaker as might the explosion of a stick of dynamite during
prayer in a meeting house. That all Oakdale had heard it seemed quite
possible, while that those below stairs were already turning questioning
ears, and probably inquisitive footsteps, upward was almost a foregone
conclusion.
Adjoining Miss Prim's boudoir was her bath and before the door leading
from the one to the other was a cretonne covered screen behind which
the burglar now concealed himself the while he listened in rigid
apprehension for the approach of the enemy; but the only sound that came
to him from the floor below was the deep laugh of Jonas Prim. A profound
sigh of relief escaped the beardless lips; for that laugh assured the
youth that, after all, the noise of the fallen candlestick had not
alarmed the household.
With knees that still trembled a bit he crossed the room and passed out
into the hallway, descended the stairs, and stood again in the library.
Here he paused a moment listening to the voices which came from the
dining room. Mrs. Prim was speaking. “I feel quite relieved about
Abigail,” she was saying. “I believe that at last she sees the wisdom
and the advantages of an alliance with Mr. Benham, and it was almost
with enthusiasm that she left this morning to visit his sister. I am
positive that a week or two of companionship with him will impress upon
her the fine qualities of his nature. We are to be congratulated, Jonas,
upon settling our daughter so advantageously both in the matter of
family and wealth.”
Jonas Prim grunted. “Sam Benham is old enough to be the girl's father,”
he growled. “If she wants him, all right; but I can't imagine Abbie
wanting a bald-headed husband with rheumatism. I wish you'd let her
alone, Pudgy, to find her own mate in her own way--someone nearer her
own age.”
“The child is not old enough to judge wisely for herself,” replied Mrs.
Prim. “It was my duty to arrange a proper alliance; and, Jonas, I will
thank you not to call me Pudgy--it is perfectly ridiculous for a woman
of my age--and position.”
The burglar did not hear Mr. Prim's reply for he had moved across the
library and passed out onto the verandah. Once again he crossed the
lawn, taking advantage of the several trees and shrubs which dotted it,
scaled the low stone wall at the side and was in the concealing shadows
of the unlighted side street which bounds the Prim estate upon the
south. The streets of Oakdale are flanked by imposing battalions of elm
and maple which over-arch and meet above the thoroughfares; and now,
following an early Spring, their foliage eclipsed the infrequent
arclights to the eminent satisfaction of those nocturnal wayfarers
who prefer neither publicity nor the spot light. Of such there are few
within the well ordered precincts of law abiding Oakdale; but to-night
there was at least one and this one was deeply grateful for the gloomy
walks along which he hurried toward the limits of the city.
At last he found himself upon a country road with the odors of Spring
in his nostrils and the world before him. The night noises of the open
country fell strangely upon his ears accentuating rather than relieving
the myriad noted silence of Nature. Familiar sounds became unreal
and weird, the deep bass of innumerable bull frogs took on an uncanny
humanness which sent a half shudder through the slender frame. The
burglar felt a sad loneliness creeping over him. He tried whistling in
an effort to shake off the depressing effects of this seeming
solitude through which he moved; but there remained with him still the
hallucination that he moved alone through a strange, new world peopled
by invisible and unfamiliar forms--menacing shapes which lurked in
waiting behind each tree and shrub.
He ceased his whistling and went warily upon the balls of his feet, lest
he unnecessarily call attention to his presence. If the truth were to
be told it would chronicle the fact that a very nervous and frightened
burglar sneaked along the quiet and peaceful country road outside of
Oakdale. A lonesome burglar, this, who so craved the companionship of
man that he would almost have welcomed joyously the detaining hand of
the law had it fallen upon him in the guise of a flesh and blood police
officer from Oakdale.
In leaving the city the youth had given little thought to the
practicalities of the open road. He had thought, rather vaguely, of
sleeping in a bed of new clover in some hospitable fence corner; but
the fence corners looked very dark and the wide expanse of fields beyond
suggested a mysterious country which might be peopled by almost anything
but human beings.
At a farm house the youth hesitated and was almost upon the verge of
entering and asking for a night's lodging when a savage voiced dog
shattered the peace of the universe and sent the burglar along the road
at a rapid run.
A half mile further on a straw stack loomed large within a fenced
enclosure. The youth wormed his way between the barbed wires determined
at last to let nothing prevent him from making a cozy bed in the deep
straw beside the stack. With courage radiating from every pore he strode
toward the stack. His walk was almost a swagger, for thus does youth
dissemble the bravery it yearns for but does not possess. He almost
whistled again; but not quite, since it seemed an unnecessary
provocation to disaster to call particular attention to himself at this
time. An instant later he was extremely glad that he had refrained, for
as he approached the stack a huge bulk slowly loomed from behind it;
and silhouetted against the moonlit sky he saw the vast proportions of a
great, shaggy bull. The burglar tore the inside of one trousers' leg and
the back of his coat in his haste to pass through the barbed wire fence
onto the open road. There he paused to mop the perspiration from his
forehead, though the night was now far from warm.
For another mile the now tired and discouraged house-breaker plodded,
heavy footed, the unending road. Did vain compunction stir his
youthful breast? Did he regret the safe respectability of the plumber's
apprentice? Or, if he had not been a plumber's apprentice did he yearn
to once again assume the unharried peace of whatever legitimate calling
had been his before he bent his steps upon the broad boulevard of sin?
We think he did.
And then he saw through the chinks and apertures in the half ruined wall
of what had once been a hay barn the rosy flare of a genial light which
appeared to announce in all but human terms that man, red blooded and
hospitable, forgathered within. No growling dogs, no bulking bulls
contested the short stretch of weed grown ground between the road and
the disintegrating structure; and presently two wide, brown eyes were
peering through a crack in the wall of the abandoned building. What they
saw was a small fire built upon the earth floor in the center of the
building and around the warming blaze the figures of six men. Some
reclined at length upon old straw; others squatted, Turk fashion. All
were smoking either disreputable pipes or rolled cigarets. Blear-eyed
and foxy-eyed, bearded and stubbled cheeked, young and old, were the men
the youth looked upon. All were more or less dishevelled and filthy; but
they were human. They were not dogs, or bulls, or croaking frogs. The
boy's heart went out to them. Something that was almost a sob rose in
his throat, and then he turned the corner of the building and stood in
the doorway, the light from the fire playing upon his lithe young figure
clothed in its torn and ill fitting suit and upon his oval face and his
laughing brown eyes. For several seconds he stood there looking at the
men around the fire. None of them had noticed him.
“Tramps!” thought the youth. “Regular tramps.” He wondered that they had
not seen him, and then, clearing his throat, he said: “Hello, tramps!”
Six heads snapped up or around. Six pairs of eyes, blear or foxy,
were riveted upon the boyish figure of the housebreaker. “Wotinel!”
ejaculated a frowzy gentleman in a frock coat and golf cap. “Wheredju
blow from?” inquired another. “'Hello, tramps'!” mimicked a third.
The youth came slowly toward the fire. “I saw your fire,” he said, “and
I thought I'd stop. I'm a tramp, too, you know.”
“Oh,” sighed the elderly person in the frock coat. “He's a tramp, he is.
An' does he think gents like us has any time for tramps? An' where might
he be trampin', sonny, without his maw?”
The youth flushed. “Oh say!” he cried; “you needn't kid me just because
I'm new at it. You all had to start sometime. I've always longed for
the free life of a tramp; and if you'll let me go along with you for a
little while, and teach me, I'll not bother you; and I'll do whatever
you say.”
The elderly person frowned. “Beat it, kid!” he commanded. “We ain't
runnin' no day nursery. These you see here is all the real thing. Maybe
we asks fer a handout now and then; but that ain't our reg'lar way. You
ain't swift enough to travel with this bunch, kid, so you'd better duck.
Why we gents, here, if we was added up is wanted in about twenty-seven
cities fer about everything from rollin' a souse to crackin' a box and
croakin' a bull. You gotta do something before you can train wid gents
like us, see?” The speaker projected a stubbled jaw, scowled horridly
and swept a flattened palm downward and backward at a right angle to a
hairy arm in eloquent gesture of finality.
The boy had stood with his straight, black eyebrows puckered into a
studious frown, drinking in every word. Now he straightened up. “I guess
I made a mistake,” he said, apologetically. “You ain't tramps at all.
You're thieves and murderers and things like that.” His eyes opened a
bit wider and his voice sank to a whisper as the words passed his lips.
“But you haven't so much on me, at that,” he went on, “for I'm a regular
burglar, too,” and from the bulging pockets of his coat he drew two
handfuls of greenbacks and jewelry. The eyes of the six registered
astonishment, mixed with craft and greed. “I just robbed a house in
Oakdale,” explained the boy. “I usually rob one every night.”
For a moment his auditors were too surprised to voice a single emotion;
but presently one murmured, soulfully: “Pipe de swag!” He of the frock
coat, golf cap, and years waved a conciliatory hand. He tried to look at
the boy's face; but for the life of him he couldn't raise his eyes above
the dazzling wealth clutched in the fingers of those two small,
slim hands. From one dangled a pearl necklace which alone might have
ransomed, if not a king, at least a lesser member of a royal family,
while diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds scintillated in the
flaring light of the fire. Nor was the fistful of currency in the other
hand to be sneezed at. There were greenbacks, it is true; but there were
also yellowbacks with the reddish gold of large denominations. The Sky
Pilot sighed a sigh that was more than half gasp.
“Can't yuh take a kid?” he inquired. “I knew youse all along. Yuh can't
fool an old bird like The Sky Pilot--eh, boys?” and he turned to his
comrades for confirmation.
“He's The Oskaloosa Kid,” exclaimed one of the company. “I'd know 'im
anywheres.”
“Pull up and set down,” invited another.
The boy stuffed his loot back into his pockets and came closer to the
fire. Its warmth felt most comfortable, for the Spring night was growing
chill. He looked about him at the motley company, some half-spruce in
clothing that suggested a Kuppenmarx label and a not too far association
with a tailor's goose, others in rags, all but one unshaven and all
more or less dirty--for the open road is close to Nature, which is
principally dirt.
“Shake hands with Dopey Charlie,” said The Sky Pilot, whose age and
corpulency appeared to stamp him with the hall mark of authority. The
youth did as he was bid, smiling into the sullen, chalk-white face and
taking the clammy hand extended toward him. Was it a shudder that
passed through the lithe, young figure or was it merely a subconscious
recognition of the final passing of the bodily cold before the glowing
warmth of the blaze? “And Soup Face,” continued The Sky Pilot. A battered
wreck half rose and extended a pudgy hand. Red whiskers, matted in
little tangled wisps which suggested the dried ingredients of an
infinite procession of semi-liquid refreshments, rioted promiscuously
over a scarlet countenance.
“Pleased to meetcha,” sprayed Soup Face. It was a strained smile
which twisted the rather too perfect mouth of The Oskaloosa Kid, an
appellation which we must, perforce, accept since the youth did not deny
it.
Columbus Blackie, The General, and Dirty Eddie were formally presented.
As Dirty Eddie was, physically, the cleanest member of the band the
youth wondered how he had come by his sobriquet--that is, he wondered
until he heard Dirty Eddie speak, after which he was no longer in doubt.
The Oskaloosa Kid, self-confessed 'tramp' and burglar, flushed at the
lurid obscenity of Dirty Eddie's remarks.
“Sit down, bo,” invited Soup Face. “I guess you're a regular all right.
Here, have a snifter?” and he pulled a flask from his side pocket,
holding it toward The Oskaloosa Kid.
“Thank you, but;--er--I'm on the wagon, you know,” declined the youth.
“Have a smoke?” suggested Columbus Blackie. “Here's the makin's.”
The change in the attitude of the men toward him pleased The Oskaloosa
Kid immensely. They were treating him as one of them, and after the
lonely walk through the dark and desolate farm lands human companionship
of any kind was to him as the proverbial straw to the man who rocked the
boat once too often.
Dopey Charlie and The General, alone of all the company, waxed not
enthusiastic over the advent of The Oskaloosa Kid and his priceless
loot. These two sat scowling and whispering in the back-ground. “Dat's
a wrong guy,” muttered the former to the latter. “He's a stool pigeon or
one of dese amatoor mugs.”
“It's the pullin' of that punk graft that got my goat,” replied The
General. “I never seen a punk yet that didn't try to make you think he
was a wise guy an' dis stiff don't belong enough even to pull a spiel
that would fool a old ladies' sewin' circle. I don't see wot The Sky
Pilot's cozyin' up to him fer.”
“You don't?” scoffed Dopey Charlie. “Didn't you lamp de oyster harness?
To say nothin' of de mitful of rocks and kale.”
“That 'ud be all right, too,” replied the other, “if we could put the
guy to sleep; but The Sky Pilot won't never stand for croakin' nobody.
He's too scared of his neck. We'll look like a bunch o' wise ones, won't
we? lettin' a stranger sit in now--after last night. Hell!” he suddenly
exploded. “Don't you know that you an' me stand to swing if any of de
bunch gets gabby in front of dis phoney punk?”
The two sat silent for a while, The General puffing on a short briar,
Dopey Charlie inhaling deep draughts from a cigarette, and both glaring
through narrowed lids at the boy warming himself beside the fire
where the others were attempting to draw him out the while they strove
desperately but unavailingly to keep their eyes from the two bulging
sidepockets of their guest's coat.
Soup Face, who had been assiduously communing with a pint flask, leaned
close to Columbus Blackie, placing his whiskers within an inch or so
of the other's nose as was his habit when addressing another, and
whispered, relative to the pearl necklace: “Not a cent less 'n fifty
thou, bo!”
“Fertheluvomike!” ejaculated Blackie, drawing back and wiping a palm
quickly across his lips. “Get a plumber first if you want to kiss
me--you leak.”
“He thinks you need a shower bath,” said Dirty Eddie, laughing.
“The trouble with Soup Face,” explained The Sky Pilot, “is that he's got
a idea he's a human atomizer an' that the rest of us has colds.”
“Well, I don't want no atomizer loaded with rot-gut and garlic shot
in my mug,” growled Blackie. “What Soup Face needs is to be learned
ettyket, an' if he comes that on me again I'm goin' to push his mush
through the back of his bean.”
An ugly light came into the blear eyes of Soup Face. Once again he
leaned close to Columbus Blackie. “Not a cent less 'n fifty thou, you
tinhorn!” he bellowed, belligerent and sprayful.
Blackie leaped to his feet, with an oath--a frightful, hideous oath--and
as he rose he swung a heavy fist to Soup Face's purple nose. The latter
rolled over backward; but was upon his feet again much quicker than one
would have expected in so gross a bulk, and as he came to his feet a
knife flashed in his hand. With a sound that was more bestial than human
he ran toward Blackie; but there was another there who had anticipated
his intentions. As the blow was struck The Sky Pilot had risen; and
now he sprang forward, for all his age and bulk as nimble as a cat, and
seized Soup Face by the wrist. A quick wrench brought a howl of pain to
the would-be assassin, and the knife fell to the floor.
“You gotta cut that if you travel with this bunch,” said The Sky Pilot
in a voice that was new to The Oskaloosa Kid; “and you, too, Blackie,”
he continued. “The rough stuff don't go with me, see?” He hurled Soup
Face to the floor and resumed his seat by the fire.
The youth was astonished at the physical strength of this old man,
seemingly so softened by dissipation; but it showed him the source of
The Sky Pilot's authority and its scope, for Columbus Blackie and Soup
Face quitted their quarrel immediately.
Dirty Eddie rose, yawned and stretched. “Me fer the hay,” he announced,
and lay down again with his feet toward the fire. Some of the others
followed his example. “You'll find some hay in the loft there,” said The
Sky Pilot to The Oskaloosa Kid. “Bring it down an' make your bed here by
me, there's plenty room.”
A half hour later all were stretched out upon the hard dirt floor upon
improvised beds of rotted hay; but not all slept. The Oskaloosa Kid,
though tired, found himself wider awake than he ever before had been.
Apparently sleep could never again come to those heavy eyes. There
passed before his mental vision a panorama of the events of the night.
He smiled as he inaudibly voiced the name they had given him, the right
to which he had not seen fit to deny. “The Oskaloosa Kid.” The boy
smiled again as he felt the 'swag' hard and lumpy in his pockets. It
had given him prestige here that he could not have gained by any other
means; but he mistook the nature of the interest which his display of
stolen wealth had aroused. He thought that the men now looked upon
him as a fellow criminal to be accepted into the fraternity through
achievement; whereas they suffered him to remain solely in the hope of
transferring his loot to their own pockets.
It is true that he puzzled them. Even The Sky Pilot, the most astute
and intelligent of them all, was at a loss to fathom The Oskaloosa Kid.
Innocence and unsophistication flaunted their banners in almost every
act and speech of The Oskaloosa Kid. The youth reminded him in some ways
of members of a Sunday school which had flourished in the dim vistas of
his past when, as an ordained minister of the Gospel, he had earned the
sobriquet which now identified him. But the concrete evidence of the
valuable loot comported not with The Sky Pilot's idea of a Sunday school
boy's lark. The young fellow was, unquestionably, a thief; but that he
had ever before consorted with thieves his speech and manners belied.
“He's got me,” murmured The Sky Pilot; “but he's got the stuff on him,
too; and all I want is to get it off of him without a painful operation.
Tomorrow'll do,” and he shifted his position and fell asleep.
Dopey Charlie and The General did not, however, follow the example of
their chief. They remained very wide awake, a little apart from the
others, where their low whispers could not be overheard.
“You better do it,” urged The General, in a soft, insinuating voice.
“You're pretty slick with the toad stabber, an' any way one more or less
won't count.”
“We can go to Sout' America on dat stuff an' live like gents,” muttered
Dopey Charlie. “I'm goin' to cut out de Hop an' buy a farm an' a
ottymobeel and--”
“Come out of it,” admonished The General. “If we're lucky we'll get as
far as Cincinnati, get a stew on and get pinched. Den one of us'll hang
an' de other get stir fer life.”
The General was a weasel faced person of almost any age between
thirty-five and sixty. Sometimes he could have passed for a hundred
and ten. He had won his military title as a boy in the famous march of
Coxey's army on Washington, or, rather, the title had been conferred
upon him in later years as a merited reward of service. The General,
profiting by the precepts of his erstwhile companions in arms, had never
soiled his military escutcheon by labor, nor had he ever risen to the
higher planes of criminality. Rather as a mediocre pickpocket and
a timorous confidence man had he eked out a meager existence, amply
punctuated by seasons of straight bumming and intervals spent as the
guest of various inhospitably hospitable states. Now, for the first time
in his life, The General faced the possibility of a serious charge; and
his terror made him what he never before had been, a dangerous criminal.
“You're a cheerful guy,” commented Dopey Charlie; “but you may be right
at dat. Dey can't hang a guy any higher fer two 'an they can fer one
an' dat's no pipe; so wots de use. Wait till I take a shot--it'll be
easier,” and he drew a small, worn case from an inside pocket, bared
his arm to the elbow and injected enough morphine to have killed a dozen
normal men.
From a pile of mouldy hay across the barn the youth, heavy eyed but
sleepless, watched the two through half closed lids. A qualm of disgust
sent a sudden shudder through his slight frame. For the first time he
almost regretted having embarked upon a life of crime. He had seen
that the two men were conversing together earnestly, though he could
over-hear nothing they said, and that he had been the subject of their
nocturnal colloquy, for several times a glance or a nod in his direction
assured him of this. And so he lay watching them--not that he was
afraid, he kept reassuring himself, but through curiosity. Why should
he be afraid? Was it not a well known truth that there was honor among
thieves?
But the longer he watched the heavier grew his lids. Several times they
closed to be dragged open again only by painful effort. Finally came a
time that they remained closed and the young chest rose and fell in the
regular breathing of slumber.
The two ragged, rat-hearted creatures rose silently and picked their
way, half-crouched, among the sleepers sprawled between them and The
Oskaloosa Kid. In the hand of Dopey Charlie gleamed a bit of shiny steel
and in his heart were fear and greed. The fear was engendered by the
belief that the youth might be an amateur detective. Dopey Charlie had
had one experience of such and he knew that it was easily possible for
them to blunder upon evidence which the most experienced of operatives
might pass over unnoticed, and the loot bulging pockets furnished a
sufficient greed motive in themselves.
Beside the boy kneeled the man with the knife. He did not raise his
hand and strike a sudden, haphazard blow. Instead he placed the point
carefully, though lightly, above the victim's heart, and then, suddenly,
bore his weight upon the blade.
Abigail Prim always had been a thorn in the flesh of her stepmother--a
well-meaning, unimaginative, ambitious, and rather common woman. Coming
into the Prim home as house-keeper shortly after the death of Abigail's
mother, the second Mrs. Prim had from the first looked upon Abigail
principally as an obstacle to be overcome. She had tried to 'do right by
her'; but she had never given the child what a child most needs and most
craves--love and understanding. Not loving Abigail, the house-keeper
could, naturally, not give her love; and as for understanding her one
might as reasonably have expected an adding machine to understand higher
mathematics.
Jonas Prim loved his daughter. There was nothing, within reason, that
money could buy which he would not have given her for the asking; but
Jonas Prim's love, as his life, was expressed in dollar signs, while the
love which Abigail craved is better expressed by any other means at the
command of man.
Being misunderstood and, to all outward appearances of sentiment and
affection, unloved had not in any way embittered Abigail's remarkably
joyous temperament. She made up for it in some measure by getting all the
fun and excitement out of life which she could discover therein, or
invent through the medium of her own resourceful imagination.
But recently the first real sorrow had been thrust into her young life
since the half-forgotten mother had been taken from her. The second
Mrs. Prim had decided that it was her 'duty' to see that Abigail, having
finished school and college, was properly married. As a matchmaker
the second Mrs. Prim was as a Texas steer in a ten cent store. It was
nothing to her that Abigail did not wish to marry anyone, or that the
man of Mrs. Prim's choice, had he been the sole surviving male in the
Universe, would have still been as far from Abigail's choice as though
he had been an inhabitant of one of Orion's most distant planets.
As a matter of fact Abigail Prim detested Samuel Benham because he
represented to her everything in life which she shrank from--age,
avoirdupois, infirmity, baldness, stupidity, and matrimony. He was a
prosaic old bachelor who had amassed a fortune by the simple means of
inheriting three farms upon which an industrial city subsequently had
been built. Necessity rather than foresight had compelled him to hold on
to his property; and six weeks of typhoid, arriving and departing, had
saved him from selling out at a low figure. The first time he found
himself able to be out and attend to business he likewise found himself
a wealthy man, and ever since he had been growing wealthier without
personal effort.
All of which is to render evident just how impossible a matrimonial
proposition was Samuel Benham to a bright, a beautiful, a gay, an
imaginative, young, and a witty girl such as Abigail Prim, who cared
less for money than for almost any other desirable thing in the world.
Nagged, scolded, reproached, pestered, threatened, Abigail had at last
given a seeming assent to her stepmother's ambition; and had forthwith
been packed off on a two weeks visit to the sister of the bride-groom
elect. After which Mr. Benham was to visit Oakdale as a guest of the
Prims, and at a dinner for which cards already had been issued--so sure
was Mrs. Jonas Prim of her position of dictator of the Prim menage--the
engagement was to be announced.
It was some time after dinner on the night of Abigail's departure that
Mrs. Prim, following a habit achieved by years of housekeeping, set
forth upon her rounds to see that doors and windows were properly
secured for the night. A French window and its screen opening upon the
verandah from the library she found open. “The house will be full of
mosquitoes!” she ejaculated mentally as she closed them both with a bang
and made them fast. “I should just like to know who left them open. Upon
my word, I don't know what would become of this place if it wasn't for
me. Of all the shiftlessness!” and she turned and flounced upstairs. In
Abigail's room she flashed on the center dome light from force of habit,
although she knew that the room had been left in proper condition after
the girl's departure earlier in the day. The first thing amiss that
her eagle eye noted was the candlestick lying on the floor beside the
dressing table. As she stooped to pick it up she saw the open drawer
from which the small automatic had been removed, and then, suspicions,
suddenly aroused, as suddenly became fear; and Mrs. Prim almost dove
across the room to the hidden wall safe. A moment's investigation
revealed the startling fact that the safe was unlocked and practically
empty. It was then that Mrs. Jonas Prim screamed.
Her scream brought Jonas and several servants upon the scene. A careful
inspection of the room disclosed the fact that while much of value had
been ignored the burglar had taken the easily concealed contents of the
wall safe which represented fully ninety percentum of the value of the
personal property in Abigail Prim's apartments.
Mrs. Prim scowled suspiciously upon the servants. Who else, indeed,
could have possessed the intimate knowledge which the thief had
displayed. Mrs. Prim saw it all. The open library window had been but a
clever blind to hide the fact that the thief had worked from the inside
and was now doubtless in the house at that very moment.
“Jonas,” she directed, “call the police at once, and see that no one,
absolutely no one, leaves this house until they have been here and made
a full investigation.”
“Shucks, Pudgy!” exclaimed Mr. Prim. “You don't think the thief is
waiting around here for the police, do you?”
“I think that if you get the police here at once, Jonas, we shall find
both the thief and the loot under our very roof,” she replied, not
without asperity.
“You don't mean--” he hesitated. “Why, Pudgy, you don't mean you suspect
one of the servants?”
“Who else could have known?” asked Mrs. Prim. The servants present
looked uncomfortable and cast sheepish eyes of suspicion at one another.
“It's all tommy rot!” ejaculated Mr. Prim; “but I'll call the police,
because I got to report the theft. It's some slick outsider, that's
who it is,” and he started down stairs toward the telephone. Before he
reached it the bell rang, and when he had hung up the receiver after the
conversation the theft seemed a trivial matter. In fact he had almost
forgotten it, for the message had been from the local telegraph office
relaying a wire they had just received from Mr. Samuel Benham.
“I say, Pudgy,” he cried, as he took the steps two at a time for the
second floor, “here's a wire from Benham saying Gail didn't come on that
train and asking when he's to expect her.”
“Impossible!” ejaculated Mrs. Prim. “I certainly saw her aboard the
train myself. Impossible!”
Jonas Prim was a man of action. Within half an hour he had set in motion
such wheels as money and influence may cause to revolve in search of
some clew to the whereabouts of the missing Abigail, and at the same
time had reported the theft of jewels and money from his home; but in
doing this he had learned that other happenings no less remarkable in
their way had taken place in Oakdale that very night.
The following morning all Oakdale was thrilled as its fascinated eyes
devoured the front page of Oakdale's ordinarily dull daily. Never had
Oakdale experienced a plethora of home-grown thrills; but it came as
near to it that morning, doubtless, as it ever had or ever will. Not
since the cashier of The Merchants and Farmers Bank committed suicide
three years past had Oakdale been so wrought up, and now that historic
and classical event paled into insignificance in the glaring brilliancy
of a series of crimes and mysteries of a single night such as not even
the most sanguine of Oakdale's thrill lovers could have hoped for.
There was, first, the mysterious disappearance of Abigail Prim, the
only daughter of Oakdale's wealthiest citizen; there was the equally
mysterious robbery of the Prim home. Either one of these would have been
sufficient to have set Oakdale's multitudinous tongues wagging for days;
but they were not all. Old John Baggs, the city's best known miser, had
suffered a murderous assault in his little cottage upon the outskirts
of town, and was even now lying at the point of death in The Samaritan
Hospital. That robbery had been the motive was amply indicated by the
topsy-turvy condition of the contents of the three rooms which Baggs
called home. As the victim still was unconscious no details of the crime
were obtainable. Yet even this atrocious deed had been capped by one yet
more hideous.
Reginald Paynter had for years been looked upon half askance and yet
with a certain secret pride by Oakdale. He was her sole bon vivant in
the true sense of the word, whatever that may be. He was always
spoken of in the columns of The Oakdale Tribune as 'that well known
man-about-town,' or 'one of Oakdale's most prominent clubmen.' Reginald
Paynter had been, if not the only, at all events the best dressed man
in town. His clothes were made in New York. This in itself had been
sufficient to have set him apart from all the other males of Oakdale.
He was widely travelled, had an independent fortune, and was far from
unhandsome. For years he had been the hope and despair of every Oakdale
mother with marriageable daughters. The Oakdale fathers, however, had
not been so keen about Reginald. Men usually know more about the morals
of men than do women. There were those who, if pressed, would have
conceded that Reginald had no morals.
But what place has an obituary in a truthful tale of adventure and
mystery! Reginald Paynter was dead. His body had been found beside
the road just outside the city limits at mid-night by a party of
automobilists returning from a fishing trip. The skull was crushed back
of the left ear. The position of the body as well as the marks in the
road beside it indicated that the man had been hurled from a rapidly
moving automobile. The fact that his pockets had been rifled led to the
assumption that he had been killed and robbed before being dumped upon
the road.
Now there were those in Oakdale, and they were many, who endeavored to
connect in some way these several events of horror, mystery, and crime.
In the first place it seemed quite evident that the robbery at the Prim
home, the assault upon Old Baggs, and the murder of Paynter had been
the work of the same man; but how could such a series of frightful
happenings be in any way connected with the disappearance of Abigail
Prim? Of course there were many who knew that Abigail and Reginald were
old friends; and that the former had, on frequent occasions, ridden
abroad in Reginald's French roadster, that he had escorted her to
parties and been, at various times, a caller at her home; but no less
had been true of a dozen other perfectly respectable young ladies
of Oakdale. Possibly it was only Abigail's added misfortune to have
disappeared upon the eve of the night of Reginald's murder.
But later in the day when word came from a nearby town that Reginald had
been seen in a strange touring car with two unknown men and a girl,
the gossips commenced to wag their heads. It was mentioned, casually of
course, that this town was a few stations along the very road upon which
Abigail had departed the previous afternoon for that destination which
she had not reached. It was likewise remarked that Reginald, the two
strange men and the GIRL had been first noticed after the time of
arrival of the Oakdale train! What more was needed? Absolutely
nothing more. The tongues ceased wagging in order that they might turn
hand-springs.
Find Abigail Prim, whispered some, and the mystery will be solved. There
were others charitable enough to assume that Abigail had been kidnapped
by the same men who had murdered Paynter and wrought the other lesser
deeds of crime in peaceful Oakdale. The Oakdale Tribune got out an extra
that afternoon giving a resume of such evidence as had appeared in the
regular edition and hinting at all the numerous possibilities suggested
by such matter as had come to hand since. Even fear of old Jonas Prim
and his millions had not been enough to entirely squelch the newspaper
instinct of the Tribune's editor. Never before had he had such an
opportunity and he made the best of it, even repeating the vague
surmises which had linked the name of Abigail to the murder of Reginald
Paynter.
Jonas Prim was too busy and too worried to pay any attention to the
Tribune or its editor. He already had the best operative that the best
detective agency in the nearest metropolis could furnish. The man had
come to Oakdale, learned all that was to be learned there, and forthwith
departed.
This, then, will be about all concerning Oakdale for the present. We
must leave her to bury her own dead.
The sudden pressure of the knife point against the breast of the
Oskaloosa Kid awakened the youth with a startling suddenness which
brought him to his feet before a second vicious thrust reached him. For
a time he did not realize how close he had been to death or that he had
been saved by the chance location of the automatic pistol in his breast
pocket--the very pistol he had taken from the dressing table of Abigail
Prim's boudoir.
The commotion of the attack and escape brought the other sleepers to
heavy-eyed wakefulness. They saw Dopey Charlie advancing upon the Kid,
a knife in his hand. Behind him slunk The General, urging the other on.
The youth was backing toward the doorway. The tableau persisted but for
an instant. Then the would-be murderer rushed madly upon his victim, the
latter's hand leaped from beneath the breast of his torn coat--there was
a flash of flame, a staccato report and Dopey Charlie crumpled to the
ground, screaming. In the same instant The Oskaloosa Kid wheeled and
vanished into the night.
It had all happened so quickly that the other members of the gang,
awakened from deep slumber, had only time to stumble to their feet
before it was over. The Sky Pilot, ignoring the screaming Charlie,
thought only of the loot which had vanished with the Oskaloosa Kid.
“Come on! We gotta get him,” he cried, as he ran from the barn after
the fugitive. The others, all but Dopey Charlie, followed in the wake of
their leader. The wounded man, his audience departed, ceased screaming
and, sitting up, fell to examining himself. To his surprise he
discovered that he was not dead. A further and more minute examination
disclosed the additional fact that he was not even badly wounded. The
bullet of The Kid had merely creased the flesh over the ribs beneath his
right arm. With a grunt that might have been either disgust or relief he
stumbled to his feet and joined in the pursuit.
Down the road toward the south ran The Oskaloosa Kid with all the
fleetness of youth spurred on by terror. In five minutes he had so far
outdistanced his pursuers that The Sky Pilot leaped to the conclusion
that the quarry had left the road to hide in an adjoining field. The
resultant halt and search upon either side of the road delayed the chase
to a sufficient extent to award the fugitive a mile lead by the time the
band resumed the hunt along the main highway. The men were determined
to overhaul the youth not alone because of the loot upon his person but
through an abiding suspicion that he might indeed be what some of them
feared he was--an amateur detective--and there were at least two among
them who had reason to be especially fearful of any sort of detective
from Oakdale.
They no longer ran; but puffed arduously along the smooth road,
searching with troubled and angry eyes to right and left and ahead of
them as they went.
The Oskaloosa Kid puffed, too; but he puffed a mile away from the
searchers and he walked more rapidly than they, for his muscles were
younger and his wind unimpaired by dissipation. For a time he carried
the small automatic in his hand; but later, hearing no evidence of
pursuit, he returned it to the pocket in his coat where it had lain when
it had saved him from death beneath the blade of the degenerate Charlie.
For an hour he continued walking rapidly along the winding country road.
He was very tired; but he dared not pause to rest. Always behind him he
expected the sudden onslaught of the bearded, blear-eyed followers
of The Sky Pilot. Terror goaded him to supreme physical effort.
Recollection of the screaming man sinking to the earthen floor of the
hay barn haunted him. He was a murderer! He had slain a fellow man.
He winced and shuddered, increasing his gait until again he almost ran
--ran from the ghost pursuing him through the black night in greater
terror than he felt for the flesh and blood pursuers upon his heels.
And Nature drew upon her sinister forces to add to the fear which the
youth already felt. Black clouds obscured the moon blotting out the soft
kindliness of the greening fields and transforming the budding branches
of the trees to menacing and gloomy arms which appeared to hover with
clawlike talons above the dark and forbidding road. The wind soughed
with gloomy and increasing menace, a sudden light flared across the
southern sky followed by the reverberation of distant thunder.
Presently a great rain drop was blown against the youth's face; the
vividness of the lightning had increased; the rumbling of the thunder
had grown to the proportions of a titanic bombardment; but he dared not
pause to seek shelter.
Another flash of lightning revealed a fork in the road immediately
ahead--to the left ran the broad, smooth highway, to the right a dirt
road, overarched by trees, led away into the impenetrable dark.
The fugitive paused, undecided. Which way should he turn? The better
travelled highway seemed less mysterious and awesome, yet would his
pursuers not naturally assume that he had followed it? Then, of course,
the right hand road was the road for him. Yet still he hesitated, for
the right hand road was black and forbidding; suggesting the entrance to
a pit of unknown horrors.
As he stood there with the rain and the wind, the thunder and the
lightning, horror of the past and terror of the future his only
companions there broke suddenly through the storm the voice of a man
just ahead and evidently approaching along the highway.
The youth turned to flee; but the thought of the men tracking him from
that direction brought him to a sudden halt. There was only the road to
the right, then, after all. Cautiously he moved toward it, and at the
same time the words of the voice came clearly through the night:
“'... as, swinging heel and toe,
'We tramped the road to Anywhere, the magic road
to Anywhere,
'The tragic road to Anywhere, such dear, dim years
ago.'”
The voice seemed reassuring--its quality and the annunciation of the
words bespoke for its owner considerable claim to refinement. The youth
had halted again, but he now crouched to one side fearing to reveal his
presence because of the bloody crime he thought he had committed; yet
how he yearned to throw himself upon the compassion of this fine voiced
stranger! How his every fibre cried out for companionship in this night
of his greatest terror; but he would have let the invisible minstrel
pass had not Fate ordained to light the scene at that particular instant
with a prolonged flare of sheet lightning, revealing the two wayfarers
to one another.
The youth saw a slight though well built man in ragged clothes and
disreputable soft hat. The image was photographed upon his brain for
life--the honest, laughing eyes, the well moulded features harmonizing
so well with the voice, and the impossible garments which marked the man
hobo and bum as plainly as though he wore a placard suspended from his
neck.