listeners--they remained mute. Bridge rose and stretched. He picked
up his knife, wiped off the blade, closed it and slipped it into a
trousers' pocket. Then he walked toward the door. At the threshold he
paused and turned. “'Good-bye girls! I'm through,'” he quoted and passed
out into the sunlight.
Instantly the two within were on their feet and following him.
“Where are you going?” cried The Oskaloosa Kid. “You're not going to
leave us, are you?”
“Oh, please don't!” pleaded the girl.
“I don't know,” said Bridge, solemnly, “whether I'm safe in remaining in
your society or not. This Oskaloosa Kid is a bad proposition; and as for
you, young lady, I rather imagine that the town constable is looking for
you right now.”
The girl winced. “Please don't,” she begged. “I haven't done anything
wicked, honestly! But I want to get away so that they can't question me.
I was in the car when they killed him; but I had nothing to do with it.
It is just because of my father that I don't want them to find me. It
would break his heart.”
As the three stood back of the Squibbs' summer kitchen Fate, in the
guise of a rural free delivery carrier and a Ford, passed by the front
gate. A mile beyond he stopped at the Case mail box where Jeb and
his son Willie were, as usual, waiting his coming, for the rural free
delivery man often carries more news than is contained in his mail
sacks.
“Mornin' Jeb,” he called, as he swerved his light car from the road and
drew up in front of the Case gate.
“Mornin', Jim!” returned Mr. Case. “Nice rain we had last night. What's
the news?”
“Plenty! Plenty!” exclaimed the carrier. “Lived here nigh onto forty
year, man an' boy, an' never seen such work before in all my life.”
“How's that?” questioned the farmer, scenting something interesting.
“Ol' man Baggs's murdered last night,” announced the carrier, watching
eagerly for the effect of his announcement.
“Gosh!” gasped Willie Case. “Was he shot?” It was almost a scream.
“I dunno,” replied Jim. “He's up to the horspital now, an' the doc says
he haint one chance in a thousand.”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Case.
“But thet ain't all,” continued Jim. “Reggie Paynter was murdered last
night, too; right on the pike south of town. They threw his corpse outen
a ottymobile.”
“By gol!” cried Jeb Case; “I hearn them devils go by last night 'bout
midnight er after. 'T woke me up. They must o' ben goin' sixty mile an
hour. Er say,” he stopped to scratch his head. “Mebby it was tramps.
They must a ben a score on 'em round here yesterday and las' night an'
agin this mornin'. I never seed so dum many bums in my life.”
“An' thet ain't all,” went on the carrier, ignoring the other's comments.
“Oakdale's all tore up. Abbie Prim's disappeared and Jonas Prim's house
was robbed jest about the same time Ol' man Baggs 'uz murdered, er most
murdered--chances is he's dead by this time anyhow. Doc said he hadn't
no chance.”
“Gosh!” It was a pater-filius duet.
“But thet ain't all,” gloated Jim. “Two of the persons in the car with
Reggie Paynter were recognized, an' who do you think one of 'em was, eh?
Why one of 'em was Abbie Prim an' tother was a slick crook from Toledo
er Noo York that's called The Oskaloosie Kid. By gum, I'll bet they get
'em in no time. Why already Jonas Prim's got a regular dee-dectiff down
from Chicago, an' the board o' select-men's offered a re-ward o' fifty
dollars fer the arrest an' conviction of the perpetrators of these
dastardly crimes!”
“Gosh!” cried Willie Case. “I know--“; but then he paused. If he told
all he knew he saw plainly that either the carrier or his father would
profit by it and collect the reward. Fifty dollars!! Willie gasped.
“Well,” said Jim, “I gotta be on my way. Here's the Tribune--there ain't
nothin' more fer ye. So long! Giddap!” and he was gone.
“I don' see why he don't carry a whip,” mused Jeb Case. “A-gidappin' to
that there tin lizzie,” he muttered disgustedly, “jes' like it was as
good as a hoss. But I mind the time, the fust day he got the dinged
thing, he gets out an' tries to lead it by Lem Smith's threshin'
machine.”
Jeb Case preferred an audience worthy his mettle; but Willie was better
than no one, yet when he turned to note the effect of his remarks on his
son, Willie was no where to be seen. If Jeb had but known it his young
hopeless was already in the loft of the hay barn deep in a small,
red-covered book entitled: “HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE.”
Bridge, who had had no intention of deserting his helpless companions,
appeared at last to yield reluctantly to their pleas. That indefinable
something about the youth which appealed strongly to the protective
instinct in the man, also assured him that the other's mask of
criminality was for the most part assumed even though the stories of the
two yeggmen and the loot bulging pockets argued to the contrary. There
was the chance, however, that the boy had really taken the first step
upon the road toward a criminal career, and if such were the case Bridge
felt morally obligated to protect his new found friend from arrest,
secure in the reflection that his own precept and example would do
more to lead him back into the path of rectitude than would any police
magistrate or penal institute.
For the girl he felt a deep pity. In the past he had had knowledge of
more than one other small-town girl led into wrong doing through the
deadly monotony and flagrant hypocrisy of her environment. Himself
highly imaginative and keenly sensitive, he realized with what depth of
horror the girl anticipated a return to her home and friends after the
childish escapade which had culminated, even through no fault of hers,
in criminal tragedy of the most sordid sort.
As the three held a council of war at the rear of the deserted house
they were startled by the loud squeaking of brake bands on the road in
front. Bridge ran quickly into the kitchen and through to the front
room where he saw three men alighting from a large touring car which
had drawn up before the sagging gate. As the foremost man, big and
broad shouldered, raised his eyes to the building Bridge smothered an
exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the
other members of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his
companions.
“We've got to beat it!” he whispered; “they've brought Burton himself
down here.”
“Who's Burton?” demanded the youth.
“He's the best operative west of New York City,” replied Bridge, as he
moved rapidly toward an outhouse directly in rear of the main building.
Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably
housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about. “They'll search
here,” he prophesied, and then; “Those woods look good to me.”
The Squibbs' woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the
little valley, ran to within a hundred feet of the out-building. Dense
undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around
the boles of the close set trees. If they could gain the seclusion
of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being
discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open
space between their hiding place and the wood.
“We'd better make a break for it,” advised Bridge, and a moment later
the three moved cautiously toward the wood, keeping the out-house
between themselves and the farm house. Almost in front of them as they
neared the wood they saw a well defined path leading into the thicket.
Single-file they entered, to be almost instantly hidden from view, not
only from the house but from any other point more than a dozen paces
away, for the path was winding, narrow and closely walled by the budding
verdure of the new Spring. Birds sang or twittered about them, the mat
of dead leaves oozed spongily beneath their feet, giving forth no sound
as they passed, save a faint sucking noise as a foot was lifted from
each watery seat.
Bridge was in the lead, moving steadily forward that they might put as
much distance as possible between themselves and the detective should
the latter chance to explore the wood. They had advanced a few hundred
yards when the path crossed through a small clearing the center of which
was destitute of fallen leaves. Here the path was beaten into soft mud
and as Bridge came to it he stopped and bent his gaze incredulously upon
the ground. The girl and the youth, halting upon either side, followed
the direction of his eyes with theirs. The girl gave a little,
involuntary gasp, and the boy grasped Bridge's hand as though fearful
of losing him. The man turned a quizzical glance at each of them and
smiled, though a bit ruefully.
“It beats me,” he said.
“What can it be?” whispered the boy.
“Oh, let's go back,” begged the girl.
“And go along to father with Burton?” asked Bridge.
The girl trembled and shook her head. “I would rather die,” she said,
firmly. “Come, let's go on.”
The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the
pathway--the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot--a
great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world. While,
still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house
during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated
by the footprints of the THING, the impress of a small, bare foot--a
woman's or a child's--and over both an irregular scoring that might
have been wrought by a dragging chain!
In the loft of his father's hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the
small red-covered volume, HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE; but though he turned
many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only
with disappointment. The pictures of noted bank burglars and confidence
men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the
slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning. In
fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that
Willie was forced to scratch his head and exclaim “Gosh!” many times
in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the
hardened, criminal faces he found portrayed upon the printed pages.
“But, by gol!” he exclaimed mentally, “he said he was The Oskaloosie
Kid, 'n' that he shot a man last night; but what I'd like to know is
how I'm goin' to shadder him from this here book. Here it says: 'If the
criminal gets on a street car and then jumps off at the next corner
the good detective will know that his man is aware that he is being
shadowed, and will stay on the car and telephone his office at the first
opportunity.' 'N'ere it sez: 'If your man gets into a carriage don't
run up an' jump on the back of it; but simply hire another carriage and
follow.' How in hek kin I foller this book?” wailed Willie. “They ain't
no street cars 'round here. I ain't never seen a street car, 'n'as fer a
carriage, I reckon he means bus, they's only one on 'em in Oakdale 'n'if
they waz forty I'd like to know how in hek I'd hire one when I ain't got
no money. I reckon I threw away my four-bits on this book--it don't tell
a feller nothin' 'bout false whiskers, wigs 'n' the like,” and he tossed
the book disgustedly into a corner, rose and descended to the barnyard.
Here he busied himself about some task that should have been attended to
a week before, and which even now was not destined to be completed that
day, since Willie had no more than set himself to it than his attention
was distracted by the sudden appearance of a touring car being brought
to a stop in front of the gate.
Instantly Willie dropped his irksome labor and slouched lazily toward
the machine, the occupants of which were descending and heading for the
Case front door. Jeb Case met them before they reached the porch and
Willie lolled against a pillar listening eagerly to all that was said.
The most imposing figure among the strangers was the same whom Bridge
had seen approaching the Squibbs' house a short time before. It was he
who acted as spokesman for the newcomers.
“As you may know,” he said, after introducing himself, “a number of
crimes were committed in and around Oakdale last night. We are searching
for clews to the perpetrators, some of whom must still be in the
neighborhood. Have you seen any strange or suspicious characters around
lately?”
“I should say we hed,” exclaimed Jeb emphatically.
“I seen the wo'st lookin' gang o' bums come outen my hay barn this
mornin' thet I ever seed in my life. They must o' ben upward of a dozen
on 'em. They waz makin' fer the house when I steps in an' grabs my ol'
shot gun. I hollered at 'em not to come a step nigher 'n' I guess they
seed it wa'n't safe monkeyin' with me; so they skidaddled.”
“Which way did they go?” asked Burton.
“Off down the road yonder; but I don't know which way they turned at the
crossin's, er ef they kept straight on toward Millsville.”
Burton asked a number of questions in an effort to fix the identity of
some of the gang, warned Jeb to telephone him at Jonas Prim's if he saw
anything further of the strangers, and then retraced his steps toward
the car. Not once had Jeb mentioned the youth who had purchased supplies
from him that morning, and the reason was that Jeb had not considered
the young man of sufficient importance, having cataloged him mentally as
an unusually early specimen of the summer camper with which he was more
or less familiar.
Willie, on the contrary, realized the importance of their morning
customer, yet just how he was to cash in on his knowledge was not yet
entirely clear. He was already convinced that HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE
would help him not at all, and with the natural suspicion of ignorance
he feared to divulge his knowledge to the city detective for fear that
the latter would find the means to cheat him out of the princely reward
offered by the Oakdale village board. He thought of going at once to the
Squibbs' house and placing the desperate criminals under arrest; but
as fear throttled the idea in its infancy he cast about for some other
plan.
Even as he stood there thinking the great detective and his companions
were entering the automobile to drive away. In a moment they would be
gone. Were they not, after all, the very men, the only men, in fact, to
assist him in his dilemma? At least he could test them out. If necessary
he would divide the reward with them! Running toward the road Willie
shouted to the departing sleuth. The car, moving slowly forward in low,
came again to rest. Willie leaped to the running board.
“If I tell you where the murderer is,” he whispered hoarsely, “do I git
the $50.00?”
Detective Burton was too old a hand to ignore even the most seemingly
impossible of aids. He laid a kindly hand on Willie's shoulder. “You bet
you do,” he replied heartily, “and what's more I'll add another fifty to
it. What do you know?”
“I seen the murderer this mornin',” Willie was gasping with excitement
and elation. Already the one hundred dollars was as good as his. One
hundred dollars! Willie “Goshed!” mentally even as he told his tale. “He
come to our house an' bought some vittles an' stuff. Paw didn't know who
he wuz; but when Paw went inside he told me he was The Oskaloosie Kid
'n' thet he robbed a house last night and killed a man, 'n' he had a
whole pocket full o' money, 'n' he said he'd kill me ef I told.”
Detective Burton could scarce restrain a smile as he listened to this
wildly improbable tale, yet his professional instinct was too keen to
permit him to cast aside as worthless the faintest evidence until he had
proven it to be worthless. He stepped from the car again and motioning
to Willie to follow him returned to the Case yard where Jeb was already
coming toward the gate, having noted the interest which his son
was arousing among the occupants of the car. Willie pulled at the
detective's sleeve. “Don't tell Paw about the reward,” he begged; “he'll
keep it all hisself.”
Burton reassured the boy with a smile and a nod, and then as he neared
Jeb he asked him if a young man had been at his place that morning
asking for food.
“Sure,” replied Jeb; “but he didn't 'mount to nothin'. One o' these here
summer camper pests. He paid fer all he got. Had a roll o' bills 's big
as ye fist. Little feller he were, not much older 'n' Willie.”
“Did you know that he told your son that he was The Oskaloosa Kid and
that he had robbed a house and killed a man last night?”
“Huh?” exclaimed Jeb. Then he turned and cast one awful look at
Willie--a look large with menace.
“Honest, Paw,” pleaded the boy. “I was a-scairt to tell you, 'cause he
said he'd kill me ef I told.”
Jeb scratched his head. “Yew know what you'll get ef you're lyin' to
me,” he threatened.
“I believe he's telling the truth,” said detective Burton. “Where is the
man now?” he asked Willie.
“Down to the Squibbs' place,” and Willie jerked a dirty thumb toward the
east.
“Not now,” said Burton; “we just came from there; but there has been
someone there this morning, for there is still a fire in the kitchen
range. Does anyone live there?”
“I should say not,” said Willie emphatically; “the place is haunted.”
“Thet's right,” interjected Jeb. “Thet's what they do say, an' this here
Oskaloosie Kid said they heered things las' night an' seed a dead man on
the floor, didn't he M'randy?” M'randy nodded her head.
“But I don't take no stock in what Willie's ben tellin' ye,” she
continued, “'n' ef his paw don't lick him I will. I told him tell I'm
good an' tired o' talkin' thet one liar 'round a place wuz all I could
stand,” and she cast a meaning glance at her husband.
“Honest, Maw, I ain't a-lyin',” insisted Willie. “Wot do you suppose
he give me this fer, if it wasn't to keep me from talkin',” and the boy
drew a crumpled one dollar bill from his pocket. It was worth the dollar
to escape a thrashing.
“He give you thet?” asked his mother. Willie nodded assent.
“'N' thet ain't all he had neither,” he said. “Beside all them bills he
showed me a whole pocket full o' jewlry, 'n' he had a string o' things
thet I don't know jest what you call 'em; but they looked like they
was made outen the inside o' clam shells only they was all round like
marbles.”
Detective Burton raised his eyebrows. “Miss Prim's pearl necklace,” he
commented to the man at his side. The other nodded. “Don't punish your
son, Mrs. Case,” he said to the woman. “I believe he has discovered a
great deal that will help us in locating the man we want. Of course I am
interested principally in finding Miss Prim--her father has engaged me
for that purpose; but I think the arrest of the perpetrators of any of
last night's crimes will put us well along on the trail of the missing
young lady, as it is almost a foregone conclusion that there is a
connection between her disappearance and some of the occurrences which
have so excited Oakdale. I do not mean that she was a party to any
criminal act; but it is more than possible that she was abducted by the
same men who later committed the other crimes.”
The Cases hung open-mouthed upon his words, while his companions
wondered at the loquaciousness of this ordinarily close-mouthed man,
who, as a matter of fact, was but attempting to win the confidence of
the boy on the chance that even now he had not told all that he knew;
but Willie had told all.
Finding, after a few minutes further conversation, that he could glean
no additional information the detective returned to his car and drove
west toward Millsville on the assumption that the fugitives would seek
escape by the railway running through that village. Only thus could he
account for their turning off the main pike. The latter was now well
guarded all the way to Payson; while the Millsville road was still open.
No sooner had he departed than Willie Case disappeared, nor did he
answer at noon to the repeated ringing of the big, farm dinner bell.
Half way between the Case farm and Millsville detective Burton saw, far
ahead along the road, two figures scale a fence and disappear behind
the fringing blackberry bushes which grew in tangled profusion on either
side. When they came abreast of the spot he ordered the driver to stop;
but though he scanned the open field carefully he saw no sign of living
thing.
“There are two men hiding behind those bushes,” he said to his
companions in a low whisper. “One of you walk ahead about fifty yards
and the other go back the same distance and then climb the fence. When
I see you getting over I'll climb it here. They can't get away from us.”
To the driver he said: “You have a gun. If they make a break go after
'em. You can shoot if they don't stop when you tell 'em to.”
The two men walked in opposite directions along the road, and when
Burton saw them turn in and start to climb the fence he vaulted over the
panel directly opposite the car. He had scarcely alighted upon the other
side when his eyes fell upon the disreputable figures of two tramps
stretched out upon their backs and snoring audibly. Burton grinned.
“You two sure can go to sleep in a hurry,” he said. One of the men
opened his eyes and sat up. When he saw who it was that stood over him
he grinned sheepishly.
“Can't a guy lie down fer a minute in de bushes widout bein' pinched?”
he asked. The other man now sat up and viewed the newcomer, while from
either side Burton's companions closed in on the three.
“Wot's de noise?” inquired the second tramp, looking from one to another
of the intruders. “We ain't done nothin'.”
“Of course not, Charlie,” Burton assured him gaily. “Who would ever
suspect that you or The General would do anything; but somebody did
something in Oakdale last night and I want to take you back there and
have a nice, long talk with you. Put your hands up!”
“We--.”
“Put 'em up!” snapped Burton, and when the four grimy fists had been
elevated he signalled to his companions to search the two men.
Nothing more formidable than knives, dope, and a needle were found upon
them.
“Say,” drawled Dopey Charlie. “We knows wot we knows; but hones' to gawd
we didn't have nothin' to do wid it. We knows the guy that pulled it
off--we spent las' night wid him an' his pal an' a skoit. He creased
me, here,” and Charlie unbuttoned his clothing and exposed to view the
bloody scratch of The Oskaloosa Kid's bullet. “On de level, Burton, we
wern't in on it. Dis guy was at dat Squibbs' place wen we pulls in dere
outen de rain. He has a pocket full o' kale an' sparklers an' tings, and
he goes fer to shoot me up wen I tries to get away.”
“Who was he?” asked Burton.
“He called hisself de Oskaloosa Kid,” replied Charlie. “A guy called
Bridge was wid him. You know him?”
“I've heard of him; but he's straight,” replied Burton. “Who was the
skirt?”
“I dunno,” said Charlie; “but she was gassin' 'bout her pals croakin' a
guy an' turnin' 'im outten a gas wagon, an' dis Oskaloosa Kid he croaks
some old guy in Oakdale las' night. Mebby he ain't a bad 'un though!”
“Where are they now?” asked Burton.
“We got away from 'em at the Squibbs' place this mornin',” said Charlie.
“Well,” said Burton, “you boes come along with me. If you ain't done
nothing the worst you'll get'll be three squares and a place to sleep
for a few days. I want you where I can lay my hands on you when I need
a couple of witnesses,” and he herded them over the fence and into the
machine. As he himself was about to step in he felt suddenly of his
breast pocket.
“What's the matter?” asked one of his companions.
“I've lost my note book,” replied Burton; “it must have dropped out of
my pocket when I jumped the fence. Just wait a minute while I go look
for it,” and he returned to the fence, vaulted it and disappeared behind
the bushes.
It was fully five minutes before he returned but when he did there was a
look of satisfaction on his face.
“Find it?” asked his principal lieutenant.
“Yep,” replied Burton. “I wouldn't have lost it for anything.”
Bridge and his companions had made their way along the wooded path for
perhaps a quarter of a mile when the man halted and drew back behind the
foliage of a flowering bush. With raised finger he motioned the others
to silence and then pointed through the branches ahead. The boy and
the girl, tense with excitement, peered past the man into a clearing in
which stood a log shack, mud plastered; but it was not the hovel which
held their mute attention--it was rather the figure of a girl, bare
headed and bare footed, who toiled stubbornly with an old spade at a
long, narrow excavation.