Tinkletown's Convulsion
Anderson Crow was himself once more. He was twenty years younger than
when he went to bed the night before. His joy and pride had reached the
bursting point--dignity alone prevented the catastrophe.
"What do you expect to do with the gang, Mr. Crow?" asked Bonner,
reclining with amiable ease in the marshal's Morris chair. He was
feeling very comfortable, despite "Doc" Smith's stitches; and he could
not help acknowledging, with more or less of a glow in his heart, that
it was nice to play hero to such a heroine.
"Well, I'll protect 'em, of course. Nobody c'n lynch 'em while I'm
marshal of this town," Anderson said, forgetful of the fact that he had
not been near the jail, where Master Bud still had full charge of
affairs, keyless but determined. "I'll have to turn them over to the
county sheriff to-day er to-morrow, I reckon. This derned old calaboose
of ourn ain't any too safe. That's a mighty desperit gang we've
captured. I cain't remember havin' took sech a mob before."
"Has it occurred to you, Mr. Crow, that we have captured only the
hirelings? Their employer, whoever he or she may be, is at large and
probably laughing at us. Isn't there some way in which we can follow
the case up and land the leader?"
"'y Gosh, you're right," said Anderson. "I thought of that this mornin',
but it clean skipped my mind since then. There's where the mistake was
made, Mr. Bonner. It's probably too late now. You'd oughter thought
about the leader. Seems to me--"
"Why, Daddy Crow," cried Rosalie, a warm flush in her cheeks once more,
"hasn't Mr. Bonner done his part? Hasn't he taken them single-handed and
hasn't he saved me from worse than death?"
"I ain't castin' any insinyations at him, Rosalie," retorted Anderson,
very sternly for him. "How _can_ you talk like that?"
"I'm not offended, Miss Gray," laughed Bonner. "We all make mistakes. It
has just occurred to me, however, that Mr. Crow may still be able to
find out who the leader is. The prisoners can be pumped, I dare say."
"You're right ag'in, Mr. Bonner. It's funny how you c'n read my
thoughts. I was jest goin' down to the jail to put 'em through the sweat
cell."
"Sweat cell? You mean sweat box, Mr. Crow," said Bonner, laughing in
spite of himself.
"No, sir; it's a cell. We couldn't find a box big enough. I use the cell
reserved fer women prisoners. Mebby some day the town board will put in
a reg'lar box, but, so far, the cell has done all right. I'll be back
'bout supper-time, Eva. You take keer o' Rosalie. Make her sleep a while
an' I guess you'd better dose her up a bit with quinine an'--"
"I guess I know what to give her, Anderson Crow," resented his wife. "Go
'long with you. You'd oughter been lookin' after them kidnapers three
hours ago. I bet Bud's purty nigh wore out guardin' them. He's been
there ever sence nine o'clock, an' it's half-past two now."
"Roscoe's helpin' him," muttered Anderson, abashed.
At that instant there came a rush of footsteps across the front porch
and in burst Ed Higgins and "Blootch" Peabody, fairly gasping with
excitement.
"Hurry up, Anderson--down to the jail," sputtered the former; and then
he was gone like the wind. "Blootch," determined to miss nothing,
whirled to follow, or pass him if possible. He had time to shout over
his shoulder as he went forth without closing the door:
"The old woman has lynched herself!"
It would now be superfluous to remark, after all the convulsions
Tinkletown had experienced inside of twenty-four hours, that the
populace went completely to pieces in face of this last trying
experiment of Fate. With one accord the village toppled over as if
struck by a broadside and lay, figuratively speaking, writhing in its
own gore. Stupefaction assailed the town. Then one by one the minds of
the people scrambled up from the ashes, slowly but surely, only to
wonder where lightning would strike next. Not since the days of the
American Revolution had the town experienced such an incessant rush of
incident. The Judgment Day itself, with Gabriel's clarion blasts, could
not be expected to surpass this productive hour in thrills.
It was true that old Maude had committed suicide in the calaboose. She
had been placed on a cot in the office of the prison and Dr. Smith had
been sent for, immediately after her arrival; but he was making a call
in the country. Bud Long, supported by half a dozen boys armed with
Revolutionary muskets, which would not go off unless carried, stood in
front of the little jail with its wooden walls and iron bars, guarding
the prisoners zealously. The calaboose was built to hold tramps and
drunken men, but not for the purpose of housing desperadoes. Even as the
heroic Bud watched with persevering faithfulness, his charges were
planning to knock their prison to smithereens and at the proper moment
escape to the woods and hills. They knew the grated door was unlocked,
but they imagined the place to be completely surrounded by vengeful
villagers, who would cut them down like rats if they ventured forth. Had
they but known that Bud was alone, it is quite likely they would have
sallied forth and relieved him of his guns, spanked him soundly and then
ambled off unmolested to the country.
All the morning old Maude had been groaning and swearing in the office,
where she lay unattended. Bud was telling his friends how he had knocked
her down twice in the cave, after she had shot six times and slashed at
him with her dagger, when a sudden cessation of groans from the interior
attracted the attention of all. "Doc" Smith arrived at that juncture
and found the boys listening intently for a resumption of the
picturesque profanity. It was some time before the crowd became large
enough to inspire a visit to the interior of the calaboose. As became
his dignity, Bud led the way.
The old woman, unable to endure the pain any longer, and knowing full
well that her days were bound to end in prison, had managed, in some
way, to hang herself from a window bar beside her bed, using a twisted
bed sheet. She was quite dead when "Doc" made the examination. A
committee of the whole started at once to notify Anderson Crow. For a
minute it looked as though the jail would be left entirely unguarded,
but Bud loyally returned to his post, reinforced by Roscoe and the
doctor.
Upon Mr. Crow's arrival at the jail, affairs assumed some aspect of
order. He first locked the grate doors, thereby keeping the fiery David
from coming out to see his mother before they cut her down. A messenger
was sent for the coroner at Boggs City, and then the big body was
released from its last hanging place.
"Doggone, but this is a busy day fer me!" said Anderson. "I won't have
time to pump them fellers till this evenin'. But I guess they'll keep.
'What's that, Blootch?"
"I was just goin' to ask Bud if they're still in there," said Blootch.
"Are they, Bud?" asked Anderson in quick alarm.
"Sure," replied Bud with a mighty swelling of the chest. Even Blootch
envied him.
"She's been dead jest an hour an' seven minutes," observed Anderson,
gingerly touching the dead woman's wrist. "Doggone, I'm glad o' one
thing!"
"What's that, Anderson?"
"We won't have to set her hip. Saved expense."
"But we'll have to bury her, like as not," said Isaac Porter.
"Yes," said Anderson reflectively. "She'll have to be buried.
But--but--" and here his face lightened up in relief--"not fer a day er
two; so what's the use worryin'."
When the coroner arrived, soon after six o'clock, a jury was empanelled
and witnesses sworn. In ten minutes a verdict of suicide was returned
and the coroner was on his way back to Boggs City. He did not even know
that a hip had been dislocated. Anderson insisted upon a post-mortem
examination, but was laughed out of countenance by the officious M.D.
"I voted fer that fool last November," said Anderson wrathfully, as the
coroner drove off, "but you c'n kick the daylights out of me if I ever
do it ag'in. Look out there, Bud! What in thunder are you doin' with
them pistols? Doggone, ain't you got no sense? Pointin' 'em around that
way. Why, you're liable to shoot somebody--"
"Aw, them ain't pistols," scoffed Bud, his mouth full of something.
"They're bologny sausages. I ain't had nothin' to eat sence last night
and I'm hungry."
"Well, it's dark out here," explained Anderson, suddenly shuffling into
the jail. "I guess I'll put them fellers through the sweat box."
"The _what?_" demanded George Ray.
"The sweat-box--b-o-x, box. Cain't you hear?"
"I thought you used a cell."
"Thunderation, no! Nobody but country jakes call it a cell," said
Anderson in fine scorn.
The three prisoners scowled at him so fiercely and snarled so
vindictively when they asked him if they were to be starved to death,
that poor Anderson hurried home and commanded his wife to pack "a baskit
of bread and butter an' things fer the prisoners." It was nine o'clock
before he could make up his mind to venture back to the calaboose with
his basket. He spent the intervening hours in telling Rosalie and Bonner
about the shocking incident at the jail and in absorbing advice from the
clear-headed young man from Boston.
"I'd like to go with you to see those fellows, Mr. Crow," was Bonner's
rueful lament. "But the doctor says I must be quiet until this
confounded thing heals a bit. Together, I think we could bluff the whole
story out of those scoundrels."
"Oh, never you fear," said the marshal; "I'll learn all there is to be
learnt. You jest ask Alf Reesling what kind of a pumper I am."
"Who is Alf Reesling?"
"Ain't you heerd of him in Boston? Why, every temperance lecturer that
comes here says he's the biggest drunkard in the world. I supposed his
reputation had got to Boston by this time. He's been sober only once in
twenty-five years."
"Is it possible?"
"That was when his wife died. He said he felt so good it wasn't
necessary to get drunk. Well, I'll tell you all about it when I come
back. Don't worry no more, Rosalie. I'll find out who's back of this
business an' then we'll know all about you. It's a long lane that has no
turn."
"Them prisoners must be mighty near starved to death by this time,
Anderson," warned Mrs. Crow.
"Doggone, that's so!" he cried, and hustled out into the night.
The calaboose was almost totally dark--quite so, had it not been for the
single lamp that burned in the office where the body of the old woman
was lying. Two or three timid citizens stood afar off, in front of
Thompson's feed yard, looking with awe upon the dungeon keep. Anderson's
footsteps grew slower and more halting as they approached the entrance
to the forbidding square of black. The snow creaked resoundingly under
his heels and the chill wind nipped his muffless ears with a
spitefulness that annoyed. In fact, he became so incensed, that he set
his basket down and slapped his ears vigorously for some minutes before
resuming his slow progress. He hated the thought of going in where the
dead woman lay.
Suddenly he made up his mind that a confession from the men would be
worthless unless he had ear witnesses to substantiate it in court.
Without further deliberation, he retraced his steps hurriedly to
Lamson's store, where, after half an hour's conversation on the topics
of the day, he deputised the entire crowd to accompany him to the jail.
"Where's Bud?" he demanded sharply.
"Home in bed, poor child," said old Mr. Borton.
"Well, doggone his ornery hide, why ain't he here to--" began Anderson,
but checked himself in time to prevent the crowd from seeing that he
expected Bud to act as leader in the expedition. "I wanted him to jot
down notes," he substituted. Editor Squires volunteered to act as
secretary, prompter, interpreter, and everything else that his scoffing
tongue could utter.
"Well, go ahead, then," said Anderson, pushing him forward. Harry led
the party down the dark street with more rapidity than seemed necessary;
few in the crowd could keep pace with him. A majority fell hopelessly
behind, in fact.
Straight into the office walked Harry, closely followed by Blootch and
the marshal. Maude, looking like a monument of sheets, still occupied
the centre of the floor. Without a word, the party filed past the
gruesome, silent thing and into the jail corridor. It was as dark as
Erebus in the barred section of the prison; a cold draft of air flew
into the faces of the visitors.
"Come here, you fellers!" called Anderson bravely into the darkness; but
there was no response from the prisoners.
For the very good reason that some hours earlier they had calmly removed
a window from its moorings and by this time were much too far away to
answer questions.