The Daughter of Anderson Crow
Rosalie, who had been awakened early in the evening by Mr. Crow's noisy
preparations for the pursuit, came downstairs, and instantly lost all
desire to sleep. Bonner was lying on a couch in the "sitting-room,"
which now served as a temporary bedchamber.
"If you'll just hand me those revolvers, Mr. Crow," said he, indicating
the two big automatics he had taken from Davy and Bill, "I'll stand
guard over the house as best I can while you're away."
"Stand guard? What fer? Nobody's goin' to steal the house."
"We should not forget that these same rascals may take it into their
heads to double on their tracks and try to carry Miss Gray away again.
With her in their possession they'll receive their pay; without her
their work will have been for nothing. It is a desperate crowd, and they
may think the plan at least worth trying."
Rosalie's grateful, beaming glance sent a quiver that was not of pain
through Bonner's frame.
"Don't worry about that," said the marshal. "We'll have 'em shot to
pieces inside of an hour an' a half."
"Anderson, I want you to be very careful with that horse pistol," said
his wife nervously. "It ain't been shot off sence the war, an' like as
not it'll kill you from behind."
"Gosh blast it, Eva!" roared Anderson, "don't you suppose I know which
end to shoot with?" And away he rushed in great dudgeon.
Edna Crow sat at the front window, keeping watch for hours. She reported
to the other members of the household as each scurrying band of
searchers passed the place. Bonner commanded Rosalie to keep away from
the windows, fearing a shot from the outside. From time to time Roscoe
replenished the big blaze in the fireplace. It was cosey in the
old-fashioned sitting-room, even though the strain upon its occupants
was trying in the extreme.
Great excitement came to them when the figure of a man was seen to drop
to the walk near the front gate. At first it was feared that one of the
bandits, injured by pursuers, had fallen to die, but the mournful calls
for help that soon came from the sidewalk were more or less reassuring.
The prostrate figure had a queer habit from time to time of raising
itself high enough to peer between the pickets of the fence, and each
succeeding shout seemed more vigorous than the others. Finally they
became impatient, and then full of wrath. It was evident that the
stranger resented the inhospitality of the house.
"Who are you?" called Edna, opening the window ever so slightly.
Whereupon the man at the gate sank to the ground and groaned with
splendid misery.
"It's me," he replied.
"Who's me?"
"'Rast--'Rast Little. I think I'm dyin'."
There was a hurried consultation indoors, and then Roscoe bravely
ventured out to the sidewalk.
"Are you shot, 'Rast?" he asked in trembling tones.
"No; I'm just wounded. Is Rosalie in there?"
"Yep. She's--"
"I guess I'll go in, then. Dern it! It's a long walk from our house over
here. I guess I'll stay all night. If I don't get better to-morrow I'll
have to stay longer. I ought to be nursed, too."
"Rosalie's playin' nurse fer Mr. Bonner," volunteered Roscoe, still
blocking the gate through which 'Rast was trying to wedge himself.
"Mr. who?"
"Bonner."
"Well," said 'Rast after a moment's consideration, "he ought to be moved
to a hospital. Lemme lean on you, Roscoe. I can't hardly walk, my arm
hurts so."
Mr. Little, with his bandages and his hobble, had joined in the
expedition, and was not to be deterred until faintness overcame him and
he dropped by the wayside. He was taken in and given a warm chair before
the fire. One long look at Bonner and the newcomer lapsed into a
stubborn pout. He groaned occasionally and made much ado over his
condition, but sourly resented any approach at sympathy. Finally he fell
asleep in the chair, his last speech being to the effect that he was
going home early in the morning if he had to drag himself every foot of
the way. Plainly, 'Rast had forgotten Miss Banks in the sudden revival
of affection for Rosalie Gray. The course of true love did not run
smoothly in Tinkletown.
The searchers straggled in empty handed. Early morning found most of
them asleep at their homes, tucked away by thankful wives, and with the
promises of late breakfasts. The next day business was slow in asserting
its claim upon public attention. Masculine Tinkletown dozed while
femininity chattered to its heart's content. There was much to talk
about and more to anticipate. The officials in all counties contiguous
had out their dragnets, and word was expected at any time that the
fugitives had fallen into their hands.
But not that day, nor the next, nor any day, in fact, did news come of
their capture, so Tinkletown was obliged to settle back into a state of
tranquility. Some little interest was aroused when the town board
ordered the calaboose repaired, and there was a ripple of excitement
attached to the funeral of the only kidnaper in captivity. It was
necessary to postpone the oyster supper at the Methodist Church, but
there was some consolation in the knowledge that it would soon be
summer-time and the benighted Africans would not need the money for
winter clothes. The reception at the minister's house was a fizzle. He
was warned in time, however, and it was his own fault that he received
no more than a jug of vinegar, two loaves of bread and a pound of honey
as the result of his expectations. It was the first time that a "pound"
party had proven a losing enterprise.
Anderson Crow maintained a relentless search for the desperadoes. He
refused to accept Wicker Bonner's theory that they were safe in the city
of New York. It was his own opinion that they were still in the
neighbourhood, waiting for a chance to exhume the body of Davy's mother
and make off with it.
"Don't try to tell me, Mr. Bonner, that even a raskil like him hasn't
any love fer his mother," he contended. "Davy may not be much of a
model, but he had a feelin' fer the woman who bore him, an' don't you
fergit it."
"Why, Daddy Crow, he was the most heartless brute in the world!" cried
Rosalie. "I've seen him knock her down more than once--and kick her,
too."
"A slip of the memory, that's all. He was probably thinkin' of his wife,
if he has one."
At a public meeting the town board was condemned for its failure to
strengthen the jail at the time Anderson made his demand three years
before.
"What's the use in me catchin' thieves, and so forth, if the jail won't
hold 'em?" Anderson declared. "I cain't afford to waste time in runnin'
desperite characters down if the town board ain't goin' to obstruct 'em
from gittin' away as soon as the sun sits. What's the use, I'd like to
know? Where's the justice? I don't want it to git noised aroun' that the
on'y way we c'n hold a prisoner is to have him commit suicide as soon as
he's arrested. Fer two cents I'd resign right now."
Of course no one would hear to that. As a result, nearly five hundred
dollars was voted from the corporation funds to strengthen and modernise
the "calaboose." It was the sense of the meeting that a "sweat box"
should be installed under Mr. Crow's supervision, and that the marshal's
salary should be increased fifty dollars a year. After the adoption of
this popular resolution Mr. Crow arose and solemnly informed the people
that their faith in him was not misplaced. He threw the meeting into a
state of great excitement by announcing that the kidnapers would soon be
in the toils once more. In response to eager queries he merely stated
that he had a valuable clew, which could not be divulged without
detriment to the cause. Everybody went home that night with the
assurance that the fugitives would soon be taken. Anderson promised the
town board that he would not take them until the jail was repaired.
It was almost a fortnight before Wicker Bonner was able to walk about
with crutches. The wound in his leg was an ugly one and healed slowly.
His uncle, the Congressman, sent up a surgeon from New York, but that
worthy approved of "Doc" Smith's methods, and abruptly left the young
man to the care of an excellent nurse, Rosalie Gray. Congressman
Bonner's servants came over every day or two with books, newspapers,
sweetmeats, and fresh supplies from the city, but it was impossible for
them to get any satisfaction from the young man in reply to their
inquiries as to when he expected to return to the big house across the
river. Bonner was beginning to hate the thought of giving up Rosalie's
readings, her ministrations, and the no uncertain development of his own
opinions as to her personal attractiveness.
"I don't know when I'll be able to walk, Watkins," he said to the
caretaker. "I'm afraid my heart is affected."
Bonner's enforced presence at Anderson Crow's home was the source of
extreme annoyance to the young men of the town. "Blootch" Peabody
created a frightful scandal by getting boiling drunk toward the end of
the week, so great was his dejection. As it was his first real spree, he
did not recover from the effect for three days. He then took the pledge,
and talked about the evils of strong drink with so much feeling at
prayer meeting that the women of the town inaugurated a movement to stop
the sale of liquor in the town. As Peabody's drug store was the only
place where whiskey could be obtained, "Blootch" soon saw the error of
his ways and came down from his pedestal to mend them.
Bonner was a friend in need to Anderson Crow. The two were in
consultation half of the time, and the young man's opinions were not to
be disregarded. He advanced a theory concerning the motives of the
leader in the plot to send Rosalie into an exile from which she was not
expected to return. It was his belief that the person who abandoned her
as a babe was actuated by the desire to possess a fortune which should
have been the child's. The conditions attending the final disposition of
this fortune doubtless were such as to make it unwise to destroy the
girl's life. The plotter, whatever his or her relation to the child may
have been, must have felt that a time might come when the existence of
the real heiress would be necessary. Either such a fear was the
inspiration or the relationship was so dear that the heart of the
arch-plotter was full of love for the innocent victim.
"Who is to say, Miss Gray," said Bonner one night as they sat before the
fire, "that the woman who left you with Mr. Crow was not your own
mother? Suppose that a vast estate was to be yours in trust after the
death of some rich relative, say grandparent. It would naturally mean
that some one else resented this bequest, and probably with some
justice. The property was to become your own when you attained a certain
age, let us say. Don't you see that the day would rob the disinherited
person of every hope to retain the fortune? Even a mother might be
tempted, for ambitious reasons, to go to extreme measures to secure the
fortune for herself. Or she might have been influenced by a will
stronger than her own--the will of an unscrupulous man. There are many
contingencies, all probable, as you choose to analyse them."
"But why should this person wish to banish me from the country
altogether? I am no more dangerous here than I would be anywhere in
Europe. And then think of the means they would have employed to get me
away from Tinkletown. Have I not been lost to the world for years?
Why--"
"True; but I am quite convinced, and I think Mr. Crow agrees with me,
that the recent move was made necessary by the demands of one whose
heart is not interested, but whose hand wields the sceptre of power
over the love which tries to shield you. Any other would have cut off
your life at the beginning."
"That's my idee," agreed Anderson solemnly.