The Daughter of Anderson Crow
rubes you could deputise. One of 'em is worth ten of your
fellow-citizens, Mr. Crow, begging your pardon for the remark. You and I
can keep the secret and we can do the right thing, but we would be asses
to take more Tinkletown asses into our confidence. If you'll agree, I'll
write to Mr. Pinkerton this evening. He can have his men here, disguised
and ready for work, by Thursday afternoon. If you don't mind, I'd like
to have you take charge of the affair, because you know just how to
handle thieves, and I don't. What say you?"
Anderson was ready and eager to agree to anything, but he hesitated a
long time before concluding to take supreme charge of the undertaking.
Mr. Gregory at once implored him to take command. It meant the success
of the venture; anything else meant failure.
"But how'n thunder am I to know the robbers when I see 'em?" demanded
the marshal, nervously pulling bluegrass up by the roots.
"You'll know 'em all right," said Andrew Gregory. Thursday came and with
it the "troupe." Anderson Crow had not slept for three nights, he was so
full of thrills and responsibility. Bright and early that morning he was
on the lookout for suspicious characters. Gregory was to meet the
detectives from New York at half-past seven in the evening. By previous
arrangement, these strangers were to congregate casually at Tinkletown
Inn, perfectly diguised as gentlemen, ready for instructions. The two
arch-plotters had carefully devised a plan of action. Gregory chuckled
secretly when he thought of the sensation Tinkletown was to
experience--and he thought of it often, too.
The leading members of Boothby's All Star Company "put up" at the Inn,
which was so humble that it staggered beneath this unaccustomed weight
of dignity. The beautiful Miss Marmaduke (in reality, Miss Cora Miller)
was there, and so were Miss Trevanian, Miss Gladys Fitzmaurice, Richmond
Barrett (privately Jackie Blake), Thomas J. Booth, Francisco Irving, Ben
Jefferson and others. The Inn was glorified. All Tinkletown looked upon
the despised old "eating house" with a reverence that was not reluctant.
The manager, a busy and preoccupied person, who looked to be the
lowliest hireling in the party, came to the Inn at noon and spread the
news that the reserved seats were sold out and there was promise of a
fine crowd. Whereupon there was rejoicing among the All Star Cast, for
the last legs of the enterprise were to be materially strengthened.
"We won't have to walk back home," announced Mr. Jackie Blake, that
good-looking young chap who played Orlando.
"Glorious Shakespeare, thou art come to life again," said Ben Jefferson,
a barn-stormer for fifty years. "I was beginning to think you were a
dead one."
"And no one will seize our trunks for board," added Miss Marmaduke
cheerfully. She was a very pretty young woman and desperately in love
with Mr. Orlando.
"If any one seized Orlando's trunks, I couldn't appear in public
to-night," said Mr. Blake. "Orlando possesses but one pair of trunks."
"You might wear a mackintosh," suggested Mr. Booth.
"Or borrow trunks of the trees," added Mr. Irving.
"They're off," growled Mr. Jefferson, who hated the puns he did not
make.
"Let's dazzle the town, Cora," said Jackie Blake; and before Tinkletown
could take its second gasp for breath, the leading man and woman were
slowly promenading the chief and only thoroughfare.
"By ginger! she's a purty one, ain't she?" murmured Ed Higgins, sole
clerk at Lamson's. He stood in the doorway until she was out of sight
and remained there for nearly an hour awaiting her return. The men of
Tinkletown took but one look at the pretty young woman, but that one
look was continuous and unbroken.
"If this jay town can turn up enough money to-night to keep us from
stranding, I'll take off my hat to it for ever more," said Jackie Blake.
"Boothby says the house is sold out," said
Miss Marmaduke, a shade of anxiety in her dark eyes. "Oh, how I wish we
were at home again."
"I'd rather starve in New York than feast in the high hills," said he
wistfully. The idols to whom Tinkletown was paying homage were but
human, after all. For two months the Boothby Company had been buffeted
from pillar to post, struggling hard to keep its head above water,
always expecting the crash. The "all-stars" were no more than striving
young Thespians, who were kept playing throughout the heated term with
this uncertain enterprise, solely because necessity was in command of
their destinies. It was not for them to enjoy a summer in ease and
indolence.
"Never mind, dear," said she, turning her green parasol so that it
obstructed the intense but complimentary gaze of no less than a dozen
men; "our luck will change. We won't be barn-storming for ever."
"We've one thing to be thankful for, little woman," said Jackie, his
face brightening. "We go out again this fall in the same company. That's
luck, isn't it? We'll be married as soon as we get back to New York and
we won't have to be separated for a whole season, at least."
"Isn't it dear to think of, Jackie sweetheart? A whole season and then
another, and then all of them after that? Oh, dear, won't it be sweet?"
It was love's young dream for both of them.
"Hello, what's this?" exclaimed Orlando the Thousandth, pausing before a
placard which covered the lower limbs of his pictorial partner. "Ten
Thousand Dollars reward! Great Scott, Cora, wouldn't I like to catch
those fellows? Great, eh? But it's a desperate gang! The worst ever!"
Just then both became conscious of the fact that some one was
scrutinising them intently from behind. They turned and beheld Anderson
Crow, his badges glistening.
"How are you, officer?" said Jackie cheerily. Miss Marmaduke, in her
happiness, beamed a smile upon the austere man with the chin whiskers.
Anderson was past seventy, but that smile caused the intake of his
breath to almost lift him from the ground.
"First rate, thanks; how's yourself? Readin' the reward notice? Lemme
tell you something. There's goin' to be somethin' happen tarnation soon
that will astonish them fellers ef--" but here Anderson pulled up with a
jerk, realising that he was on the point of betraying a great secret.
Afraid to trust himself in continued conversation, he abruptly said:
"Good afternoon," and started off down the street, his ears tingling.
"Queer old chap, isn't he?" observed Jackie, and immediately forgot him
as they strolled onward.
That evening Tinkletown swarmed with strangers. The weather was fine,
and scores of the summer dwellers in the hills across the river came
over to see the performance, as the advance agent had predicted. Bluff
Top Hotel sent a large delegation of people seeking the variety of life.
There were automobiles, traps, victorias, hay-racks, and "sundowns"
standing all along the street in the vicinity of Hapgood's Grove. It was
to be, in the expansive language of the press agent, "a cultured
audience made up of the élite of the community."
Late in the afternoon, a paralysing thought struck in upon the marshal's
brain. It occurred to him that this band of robbers might also be
engaged to carry off Rosalie Gray. After all, it might be the great
dominant reason for their descent upon the community. Covered with a
perspiration that was not caused by heat, he accosted Wicker Bonner, the
minute that gentleman arrived in town. Rosalie went, of course, to the
Crow home for a short visit with the family.
"Say, Wick, I want you to do me a favour," said Anderson eagerly, taking
the young man aside. "I cain't tell you all about it, 'cause I'm bound
by a deathless oath. But, listen, I'm afraid somethin's goin' to happen
to-night. There's a lot o' strangers here, an' I'm nervous about
Rosalie. Somebody might try to steal her in the excitement. Now I want
you to take good keer of her. Don't let 'er out o' your sight, an' don't
let anybody git 'er away from you. I'll keep my eye on her, too. Promise
me."
"Certainly, Mr. Crow. I'll look out for her. That's what I hope to do
all the rest of--'
"Somethin's liable to happen," Mr. Crow broke in, and then quietly
slipped away.
Bonner laughed easily at the old man's fears and set them down as a part
of his whimsical nature. Later, he saw the old man near the entrance as
the party passed inside the inclosure. The Bonner party occupied
prominent seats in front, reserved by the marshal. There were ten in the
group, a half-dozen young Boston people completing the house party.
The side walls of a pavilion inclosed the most beautiful section of the
grove. In one end were the seats, rapidly filling with people. At the
opposite end, upon Mother Earth's green carpet, was the stage, lighted
dimly by means of subdued spot lights and a few auxiliary stars on high.
There was no scenery save that provided by Nature herself. An orchestra
of violins broke through the constant hum of eager voices.
Anderson Crow's heart was inside the charmed inclosure, but his person
was elsewhere. Simultaneously, with the beginning of the performance of
"As You like It," he was in his own barn-loft confronting Andrew Gregory
and the five bewhiskered assistants from New York City. Gregory had met
the detectives at the Inn and had guided them to the marshal's barn,
where final instructions were to be given. For half an hour the party
discussed plans with Anderson Crow, speaking in low, mysterious tones
that rang in the marshal's ears to his dying day.
"We've located those fellows," asserted Mr. Gregory firmly. "There can
be no mistake. They are already in the audience over there, and at a
signal will set to work to hold up the whole crowd. We must get the
drop on them, Mr. Crow. Don't do that! You don't need a disguise. Keep
those yellow whiskers in your pocket. The rest of us will wear
disguises. These men came here disguised because the robbers would be
onto them in a minute if they didn't. They know every detective's face
in the land. If it were not for these beards and wigs they'd have
spotted Pinkerton's men long ago. Now, you know your part in the affair,
don't you?"
"Yes, sir," respectfully responded Anderson, his chin whisker wobbling
pathetically.
"Then we're ready to proceed. It takes a little nerve, that's all, but
we'll soon have those robbers just where we want them," said Andrew
Gregory.
The second act of the play was fairly well under way when Orlando, in
the "green room," remarked to the stage director:
"What's that old rube doing back here, Ramsay? Why, hang it, man, he's
carrying a couple of guns. Is this a hold-up?" At the same instant
Rosalind and two of the women came rushing from their dressing tent,
alarmed and indignant. Miss Marmaduke, her eyes blazing, confronted the
stage director.
"What does this mean, Mr. Ramsay?" she cried. "That old man ordered us
out of our dressing-room at the point of a revolver, and--see! There he
is now doing the same to the men."
It was true. Anderson Crow, with a brace of horse pistols, was driving
the players toward the centre of the stage. In a tremulous voice he
commanded them to remain there and take the consequences. A moment later
the marshal of Tinkletown strode into the limelight with his arsenal,
facing an astonished and temporarily amused audience. His voice, pitched
high with excitement, reached to the remotest corners of the inclosure.
Behind him the players were looking on, open-mouthed and bewildered. To
them he loomed up as the long-dreaded constable detailed to attach their
personal effects. The audience, if at first it laughed at him as a joke,
soon changed its view. Commotion followed his opening speech.
CHAPTER XXXII
The Luck of Anderson Crow
"Don't anybody attempt to leave this tent!" commanded Mr. Crow, standing