The Oakdale Affair

“Tell the truth,” commanded Burton.  “It will go hard with you if you don’t.  What made you hesitate?  You know something about those two—­now out with it.”

“The boy robbed Mr. Prim’s home—­I saw some of the money and jewelry—­but Bridge was not with him.  They just happened to meet by accident during the storm and came to the Squibbs place together.  They were kind to me, and I hate to tell anything that would get the boy in trouble.  That is the reason I hesitated.  He seemed such a nice boy!  It is hard to believe that he is a criminal, and Bridge was always so considerate.  He looks like a tramp; but he talks and acts like a gentle-man.”

The telephone bell rang briskly, and a moment later the butler stepped into the room to say that Mr. Burton was wanted on the wire.  He returned to the living room in two or three minutes.

“That clears up some of it,” he said as be entered.  “The sheriff just had a message from the chief at Toledo saying that The Oskaloosa Kid is dying in a hospital there following an automobile accident.  He knew he was done for and sent for the police.  When they came he told them he had killed a man by the name of Paynter at Oakdale last night and the chief called up to ask what we knew about it.  The Kid confessed to clear his pal who was only slightly injured in the smash-up.  His story corroborates Miss Penning’s in every detail, he also said that after killing Paynter he had shot a girl witness and thrown her from the car to prevent her squealing.”

Once again the telephone bell rang, long and insist-ently.  The butler almost ran into the room.  “Payson wants you, sir,” he cried to Burton, “in a hurry, sir, it’s a matter of life and death, sir!”

Burton sprang to the phone.  When he left it he only stopped at the doorway of the living room long enough to call in:  “A mob has the two prisoners at Payson and are about to lynch them, and, my God, they’re innocent.  We all know now who killed Paynter and I have known since morning who murdered Baggs, and it wasn’t either of those men; but they’ve found Miss Prim’s jew-elry on the fellow called Bridge and they’ve gone crazy—­they say he murdered her and the young one did for Paynter.  I’m going to Payson,” and dashed from the house.

“Wait,” cried Jonas Prim, “I’m going with you,” and without waiting to find a hat he ran quickly after the de-tective.  Once in the car he leaned forward urging the driver to greater speed.

“God in heaven!” he almost cried, “the fools are go-ing to kill the only man who can tell me anything about Abigail.”

o o o

With oaths and threats the mob, brainless and heart-less, cowardly, bestial, filled with the lust for blood, pushed and jammed into the narrow corridor before the cell door where the two prisoners awaited their fate.  The single guard was brushed away.  A dozen men wielding three railroad ties battered upon the grat-ing of the door, swinging the ties far back and then in unison bringing them heavily forward against the puny iron.

Bridge spoke to them once.  “What are you going to do with us?” he asked.

“We’re goin’ to hang you higher ‘n’ Haman, you damned kidnappers an’ murderers,” yelled a man in the crowd.

“Why don’t you give us a chance?” asked Bridge in an even tone, unaltered by fear or excitement.  “You’ve nothing on us.  As a matter of fact we are both inno-cent—­”

“Oh, shut your damned mouth,” interrupted another of the crowd.

Bridge shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the youth who stood very white but very straight in a far corner of the cell.  The man noticed the bulging pock-ets of the ill fitting coat; and, for the first time that night, his heart stood still in the face of fear; but not for himself.

He crossed to the youth’s side and put his arm around the slender figure.  “There’s no use arguing with them,” he said.  “They’ve made up their minds, or what they think are minds, that we’re guilty; but principally they’re out for a sensation.  They want to see something die, and we’re it.  I doubt if anything could stop them now; they’d think we’d cheated them if we suddenly proved beyond doubt that we were innocent.”

The boy pressed close to the man.  “God help me to be brave,” he said, “as brave as you are.  We’ll go together, Bridge, and on the other side you’ll learn something that’ll surprise you.  I believe there is ‘another side,’ don’t you, Bridge?”

“I’ve never thought much about it,” said Bridge; “but at a time like this I rather hope so—­I’d like to come back and haunt this bunch of rat brained rubes.”

His arm slipped down the other’s coat and his hand passed quickly behind the boy from one side to the other; then the door gave and the leaders of the mob were upon them.  A gawky farmer seized the boy and struck him cruelly across the mouth.  It was Jeb Case.

“You beast!” cried Bridge.  “Can’t you see that that—­ that’s—­only a child?  If I don’t live long enough to give you yours here, I’ll come back and haunt you to your grave.”

“Eh?” ejaculated Jeb Case; but his sallow face turned white, and after that he was less rough with his prisoner.

The two were dragged roughly from the jail.  The great crowd which had now gathered fought to get a close view of them, to get hold of them, to strike them, to revile them; but the leaders kept the others back lest all be robbed of the treat which they had planned.  Through town they haled them and out along the road toward Oakdale.  There was some talk of taking them to the scene of Paynter’s supposed murder; but wiser heads counselled against it lest the sheriff come with a posse of deputies and spoil their fun.

Beneath a great tree they halted them, and two ropes were thrown over a stout branch.  One of the leaders started to search them; and when he drew his hands out of Bridge’s side pockets his eyes went wide, and he gave a cry of elation which drew excited inquiries from all sides.

“By gum!” he cried, “I reckon we ain’t made no mis-take here, boys.  Look ahere!” and he displayed two handsful of money and jewelry.

“Thet’s Abbie Prim’s stuff,” cried one.

The boy beside Bridge turned wide eyes upon the man.  “Where did you get it?” he cried.  “Oh, Bridge, why did you do it?  Now they will kill you,” and he turned to the crowd.  “Oh, please listen to me,” he begged.  “He didn’t steal those things.  Nobody stole them.  They are mine.  They have always belonged to me.  He took them out of my pocket at the jail because he thought that I had stolen them and he wanted to take the guilt upon himself; but they were not stolen, I tell you—­they are mine! they are mine! they are mine!”

Another new expression came into Bridge’s eyes as he listened to the boy’s words; but he only shook his head.  It was too late, and Bridge knew it.

Men were adjusting ropes about their necks.  “Be-fore you hang us,” said Bridge quietly, “would you mind explaining just what we’re being hanged for—­it’s sort of comforting to know, you see.”

“Thet’s right,” spoke up one of the crowd.  “Thet’s fair.  We want to do things fair and square.  Tell ’em the charges, an’ then ask ’em ef they got anything to say afore they’re hung.”

This appealed to the crowd—­the last statements of the doomed men might add another thrill to the eve-ning’s entertainment.

“Well,” said the man who had searched them.  “There might o’ been some doubts about you before, but they aint none now.  You’re bein’ hung fer abductin’ of an’ most likely murderin’ Miss Abigail Prim.”

The boy screamed and tried to interrupt; but Jeb Case placed a heavy and soiled hand over his mouth.  The spokesman continued.  “This slicker admitted he was The Oskaloosa Kid, ‘n’ thet he robbed a house an’ shot a man las’ night; ‘n’ they ain’t no tellin’ what more he’s ben up to.  He tole Jeb Case’s Willie ‘bout it; an’ bragged on it, by gum.  ’Nenny way we know Paynter and Abi-gail Prim was last seed with this here Oskaloosa Kid, durn him.”

“Thanks,” said Bridge politely, “and now may I make my final statement before going to meet my maker?”

“Go on,” growled the man.

“You won’t interrupt me?”

“Naw, go on.”

“All right!  You damn fools have made up your minds to hang us.  I doubt if anything I can say to you will alter your determination for the reason that if all the brains in this crowd were collected in one individual he still wouldn’t have enough with which to weigh the most obvious evidence intelligently, but I shall present the evidence, and you can tell some intelligent people about it tomorrow.

“In the first place it is impossible that I murdered Abi-gail Prim, and in the second place my companion is not The Oskaloosa Kid and was not with Mr. Paynter last night.  The reason I could not have murdered Miss Prim is because Miss Prim is not dead.  These jewels were not stolen from Miss Prim, she took them herself from her own home.  This boy whom you are about to hang is not a boy at all—­it is Miss Prim, herself.  I guessed her secret a few minutes ago and was convinced when she cried that the jewels and money were her own.  I don’t know why she wishes to conceal her identity; but I can’t stand by and see her lynched without trying to save her.”

The crowd scoffed in incredulity.  “There are some women here,” said Bridge.  “Turn her over to them.  They’ll tell you, at least that she is not a man.”

Some voices were raised in protest, saying that it was a ruse to escape, while others urged that the women take the youth.  Jeb Case stepped toward the subject of dispute.  “I’ll settle it durned quick,” he announced and reached forth to seize the slim figure.  With a sud-den wrench Bridge tore himself loose from his captors and leaped toward the farmer, his right flew straight out from the shoulder and Jeb Case went down with a broken jaw.  Almost simultaneously a car sped around a curve from the north and stopped suddenly in rear of the mob.  Two men leaped out and shouldered their way through.  One was the detective, Burton; the other was Jonas Prim.

“Where are they?” cried the latter.  “God help you if you’ve killed either of them, for one of them must know what became of Abigail.”

He pushed his way up until he faced the prisoners.  The Oskaloosa Kid gave him a single look of surprise and then sprang toward him with outstretched arms.

“Oh, daddy, daddy!” she cried, “don’t let them kill him.”

The crowd melted away from the immediate vicinity of the prisoners.  None seemed anxious to appear in the forefront as a possible leader of a mob that had so nearly lynched the only daughter of Jonas Prim.  Bur-ton slipped the noose from about the girl’s neck and then turned toward her companion.  In the light from the automobile lamps the man’s face was distinctly visi-ble to the detective for the first time that night, and as Burton looked upon it he stepped back with an ex-clamation of surprise.

“You?” he almost shouted.  “Gad, man! where have you been?  Your father’s spent twenty thousand dollars trying to find you.”

Bridge shook his head.  “I’m sorry, Dick,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s too late.  The open road’s gotten into my blood, and there’s only one thing that—­well—­” he shook his head and smiled ruefully—­“but there ain’t a chance.”  His eyes travelled to the slim figure sitting so straight in the rear seat of Jonas Prim’s car.

Suddenly the little head turned in his direction.  “Hurry, Bridge,” admonished The Oskaloosa Kid, “you’re coming home with us.”

The man stepped toward the car, shaking his head.  “Oh, no, Miss Prim,” he said, “I can’t do that.  Here’s your ‘swag.’” And he smiled as he passed over her jewels and money.

Mr. Prim’s eyes widened; he looked suspiciously at Bridge.  Abigail laughed merrily.  “I stole them myself, Dad,” she explained, “and then Mr. Bridge took them from me in the jail to make the mob think he had stolen them and not I—­ he didn’t know then that I was a girl, did you?”

“It was in the jail that I first guessed; but I didn’t quite realize who you were until you said that the jewels were yours—­then I knew.  The picture in the paper gave me the first inkling that you were a girl, for you looked so much like the one of Miss Prim.  Then I commenced to recall little things, until I wondered that I hadn’t known from the first that you were a girl; but you made a bully boy!” and they both laughed.  “And now good-by, and may God bless you!” His voice trembled ever so little, and he extended his hand.  The girl drew back.

“I want you to come with us,” she said.  “I want Father to know you and to know how you have cared for me.  Wont you come—­for me?”

“I couldn’t refuse, if you put it that way,” replied Bridge; and he climbed into the car.  As the machine started off a boy leaped to the running-board.

“Hey!” he yelled, “where’s my reward?  I want my re-ward.  I’m Willie Case.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Bridge.  “I gave your reward to your father—­maybe he’ll split it with you.  Go ask him.”  And the car moved off.

“You see,” said Burton, with a wry smile, “how simple is the detective’s job.  Willie is a natural-born detective.  He got everything wrong from A to Izzard, yet if it hadn’t been for Willie we might not have cleared up the mystery so soon.”

“It isn’t all cleared up yet,” said Jonas Prim.  “Who murdered Baggs?”

“Two yeggs known as Dopey Charlie and the Gen-eral,” replied Burton.  “They are in the jail at Oakdale; but they don’t know yet that I know they are guilty.  They think they are being held merely as suspects in the case of your daughter’s disappearance, whereas I have known since morning that they were implicated in the killing of Baggs; for after I got them in the car I went behind the bushes where we discovered them and dug up everything that was missing from Baggs’ house, as nearly as is known—­currency, gold and bonds.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Prim.

On the trip back to Oakdale, Abigail Prim cuddled in the back seat beside her father, told him all that she could think to tell of Bridge and his goodness to her.

“But the man didn’t know you were a girl,” suggested Mr. Prim.

“There were two other girls with us, both very pretty,” replied Abigail, “and he was as courteous and kindly to them as a man could be to a woman.  I don’t care any-thing about his clothes, Daddy; Bridge is a gentleman born and raised—­anyone could tell it after half an hour with him.”

Bridge sat on the front seat with the driver and one of Burton’s men, while Burton, sitting in the back seat next to the girl, could not but overhear her conversa-tion.

“You are right,” he said.  “Bridge, as you call him, is a gentleman.  He comes of one of the finest families of Vir-ginia and one of the wealthiest.  You need have no hesitancy, Mr. Prim, in inviting him into your home.”

For a while the three sat in silence; and then Jonas Prim turned to his daughter.  “Gail,” he said, “before we get home I wish you’d tell me why you did this thing.  I think you’d rather tell me before we see Mrs. P.”

“It was Sam Benham, Daddy,” whispered the girl.  “I couldn’t marry him.  I’d rather die, and so I ran away.  I was going to be a tramp; but I had no idea a tramp’s existence was so adventurous.  You won’t make me marry him, Daddy, will you?  I wouldn’t be happy, Daddy.”

“I should say not, Gail; you can be an old maid all your life if you want to.”

“But I don’t want to—­I only want to choose my own husband,” replied Abigail.

Mrs. Prim met them all in the living-room.  At sight of Abigail in the ill-fitting man’s clothing she raised her hands in holy horror; but she couldn’t see Bridge at all, until Burton found an opportunity to draw her to one side and whisper something in her ear, after which she was graciousness personified to the dusky Bridge, in-sisting that he spend a fortnight with them to recuper-ate.

Between them, Burton and Jonas Prim fitted Bridge out as he had not been dressed in years, and with the feel of fresh linen and pressed clothing, even if ill fitting, a sensation of comfort and ease pervaded him which the man would not have thought possible from such a source an hour before.

He smiled ruefully as Burton looked him over.  “I ven-ture to say,” he drawled, “that there are other things in the world besides the open road.”

Burton smiled.

It was midnight when the Prims and their guests arose from the table.  Hettie Penning was with them, and ev-eryone present had been sworn to secrecy about her share in the tragedy of the previous night.  On the mor-row she would return to Payson and no one there the wiser; but first she had Burton send to the jail for Giova, who was being held as a witness, and Giova promised to come and work for the Pennings.

At last Bridge stole a few minutes alone with Abi-gail, or, to be more strictly a truthful historian, Abigail outgeneraled the others of the company and drew Bridge out upon the veranda.

“Tell me,” demanded the girl, “why you were so kind to me when you thought me a worthless little scamp of a boy who had robbed some one’s home.”

“I couldn’t have told you a few hours ago,” said Bridge.  “I used to wonder myself why I should feel toward a boy as I felt toward you,—­it was inexplicable,—­and then when I knew that you were a girl, I understood, for I knew that I loved you and had loved you from the mo-ment that we met there in the dark and the rain be-side the Road to Anywhere.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” murmured the girl, and she had other things in her heart to murmur; but a man’s lips smothered hers as Bridge gathered her into his arms and strained her to him.