The Oakdale Affair

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 al-ready 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 gasp-ing with excitement and elation.  Already the one hun-dred 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 profes-sional 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 Bur-ton.  “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 dol-lar 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 ab-ducted 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 de-tective returned to his car and drove west toward Mills-ville 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 disap-peared, nor did he answer at noon to the repeated ringing of the big, farm dinner bell.

Half way between the Case farm and Millsville de-tective Burton saw, far ahead along the road, two figures scale a fence and disappear behind the fringing black-berry 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 op-posite 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 sheep-ishly.

“Can’t a guy lie down fer a minute in de bushes wid-out bein’ pinched?” he asked.  The other man now sat up and viewed the newcomer, while from either side Bur-ton’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 com-panions 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 ex-posed 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’ trunin’ ’im outten a gas wagon, an’ dis Oskaloosa Kid he croaks some old guy in Oak-dale 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 be-hind 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 oth-ers 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 stub-bornly with an old spade at a long, narrow excavation.

All too suggestive in itself was the shape of the hole the girl was digging; there was no need of the silent proof of its purpose which lay beside her to tell the watchers that she worked alone in the midst of the for-est solitude upon a human grave.  The thing wrapped in an old quilt lay silently waiting for the making of its last bed.

And as the three watched her other eyes watched them and the digging girl—­wide, awestruck eyes, filled with a great terror, yet now and again half closing in the shrewd expression of cunning that is a hall mark of crafty ignorance.

And as they watched, their over-wrought nerves sud-denly shuddered to the grewsome clanking of a chain from the dark interior of the hovel.

The youth, holding tight to Bridge’s sleeve, strove to pull him away.

“Let’s go back,” he whispered in a voice that trembled so that he could scarce control it.

“Yes, please,” urged the girl.  “Here is another path leading toward the north.  We must be close to a road.  Let’s get away from here.”

The digger paused and raised her head, listening, as though she had caught the faint, whispered note of hu-man voices.  She was a black haired girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in a motley of flowered calico and silk, with strings of gold and silver coins looped around her olive neck.  Her bare arms were encircled by bracelets—­ some cheap and gaudy, others well wrought from gold and silver.  From her ears depended ornaments fash-ioned from gold coins.  Her whole appearance was bar-baric, her occupation cast a sinister haze about her; and yet her eyes seemed fashioned for laughter and her lips for kissing.

The watchers remained motionless as the girl peered first in one direction and then in another, seeking an ex-planation of the sounds which had disturbed her.  Her brows were contracted into a scowl of apprehension which remained even after she returned to her labors, and that she was ill at ease was further evidenced by the frequent pauses she made to cast quick glances to-ward the dense tanglewood surrounding the clearing.

At last the grave was dug.  The girl climbed out and stood looking down upon the quilt wrapped thing at her feet.  For a moment she stood there as silent and motionless as the dead.  Only the twittering of birds dis-turbed the quiet of the wood.  Bridge felt a soft hand slipped into his and slender fingers grip his own, He turned his eyes to see the boy at his side gazing with wide eyes and trembling lips at the tableau within the clearing.  Involuntarily the man’s hand closed tightly upon the youth’s.

And as they stood thus the silence was shattered by a loud and human sneeze from the thicket not fifty feet from where they stood.  Instantly the girl in the clearing was electrified into action.  Like a tigress charging those who stalked her she leaped swiftly across the clearing toward the point from which the disturbance had come.  There was an answering commotion in the underbrush as the girl crashed through, a slender knife gleaming in her hand.

Bridge and his companions heard the sounds of a swift and short pursuit followed by voices, one master-ful, the other frightened and whimpering; and a moment afterward the girl reappeared dragging a boy with her —­a wide-eyed, terrified, country boy who begged and blubbered to no avail.

Beside the dead man the girl halted and then turned on her captive.  In her right hand she still held the menacing blade.

“What you do there watching me for?” she demanded.  “Tell me the truth, or I kill you,” and she half raised the knife that he might profit in his decision by this most potent of arguments.

The boy cowered.  “I didn’t come fer to watch you,” he whimpered.  “I’m lookin’ for somebody else.  I’m goin’ to be a dee-tectiff, an’ I’m shadderin’ a murderer;” and he gasped and stammered:  “But not you.  I’m lookin’ for another murderer.”

For the first time the watchers saw a faint smile touch the girl’s lips.

“What other murderer?” she asked.  “Who has been murdered?”

“Two an’ mebby three in Oakdale last night,” said Willie Case more glibly now that a chance for dissemi-nating gossip momentarily outweighed his own fears.  “Reginald Paynter was murdered an’ ol’ man Baggs an’ Abigail Prim’s missin’.  Like es not she’s been murdered too, though they do say as she had a hand in it, bein’ seen with Paynter an’ The Oskaloosie Kid jest afore the murder.”

As the boy’s tale reached the ears of the three hidden in the underbrush Bridge glanced quickly at his com-panions.  He saw the boy’s horror-stricken expression fol-low the announcement of the name of the murdered Paynter, and he saw the girl flush crimson.

Without urging, Willie Case proceeded with his story.  He told of the coming of The Oskaloosa Kid to his father’s farm that morning and of seeing some of the loot and hearing the confession of robbery and killing in Oakdale the night before.  Bridge looked down at the youth beside him; but the other’s face was averted and his eyes upon the ground.  Then Willie told of the arrival of the great detective, of the reward that had been of-fered and of his decision to win it and become rich and famous in a single stroke.  As he reached the end of his narrative he leaned close to the girl, whispering in her ear the while his furtive gaze wandered toward the spot where the three lay concealed.

Bridge shrugged his shoulders as the palpable infer-ence of that cunning glance was borne in upon him.  The boy’s voice had risen despite his efforts to hold it to a low whisper for what with the excitement of the ad-venture and his terror of the girl with the knife he had little or no control of himself, yet it was evident that he did not realize that practically every word he had spoken had reached the ears of the three in hiding and that his final precaution as he divulged the information to the girl was prompted by an excess of timidity and secretiveness.

The eyes of the girl widened in surprise and fear as she learned that three watchers lay concealed at the verge of the clearing.  She bent a long, searching look in the direction indicated by the boy and then turned her eyes quickly toward the hut as though to summon aid.  At the same moment Bridge stepped from hiding into the clearing.  His pleasant ‘Good morning!’ brought the girl around, facing him.

“What you want?” she snapped.

“I want you and this young man,” said Bridge, his voice now suddenly stern.  “We have been watching you and followed you from the Squibbs house.  We found the dead man there last night;” Bridge nodded toward the quilt enveloped thing upon the ground; “and we sus-pect that you had an accomplice.”  Here he frowned meaningly upon Willie Case.  The youth trembled and stammered.