The Oakdale Affair

The youth he sent to the nearby brook for water after selecting the least dirty of the several empty tin cans lying about the floor of the summer kitchen.  He warned against the use of the water from the old well and while the boy was away cut a generous portion of the bacon into long, thin strips.

Shortly after, the water coming to the boil, Bridge lowered three eggs into it, glanced at his watch, greased one of the new cleaned stove lids with a piece of bacon rind and laid out as many strips of bacon as the lid would accommodate.  Instantly the room was filled with the delicious odor of frying bacon.

“M-m-m-m!” gloated The Oskaloosa Kid.  “I wish I had bo—­asked for more.  My! but I never smelled any-thing so good as that in all my life.  Are you going to boil only three eggs?  I could eat a dozen.”

“The can’ll only hold three at a time,” explained Bridge.  “We’ll have some more boiling while we are eating these.”  He borrowed his knife from the girl, who was slicing and buttering bread with it, and turned the bacon swiftly and deftly with the point, then he glanced at his watch.  “The three minutes are up,” he announced and, with a couple of small, flat sticks saved for the purpose from the kindling wood, withdrew the eggs one at a time from the can.

“But we have no cups!” exclaimed The Oskaloosa Kid, in sudden despair.

Bridge laughed.  “Knock an end off your egg and the shell will answer in place of a cup.  Got a knife?”

The Kid didn’t.  Bridge eyed him quizzically.  “You must have done most of your burgling near home,” he commented.

“I’m not a burglar!” cried the youth indignantly.  Somehow it was very different when this nice voiced man called him a burglar from bragging of the fact himself to such as The Sky Pilot’s villainous company, or the awestruck, open-mouthed Willie Case whose very ex-pression invited heroics.

Bridge made no reply, but his eyes wandered to the right hand side pocket of the boy’s coat.  Instantly the latter glanced guiltily downward to flush redly at the sight of several inches of pearl necklace protruding accusingly therefrom.  The girl, a silent witness of the occurrence, was brought suddenly and painfully to a realization of her present position and recollection of the happenings of the preceding night.  For the time she had forgotten that she was alone in the company of a tramp and a burglar—­how much worse either might be she could only guess.

The breakfast, commenced so auspiciously, continued in gloomy silence.  At least the girl and The Oskaloosa Kid were silent and gloom steeped.  Bridge was thought-ful but far from morose.  His spirits were unquenchable.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I shall have to replace James.  His defection is unforgivable, and he has mis-placed the finger-bowls.”

The youth and the girl forced wan smiles; but neither spoke.  Bridge drew a pouch of tobacco and some papers from an inside pocket.

   “’I had the makings and I smoked

      “’And wondered over different things,

   “‘Thinkin’ as how this old world joked

      “‘In callin’ only some men kings

   “‘While I sat there a-blowin’ rings.’”

He paused to kindle a sliver of wood at the stove.  “In these parlous times,” he spoke as though to himself, “one must economize.  They are taking a quarter of an ounce out of each five cents worth of chewing, I am told; so doubtless each box must be five or six matches short of full count.  Even these papers seem thinner than of yore and they will only sell one book to a customer at that.  Indeed Sherman was right.”

The youth and the girl remained occupied with their own thoughts, and after a moment’s silence the vaga-bond resumed: 

   “’Me?  I was king of anywhere,

      “‘Peggin’ away at nothing, hard.

   “‘Havin’ no pet, particular care;

      “‘Havin’ no trouble, or no pard;

“‘”Just me,” filled up my callin’ card.’  “Say, do you know I’ve learned to love this Knibbs per-son.  I used to think of him as a poor attic prune grind-ing away in his New York sky parlor, writing his verse of the things he longed for but had never known; until, one day, I met a fellow between Victorville and Cajon pass who knew His Knibbs, and come to find out this Knibbs is a regular fellow.  His attic covers all God’s coun-try that is out of doors and he knows the road from La Bajada hill to Barstow a darned sight better than he knows Broadway.”

There was no answering sympathy awakened in either of his listeners—­they remained mute.  Bridge rose and stretched.  He picked up his knife, wiped off the blade, closed it and slipped it into a trousers’ pocket.  Then he walked toward the door.  At the threshold he paused and turned. “‘Good-bye girls!  I’m through,’” he quoted and passed out into the sunlight.

Instantly the two within were on their feet and follow-ing him.

“Where are you going?” cried The Oskaloosa Kid.  “You’re not going to leave us, are you?”

“Oh, please don’t!” pleaded the girl.

“I don’t know,” said Bridge, solemnly, “whether I’m safe in remaining in your society or not.  This Oskaloosa Kid is a bad proposition; and as for you, young lady, I rather imagine that the town constable is looking for you right now.”

The girl winced.  “Please don’t,” she begged.  “I haven’t done anything wicked, honestly!  But I want to get away so that they can’t question me.  I was in the car when they killed him; but I had nothing to do with it.  It is just because of my father that I don’t want them to find me.  It would break his heart.”

As the three stood back of the Squibbs’ summer kitchen Fate, in the guise of a rural free delivery carrier and a Ford, passed by the front gate.  A mile beyond he stopped at the Case mail box where Jeb and his son Willie were, as usual, waiting his coming, for the rural free delivery man often carries more news than is con-tained in his mail sacks.

“Mornin’ Jeb,” he called, as he swerved his light car from the road and drew up in front of the Case gate.

“Mornin’, Jim!” returned Mr. Case.  “Nice rain we had last night.  What’s the news?”

“Plenty!  Plenty!” exclaimed the carrier.  “Lived here nigh onto forty year, man an’ boy, an’ never seen such work before in all my life.”

“How’s that?” questioned the farmer, scenting some-thing interesting.

“Ol’ man Baggs’s murdered last night,” announced the carrier, watching eagerly for the effect of his announce-ment.

“Gosh!” gasped Willie Case.  “Was he shot?” It was almost a scream.

“I dunno,” replied Jim.  “He’s up to the horspital now, an’ the doc says he haint one chance in a thousand.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Case.

“But thet ain’t all,” continued Jim.  “Reggie Paynter was murdered last night, too; right on the pike south of town.  They threw his corpse outen a ottymobile.”

“By gol!” cried Jeb Case; “I hearn them devils go by last night ’bout midnight er after.  ’T woke me up.  They must o’ ben goin’ sixty mile an hour.  Er say,” he stopped to scratch his head.  “Mebby it was tramps.  They must a ben a score on ’em round here yesterday and las’ night an’ agin this mornin’.  I never seed so dum many bums in my life.”

“An’ thet ain’t all,” went on the carrier, ignoring the others comments.  “Oakdale’s all tore up.  Abbie Prim’s disappeared and Jonas Prim’s house was robbed jest about the same time Ol’ man Baggs ’uz murdered, er most murdered—­chances is he’s dead by this time any-how.  Doc said he hadn’t no chance.”

“Gosh!” It was a pater-filius duet.

“But thet ain’t all,” gloated Jim.  “Two of the persons in the car with Reggie Paynter were recognized, an’ who do you think one of ’em was, eh?  Why one of ’em was Abbie Prim an’ tother was a slick crook from Toledo er Noo York that’s called The Oskaloosie Kid.  By gum, I’ll bet they get ’em in no time.  Why already Jonas Prim’s got a regular dee-dectiff down from Chicago, an’ the board o’ select-men’s offered a re-ward o’ fifty dollars fer the arrest an’ conviction of the perpetrators of these dastardly crimes!”

“Gosh!” cried Willie Case.  “I know—­“; but then he paused.  If he told all he knew he saw plainly that either the carrier or his father would profit by it and collect the reward.  Fifty dollars!!  Willie gasped.

“Well,” said Jim, “I gotta be on my way.  Here’s the Tribune—­there ain’t nothin’ more fer ye.  So long!  Gid-dap!” and he was gone.

“I don’ see why he don’t carry a whip,” mused Jeb Case.  “A-gidappin’ to that there tin lizzie,” he muttered disgustedly, “jes’ like it was as good as a hoss.  But I mind the time, the fust day he got the dinged thing, he gets out an’ tries to lead it by Lem Smith’s threshin’ ma-chine.”

Jeb Case preferred an audience worthy his mettle; but Willie was better than no one, yet when he turned to note the effect of his remarks on his son, Willie was no where to be seen.  If Jeb had but known it his young hopeless was already in the loft of the hay barn deep in a small, red-covered book entitled:  “How to be A detective.”

Bridge, who had had no intention of deserting his help-less companions, appeared at last to yield reluctantly to their pleas.  That indefinable something about the youth which appealed strongly to the protective instinct in the man, also assured him that the other’s mask of criminal-ity was for the most part assumed even though the stor-ies of the two yeggmen and the loot bulging pockets argued to the contrary.  There was the chance, however, that the boy had really taken the first step upon the road toward a criminal career, and if such were the case Bridge felt morally obligated to protect his new found friend from arrest, secure in the reflection that his own precept and example would do more to lead him back into the path of rectitude than would any police magis-trate or penal institute.

For the girl he felt a deep pity.  In the past he had had knowledge of more than one other small-town girl led into wrong doing through the deadly monotony and flagrant hypocrisy of her environment.  Himself highly imaginative and keenly sensitive, he realized with what depth of horror the girl anticipated a return to her home and friends after the childish escapade which had cul-minated, even through no fault of hers, in criminal tragedy of the most sordid sort.

As the three held a council of war at the rear of the deserted house they were startled by the loud squeaking of brake bands on the road in front.  Bridge ran quickly into the kitchen and through to the front room where he saw three men alighting from a large touring car which had drawn up before the sagging gate.  As the foremost man, big and broad shouldered, raised his eyes to the building Bridge smothered an exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the other mem-bers of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his companions.

“We’ve got to beat it!” he whispered; “they’ve brought Burton himself down here.”

“Who’s Burton?” demanded the youth.

“He’s the best operative west of New York City,” replied Bridge, as he moved rapidly toward an out-house directly in rear of the main building.

Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about.  “They’ll search here,” he prophesied, and then; “Those woods look good to me.”

The Squibbs’ woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the little valley, ran to within a hun-dred feet of the out-building.  Dense undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around the boles of the close set trees.  If they could gain the seclusion of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open space between their hiding place and the wood.

“We’d better make a break for it,” advised Bridge, and a moment later the three moved cautiously toward the wood, keeping the out-house between themselves and the farm house.  Almost in front of them as they neared the wood they saw a well defined path leading into the thicket.  Single-file they entered, to be almost instantly hidden from view, not only from the house but from any other point more than a dozen paces away, for the path was winding, narrow and closely walled by the budding verdure of the new Spring.  Birds sang or twit-tered about them, the mat of dead leaves oozed spongily beneath their feet, giving forth no sound as they passed, save a faint sucking noise as a foot was lifted from each watery seat.

Bridge was in the lead, moving steadily forward that they might put as much distance as possible between themselves and the detective should the latter chance to explore the wood.  They had advanced a few hundred yards when the path crossed through a small clearing the center of which was destitute of fallen leaves.  Here the path was beaten into soft mud and as Bridge came to it he stopped and bent his gaze incredulously upon the ground.  The girl and the youth, halting upon either side, followed the direction of his eyes with theirs.  The girl gave a little, involuntary gasp, and the boy grasped Bridge’s hand as though fearful of losing him.  The man turned a quizzical glance at each of them and smiled, though a bit ruefully.

“It beats me,” he said.

“What can it be?” whispered the boy.

“Oh, let’s go back,” begged the girl.

“And go along to father with Burton?” asked Bridge.

The girl trembled and shook her head.  “I would rather die,” she said, firmly.  “Come, let’s go on.”

The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the pathway—­the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot—­a great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world.  While, still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated by the footprints of the thing, the impress of a small, bare foot—­a woman’s or a child’s —­and over both an irregular scoring that might have been wrought by a dragging chain!

In the loft of his father’s hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the small red-covered volume, how to be A detective; but though he turned many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only with disappointment.  The pictures of noted bank burg-lars and confidence men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning.  In fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that Willie was forced to scratch his head and ex-claim “Gosh!” many times in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the hardened, crimi-nal faces he found portrayed upon the printed pages.

“But, by gol!” he exclaimed mentally, “he said he was The Oskaloosie Kid, ‘n’ that he shot a man last night; but what I’d like to know is how I’m goin’ to shadder him from this here book.  Here it says:  ’If the criminal gets on a street car and then jumps off at the next corner the good detective will know that his man is aware that he is being shadowed, and will stay on the car and telephone his office at the first opportunity.’  ’N’ere it sez:  ’If your man gets into a carriage don’t run up an’ jump on the back of it; but simply hire an-other carriage and follow.’  How in hek kin I foller this book?” wailed Willie.  “They ain’t no street cars ’round here.  I ain’t never see a street car, ’n’as fer a carriage, I reckon he means bus, they’s only one on ’em in Oakdale ’n’if they waz forty I’d like to know how in hek I’d hire one when I ain’t got no money.  I reckon I threw away my four-bits on this book—­it don’t tell a feller nothin’ ’bout false whiskers, wigs ‘n’ the like,” and he tossed the book disgustedly into a corner, rose and descended to the barnyard.  Here he busied himself about some task that should have been attended to a week before, and which even now was not destined to be completed that day, since Willie had no more than set himself to it than his attention was distracted by the sudden appear-ance of a touring car being brought to a stop in front of the gate.

Instantly Willie dropped his irksome labor and slouched lazily toward the machine, the occupants of which were descending and heading for the Case front door.  Jeb Case met them before they reached the porch and Willie lolled against a pillar listening eagerly to all that was said.

The most imposing figure among the strangers was the same whom Bridge had seen approaching the Squibbs’ house a short time before.  It was he who acted as spokesman for the newcomers.

“As you may know,” he said, after introducing him-self, “a number of crimes were committed in and around Oakdale last night.  We are searching for clews to the perpetrators, some of whom must still be in the neigh-borhood.  Have you seen any strange or suspicious char-acters around lately?”

“I should say we hed,” exclaimed Jeb emphatically.

“I seen the wo’st lookin’ gang o’ bums come outen my hay barn this mornin’ thet I ever seed in my life.  They must o’ ben upward of a dozen on ’em.  They waz makin’ fer the house when I steps in an’ grabs my ol’ shot gun.  I hollered at ’em not to come a step nigher ‘n’ I guess they seed it wa’n’t safe monkeyin’ with me; so they skidaddled.”

“Which way did they go?” asked Burton.

“Off down the road yonder; but I don’t know which way they turned at the crossin’s, er ef they kept straight on toward Millsville.”

Burton asked a number of questions in an effort to fix the identity of some of the gang, warned Jeb to tele-phone him at Jonas Prim’s if he saw anything further of the strangers, and then retraced his steps toward the car.  Not once had Jeb mentioned the youth who had purchased supplies from him that morning, and the reason was that Jeb had not considered the young man of sufficient importance, having cataloged him mentally as an unusually early specimen of the summer camper with which he was more or less familiar.