The Oakdale Affair

The beams of the little electric lamp, moving from side to side, revealed a small cellar littered with refuse and festooned with cob-webs.  At one side tottered the remains of a series of wooden racks upon which pans of milk had doubtless stood to cool in a long gone, happier day.  Some of the uprights had rotted away so that a part of the frail structure had collapsed to the earthen floor.  A table with one leg missing and a crippled chair constituted the balance of the contents of the cellar and there was no living creature and no chain nor any other visible evidence of the presence which had clanked so lugubriously out of the dark depths during the vanished night.  The boy breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and Bridge laughed, not without a note of relief either.

“You see there is nothing,” he said—­“nothing except some firewood which we can use to advantage.  I regret that James is not here to attend me; but since he is not you and I will have to carry some of this stuff upstairs,” and together they returned to the floor above, their arms laden with pieces of the dilapidated milk rack.  The girl was awaiting them at the head of the stairs while the two tramps whispered together at the opposite side of the room.

It took Bridge but a moment to have a roaring fire started in the old stove in the kitchen, and as the warmth rolled in comforting waves about them the five felt for the first time in hours something akin to relief and well being.  With the physical relaxation which the heat in-duced came a like relaxation of their tongues and tem-porary forgetfulness of their antagonisms and individual apprehensions.  Bridge was the only member of the group whose conscience was entirely free.  He was not ‘wanted’ anywhere, he had no unexpiated crimes to harry his mind, and with the responsibilities of the night removed he fell naturally into his old, carefree manner.  He hazarded foolish explanations of the uncanny noises of the night and suggested various theories to account for the presence and the mysterious disappearance of the dead man.

The General, on the contrary, seriously maintained that the weird sounds had emanated from the ghost of the murdered man who was, unquestionably, none other than the long dead Squibb returned to haunt his former home, and that the scream had sprung from the ghostly lungs of his slain wife or daughter.

“I wouldn’t spend anudder night in this dump,” he concluded, “for both them pockets full of swag The Oskaloosa Kid’s packin’ around.”

Immediately all eyes turned upon the flushing youth.  The girl and Bridge could not prevent their own gazes from wandering to the bulging coat pockets, the owner of which moved uneasily, at last shooting a look of defi-ance, not unmixed with pleading, at Bridge.

“He’s a bad one,” interjected Dopey Charlie, a glint of cunning in his ordinarily glassy eyes.  “He flashes a couple o’ mitsful of sparklers, chesty-like, and allows as how he’s a regular burglar.  Then he pulls a gun on me, as wasn’t doin’ nothin’ to him, and ’most croaks me.  It’s even money that if anyone’s been croaked in Oakdale last night they won’t have to look far for the guy that done it.  Least-wise they won’t have to look far if he doesn’t come across,” and Dopey Charlie looked mean-ingly and steadily at the side pockets of The Oskaloosa Kid.

“I think,” said Bridge, after a moment of general si-lence, “that you two crooks had better beat it.  Do you get me?” and he looked from Dopey Charlie to The Gen-eral and back again.

“We don’t go,” said Dopey Charlie, belligerently, “un-til we gets half the Kid’s swag.”

“You go now,” said Bridge, “without anybody’s swag,” and he drew the boy’s automatic from his side pocket.  “You go now and you go quick—­beat it!”

The two rose and shuffled toward the door.  “We’ll get you, you colledge Lizzy,” threatened Dopey Charlie, “an’ we’ll get that phoney punk, too.”

“‘And speed the parting guest,’” quoted Bridge, firing a shot that splintered the floor at the crook’s feet.  When the two hoboes had departed the others huddled again close to the stove until Bridge suggested that he and The Oskaloosa Kid retire to another room while the girl removed and dried her clothing; but she insisted that it was not wet enough to matter since she had been covered by a robe in the automobile until just a moment before she had been hurled out.

“Then, after you are warmed up,” said Bridge, “you can step into this other room while the kid and I strip and dry our things, for there’s no question but that we are wet enough.”

At the suggestion the kid started for the door.  “Oh, no,” he insisted; “it isn’t worth while.  I am almost dry now, and as soon as we get out on the road I’ll be all right.  I—­I—­I like wet clothes,” he ended, lamely.

Bridge looked at him questioningly; but did not urge the matter.  “Very well,” he said; “you probably know what you like; but as for me, I’m going to pull off every rag and get good and dry.”

The girl had already quitted the room and now The Kid turned and followed her.  Bridge shook his head.  “I’ll bet the little beggar never was away from his mother before in his life,” he mused; “why the mere thought of undressing in front of a strange man made him turn red—­and posing as The Oskaloosa Kid!  Bless my soul; but he’s a humorist—­a regular, natural born one.”

Bridge found that his clothing had dried to some ex-tent during the night; so, after a brisk rub, he put on the warmed garments and though some were still a trifle damp he felt infinitely more comfortable than he had for many hours.

Outside the house he came upon the girl and the youth standing in the sunshine of a bright, new day.  They were talking together in a most animated man-ner, and as he approached wondering what the two had found of so great common interest he discovered that the discussion hinged upon the relative merits of ham and bacon as a breakfast dish.

“Oh, my heart it is just achin’,” quoted Bridge,

   “For a little bite of bacon,

“A hunk of bread, a little mug of brew;

   “I’m tired of seein’ scenery,

“Just lead me to a beanery

   “Where there’s something more than only air to

      chew.”

The two looked up, smiling.  “You’re a funny kind of tramp, to be quoting poetry,” said The Oskaloosa Kid, “even if it is Knibbs’.”

“Almost as funny,” replied Bridge, “as a burglar who recognizes Knibbs when he hears him.”

The Oskaloosa Kid flushed.  “He wrote for us of the open road,” he replied quickly.  “I don’t know of any other class of men who should enjoy him more.”

“Or any other class that is less familiar with him,” re-torted Bridge; “but the burning question just now is pots, not poetry—­flesh pots.  I’m hungry.  I could eat a cow.”

The girl pointed to an adjacent field.  “Help yourself,” she said.

“That happens to be a bull,” said Bridge.  “I was particular to mention cow, which, in this instance, is proverbially less dangerous than the male, and much better eating.

“’We kept a-rambling all the time.  I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme—­

“’Blind baggage, hoof it, ride or climb—­we always put it through.’  Who’s going to rustle the grub?”

The girl looked at The Oskaloosa Kid.  “You don’t seem like a tramp at all, to talk to,” she said; “but I suppose you are used to asking for food.  I couldn’t do it —­I should die if I had to.”

The Oskaloosa Kid looked uncomfortable.  “So should —­” he commenced, and then suddenly subsided.  “Of course I’d just as soon,” he said.  “You two stay here—­I’ll be back in a minute.”

They watched him as he walked down to the road and until he disappeared over the crest of the hill a short distance from the Squibbs’ house.

“I like him,” said the girl, turning toward Bridge.

“So do I,” replied the man.

“There must be some good in him,” she continued, “even if he is such a desperate character; but I know he’s not The Oskaloosa Kid.  Do you really suppose he robbed a house last night and then tried to kill that Dopey person?”

Bridge shook his head.  “I don’t know,” he said; “but I am inclined to believe that he is more imaginative than criminal.  He certainly shot up the Dopey person; but I doubt if he ever robbed a house.”

While they waited, The Oskaloosa Kid trudged along the muddy road to the nearest farm house, which lay a full mile beyond the Squibbs’ home.  As he approached the door a lank, sallow man confronted him with a sus-picious eye.

“Good morning,” greeted The Oskaloosa Kid.

The man grunted.

“I want to get something to eat,” explained the youth.

If the boy had hurled a dynamite bomb at him the result could have been no more surprising.  The lank, sallow man went up into the air, figuratively.  He went up a mile or more, and on the way down he reached his hand inside the kitchen door and brought it forth en-veloping the barrel of a shot gun.

“Durn ye!” he cried.  “I’ll lam ye!  Get offen here.  I knows ye.  Yer one o’ that gang o’ bums that come here last night, an’ now you got the gall to come back beggin’ for food, eh?  I’ll lam ye!” and he raised the gun to his shoulder.

The Oskaloosa Kid quailed but he held his ground.  “I wasn’t here last night,” he cried, “and I’m not begging for food—­I want to buy some.  I’ve got plenty of money,” in proof of which assertion he dug into a side pocket and brought forth a large roll of bills.  The man lowered his gun.

“Wy didn’t ye say so in the first place then?” he growled.  “How’d I know you wanted to buy it, eh?  Where’d ye come from anyhow, this early in the morn-in’?  What’s yer name, eh?  What’s yer business, that’s what Jeb Case’d like to know, eh?” He snapped his words out with the rapidity of a machine gun, nor waited for a reply to one query before launching the next.  “What do ye want to buy, eh?  How much money ye got?  Looks suspicious.  That’s a sight o’ money yew got there, eh?  Where’dje get it?”

“It’s mine,” said The Oskaloosa Kid, “and I want to buy some eggs and milk and ham and bacon and flour and onions and sugar and cream and strawberries and tea and coffee and a frying pan and a little oil stove, if you have one to spare, and—­”

Jeb Case’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.  “You’re in the wrong pasture, bub,” he remarked feelingly.  “What yer lookin’ fer is Sears, Roebuck & Company.”

The Oskaloosa Kid flushed up to the tips of his ears.  “But can’t you sell me something?” he begged.

“I might let ye have some milk an’ eggs an’ butter an’ a leetle bacon an’ mebby my ol’ woman’s got a loaf left from her last bakin’; but we ain’t been figgerin’ on sup-plyin’ grub fer the United States army ef that’s what yew be buyin’ fer.”

A frowsy, rat-faced woman and a gawky youth of four-teen stuck their heads out the doorway at either side of the man.  “I ain’t got nothin’ to sell,” snapped the woman; but as she spoke her eyes fell upon the fat bank roll in the youth’s hand.  “Or, leastwise,” she amended, “I ain’t got much more’n we need an’ the price o’ stuff’s gone up so lately that I’ll hev to ask ye more’n I would of last fall.  ’Bout what did ye figger on wantin’?”

“Anything you can spare,” said the youth.  “There are three of us and we’re awful hungry.”

“Where yew stoppin’?” asked the woman.

“We’re at the old Squibbs’ place,” replied The Kid.  “We got caught by the storm last night and had to put up there.”

“The Squibbs’ place!” ejaculated the woman.  “Yew didn’t stop there over night?”

“Yes we did,” replied the youth.

“See anything funny?” asked Mrs. Case.

“We didn’t see anything,” replied The Oskaloosa Kid; “but we heard things.  At least we didn’t see what we heard; but we saw a dead man on the floor when we went in and this morning he was gone.”

The Cases shuddered.  “A dead man!” ejaculated Jeb
Case.  “Yew seen him?”

The Kid nodded.

“I never tuk much stock in them stories,” said Jeb, with a shake of his head; “but ef you seen it!  Gosh!  Thet beats me.  Come on M’randy, les see what we got to spare,” and he turned into the kitchen with his wife.

The lanky boy stepped, out and planting himself in front of The Oskaloosa Kid proceeded to stare at him.  “Yew seen it?” he asked in awestruck tone.

“Yes,” said the Kid in a low voice, and bending close toward the other; “it had bloody froth on its lips!”

The Case boy shrank back.  “An’ what did yew hear?” he asked, a glutton for thrills.

“Something that dragged a chain behind it and came up out of the cellar and tried to get in our room on the second floor,” explained the youth.  “It almost got us, too,” he added, “and it did it all night.”

“Whew,” whistled the Case boy.  “Gosh!” Then he scratched his head and looked admiringly at the youth.  “What mought yer name be?” he asked.

“I’m The Oskaloosa Kid,” replied the youth, unable to resist the admiration of the other’s fond gaze.  “Look here!” and he fished a handful of jewelry from one of his side pockets; “this is some of the swag I stole last night when I robbed a house.”

Case Jr., opened his mouth and eyes so wide that there was little left of his face.  “But that’s nothing,” bragged The Kid.  “I shot a man, too.”

“Last night?” whispered the boy.

“Yep,” replied the bad man, tersely.

“Gosh!” said the young Mr. Case, but there was that in his facial expression which brought to The Oskaloosa Kid a sudden regret that he had thus rashly confided in a stranger.

“Say,” said The Kid, after a moment’s strained silence.  “Don’t tell anyone, will you?  If you’ll promise I’ll give you a dollar,” and he hunted through his roll of bills for one of that lowly denomination.

“All right,” agreed the Case boy.  “I won’t say a word —­where’s the dollar?”

The youth drew a bill from his roll and handed it to the other.  “If you tell,” he whispered, and he bent close toward the other’s ear and spoke in a menacing tone; “If you tell, I’ll kill you!”

“Gosh!” said Willie Case.

At this moment Case pere and mere emerged from the kitchen loaded with provender.  “Here’s enough an’ more’n enough, I reckon,” said Jeb Case.  “We got eggs, butter, bread, bacon, milk, an’ a mite o’ garden sass.”

“But we ain’t goin’ to charge you nothin’ fer the gar-den sass,” interjected Mrs. Case.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” replied The Kid.  “How much do I owe you for the rest of it?”

“Oh,” said Jeb Case, rubbing his chin, eyeing the big roll of bills and wondering just the limit he might raise to, “I reckon ‘bout four dollars an’ six bits.”

The Oskaloosa Kid peeled a five dollar bill from his roll and proffered it to the farmer.  “I’m ever so much obliged,” he said, “and you needn’t mind about any change.  I thank you so much.”  With which he took the several packages and pails and turned toward the road.

“Yew gotta return them pails!” shouted Mrs. Case af-ter him.

“Oh, of course,” replied The Kid.

“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Case, feelingly.  “I wisht I’d asked six bits more—­I mought jest as well o’ got it as not.  Gosh, eh?”

“Gosh!” murmured Willie Case, fervently.

Back down the sticky road plodded The Oskaloosa Kid, his arms heavy and his heart light, for, was he not ‘bringing home the bacon,’ literally as well as figuratively.  As he entered the Squibbs’ gateway he saw the girl and Bridge standing upon the verandah waiting his coming, and as he approached them and they caught a nearer view of his great burden of provisions they hailed him with loud acclaim.

“Some artist!” cried the man.  “And to think that I doubted your ability to make a successful touch!  For-give me!  You are the ne plus ultra, non est cumquidibus, in hoc signo vinces, only and original kind of hand-out compellers.”

“How in the world did you do it?” asked the girl, rapturously.

“Oh, it’s easy when you know how,” replied The Oska-loosa Kid carelessly, as, with the help of the others, he carried the fruits of his expedition into the kitchen.  Here Bridge busied himself about the stove, adding more wood to the fire and scrubbing a portion of the top plate as clean as he could get it with such crude means as he could discover about the place.