The Oakdale Affair

The youth saw a slight though well built man in ragged clothes and disreputable soft hat.  The image was photographed upon his brain for life—­the honest, laugh-ing eyes, the well moulded features harmonizing so well with the voice, and the impossible garments which marked the man hobo and bum as plainly as though he wore a placard suspended from his neck.

The stranger halted.  Once more darkness enveloped them.  “Lovely evening for a stroll,” remarked the man.  “Running out to your country place?  Isn’t there danger of skidding on these wet roads at night?  I told James, just before we started, to be sure to see that the chains were on all around; but he forgot them.  James is very trying sometimes.  Now he never showed up this evening and I had to start out alone, and he knows perfectly well that I detest driving after dark in the rain.”

The youth found himself smiling.  His fear had sud-denly vanished.  No one could harbor suspicion of the owner of that cheerful voice.

“I didn’t know which road to take,” he ventured, in explanation of his presence at the cross road.

“Oh,” exclaimed the man, “are there two roads here?  I was looking for this fork and came near passing it in the dark.  It was a year ago since I came this way; but I recall a deserted house about a mile up the dirt road.  It will shelter us from the inclemencies of the weather.”

“Oh!” cried the youth.  “Now I know where I am.  In the dark and the storm and after all that has happened to me tonight nothing seemed natural.  It was just as though I was in some strange land; but I know now.  Yes, there is a deserted house a little less than a mile from here; but you wouldn’t want to stop there at night.  They tell some frightful stories about it.  It hasn’t been occupied for over twenty years—­not since the Squibbs were found murdered there—­the father, mother three sons, and a daughter.  They never discovered the mur-derer, and the house has stood vacant and the farm un-worked almost continuously since.  A couple of men tried working it; but they didn’t stay long.  A night or so was enough for them and their families.  I remember hear-ing as a little—­er—­child stories of the frightful things that happened there in the house where the Squibbs were murdered—­things that happened after dark when the lights were out.  Oh, I wouldn’t even pass that place on a night like this.”

The man smiled.  “I slept there alone one rainy night about a year ago,” he said.  “I didn’t see or hear any-thing unusual.  Such stories are ridiculous; and even if there was a little truth in them, noises can’t harm you as much as sleeping out in the storm.  I’m going to en-croach once more upon the ghostly hospitality of the Squibbs.  Better come with me.”

The youth shuddered and drew back.  From far be-hind came faintly the shout of a man.

“Yes, I’ll go,” exclaimed the boy.  “Let’s hurry,” and he started off at a half-run toward the dirt road.

The man followed more slowly.  The darkness hid the quizzical expression of his eyes.  He, too, had heard the faint shout far to the rear.  He recalled the boy’s “after all that has happened to me tonight,” and he shrewdly guessed that the latter’s sudden determination to brave the horrors of the haunted house was closely connected with the hoarse voice out of the distance.

When he had finally come abreast of the youth after the latter, his first panic of flight subsided, had reduced his speed, he spoke to him in his kindly tones.

“What was it that happened to you to-night?” he asked.  “Is someone following you?  You needn’t be afraid of me.  I’ll help you if you’ve been on the square.  If you haven’t, you still needn’t fear me, for I won’t peach on you.  What is it?  Tell me.”

The youth was on the point of unburdening his soul to this stranger with the kindly voice and the honest eyes; but a sudden fear stayed his tongue.  If he told all it would be necessary to reveal certain details that he could not bring himself to reveal to anyone, and so he commenced with his introduction to the wayfarers in the deserted hay barn.  Briefly he told of the attack upon him, of his shooting of Dopey Charlie, of the flight and pursuit.  “And now,” he said in conclusion, “that you know I’m a murderer I suppose you won’t have any more to do with me, unless you turn me over to the authorities to hang.”  There was almost a sob in his voice, so real was his terror.

The man threw an arm across his companion’s shoul-der.  “Don’t worry, kid,” he said.  “You’re not a murderer even if you did kill Dopey Charlie, which I hope you did.  You’re a benefactor of the human race.  I have known Charles for years.  He should have been killed long since.  Furthermore, as you shot in self defence no jury would convict you.  I fear, however, that you didn’t kill him.  You say you could hear his screams as long as you were within earshot of the barn—­dead men don’t scream, you know.”

“How did you know my name?” asked the youth.

“I don’t,” replied the man.

“But you called me ‘Kid’ and that’s my name—­I’m The Oskaloosa Kid.”

The man was glad that the darkness hid his smile of amusement.  He knew The Oskaloosa Kid well, and he knew him as an ex-pug with a pock marked face, a bul-let head, and a tin ear.  The flash of lightning had re-vealed, upon the contrary, a slender boy with smooth skin, an oval face, and large dark eyes.

“Ah,” he said, “so you are The Oskaloosa Kid!  I am delighted, sir, to make your acquaintance.  Permit me to introduce myself:  my name is Bridge.  If James were here I should ask him to mix one of his famous cock-tails that we might drink to our mutual happiness and the longevity of our friendship.”

“I am glad to know you, Mr. Bridge,” said the youth.  “Oh, I can’t tell you how glad I am to know you.  I was so lonely and so afraid,” and he pressed closer to the older man whose arm still encircled his shoulder, though at first he had been inclined to draw away in some con-fusion.

Talking together the two moved on along the dark road.  The storm had settled now into a steady rain with infrequent flashes of lightning and peals of thun-der.  There had been no further indications of pursuit; but Bridge argued that The Sky Pilot, being wise with the wisdom of the owl and cunning with the cunning of the fox, would doubtless surmise that a fugitive would take to the first road leading away from the main artery, and that even though they heard nothing it would be safe to assume that the gang was still upon the boy’s trail.  “And it’s a bad bunch, too,” he continued.  “I’ve known them all for years.  The Sky Pilot has the reputa-tion of never countenancing a murder; but that is be-cause he is a sly one.  His gang kills; but when they kill under The Sky Pilot they do it so cleverly that no trace of the crime remains.  Their victim disappears—­that is all.”

The boy trembled.  “You won’t let them get me?” he pleaded, pressing closer to the man.  The only response was a pressure of the arm about the shoulders of The Oskaloosa Kid.

Over a low hill they followed the muddy road and down into a dark and gloomy ravine.  In a little open space to the right of the road a flash of lightning re-vealed the outlines of a building a hundred yards from the rickety and decaying fence which bordered the Squibbs’ farm and separated it from the road.

“Here we are!” cried Bridge, “and spooks or no spooks we’ll find a dry spot in that old ruin.  There was a stove there last year and it’s doubtless there yet.  A good fire to dry our clothes and warm us up will fit us for a bully good sleep, and I’ll wager a silk hat that The Oskaloosa Kid is a mighty sleepy kid, eh?”

The boy admitted the allegation and the two turned in through the gateway, stepping over the fallen gate and moving through knee high weeds toward the for-bidding structure in the distance.  A clump of trees sur-rounded the house, their shade adding to the almost ut-ter blackness of the night.

The two had reached the verandah when Bridge, turning, saw a brilliant light flaring through the night above the crest of the hill they had just topped in their descent into the ravine, or, to be more explicit, the small valley, where stood the crumbling house of Squibbs.  The purr of a rapidly moving motor rose above the rain, the light rose, fell, swerved to the right and to the left.

“Someone must be in a hurry,” commented Bridge.

“I suppose it is James, anxious to find you and ex-plain his absence,” suggested The Oskaloosa Kid.  They both laughed.

“Gad!” cried Bridge, as the car topped the hill and plunged downward toward them, “I’d hate to ride be-hind that fellow on a night like this, and over a dirt road at that!”

As the car swung onto the straight road before the house a flash of lightning revealed dimly the outlines of a rapidly moving touring car with lowered top.  Just as the machine came opposite the Squibbs’ gate a woman’s scream mingled with the report of a pistol from the ton-neau and the watchers upon the verandah saw a dark bulk hurled from the car, which sped on with undimin-ished speed, climbed the hill beyond and disappeared from view.

Bridge started on a run toward the gateway, followed by the frightened Kid.  In the ditch beside the road they found in a dishevelled heap the body of a young woman.  The man lifted the still form in his arms.  The youth wondered at the great strength of the slight figure.  “Let me help you carry her,” he volunteered; but Bridge needed no assistance.  “Run ahead and open the door for me,” he said, as he bore his burden toward the house.

Forgetful, in the excitement of the moment, of his terror of the horror ridden ruin, The Oskaloosa Kid has-tened ahead, mounted the few steps to the verandah, crossed it and pushed open the sagging door.  Behind him came Bridge as the youth entered the dark interior.  A half dozen steps he took when his foot struck against a soft and yielding mass.  Stumbling, he tried to regain his equilibrium only to drop full upon the thing be-neath him.  One open palm, extended to ease his fall, fell upon the upturned features of a cold and clammy face.  With a shriek of horror The Kid leaped to his feet and shrank, trembling, back.

“What is it?  What’s the matter?” cried Bridge, with whom The Kid had collided in his precipitate retreat.

“O-o-o!” groaned The Kid, shuddering.  “It’s dead!  It’s dead!”

“What’s dead?” demanded Bridge.

“There’s a dead man on the floor, right ahead of us,” moaned The Kid.

“You’ll find a flash lamp in the right hand pocket of my coat,” directed Bridge.  “Take it and make a light.”

With trembling fingers the Kid did as he was bid, and when after much fumbling he found the button a slim shaft of white light, fell downward upon the up-turned face of a man cold in death—­a little man, strangely garbed, with gold rings in his ears, and long black hair matted in the death sweat of his brow.  His eyes were wide and, even in death, terror filled, his fea-tures were distorted with fear and horror.  His fingers, clenched in the rigidity of death, clutched wisps of dark brown hair.  There were no indications of a wound or other violence upon his body, that either the Kid or Bridge could see, except the dried remains of bloody froth which flecked his lips.

Bridge still stood holding the quiet form of the girl in his arms, while The Kid, pressed close to the man’s side, clutched one arm with a fierce intensity which bespoke at once the nervous terror which filled him and the reliance he placed upon his new found friend.

To their right, in the faint light of the flash lamp, a narrow stairway was revealed leading to the second story.  Straight ahead was a door opening upon the black-ness of a rear apartment.  Beside the foot of the stair-way was another door leading to the cellar steps.

Bridge nodded toward the rear room.  “The stove is in there,” he said.  “We’d better go on and make a fire.  Draw your pistol—­whoever did this has probably beat it; but it’s just as well to be on the safe side.”

“I’m afraid,” said The Oskaloosa Kid.  “Let’s leave this frightful place.  It’s just as I told you it was; just as I always heard.”

“We can’t leave this woman, my boy,” replied Bridge.  “She isn’t dead.  We can’t leave her, and we can’t take her out into the storm in her condition.  We must stay.  Come! buck up.  There’s nothing to fear from a dead man, and—­”

He never finished the sentence.  From the depths of the cellar came the sound of a clanking chain.  Some-thing scratched heavily upon the wooden steps.  What-ever it was it was evidently ascending, while behind it clanked the heavy links of a dragged chain.

The Oskaloosa Kid cast a wide eyed glance of terror at Bridge.  His lips moved in an attempt to speak; but fear rendered him inarticulate.  Slowly, ponderously the thing ascended the dark stairs from the gloom ridden cellar of the deserted ruin.  Even Bridge paled a trifle.  The man upon the floor appeared to have met an un-natural death—­the frightful expression frozen upon the dead face might even indicate something verging upon the supernatural.  The sound of the thing climbing out of the cellar was indeed uncanny—­so uncanny that Bridge discovered himself looking about for some means of escape.  His eyes fell upon the stairway leading to the second floor.

“Quick!” he whispered.  “Up the stairs!  You go first; I’ll follow.”

The Kid needed no second invitation.  With a bound he was half way up the rickety staircase; but a glance ahead at the darkness above gave him pause while he waited for Bridge to catch up with him.  Coming more slowly with his burden the man followed the boy, while from below the clanking of the chain warned them that the thing was already at the top of the cellar stairs.

“Flash the lamp down there,” directed Bridge.  “Let’s have a look at it, whatever it is.”

With trembling hands The Oskaloosa Kid directed the lens over the edge of the swaying and rotting bannister, his finger slipped from the lighting button plunging them all into darkness.  In his frantic effort to find the button and relight the lamp the worst occurred—­he fum-bled the button and the lamp slipped through his fin-gers, falling over the bannister to the floor below.  In-stantly the sound of the dragging chain ceased; but the silence was even more horrible than the noise which had preceded it.

For a long minute the two at the head of the stairs stood in tense silence listening for a repetition of the gruesome sounds from below.  The youth was frankly terrified; he made no effort to conceal the fact; but pressed close to his companion, again clutching his arm tightly.  Bridge could feel the trembling of the slight fig-ure, the spasmodic gripping of the slender fingers and hear the quick, short, irregular breathing.  A sudden im-pulse to throw a protecting arm about the boy seized him—­an impulse which he could not quite fathom, and one to which he could not respond because of the body of the girl he carried.

He bent toward the youth.  “There are matches in my coat pocket,” he whispered, “—­the same pocket in which you found the flash lamp.  Strike one and we’ll look for a room here where we can lay the girl.”

The boy fumbled gropingly in search of the matches.  It was evident to the man that it was only with the greatest exertion of will power that he controlled his muscles at all; but at last he succeeded in finding and striking one.  At the flare of the light there was a sound from below—­a scratching sound and the creaking of boards as beneath a heavy body; then came the clank-ing of the chain once more, and the bannister against which they leaned shook as though a hand had been laid upon it below them.  The youth stifled a shriek and simultaneously the match went out; but not before Bridge had seen in the momentary flare of light a par-tially open door at the far end of the hall in which they stood.

Beneath them the stairs creaked now and the chain thumped slowly from one to another as it was dragged upward toward them.

“Quick!” called Bridge.  “Straight down the hall and into the room at the end.”  The man was puzzled.  He could not have been said to have been actually afraid, and yet the terror of the boy was so intense, so real, that it could scarce but have had its suggestive effect upon the other; and, too, there was an uncanny element of the supernatural in what they had seen and heard in the deserted house—­the dead man on the floor below, the inexplicable clanking of a chain by some unseen thing from the depth of the cellar upward toward them; and, to heighten the effect of these, there were the grim stor-ies of unsolved tragedy and crime.  All in all Bridge could not have denied that he was glad of the room at the end of the hall with its suggestion of safety in the door which might be closed against the horrors of the hall and the Stygian gloom below stairs.

The Oskaloosa Kid was staggering ahead of him, scarce able to hold his body erect upon his shaking knees—­his gait seemed pitifully slow to the unarmed man carrying the unconscious girl and listening to the chain dragging ever nearer and nearer behind; but at last they reached the doorway and passed through it into the room.

“Close the door,” directed Bridge as he crossed toward the center of the room to lay his burden upon the floor, but there was no response to his instructions—­only a gasp and the sound of a body slumping to the rotting boards.  With an exclamation of chagrin the man dropped the girl and swung quickly toward the door.  Halfway down the hall he could hear the chain rattling over loose plank-ing, the thing, whatever it might be, was close upon them.  Bridge slammed-to the door and with a shoulder against it drew a match from his pocket and lighted it.  Although his clothing was soggy with rain he knew that his matches would still be dry, for this pocket and its flap he had ingeniously lined with waterproof material from a discarded slicker he had found—­years of tramp-ing having taught him the discomforts of a fireless camp.

In the resultant light the man saw with a quick glance a large room furnished with an old walnut bed, dresser, and commode; two lightless windows opened at the far end toward the road, Bridge assumed; and there was no door other than that against which he leaned.  In the last flicker of the match the man scanned the door itself for a lock and, to his relief, discovered a bolt—­old and rusty it was, but it still moved in its sleeve.  An in-stant later it was shot—­just as the sound of the dragging chain ceased outside.  Near the door was the great bed, and this Bridge dragged before it as an additional bar-ricade; then, bearing nothing more from the hallway, he turned his attention to the two unconscious forms up-on the floor.  Unhesitatingly he went to the boy first though had he questioned himself he could not have told why; for the youth, undoubtedly, had only swooned, while the girl had been the victim of a murderous assault and might even be at the point of death.

What was the appeal to the man in the pseudo Oska-loosa Kid?  He had scarce seen the boy’s face, yet the terrified figure had aroused within him, strongly, the protective instinct.  Doubtless it was the call of youth and weakness which find, always, an answering assur-ance in the strength of a strong man.