Chapter 2

Anderson Crow, Detective

He was imposing, even in his pensiveness. There was no denying the fact
that he was an important personage in Tinkletown, and to the residents
of Tinkletown that meant a great deal, for was not their village a
perpetual monument to the American Revolution? Even the most
generalising of historians were compelled to devote at least a paragraph
to the battle of Tinkletown, while some of the more enlightened gave a
whole page and a picture of the conflict that brought glory to the
sleepy inhabitants whose ancestors were enterprising enough to
annihilate a whole company of British redcoats, once on a time.

Notwithstanding all this, a particularly disagreeable visitor from the
city once remarked, in the presence of half a dozen descendants (after
waiting twenty minutes at the post-office for a dime's worth of stamps),
that Tinkletown was indeed a monument, but he could not understand why
the dead had been left unburied. There was excellent cause for
resentment, but the young man and his stamps were far away before the
full force of the slander penetrated the brains of the listeners.

Anderson Crow was as imposing and as rugged as the tallest shaft of
marble in the little cemetery on the edge of the town. No one questioned
his power and authority, no one misjudged his altitude, and no one
overlooked his dignity. For twenty-eight years he had served Tinkletown
and himself in the triple capacity of town marshal, fire chief and
street commissioner. He had a system of government peculiarly his own;
and no one possessed the heart or temerity to upset it, no matter what
may have been the political inducements. It would have been like trying
to improve the laws of nature to put a new man in his place. He had
become a fixture that only dissolution could remove. Be it said,
however, that dissolution did not have its common and accepted meaning
when applied to Anderson Crow. For instance, in discoursing upon the
obnoxious habits of the town's most dissolute rake--Alf
Reesling--Anderson had more than once ventured the opinion that "he was
carrying his dissolution entirely too far."

And had not Anderson Crow risen to more than local distinction? Had not
his fame gone abroad throughout the land? Not only was he the Marshal of
Tinkletown at a salary of $200 a year, but he was president of the
County Horse-thief Detectives' Association and also a life-long delegate
to the State Convention of the Sons of the Revolution. Along that line,
let it be added, every parent in Tinkletown bemoaned the birth of a
daughter, because that simple circumstance of origin robbed the
society's roster of a new name.

Anderson Crow, at the age of forty-nine, had a proud official record
behind him and a guaranteed future ahead. Doubtless it was of this that
he was thinking, as he leaned pensively against the town hitching-rack
and gingerly chewed the blade of wire-grass which dangled even below the
chin whiskers that had been with him for twenty years. The faraway
expression in his watery-blue eyes gave evidence that he was as great
reminiscently as he was personally. So successful had been his career as
a law preserver, that of late years no evil-doer had had the courage to
ply his nefarious games in the community. The town drunkard, Alf
Reesling, seldom appeared on the streets in his habitual condition,
because, as he dolefully remarked, he would deserve arrest and
confinement for "criminal negligence," if for nothing else. The
marshal's fame as a detective had long since escaped from the narrow
confines of Tinkletown. He was well known at the county seat, and on no
less than three occasions had his name mentioned in the "big city"
papers in connection with the arrest of notorious horse-thieves.

And now the whole town was trembling with a new excitement, due to the
recognition accorded her triple official. On Monday morning he had
ventured forth from his office in the long-deserted "calaboose,"
resplendent in a brand-new nickel-plated star. By noon everybody in town
knew that he was a genuine "detective," a member of the great
organisation known as the New York Imperial Detective Association; and
that fresh honour had come to Tinkletown through the agency of a
post-revolution generation. The beauty of it all was that Anderson never
lost a shred of his serenity in explaining how the association had
implored him to join its forces, even going so far as to urge him to
come to New York City, where he could assist and advise in all of its
large operations. And, moreover, he had been obliged to pay but ten
dollars membership fee, besides buying the blazing star for the paltry
sum of three dollars and a quarter.

Every passer-by on this bright spring morning offered a respectful
"Howdy" to Anderson Crow, whose only recognition was a slow and
imposing nod of the head. Once only was he driven to relinquish his
pensive attitude, and that was when an impertinent blue-bottle fly
undertook to rest for a brief spell upon the nickel-plated star. Never
was blue-bottle more energetically put to flight.

But even as the Tinkletown Pooh-Bah posed in restful supremacy there
were rushing down upon him affairs of the epoch-making kind. Up in the
clear, lazy sky a thunderbolt was preparing to hurl itself into the very
heart of Tinkletown, and at the very head of Anderson Crow.

Afterward it was recalled by observing citizens that just before
noon--seven minutes to twelve, in fact--a small cloud no bigger than the
proverbial hand crossed the sun hurriedly as if afraid to tarry. At that
very instant a stranger drove up to the hitching-rack, bringing his
sweat-covered horse to a standstill so abruptly in front of the
marshal's nose that that dignitary's hat fell off backward.

"Whoa!" came clearly and unmistakably from the lips of the stranger who
held the reins. Half a dozen loafers on the post-office steps were
positive that he said nothing more, a fact that was afterward worth
remembering.

"Here!" exclaimed Anderson Crow wrathfully. "Do you know what you're
doin', consarn you?"

"I beg pardon," everybody within hearing heard the young man say. "Is
this the city of Tinkletown?" He said "city," they could swear, every
man's son of them.

"Yes, it is," answered the marshal severely. "What of it?"

"That's all. I just wanted to know. Where's the store?"

"Which store?" quite crossly. The stranger seemed nonplussed at this.

"Have you more than--oh, to be sure. I should say, where is the
_nearest_ store?" apologised the stranger.

"Well, this is a good one, I reckon," said Mr. Crow laconically,
indicating the post-office and general store.

"Will you be good enough to hold my horse while I run in there for a
minute?" calmly asked the new arrival in town, springing lightly from
the mud-spattered buggy. Anderson Crow almost staggered beneath this
indignity. The crowd gasped, and then waited breathlessly for the
withering process.

"Why--why, dod-gast you, sir, what do you think I am--a hitchin'-post?"
exploded on the lips of the new detective. His face was flaming red.

"You'll have to excuse me, my good man, but I thought I saw a
hitching-rack as I drove up. Ah, here it is. How careless of me. But
say, I won't be in the store more than a second, and it doesn't seem
worth while to tie the old crow-bait. If you'll just watch him--or
her--for a minute I'll be greatly obliged, and--"

"Watch your own horse," roared the marshal thunderously.

"Don't get huffy," cried the young man cheerily. "It will be worth a
quarter to you."

"Do you know who I am?" demanded Anderson Crow, purple to the roots of
his goatee.

"Yes, sir; I know perfectly well, but I refuse to give it away. Here,
take the bit, old chap, and hold Dobbin for about a minute and half,"
went on the stranger ruthlessly; and before Anderson Crow knew what had
happened he was actually holding the panting nag by the bit. The young
man went up the steps three at a time, almost upsetting Uncle Gideon
Luce, who had not been so spry as the others in clearing the way for
him. The crowd had ample time in which to study the face, apparel and
manner of this energetic young man.

That he was from the city, good-looking and well dressed, there was no
doubt. He was tall and his face was beardless; that much could be seen
at a glance. Somehow, he seemed to be laughing all the time--a fact that
was afterward recalled with some surprise and no little horror. At the
time, the loungers thought his smile was a merry one, but afterward they
stoutly maintained there was downright villainy in the leer. His coat
was very dusty, proving that he had driven far and swiftly. Three or
four of the loungers followed him into the store. He was standing before
the counter over which Mr. Lamson served his soda-water. In one hand he
held an envelope and in the other his straw hat. George Ray, more
observant than the rest, took note of the fact that it was with the hat
that he was fanning himself vigorously.

"A plain vanilla--please rush it along," commanded the stranger. Mr.
Lamson, if possible slower than the town itself, actually showed
unmistakable signs of acceleration. Tossing off the soda, the stranger
dried his lips with a blue-hemmed white handkerchief. "Is this the
post-office?" he asked.

"Yep," said Mr. Lamson, who was too penurious to waste words.

"Anything here for me?" demanded the newcomer.

"I'll see," said the postmaster, and from force of habit began looking
through the pile of letters without asking the man's name. Mr. Lamson
knew everybody in the county.

"Nothing here," taking off his spectacles conclusively.

"I didn't think there was," said the other complacently. "Give me a
bottle of witch hazel, a package of invisible hair-pins and a box of
parlor matches. Quick; I'm in a hurry!"

"Did you say hat-pins?"

"No, sir; I said hair-pins."

"We haven't any that ain't visible. How would safety-pins do?"

"Never mind; give me the bottle and the matches," said the other,
glancing at a very handsome gold watch. "Is the old man still holding my
horse?" he called to a citizen near the door. Seven necks stretched
simultaneously to accommodate him, and seven voices answered in the
affirmative. The stranger calmly opened the box of matches, filled his
silver match-safe, and then threw the box back on the counter, an
unheard-of piece of profligacy in those parts. "Needn't mind wrapping
up the bottle," he said.

"Don't you care for these matches?" asked Mr. Lamson in mild surprise.

"I'll donate them to the church," said the other, tossing a coin upon
the counter and dashing from the store. The crowd ebbed along behind
him. "Gentle as a lamb, isn't he?" he called to Anderson Crow, who still
clutched the bit. "Much obliged, sir; I'll do as much for you some day.
If you're ever in New York, hunt me up and I'll see that you have a good
time. What road do I take to Crow's Cliff?"

"Turn to your left here," said Anderson Crow before he thought. Then he
called himself a fool for being so obliging to the fellow.

"How far is it from here?"

"Mile and a half," again answered Mr. Crow helplessly. This time he
almost swore under his breath.

"But he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders.

"Why can't he?" demanded the marshal.

"Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?"

"Of course not," promptly replied Mr. Crow, who _had_ forgotten it;
"But, dang it, he c'n swim, can't he?"

"You say the bridge is gone?" asked the stranger, visibly excited.

"Yes, and the crick's too high to ford, too."

"Well, how in thunder am I to get to Crow's Cliff?"

"There's another bridge four miles upstream. It's still there," said
George Ray. Anderson Crow had scornfully washed his hands of the affair.

"Confound the luck! I haven't time to drive that far. I have to be there
at half-past twelve. I'm late now! Is there no way to get across this
miserable creek?" He was in the buggy now, whip in hand, and his eyes
wore an anxious expression. Some of the men vowed later that he
positively looked frightened.

"There's a foot-log high and dry, and you can walk across, but you can't
get the horse and buggy over," said one of the men.

"Well, that's just what I'll have to do. Say, Mr. Officer, suppose you
drive me down to the creek and then bring the horse back here to a
livery stable. I'll pay you well for it. I must get to Crow's Cliff in
fifteen minutes."

"I'm no errant-boy!" cried Anderson Crow so wrathfully that two or three
boys snickered.

"You're a darned old crank, that's what you are!" exclaimed the stranger
angrily. Everybody gasped, and Mr. Crow staggered back against the
hitching-rail.

"See here, young man, none o' that!" he sputtered. "You can't talk that
way to an officer of the law. I'll--"

"You won't do anything, do you hear that? But if you knew who I am you'd
be doing something blamed quick." A dozen men heard him say it, and they
remembered it word for word.

"You go scratch yourself!" retorted Anderson Crow scornfully. That was
supposed to be a terrible challenge, but the stranger took no notice of
it.

"What am I to do with this horse and buggy?" he growled, half to
himself. "I bought the darned thing outright up in Boggs City, just
because the liveryman didn't know me and wouldn't let me a rig. Now I
suppose I'll have to take the old plug down to the creek and drown him
in order to get rid of him."

Nobody remonstrated. He looked a bit dangerous with his broad shoulders
and square jaw.

"What will you give me for the outfit, horse, buggy, harness and all?
I'll sell cheap if some one makes a quick offer." The bystanders looked
at one another blankly, and at last the concentrated gaze fell upon the
Pooh-Bah of the town. The case seemed to be one that called for his
attention; truly, it did not look like public property, this astounding
proposition.

"What you so derned anxious to sell for?" demanded Anderson Crow,
listening from a distance to see if he could detect a blemish in the
horse's breathing gear. At a glance, the buggy looked safe enough.

"I'm anxious to sell for cash," replied the stranger; and Anderson was
floored. The boy who snickered this time had cause to regret it, for Mr.
Crow arrested him half an hour later for carrying a bean-shooter. "I
paid a hundred dollars for the outfit in Boggs City," went on the
stranger nervously. "Some one make an offer--and quick! I'm in a rush!"

"I'll give five dollars!" said one of the onlookers with an apologetic
laugh. This was the match that started fire in the thrifty noddles of
Tinkletown's best citizens. Before they knew it they were bidding
against each other with the true "horse-swapping" instinct, and the
offers had reached $21.25 when the stranger unceremoniously closed the
sale by crying out, "Sold!" There is no telling how high the bids might
have gone if he could have waited half an hour or so. Uncle Gideon Luce
afterward said that he could have had twenty-four dollars "just as well
as not." They were bidding up a quarter at a time, and no one seemed
willing to drop out. The successful bidder was Anderson Crow.

"You can pay me as we drive along. Jump in!" cried the stranger, looking
at his watch with considerable agitation. "All I ask is that you drive
me to the foot-log that crosses the creek."