The Daughter of Anderson Crow by George Barr McCutcheon

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THE DAUGHTER OF ANDERSON CROW

by

GEORGE BARR MCCUTCHEON

Author of _Beverly of Graustark_, _Jane Cable_, etc.

With Illustrations by B. Martin Justice

New York
Dodd, Mead and Company

1907

[Illustration: Anderson Crow]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
I. ANDERSON CROW, DETECTIVE
II. THE PURSUIT BEGINS
III. THE CULPRITS
IV. ANDERSON RECTIFIES AN ERROR
V. THE BABE ON THE DOORSTEP
VI. REFLECTION AND DEDUCTION
VII. THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR
VIII. SOME YEARS GO BY
IX. THE VILLAGE QUEEN
X. ROSALIE HAS PLANS OF HER OWN
XI. ELSIE BANKS
XII. THE SPELLING-BEE
XIII. A TINKLETOWN SENSATION
XIV. A CASE OF MISTAKEN IDENTITY
XV. ROSALIE DISAPPEARS
XVI. THE HAUNTED HOUSE
XVII. WICKER BONNER, HARVARD
XVIII. THE MEN IN THE SLEIGH
XIX. WITH THE KIDNAPERS
XX. IN THE CAVE
XXI. THE TRAP-DOOR
XXII. JACK, THE GIANT KILLER
XXIII. TINKLETOWN'S CONVULSION
XXIV. THE FLIGHT OF THE KIDNAPERS
XXV. AS THE HEART GROWS OLDER
XXVI. THE LEFT VENTRICLE
XXVII. THE GRIN DERISIVE
XXVIII. THE BLIND MAN'S EYES
XXIX. THE MYSTERIOUS QUESTIONER
XXX. THE HEMISPHERE TRAIN ROBBERY
XXXI. "AS YOU LIKE IT"
XXXII. THE LUCK OF ANDERSON CROW
XXXIII. BILL BRIGGS TELLS A TALE
XXXIV. ELSIE BANKS RETURNS
XXXV. THE STORY IS TOLD
XXXVI. ANDERSON CROW'S RESIGNATION

ILLUSTRATIONS

Anderson Crow (Frontispiece)

"'Safe for a minute or two at least,' he whispered"

"A baby, alive and warm, lay packed in the blankets"

"September brought Elsie Banks"

"The teacher was amazingly pretty on this eventful night"

"'What is the meaning of all this?'"

The haunted house

Wicker Bonner

"Rosalie was no match for the huge woman"

"She shrank back from another blow which seemed impending"

"Left the young man to the care of an excellent nurse"

"'I think I understand, Rosalie'"

"'I beg your pardon,' he said humbly'"

"It was a wise, discreet old oak"

"The huge automobile had struck the washout"

CHAPTER I

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."

CHAPTER II

The Pursuit Begins

Fifteen minutes later Anderson Crow was parading proudly about the town.
He had taken the stranger to the creek and had seen him scurry across
the log to the opposite side, supplied with directions that would lead
him to the nearest route through the swamps and timberland to Crow's
Cliff. The stranger had Anderson's money in his pocket; but Anderson had
a very respectable sort of driving outfit to show for it. His wife kept
dinner for him until two o'clock, and then sent the youngest Crow out to
tell her father that he'd have to go hungry until supper-time.

It is no wonder that Anderson failed to reach home in time for the
midday meal. He started home properly enough, but what progress could he
make when everybody in town stopped him to inquire about the remarkable
deal and to have a look at the purchase. Without a single dissenting
voice, Tinkletown said Anderson had very much the "best of the bargain."
George Ray meant all right when he said, "A fool for luck," but he was
obliged to explain thoroughly the witticism before the proud Mr. Crow
could consider himself appeased.

It was not until he pulled up in front of the _Weekly Banner_
establishment to tell the reporter "the news" that his equanimity
received its first jar. He was quite proud of the deal, and, moreover,
he enjoyed seeing his name in the paper. In the meantime almost
everybody in Tinkletown was discussing the awful profligacy of the
stranger. It had not occurred to anybody to wonder why he had been in
such a hurry to reach Crow's Cliff, a wild, desolate spot down the
river.

"The hoss alone is worth fifty dollars easy," volunteered Mr. Crow
triumphantly. The detective's badge on his inflated chest seemed to
sparkle with glee.

"Say, Anderson, isn't it a little queer that he should sell out so
cheap?" asked Harry Squires, the local reporter and pressfeeder.

"What's that?" demanded Anderson Crow sharply.

"Do you think it's really true that he bought the nag up at Boggs City?"
asked the sceptic. Mr. Crow wallowed his quid of tobacco helplessly for
a minute or two. He could feel himself turning pale.

"He said so; ain't that enough?" he managed to bluster.

"It seems to have been," replied Harry, who had gone to night school in
Albany for two years.

"Well, what in thunder are you talking about then?" exclaimed Anderson
Crow, whipping up.

"I'll bet three dollars it's a stolen outfit!"

"You go to Halifax!" shouted Anderson, but his heart was cold. Something
told him that Harry Squires was right. He drove home in a state of dire
uncertainty and distress. Somehow, his enthusiasm was gone.

"Dang it!" he said, without reason, as he was unhitching the horse in
the barn lot.

"Hey, Mr. Crow!" cried a shrill voice from the street. He looked up and
saw a small boy coming on the run.

"What's up, Toby?" asked Mr. Crow, all a-tremble. He knew!

"They just got a telephone from Boggs City," panted the boy, "down to
the _Banner_ office. Harry Squires says for you to hurry down--buggy and
all. It's been stole."

"Good Lord!" gasped Anderson. His badge danced before his eyes and then
seemed to shrivel.

Quite a crowd had collected at the _Banner_ office. There was a sudden
hush when the marshal drove up. Even the horse felt the intensity of the
moment. He shied at a dog and then kicked over the dashboard, upsetting
Anderson Crow's meagre dignity and almost doing the same to the vehicle.

"You're a fine detective!" jeered Harry Squires; and poor old Anderson
hated him ever afterward.

"What have you heerd?" demanded the marshal.

"There's been a terrible murder at Boggs City, that's all. The chief of
police just telephoned to us that a farmer named Grover was found dead
in a ditch just outside of town--shot through the head, his pockets
rifled. It is known that he started to town to deposit four hundred
dollars hog-money in the bank. The money is missing, and so are his
horse and buggy. A young fellow was seen in the neighbourhood early this
morning--a stranger. The chief's description corresponds with the man
who sold that rig to you. The murderer is known to have driven in this
direction. People saw him going almost at a gallop."

It is not necessary to say that Tinkletown thoroughly turned inside out
with excitement. The whole population was soon at the post-office, and
everybody was trying to supply Anderson Crow with wits. He had lost his
own.

"We've got to catch that fellow," finally resolved the marshal. There
was a dead silence.

"He's got a pistol," ventured some one.

"How do you know?" demanded Mr. Crow keenly. "Did y' see it?"

"He couldn't ha' killed that feller 'thout a gun."

"That's a fact," agreed Anderson Crow. "Well, we've got to get him,
anyhow. I call for volunteers! Who will join me in the search?" cried
the marshal bravely.

"I hate to go to Crow's Cliff after him," said George Ray. "It's a
lonesome place, and as dark as night 'mong them trees and rocks."

"It's our duty to catch him. He's a criminal, and besides, he's killed a
man," said Crow severely.

"And he has twenty-one dollars of your money," added Harry Squires.
"I'll go with you, Anderson. I've got a revolver."

"Look out there!" roared Anderson Crow. "The blamed thing might go off!"
he added as the reporter drew a shiny six-shooter from his pocket.

The example set by one brave man had its influence on the crowd. A
score or more volunteered, despite the objections of their wives, and it
was not long before Anderson Crow was leading his motley band of sleuths
down the lane to the foot-log over which the desperado had gone an hour
before.

It was at the beginning of the man-hunt that various citizens recalled
certain actions and certain characteristics of the stranger which had
made them suspicious from the start. His prodigal disposition of the box
of matches impressed most of them as reckless dare-devilism; his haste,
anxiety, and a single instance of mild profanity told others of his
viciousness. One man was sure he had seen the stranger's watch chain in
farmer Grover's possession; and another saw something black on his
thumb, which he now remembered was a powder stain.

"I noticed all them things," averred Anderson Crow, supreme once more.

"But what in thunder did he want with those hair-pins?" inquired George
Ray.

"Never mind," said Anderson mysteriously. "You'll find out soon enough."

"Do you know Anderson?" some one asked.

"Of course I do," responded the marshal loftily.

"Well, what were they for, then?"

"I'm not givin' any clews away. You just wait a while and see if I'm not
right."

And they were satisfied that the detective knew all about it. After
crossing the foot-log the party was divided as to which direction it
should take. The marshal said the man had run to the southeast, but for
some inexplicable reason quite a number of the pursuers wanted to hunt
for him in the northwest. Finally it was decided to separate into posses
of ten, all to converge at Crow's Cliff as soon as possible. There were
enough double-barrelled shotguns in the party to have conquered a pirate
crew.

At the end of an hour Anderson Crow and his delegation came to the
narrow path which led to the summit of Crow's Cliff. They were very
brave by this time. A small boy was telling them he had seen the
fugitive about dinner-time "right where you fellers are standin' now."

"Did he have any blood on him?" demanded Anderson Crow.

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