The Daughter of Anderson Crow by George Barr McCutcheon

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At nine o'clock he put to bed in one of the chilly nests a very sick
boy, who hated to admit that the pipe was too strong for him, but who
felt very much relieved when he found himself wrapped snugly in the
blankets with his head tucked entirely out of sight. Bud had spent the
hour in regaling Bonner with the story of Rosalie Gray's abduction and
his own heroic conduct in connection with the case. He confessed that he
had knocked one of the villains down, but they were too many for him.
Bonner listened politely and then--put the hero to bed.

Bonner dozed off at midnight. An hour or so later he suddenly sat bolt
upright, wide awake and alert. He had the vague impression that he was
deathly cold and that his hair was standing on end.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Men in the Sleigh

Let us go back to the night on which Rosalie was seized and carried away
from Mrs. Luce's front gate, despite the valiant resistance of her
youthful defenders.

Rosalie had drooned Thackeray to the old lady until both of them were
dozing, and it was indeed a welcome relief that came with Roscoe's
resounding thumps on the front door. Mrs. Luce was too old to be
frightened out of a year's growth, but it is perfectly safe to agree
with her that the noise cost her at least three months.

Desperately blue over the defection of Elsie Banks, Rosalie had found
little to make her evening cheerful indoors, but the fresh, crisp air
set her spirits bounding the instant she closed Mrs. Luce's door from
the outside. We have only to refer to Roscoe's lively narrative for
proof of what followed almost instantly. She was seized, her head
tightly wrapped in a thick cloak or blanket; then she was thrown into a
sleigh, and knew nothing more except a smothering sensation and the
odour of chloroform.

When she regained consciousness she was lying on the ground in the open
air, dark night about her. Three men were standing nearby, but there was
no vehicle in sight. She tried to rise, but on account of her bonds was
powerless to do so. Speech was prevented by the cloth which closed her
lips tightly. After a time she began to grasp the meaning of the
muttered words that passed between the men.

"You got the rig in all right, Bill--you're sure that no one heard or
saw you?" were the first questions she could make out, evidently arising
from a previous report or explanation.

"Sure. Everybody in these parts goes to bed at sundown. They ain't got
nothing to do but sleep up 'ere."

"Nobody knows we had that feller's sleigh an' horses out--nobody ever
will know," said the big man, evidently the leader. She noticed they
called him Sam.

"Next thing is to git her across the river without leavin' any tracks.
We ain't on a travelled road now, pals; we got to be careful. I'll carry
her down to the bank; but be sure to step squarely in my
footprints--it'll look like they were made by one man. See?"

"The river's froze over an' we can't be tracked on the ice. It's too
dark, too, for any one to see us. Go ahead, Sammy; it's d---- cold
here."

The big man lifted her from the ground as if she were a feather, and she
was conscious of being borne swiftly through a stretch of sloping
woodland down to the river bank, a journey of two or three hundred
yards, it seemed. Here the party paused for many minutes before
venturing out upon the wide expanse of frozen river, evidently making
sure that the way was clear. Rosalie, her senses quite fully restored by
this time, began to analyse the situation with a clearness and calmness
that afterward was the object of considerable surprise to her. Instead
of being hysterical with fear, she was actually experiencing the thrill
of a real emotion. She had no doubt but that her abductors were persons
hired by those connected with her early history, and, strange as it may
seem, she could not believe that bodily harm was to be her fate after
all these years of secret attention on the part of those so deeply,
though remotely, interested.

Somehow there raced through her brain the exhilarating conviction that
at last the mystery of her origin was to be cleared away, and with it
all that had been as a closed book. No thought of death entered her mind
at that time. Afterward she was to feel that death would be most
welcome, no matter how it came.

Her captors made the trip across the river in dead silence. There was no
moon and the night was inky black. The exposed portions of her face
tingled with cold, but she was so heavily wrapped in the blanket that
her body did not feel the effects of the zero weather.

At length the icy stretch was passed, and after resting a few minutes,
Sam proceeded to ascend the steep bank with her in his arms. Why she was
not permitted to walk she did not know then or afterward. It is
possible, even likely, that the men thought their charge was
unconscious. She did nothing to cause them to think otherwise. Again
they passed among trees, Sam's companions following in his footprints as
before. Another halt and a brief command for Davy to go ahead and see
that the coast was clear came after a long and tortuous struggle through
the underbrush. Twice they seemed to have lost their bearings in the
darkness, but eventually they came into the open.

"Here we are!" grunted Sam as they hurried across the clearing. "A hard
night's work, pals, but I guess we're in Easy Street now. Go ahead,
Davy, an' open the trap!"

Davy swore a mighty but sibilant oath and urged his thick, ugly figure
ahead of the others.

A moment later the desperadoes and their victim passed through a door
and into a darkness even blacker than that outside. Davy was pounding
carefully upon the floor of the room in which they stood. Suddenly a
faint light spread throughout the room and a hoarse, raucous voice
whispered:

"Have you got her?"

"Get out of the way--we're near froze," responded Davy gruffly.

"Get down there, Bill, and take her; I'm tired carryin' this hundred and
twenty pounder," growled Sam.

The next instant Rosalie was conscious of being lowered through a trap
door in the floor, and then of being borne rapidly through a long,
narrow passage, lighted fitfully by the rays of a lantern in the hands
of a fourth and as yet unseen member of the band.

"There!" said Bill, impolitely dropping his burden upon a pile of straw
in the corner of the rather extensive cave at the end of the passage;
"wonder if the little fool is dead. She ought to be coming to by this
time."

"She's got her eyes wide open," uttered the raucous voice on the
opposite side; and Rosalie turned her eyes in that direction. She looked
for a full minute as if spellbound with terror, her gaze centred at the
most repulsive human face she ever had seen--the face of Davy's mother.

The woman was a giantess, a huge, hideous creature with the face of a
man, hairy and bloated. Her unkempt hair was grey almost to whiteness,
her teeth were snags, and her eyes were almost hidden beneath the shaggy
brow. There was a glare of brutal satisfaction in them that appalled the
girl.

For the first time since the adventure began her heart failed her, and
she shuddered perceptibly as her lids fell.

"What the h---- are you skeering her fer like that, ma," growled Davy.
"Don't look at her like that, or--"

"See here, my boy, don't talk like that to me if you don't want me to
kick your head off right where you stand. I'm your mother, Davy, an'--"

"That'll do. This ain't no time to chew the rag," muttered Sam. "We're
done fer. Get us something to eat an' something to drink, old woman;
give the girl a nifter, too. She's fainted, I reckon. Hurry up; I want
to turn in."

"Better untie her hands--see if she's froze," added Bill savagely.

Roughly the old woman slashed the bonds from the girl's hands and feet
and then looked askance at Sam, who stood warming his hands over a
kerosene stove not far away. He nodded his head, and she instantly
untied the cloth that covered Rosalie's mouth.

"It won't do no good to scream, girl. Nobody'll hear ye but us--and
we're your friends," snarled the old woman.

"Let her yell if she wants to, Maude. It may relieve her a bit," said
Sam, meaning to be kind. Instinctively Rosalie looked about for the
person addressed as Maude. There was but one woman in the gang. Maude!
That was the creature's name. Instead of crying or shrieking, Rosalie
laughed outright.

At the sound of the laugh the woman drew back hastily.

"By gor!" she gasped; "the--she's gone daffy!"

The men turned toward them with wonder in their faces. Bill was the
first to comprehend. He saw the girl's face grow sober with an effort,
and realised that she was checking her amusement because it was sure to
offend.

"Aw," he grinned, "I don't blame her fer laughin'! Say what ye will,
Maude, your name don't fit you."

"It's as good as any name--" began the old hag, glaring at him; but Sam
interposed with a command to her to get them some hot coffee while he
had a talk with the girl. "Set up!" he said roughly, addressing Rosalie.
"We ain't goin' to hurt you."

Rosalie struggled to a sitting posture, her limbs and back stiff from
the cold and inaction. "Don't ask questions, because they won't be
answered. I jest want to give you some advice as to how you must act
while you are our guest. You must be like one of the family. Maybe we'll
be here a day, maybe a week, but it won't be any longer than that."

"Would you mind telling me where I am and what this all means? Why have
you committed this outrage? What have I done--" she found voice to say.
He held up his hand.

"You forget what I said about askin' questions. There ain't nothin' to
tell you, that's all. You're here and that's enough."

"Well, who is it that has the power to answer questions, sir? I have
some right to ask them. You have--"

"That'll do, now!" he growled. "I'll put the gag back on you if you
keep it up. So's you won't worry, I want to say this to you: Your
friends don't know where you are, and they couldn't find you if they
tried. You are to stay right here in this cave until we get orders to
move you. When the time comes we'll take you to wherever we're ordered,
and then we're through with you. Somebody else will have the say. You
won't be hurt here unless you try to escape--it won't do you any good to
yell. It ain't a palace, but it's better than the grave. So be wise. All
we got to do is to turn you over to the proper parties at the proper
time. That's all."

"Is the person you speak of my--my mother or my father?" Rosalie asked
with bated breath.

CHAPTER XIX

With the Kidnapers

Sam stared at her, and there was something like real amazement in his
eyes.

"Yer mother or father?" he repeated interrogatively. "Wha--what the
devil can they have to do with this affair? I guess they're askin' a lot
of questions themselves about this time."

"Mr. and Mrs. Crow are not my parents," she said; and then shrewdly
added, "and you know it, sir."

"I've heard that sayin' 'bout a child never knowin' its own father, but
this business of both the father and mother is a new one on me. I guess
it's the chloroform. Give us that booze, Bill. She's dippy yet."

He tried to induce her to swallow some of the whiskey, but steadfastly
she refused, until finally, with an evil snarl, Sam commanded the
giantess to hold her while he forced the burning liquor down her throat.
There was a brief struggle, but Rosalie was no match for the huge woman,
whose enormous arms encircled her; and as the liquid trickled in upon
her tongue she heard above the brutal laughter of the would-be doctors
the hoarse voice of Bill crying:

"Don't hurt her, Sam! Let 'er alone!"

"Close yer face! Don't you monkey in this thing, Bill Briggs.
I'll--well, you know. Drink this, damn you!"

Sputtering and choking, her heart beating wildly with fear and rage,
Rosalie was thrown back upon the straw by the woman. Her throat was
burning from the effects of the whiskey and her eyes were blinded by the
tears of anger and helplessness.

"Don't come any of your highfalutin' airs with me, you little cat,"
shrieked the old woman, rubbing a knee that Rosalie had kicked in her
struggles.

"Lay still there," added Sam. "We don't want to hurt you, but you got to
do as I tell you. Understand? Not a word, now! Gimme that coffee-pot,
Davy. Go an' see that everything's locked up an' we'll turn in fer the
night. Maude, you set up an' keep watch. If she makes a crack, soak her
one."

"You bet I will. She'll find she ain't attendin' no Sunday-school
picnic."

"No boozin'!" was Sam's order as he told out small portions of whiskey.
Then the gang ate ravenously of the bacon and beans and drank cup after
cup of coffee. Later the men threw themselves upon the piles of straw
and soon all were snoring. The big woman refilled the lantern and hung
it on a peg in the wall of the cave; then she took up her post near the
square door leading to the underground passage, her throne an upturned
whiskey barrel, her back against the wall of the cave. She glared at
Rosalie through the semi-darkness, frequently addressing her with the
vilest invectives cautiously uttered--and all because her victim had
beautiful eyes and was unable to close them in sleep.

[Illustration: "Rosalie was no match for the huge woman"]

Rosalie's heart sank as she surveyed the surroundings with her mind
once more clear and composed. After her recovery from the shock of
contact with the old woman and Sam she shrank into a state of mental
lassitude that foretold the despair which was to come later on. She did
not sleep that night. Her brain was full of whirling thoughts of escape,
speculations as to what was to become of her, miserable fears that the
end would not be what the first impressions had made it, and, over all,
a most intense horror of the old woman, who dozed, but guarded her as no
dragon ever watched in the days of long ago.

The cave in which they were housed was thirty or forty feet from side to
side, almost circular in shape, a low roof slanting to the rocky floor.
Here and there were niches in the walls, and in the side opposite to the
entrance to the passageway there was a small, black opening, leading
without doubt to the outer world. The fact that it was not used at any
time during her stay in the cave led her to believe it was not of
practical use. Two or three coal-oil stoves were used to heat the cave
and for cooking purposes. There were several lanterns, a number of
implements (such as spades, axes, crowbars, sledges, and so forth),
stool-kegs, a rough table, which was used for all purposes known to the
dining-room, kitchen, scullery and even bedchamber. Sam slept on the
table. Horse blankets were thrown about the floor in confusion. They
served as bedclothes when the gang slept. At other times they might as
well have been called doormats. One of the niches in the wall was used
as the resting place for such bones or remnants as might strike it when
hurled in that direction by the occupants. No one took the trouble to
carefully bestow anything in the garbage hole, and no one pretended to
clean up after the other. The place was foul smelling, hot and almost
suffocating with the fumes from the stoves, for which there seemed no
avenue of escape.

Hours afterward, although they seemed drawn out into years, the men
began to breathe naturally, and a weird silence reigned in the cave.
They were awake. The venerable Maude emerged from her doze, looked
apprehensively at Sam, prodded the corner to see that the prize had not
faded away, and then began ponderously to make preparations for a meal,
supposedly breakfast. Meagre ablutions, such as they were, were
performed in the "living room," a bucket of water serving as a general
wash-basin. No one had removed his clothing during the night, not even
his shoes. It seemed to her that the gang was in an ever-ready condition
to evacuate the place at a moment's notice.

Rosalie would not eat, nor would she bathe her face in the water that
had been used by the quartette before her. Bill Briggs, with some sense
of delicacy in his nature, brought some fresh water from the far end of
the passageway. For this act he was reviled by his companions.

"It's no easy job to get water here, Briggs," roared Sam. "We got to be
savin' with it."

"Well, don't let it hurt you," retorted Bill. "I'll carry it up from the
river to-night. You won't have to do it."

"She ain't any better'n I am," snorted Maude, "and nobody goes out to
bring me a private bath, I take notice. Get up here and eat something,
you rat! Do you want us to force it down you--"

"If she don't want to eat don't coax her," said Sam. "She'll soon get
over that. We was only hired to get her here and get her away again, and
not to make her eat or even wash. That's nothing to us."

"Well, she's got to eat or she'll die, and you know, Sam Welch, that
ain't to be," retorted the old woman.

"She'll eat before she'll die, Maudie; don't worry."

"I'll never eat a mouthful!" cried Rosalie, a brave, stubborn light in
her eyes. She was standing in the far corner drying her face with her
handkerchief.

"Oho, you can talk again, eh? Hooray! Now we'll hear the story of her
life," laughed big Sam, his mouth full of bacon and bread. Rosalie
flushed and the tears welled to her eyes.

All day long she suffered taunts and gibes from the gang. She grew to
fear Davy's ugly leers more than the brutal words of the others. When
he came near she shrank back against the wall; when he spoke she
cringed; when he attempted to touch her person she screamed. It was this
act that brought Sam's wrath upon Davy's head. He won something like
gratitude from the girl by profanely commanding Davy to confine his love
to looks and not to acts.

"She ain't to be harmed," was Sam's edict. "That goes, too."

"Aw, you go to--" began Davy belligerently.

"What's that?" snarled Sam, whirling upon him with a glare. Davy slunk
behind his mother and glared back. Bill moved over to Sam's side. For a
moment the air was heavy with signs of an affray. Rosalie crouched in
her corner, her hand over her ears, her eyes closed. There was murder in
Davy's face. "I'll break every bone in your body!" added Sam; but Bill
laconically stayed him with a word.

"Rats!" It was brief, but it brought the irate Sam to his senses.
Trouble was averted for the time being.

"Davy ain't afraid of him," cried that worthy's mother shrilly.

"You bet I ain't!" added Davy after a long string of oaths. Sam grinned
viciously.

"There ain't nothin' to fight about, I guess," he said, although he did
not look it. "We'd be fools to scrap. Everything to lose and nothin' to
gain. All I got to say, Davy, is that you ain't to touch that girl."

"Who's goin' to touch her?" roared Davy, bristling bravely. "An' you
ain't to touch her nuther," he added.

The day wore away, although it was always night in the windowless cave,
and again the trio of men slept, with Maude as guard. Exhausted and
faint, Rosalie fell into a sound sleep. The next morning she ate
sparingly of the bacon and bread and drank some steaming coffee, much to
the derisive delight of the hag.

"You had to come to it, eh?" she croaked. "Had to feed that purty face,
after all. I guess we're all alike. We're all flesh and blood, my lady."

The old woman never openly offered personal violence to the girl. She
stood in some fear of the leader--not physical fear, but the strange
homage that a brute pays to its master. Secretly she took savage delight
in treading on the girl's toes or in pinching her arms and legs,
twisting her hair, spilling hot coffee on her hands, cursing her softly
and perpetrating all sorts of little indignities that could not be
resented, for the simple reason that they could not be proved against
her. Her word was as good as Rosalie's.

Hourly the strain grew worse and worse. The girl became ill and feverish
with fear, loathing and uncertainty. Her ears rang with the horrors of
their lewdness, her eyes came to see but little, for she kept them
closed for the very pain of what they were likely to witness. In her
heart there grew a constant prayer for deliverance from their clutches.
She was much too strong-minded and healthy to pray for death, but her
mind fairly reeled with the thoughts of the vengeance she would exact.

The third day found the gang morose and ugly. The confinement was as
irksome to them as it was to her. They fretted and worried, swore and
growled. At nightfall of each day Sam ventured forth through the passage
and out into the night. Each time he was gone for two or three hours,
and each succeeding return to the vile cave threw the gang into deeper
wrath. The word they were expecting was not forthcoming, the command
from the real master was not given. They played cards all day, and at
last began to drink more deeply than was wise. Two desperate fights
occurred between Davy and Sam on the third day. Bill and the old woman
pulled them apart after both had been battered savagely.

"She's sick, Sam," growled Bill, standing over the cowering, white-faced
prisoner near the close of the fourth day. Sam had been away nearly all
of the previous night, returning gloomily without news from
headquarters. "She'll die in this d---- place and so will we if we don't
get out soon. Look at her! Why, she's as white as a sheet. Let's give
her some fresh air, Sammy. It's safe. Take her up in the cabin for a
while. To-night we can take her outside the place. Good Lord, Sammy,
I've got a bit of heart! I can't see her die in this hole. Look at her!
Can't you see she's nearly done for?"

After considerable argument, pro and con, it was decided that it would
be safe and certainly wise to let the girl breathe the fresh air once in
a while. That morning Sam took her into the cabin through the passage.
The half hour in the cold, fresh air revived her, strengthened her
perceptibly. Her spirits took an upward bound. She began to ask
questions, and for some reason he began to take notice of them. It may
have been the irksomeness of the situation, his own longing to be away,
his anger toward the person who had failed to keep the promise made
before the abduction, that led him to talk quite freely.

CHAPTER XX

In the Cave

"It's not my fault that we're still here," he growled in answer to her
pathetic appeal. "I've heard you prayin' for Daddy Crow to come and take
you away. Well, it's lucky for him that he don't know where you are.
We'd make mincemeat of that old jay in three minutes. Don't do any more
prayin'. Prayers are like dreams--you have 'em at night and wonder why
the next day. Now, look 'ere, Miss Gray, we didn't do this rotten job
for the love of excitement. We're just as anxious to get out of it as
you are."

"I only ask why I am held here and what is to become of me?" said
Rosalie resignedly. She was standing across the table from where he sat
smoking his great, black pipe. The other members of the gang were
lounging about, surly and black-browed, chafing inwardly over the delay
in getting away from the cave.

"I don't know why you've been held here. I only know it's d---- slow.
I'd chuck the job, if there wasn't so much dust in it for me."

"But what is to become of me? I cannot endure this much longer. It is
killing me. Look! I am black and blue from pinches. The old woman never
misses an opportunity to hurt me."

"She's jealous of you because you're purty, that's all. Women are all
alike, hang 'em! I wouldn't be in this sort of work if it hadn't been
for a jealous wife."

He puffed at his pipe moodily for a long time, evidently turning some
problem over and over in his mind. At last, heaving a deep sigh, and
prefacing his remarks with an oath, he let light in upon the mystery.
"I'll put you next to the job. Can't give any names; it wouldn't be
square. You see, it's this way: you ain't wanted in this country. I
don't know why, but you ain't."

"Not wanted in this country?" she cried blankly. "I don't stand in any
one's way. My life and my love are for the peaceful home that you have
taken me from. I don't ask for anything else. Won't you tell your
employer as much for me? If I am released, I shall never interfere with
the plans of--"

"'Tain't that, I reckon. You must be mighty important to somebody, or
all this trouble wouldn't be gone through with. The funny part of it is
that we ain't to hurt you. You ain't to be killed, you know. That's the
queer part of it, ain't it?"

"I'll admit it has an agreeable sound to me," said Rosalie, with a
shadow of a smile on her trembling lips. "It seems ghastly, though."

"Well, anyhow, it's part of somebody's scheme to get you out of this
country altogether. You are to be taken away on a ship, across the
ocean, I think. Paris or London, mebby, and you are never to come
back to the United States. Never, that's what I'm told."

[Illustration: "She shrank back from another blow which seemed
impending"]

Rosalie was speechless, stunned. Her eyes grew wide with the misery of
doubt and horror, her lips moved as if forming the words which would not
come. Before she could bring a sound from the contracted throat the
raucous voice of old Maude broke in:

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