The Daughter of Anderson Crow Part 1

The Daughter of Anderson Crow.

by George Barr McCutcheon.

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 alt.i.tude, 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' a.s.sociation 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 circ.u.mstance 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-gra.s.s 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 a.s.sociation; 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 a.s.sociation had implored him to join its forces, even going so far as to urge him to come to New York City, where he could a.s.sist and advise in all of its large operations. And, moreover, he had been obliged to pay but ten dollars members.h.i.+p fee, besides buying the blazing star for the paltry sum of three dollars and a quarter.

Every pa.s.ser-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 att.i.tude, 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 rus.h.i.+ng 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 das.h.i.+ng 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.