The Daughter of Anderson Crow Part 17

Once we all git inside the house with these shotguns we've got 'em where we want 'em. Then I'll make 'em purduce the body."

"Don't we git anythin' to eat, too?" demanded Isaac Porter faintly.

"The horses ain't had nothin' to eat, Ike," said Anderson. "Ain't you as good as a horse?"

CHAPTER XIV

A Case of Mistaken Ident.i.ty

Detective Crow found little difficulty in gaining admittance to Colonel Randall's summer home. He had secreted his badge, and it was indeed a sorry-looking tramp who asked for a bite to eat at the kitchen door.

Three or four young women were busy with chafing dishes in this department of the house, and some good-looking young men were looking on and bothering them with attentions. In the front part of the house a score of people were laughing and making merry.

"Gosh!" said the new tramp, twisting his chin whiskers, "how many of you are there?"

"Oh, there are many more at home like us," trilled out one of the young women gaily. "You're just in time, you poor old thing, to have some of the bride-to-be's cake."

"I guess I'm in the wrong house," murmured Anderson blankly. "Is it a weddin'?"

"No; but there will be one before many days. It's just a reunion. How I wish Rosalie Gray were here!" cried another girl.

Just then there was a pounding on the door, and an instant later Isaac Porter stalked in at the head of the posse.

"Throw up your hands!" called Anderson, addressing himself to the posse, the members of which stopped in blank amazement. Some of them obligingly stuck their hands on high. "What do you want here?"

"We--we--we're lookin' fer a tramp who said he robbed a hen roost,"

faltered Isaac Porter.

"What is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the dining-room, and the flabbergasted Tinkletownians turned to face Colonel Randall himself, the owner of the house.

"Derned if I know!" muttered Anderson Crow; and he spoke the truth.

"Why, it's Anderson Crow!" cried a gay young voice.

"Jumpin' Jehosophat!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the detective; "it's the body!"

"The school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised Tinkletownians, as with their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood stains. But no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy.

In the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her, stood before them as pretty as a picture. At her side was Tom Reddon, and a dozen guests of the house fell in behind them.

"Did Rosalie tell you?" demanded Miss Banks. "The mean thing! She said she wouldn't."

"Ro--Rosalie!" gasped Anderson; "tell me what?" nervously.

"That I was--was coming over here with Tom. Didn't she tell you?"

"I should say not. If she'd told me you don't suppose I'd'a' driv' clear over here in this kinder weather fer nothin', do you? Thunder! Did she know 'bout it?"

"Certainly, Mr. Crow. She helped with the plans."

"Well, good gosh a'mighty! An' we was a-keepin' from her the awful news fer fear 'twould give her a backset."

"Awful news! What do you mean? Oh, you frighten me terribly!"

"Doggone! I don't believe Rosalie was sick at all," continued Anderson, quite regardless of the impatience of his listeners; "she jest wanted to keep from answerin' questions. She jest regularly let everybody believe you had been slaughtered, an' never opened her mouth."

"Slaughtered!" cried half a dozen people.

"Sure! Hain't you heard 'bout the murder?"

"Murder?" apprehensively from the excited New Yorkers.

"Yes--the teacher of schoolhouse No. 5 was brutally butchered las--las--night--by--"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "What is the meaning of all this?"]

"Go slow, Anderson! Better hold your horses!" cautioned Harry Squires. "Don't forget the body's alive and kic--" and stopping short, in the hope that his break might escape the school-teacher's attention, he confusedly subst.i.tuted, "and here."

Anderson's jaw dropped, but the movement was barely perceptible, the discomfiture temporary, for to the a.n.a.lytical mind of the great detective the fact that a murder had been committed was fully established by the discovery of the blood. That a body was obviously necessary for the continuance of further investigations he frankly acknowledged to himself; and not for one instant would any supposition or explanation other than a.s.sa.s.sination be tolerated. And it was with unshaken conviction that he declared:

"Well, somebody was slew, wasn't they? That's as plain's the nose on y'r face. Don't you contradict me, Harry Squires. I guess Anderson Crow knows blood when he sees it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you've been trailing us all day in the belief that some one of us had killed somebody?" demanded Tom Reddon.

Harry Squires explained the situation, Anderson being too far gone to step into the breach. It may be of interest to say that the Tinkletown detective was the sensation of the hour. The crowd, merry once more, lauded him to the skies for the manner in which the supposed culprits had been trailed, and the marshal's pomposity grew almost to the bursting point.

"But how about that blood?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Harry Squires with a sly grin, "it was positively identified as yours, Miss Banks."

"Well, it's the first time I was ever fooled," confessed Anderson glibly. "I'll have to admit it. The blood really belonged to 'Rast Little. Boys, the seegars are on me."

"No, they're on me," exclaimed Tom Reddon, producing a box of Perfectos.

"But, Miss Banks, you are wanted in Chicago," insisted Anderson. Reddon interrupted him.

"Right you are, my dear Sherlock, and I'm going to take her there as soon as I can. It's what I came East for."

"Ain't--I mean, wasn't you Miss Lovering?" muttered Anderson Crow.

"Good heavens, no!" cried Miss Banks. "Who is she--a shoplifter?"

"I'll tell you the story, Mr. Crow, if you'll come with me," said Mr.

Farnsworth, stepping forward with a wink.