The Oakdale Affair by Edgar Rice Burroughs (page 2)

“How do you know he ain’t?” queried The General. “Youse was knocked out when these guys picks you up. It’s so dark in here you couldn’t reco’nize no one. How do you know this here bird ain’t The Oskaloosa Kid, eh?”

“I have heard both these men speak,” replied the girl; “their voices were not those of any men I have known. If one of them is The Oskaloosa Kid then there must be two men called that. Strike a match and you will see that you are mistaken.”

The General fumbled in an inside pocket for a pack- age of matches carefully wrapped against possible dam- age by rain. Presently he struck one and held the light in the direction of The Kid’s face while he and the girl and Dopey Charlie leaned forward to scrutinize the youth’s features.

“It’s him all right,” said Dopey Charlie.

“You bet it is,” seconded The General.

“Why he’s only a boy,” ejaculated the girl. “The one who threw me from the machine was a man.”

“Well, this one said he was The Oskaloosa Kid,” per- sisted The General.

“An’ he shot me up,” growled Dopey Charlie.

“It’s too bad he didn’t kill you,” remarked Bridge pleasantly. “You’re a thief and probably a murderer into the bargain–you tried to kill this boy just before he shot you.”

“Well wots he?” demanded Dopey Charlie. “He’s a thief–he said he was–look in his pockets–they’re crammed wid swag, an’ he’s a gun-man, too, or he wouldn’t be packin’ a gat. I guess he ain’t got nothin’ on me.”

The darkness hid the scarlet flush which mounted to the boy’s cheeks–so hot that he thought it must surely glow redly through the night. He waited in dumb misery for Bridge to demand the proof of his guilt. Earlier in the evening he had flaunted the evidence of his crime in the faces of the six hobos; but now he suddenly felt a great shame that his new found friend should believe him a house-breaker.

But Bridge did not ask for any substantiation of Char- lie’s charges, he merely warned the two yeggmen that they would have to leave the boy alone and in the morning, when the storm had passed and daylight had lessened the unknown danger which lurked below-stairs, betake themselves upon their way.

“And while we’re here together in this room you two must sit over near the window,” he concluded. “You’ve tried to kill the boy once to-night; but you’re not going to try it again–I’m taking care of him now.”

“You gotta crust, bo,” observed Dopey Charlie, bellig- erently. “I guess me an’ The General’ll sit where we damn please, an’ youse can take it from me on the side that we’re goin’ to have ours out of The Kid’s haul. If you tink you’re goin’ to cop the whole cheese you got another tink comin’.”

“You are banking,” replied Bridge, “on the well known fact that I never carry a gun; but you fail to perceive, owing to the Stygian gloom which surrounds us, that I have the Kid’s automatic in my gun hand and that the business end of it is carefully aiming in your direc- tion.”

“Cheese it,” The General advised his companion; and the two removed themselves to the opposite side of the apartment, where they whispered, grumblingly, to one another.

The girl, the boy, and Bridge waited as patiently as they could for the coming of the dawn, talking of the events of the night and planning against the future. Bridge advised the girl to return at once to her father; but this she resolutely refused to do, admitting with ut- most candor that she lacked the courage to face her friends even though her father might still believe in her.

The youth begged that he might accompany Bridge upon the road, pleading that his mother was dead and that he could not return home after his escapade. And Bridge could not find it in his heart to refuse him, for the man realized that the boyish waif possessed a sub- tile attraction, as forceful as it was inexplicable. Not since he had followed the open road in company with Billy Byrne had Bridge met one with whom he might care to ‘Pal’ before The Kid crossed his path on the dark and storm swept pike south of Oakdale.

In Byrne, mucker, pugilist, and MAN, Bridge had found a physical and moral counterpart of himself, for the slender Bridge was muscled as a Greek god, while the stocky Byrne, metamorphosed by the fire of a wom- an’s love, possessed all the chivalry of the care free tramp whose vagabondage had never succeeded in sub- merging the evidences of his cultural birthright.

In the youth Bridge found an intellectual equal with the added charm of a physical dependent. The man did not attempt to fathom the evident appeal of the other’s tacitly acknowledged cowardice; he merely knew that he would not have had the youth otherwise if he could not have changed him. Ordinarily he accepted male cowardice with the resignation of surfeited disgust; but in the case of The Oskaloosa Kid he realized a certain artless charm which but tended to strengthen his lik- ing for the youth, so brazen and unaffected was the boy’s admission of his terror of both the real and the unreal menaces of this night of horror.

That the girl also was well bred was quite evident to Bridge, while both the girl and the youth realized the refinement of the strange companion and protector which Fate had ordered for them, while they also saw in one another social counterparts of themselves. Thus, as the night dragged its slow course, the three came to trust each other more entirely and to speculate upon the strange train of circumstances which had brought them thus remarkably together–the thief, the murderer’s ac- complice, and the vagabond.

It was during a period of thoughtful silence when the night was darkest just before the dawn and the rain had settled to a dismal drizzle unrelieved by lightning or by thunder that the five occupants of the room were suddenly startled by a strange pattering sound from the floor below. It was as the questioning fall of a child’s feet upon the uncarpeted boards in the room beneath them. Frozen to silent rigidity, the five sat straining ev- ery faculty to catch the minutest sound from the black void where the dead man lay, and as they listened there came up to them, mingled with the inexplicable foot- steps, the hollow reverberation from the dank cellar– the hideous dragging of the chain behind the nameless horror which had haunted them through the intermin- able eons of the ghastly night.

Up, up, up it came toward the first floor. The patter- ing of the feet ceased. The clanking rose until the five heard the scraping of the chain against the door frame at the head of the cellar stairs. They heard it pass across the floor toward the center of the room and then, loud and piercing, there rang out against the silence of the awful night a woman’s shriek.

Instantly Bridge leaped to his feet. Without a word he tore the bed from before the door.

“What are you doing?” cried the girl in a muffled scream.

“I am going down to that woman,” said Bridge, and he drew the bolt, rusty and complaining, from its cor- roded seat.

“No!” screamed the girl, and seconding her the youth sprang to his feet and threw his arms about Bridge.

“Please! Please!” he cried. “Oh, please don’t leave me.”

The girl also ran to the man’s side and clutched him by the sleeve.

“Don’t go!” she begged. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t leave us here alone!”

“You heard a woman scream didn’t you?” asked Bridge. “Do you suppose I can stay in up here when a woman may be facing death a few feet below me?”

For answer the girl but held more tightly to his arm while the youth slipped to the floor and embraced the man’s knees in a vicelike hold which he could not break without hurting his detainer.

“Come! Come!” expostulated Bridge. “Let me go.”

“Wait!” begged the girl. “Wait until you know that it is a human voice that screams through this horrible place.”

The youth only strained his hold tighter about the man’s legs. Bridge felt a soft cheek pressed to his knee; and, for some unaccountable reason, the appeal was stronger than the pleading of the girl. Slowly Bridge re- alized that he could not leave this defenseless youth alone even though a dozen women might be menaced by the uncanny death below. With a firm hand he shot the bolt. “Leave go of me,” he said; “I shan’t leave you unless she calls for help in articulate words.”

The boy rose and, trembling, pressed close to the man who, involuntarily, threw a protecting arm about the slim figure. The girl, too, drew nearer, while the two yeggmen rose and stood in rigid silence by the window. From below came an occasional rattle of the chain, fol- lowed after a few minutes by the now familiar clanking as the iron links scraped across the flooring. Mingled with the sound of the chain there rose to them what might have been the slow and ponderous footsteps of a heavy man, dragging painfully across the floor. For a few moments they heard it, and then all was silent.

For a dozen tense minutes the five listened; but there was no repetition of any sound from below. Suddenly the girl breathed a deep sigh, and the spell of terror was broken. Bridge felt rather than heard the youth sobbing softly against his breast, while across the room The Gen- eral gave a quick, nervous laugh which he as immedi- ately suppressed as though fearful unnecessarily of calling attention to their presence. The other vagabond fumbled with his hypodermic needle and the narcotic which would quickly give his fluttering nerves the quiet they craved.

Bridge, the boy, and the girl shivered together in their soggy clothing upon the edge of the bed, feeling now in the cold dawn the chill discomfort of which the excite- ment of the earlier hours of the night had rendered them unconscious. The youth coughed.

“You’ve caught cold,” said Bridge, his tone almost self- reproachful, as though he were entirely responsible for the boy’s condition. “We’re a nice aggregation of molly- coddles–five of us sitting half frozen up here with a stove on the floor below, and just because we heard a noise which we couldn’t explain and hadn’t the nerve to investigate.” He rose. “I’m going down, rustle some wood and build a fire in that stove–you two kids have got to dry those clothes of yours and get warmed up or we’ll have a couple of hospital cases on our hands.”

Once again rose a chorus of pleas and objections. Oh, wouldn’t he wait until daylight? See! the dawn was even then commencing to break. They didn’t dare go down and they begged him not to leave them up there alone.

At this Dopey Charlie spoke up. The ‘hop’ had com- menced to assert its dominion over his shattered nervous system instilling within him a new courage and a feel- ing of utter well-being. “Go on down,” said he to Bridge. “The General an’ I’ll look after the kids–won’t we bo?”

“Sure,” assented The General; “we’ll take care of ’em.”

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Bridge; “we’ll leave the kids up here and we three’ll go down. They won’t go, and I wouldn’t leave them up here with you two morons on a bet.”

The General and Dopey Charlie didn’t know what a moron was but they felt quite certain from Bridge’s tone of voice that a moron was not a nice thing, and anyway no one could have bribed them to descend into the darkness of the lower floor with the dead man and the grisly THING that prowled through the haunted chambers; so they flatly refused to budge an inch.

Bridge saw in the gradually lighting sky the near ap- proach of full daylight; so he contented himself with making the girl and the youth walk briskly to and fro in the hope that stimulated circulation might at least par- tially overcome the menace of the damp clothing and the chill air, and thus they occupied the remaining hour of the night.

From below came no repetition of the inexplicable noises of that night of terror and at last, with every ob- ject plainly discernible in the light of the new day, Bridge would delay no longer; but voiced his final de- termination to descend and make a fire in the old kitchen stove. Both the boy and the girl insisted upon accom- panying him. For the first time each had an opportunity to study the features of his companions of the night. Bridge found in the girl and the youth two dark eyed, good-looking young people. In the girl’s face was, per- haps, just a trace of weakness; but it was not the face of one who consorts habitually with criminals. The man appraised her as a pretty, small-town girl who had been led into a temporary escapade by the monotony of village life, and be would have staked his soul that she was not a bad girl.

The boy, too, looked anything other than the role he had been playing. Bridge smiled as he looked at the clear eyes, the oval face, and the fine, sensitive mouth and thought of the youth’s claim to the crime battered sobriquet of The Oskaloosa Kid. The man wondered if the mystery of the clanking chain would prove as harm- lessly infantile as these two whom some accident of hi- larious fate had cast in the roles of debauchery and crime.

Aloud, he said: “I’ll go first, and if the spook ma- terializes you two can beat it back into the room.” And to the two tramps: “Come on, boes, we’ll all take a look at the lower floor together, and then we’ll get a good fire going in the kitchen and warm up a bit.”

Down the hall they went, Bridge leading with the boy and girl close at his heels while the two yeggs brought up the rear. Their footsteps echoed through the deserted house; but brought forth no answering clank- ing from the cellar. The stairs creaked beneath the unaccustomed weight of so many bodies as they de- scended toward the lower floor. Near the bottom Bridge came to a questioning halt. The front room lay entirely within his range of vision, and as his eyes swept it he gave voice to a short exclamation of surprise.

The youth and the girl, shivering with cold and ner- vous excitement, craned their necks above the man’s shoulder.

“O-h-h!” gasped The Oskaloosa Kid. “He’s gone,” and, sure enough, the dead man had vanished.

Bridge stepped quickly down the remaining steps, entered the rear room which had served as dining room and kitchen, inspected the two small bedrooms off this room, and the summer kitchen beyond. All were empty; then he turned and re-entering the front room bent his steps toward the cellar stairs. At the foot of the stair- way leading to the second floor lay the flash lamp that the boy had dropped the night before. Bridge stooped, picked it up and examined it. It was uninjured and with it in his hand he continued toward the cellar door.

“Where are you going?” asked The Oskaloosa Kid.

“I’m going to solve the mystery of that infernal clank- ing,” he replied.

“You are not going down into that dark cellar!” It was an appeal, a question, and a command; and it quivered gaspingly upon the verge of hysteria.

Bridge turned and looked into the youth’s face. The man did not like cowardice and his eyes were stern as he turned them on the lad from whom during the few hours of their acquaintance he had received so many evidences of cowardice; but as the clear brown eyes of the boy met his the man’s softened and he shook his head perplexedly. What was there about this slender stripling which so disarmed criticism?

“Yes,” he replied, “I am going down. I doubt if I shall find anything there; but if I do it is better to come upon it when I am looking for it than to have it come upon us when we are not expecting it. If there is to be any hunting I prefer to be hunter rather than hunted.”

He wheeled and placed a foot upon the cellar stairs. The youth followed him.

“What are you going to do?” asked the man.

“I am going with you,” said the boy. “You think I am a coward because I am afraid; but there is a vast differ- ence between cowardice and fear.”

The man made no reply as he resumed the descent of the stairs, flashing the rays of the lamp ahead of him; but he pondered the boy’s words and smiled as he ad- mitted mentally that it undoubtedly took more courage to do a thing in the face of fear than to do it if fear were absent. He felt a strange elation that this youth should choose voluntarily to share his danger with him, for in his roaming life Bridge had known few associates for whom he cared.

The beams of the little electric lamp, moving from side to side, revealed a small cellar littered with refuse and festooned with cob-webs. At one side tottered the remains of a series of wooden racks upon which pans of milk had doubtless stood to cool in a long gone, happier day. Some of the uprights had rotted away so that a part of the frail structure had collapsed to the earthen floor. A table with one leg missing and a crippled chair constituted the balance of the contents of the cellar and there was no living creature and no chain nor any other visible evidence of the presence which had clanked so lugubriously out of the dark depths during the vanished night. The boy breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief and Bridge laughed, not without a note of relief either.

“You see there is nothing,” he said–“nothing except some firewood which we can use to advantage. I regret that James is not here to attend me; but since he is not you and I will have to carry some of this stuff upstairs,” and together they returned to the floor above, their arms laden with pieces of the dilapidated milk rack. The girl was awaiting them at the head of the stairs while the two tramps whispered together at the opposite side of the room.

It took Bridge but a moment to have a roaring fire started in the old stove in the kitchen, and as the warmth rolled in comforting waves about them the five felt for the first time in hours something akin to relief and well being. With the physical relaxation which the heat in- duced came a like relaxation of their tongues and tem- porary forgetfulness of their antagonisms and individual apprehensions. Bridge was the only member of the group whose conscience was entirely free. He was not ‘wanted’ anywhere, he bad no unexpiated crimes to harry his mind, and with the responsibilities of the night removed he fell naturally into his old, carefree manner. He hazarded foolish explanations of the uncanny noises of the night and suggested various theories to account for the presence and the mysterious disappearance of the dead man.

The General, on the contrary, seriously maintained that the weird sounds had emanated from the ghost of the murdered man who was, unquestionably, none other than the long dead Squibb returned to haunt his former home, and that the scream had sprung from the ghostly lungs of his slain wife or daughter.

“I wouldn’t spend anudder night in this dump,” he concluded, “for both them pockets full of swag The Oskaloosa Kid’s packin’ around.”

Immediately all eyes turned upon the flushing youth. The girl and Bridge could not prevent their own gazes from wandering to the bulging coat pockets, the owner of which moved uneasily, at last shooting a look of defi- ance, not unmixed with pleading, at Bridge.

“He’s a bad one,” interjected Dopey Charlie, a glint of cunning in his ordinarily glassy eyes. “He flashes a couple o’ mitsful of sparklers, chesty-like, and allows as how he’s a regular burglar. Then he pulls a gun on me, as wasn’t doin’ nothin’ to him, and ‘most croaks me. It’s even money that if anyone’s been croaked in Oakdale last night they won’t have to look far for the guy that done it. Least-wise they won’t have to look far if he doesn’t come across,” and Dopey Charlie looked mean- ingly and steadily at the side pockets of The Oskaloosa Kid.

“I think,” said Bridge, after a moment of general si- lence, “that you two crooks had better beat it. Do you get me?” and he looked from Dopey Charlie to The Gen- eral and back again.

“We don’t go,” said Dopey Charlie, belligerently, “un- til we gets half the Kid’s swag.”

“You go now,” said Bridge, “without anybody’s swag,” and he drew the boy’s automatic from his side pocket. “You go now and you go quick–beat it!”

The two rose and shuffled toward the door. “We’ll get you, you colledge Lizzy,” threatened Dopey Charlie, “an’ we’ll get that phoney punk, too.”

“‘And speed the parting guest,'” quoted Bridge, firing a shot that splintered the floor at the crook’s feet. When the two hoboes had departed the others huddled again close to the stove until Bridge suggested that he and The Oskaloosa Kid retire to another room while the girl removed and dried her clothing; but she insisted that it was not wet enough to matter since she had been covered by a robe in the automobile until just a moment before she had been hurled out.

“Then, after you are warmed up,” said Bridge, “you can step into this other room while the kid and I strip and dry our things, for there’s no question but that we are wet enough.”

At the suggestion the kid started for the door. “Oh, no,” he insisted; “it isn’t worth while. I am almost dry now, and as soon as we get out on the road I’ll be all right. I–I–I like wet clothes,” he ended, lamely.

Bridge looked at him questioningly; but did not urge the matter. “Very well,” he said; “you probably know what you like; but as for me, I’m going to pull off every rag and get good and dry.”

The girl had already quitted the room and now The Kid turned and followed her. Bridge shook his head. “I’ll bet the little beggar never was away from his mother before in his life,” he mused; “why the mere thought of undressing in front of a strange man made him turn red–and posing as The Oskaloosa Kid! Bless my soul; but he’s a humorist–a regular, natural born one.”

Bridge found that his clothing had dried to some ex- tent during the night; so, after a brisk rub, he put on the warmed garments and though some were still a trifle damp he felt infinitely more comfortable than he had for many hours.

Outside the house he came upon the girl and the youth standing in the sunshine of a bright, new day. They were talking together in a most animated man- ner, and as he approached wondering what the two had found of so great common interest he discovered that the discussion hinged upon the relative merits of ham and bacon as a breakfast dish.

“Oh, my heart it is just achin’,” quoted Bridge,

“For a little bite of bacon,

“A hunk of bread, a little mug of brew;

“I’m tired of seein’ scenery,

“Just lead me to a beanery

“Where there’s something more than only air to

chew.”

The two looked up, smiling. “You’re a funny kind of tramp, to be quoting poetry,” said The Oskaloosa Kid, “even if it is Knibbs’.”

“Almost as funny,” replied Bridge, “as a burglar who recognizes Knibbs when he hears him.”

The Oskaloosa Kid flushed. “He wrote for us of the open road,” he replied quickly. “I don’t know of any other class of men who should enjoy him more.”

“Or any other class that is less familiar with him,” re- torted Bridge; “but the burning question just now is pots, not poetry–flesh pots. I’m hungry. I could eat a cow.”

The girl pointed to an adjacent field. “Help yourself,” she said.

“That happens to be a bull,” said Bridge. “I was particular to mention cow, which, in this instance, is proverbially less dangerous than the male, and much better eating.

“‘We kept a-rambling all the time. I rustled grub, he rustled rhyme–

“‘Blind baggage, hoof it, ride or climb–we always put it through.’ Who’s going to rustle the grub?”

The girl looked at The Oskaloosa Kid. “You don’t seem like a tramp at all, to talk to,” she said; “but I suppose you are used to asking for food. I couldn’t do it –I should die if I had to.”

The Oskaloosa Kid looked uncomfortable. “So should –” he commenced, and then suddenly subsided. “Of course I’d just as soon,” he said. “You two stay here–I’ll be back in a minute.”

They watched him as be walked down to the road and until he disappeared over the crest of the hill a short distance from the Squibbs’ house.

“I like him,” said the girl, turning toward Bridge.

“So do I,” replied the man.

“There must be some good in him,” she continued, “even if he is such a desperate character; but I know he’s not The Oskaloosa Kid. Do you really suppose he robbed a house last night and then tried to kill that Dopey person?”

Bridge shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said; “but I am inclined to believe that he is more imaginative than criminal. He certainly shot up the Dopey person; but I doubt if he ever robbed a house.”

While they waited, The Oskaloosa Kid trudged along the muddy road to the nearest farm house. which lay a full mile beyond the Squibbs’ home. As he approached the door a lank, sallow man confronted him with a sus- picious eye.

“Good morning,” greeted The Oskaloosa Kid.

The man grunted.

“I want to get something to eat,” explained the youth.

If the boy had hurled a dynamite bomb at him the result could have been no more surprising. The lank, sallow man went up into the air, figuratively. He went up a mile or more, and on the way down he reached his hand inside the kitchen door and brought it forth en- veloping the barrel of a shot gun.

“Durn ye!” he cried. “I’ll lam ye! Get offen here. I knows ye. Yer one o’ that gang o’ bums that come here last night, an’ now you got the gall to come back beggin’ for food, eh? I’ll lam ye!” and he raised the gun to his shoulder.

The Oskaloosa Kid quailed but he held his ground. “I wasn’t here last night,” he cried, “and I’m not begging for food–I want to buy some. I’ve got plenty of money,” in proof of which assertion he dug into a side pocket and brought forth a large roll of bills. The man lowered his gun.

“Wy didn’t ye say so in the first place then?” he growled. “How’d I know you wanted to buy it, eh? Where’d ye come from anyhow, this early in the morn- in’? What’s yer name, eh? What’s yer business, that’s what Jeb Case’d like to know, eh?” He snapped his words out with the rapidity of a machine gun, nor waited for a reply to one query before launching the next. “What do ye want to buy, eh? How much money ye got? Looks suspicious. That’s a sight o’ money yew got there, eh? Where’dje get it?”

“It’s mine,” said The Oskaloosa Kid, “and I want to buy some eggs and milk and ham and bacon and flour and onions and sugar and cream and strawberries and tea and coffee and a frying pan and a little oil stove, if you have one to spare, and–“

Jeb Case’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened. “You’re in the wrong pasture, bub,” he remarked feelingly. “What yer lookin’ fer is Sears, Roebuck & Company.”

The Oskaloosa Kid flushed up to the tips of his ears. “But can’t you sell me something?” he begged.

“I might let ye have some milk an’ eggs an’ butter an’ a leetle bacon an’ mebby my ol’ woman’s got a loaf left from her last bakin’; but we ain’t been figgerin’ on sup- plyin’ grub fer the United States army ef that’s what yew be buyin’ fer.”

A frowsy, rat-faced woman and a gawky youth of four- teen stuck their heads out the doorway at either side of the man. “I ain’t got nothin’ to sell,” snapped the woman; but as she spoke her eyes fell upon the fat bank roll in the youth’s hand. “Or, leastwise,” she amended, “I ain’t got much more’n we need an’ the price o’ stuff’s gone up so lately that I’ll hev to ask ye more’n I would of last fall. ‘Bout what did ye figger on wantin’?”

“Anything you can spare,” said the youth. “There are three of us and we’re awful hungry.”

“Where yew stoppin’?” asked the woman.

“We’re at the old Squibbs’ place,” replied The Kid. “We got caught by the storm last night and had to put up there.”

“The Squibbs’ place!” ejaculated the woman. “Yew didn’t stop there over night?”

“Yes we did,” replied the youth.

“See anything funny?” asked Mrs. Case.

“We didn’t SEE anything,” replied The Oskaloosa Kid; “but we heard things. At least we didn’t see what we heard; but we saw a dead man on the floor when we went in and this morning he was gone.”

The Cases shuddered. “A dead man!” ejaculated Jeb Case. “Yew seen him?”

The Kid nodded.

“I never tuk much stock in them stories,” said Jeb, with a shake of his head; “but ef you SEEN it! Gosh! Thet beats me. Come on M’randy, les see what we got to spare,” and he turned into the kitchen with his wife.

The lanky boy stepped, out and planting himself in front of The Oskaloosa Kid proceeded to stare at him. “Yew seen it?” be asked in awestruck tone.

“Yes,” said the Kid in a low voice, and bending close toward the other; “it had bloody froth on its lips!”

The Case boy shrank back. “An’ what did yew hear?” he asked, a glutton for thrills.

“Something that dragged a chain behind it and came up out of the cellar and tried to get in our room on the second floor,” explained the youth. “It almost got us, too,” he added, “and it did it all night.”

“Whew,” whistled the Case boy. “Gosh!” Then he scratched his head and looked admiringly at the youth. “What mought yer name be?” he asked.

“I’m The Oskaloosa Kid,” replied the youth, unable to resist the admiration of the other’s fond gaze. “Look here!” and he fished a handful of jewelry from one of his side pockets; “this is some of the swag I stole last night when I robbed a house.”

Case Jr., opened his mouth and eyes so wide that there was little left of his face. “But that’s nothing,” bragged The Kid. “I shot a man, too.”

“Last night?” whispered the boy.

“Yep,” replied the bad man, tersely.

“Gosh!” said the young Mr. Case, but there was that in his facial expression which brought to The Oskaloosa Kid a sudden regret that he had thus rashly confided in a stranger.

“Say,” said The Kid, after a moment’s strained silence. “Don’t tell anyone, will you? If you’ll promise I’ll give you a dollar,” and he hunted through his roll of bills for one of that lowly denomination.

“All right,” agreed the Case boy. “I won’t say a word –where’s the dollar?”

The youth drew a bill from his roll and handed it to the other. “If you tell,” he whispered, and he bent close toward the other’s ear and spoke in a menacing tone; “If you tell, I’ll kill you!”

“Gosh!” said Willie Case.

At this moment Case pere and mere emerged from the kitchen loaded with provender. “Here’s enough an’ more’n enough, I reckon,” said Jeb Case. “We got eggs, butter, bread, bacon, milk, an’ a mite o’ garden sass.”

“But we ain’t goin’ to charge you nothin’ fer the gar- den sass,” interjected Mrs. Case.

“That’s awfully nice of you,” replied The Kid. “How much do I owe you for the rest of it?”

“Oh,” said Jeb Case, rubbing his chin, eyeing the big roll of bills and wondering just the limit he might raise to, “I reckon ’bout four dollars an’ six bits.”

The Oskaloosa Kid peeled a five dollar bill from his roll and proffered it to the farmer. “I’m ever so much obliged,” he said, “and you needn’t mind about any change. I thank you so much.” With which he took the several packages and pails and turned toward the road.

“Yew gotta return them pails!” shouted Mrs. Case af- ter him.

“Oh, of course,” replied The Kid.

“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Case, feelingly. “I wisht I’d asked six bits more–I mought jest as well o’ got it as not. Gosh, eh?”

“Gosh!” murmured Willie Case, fervently.

Back down the sticky road plodded The Oskaloosa Kid, his arms heavy and his heart light, for, was he not ‘bringing home the bacon,’ literally as well as figuratively. As he entered the Squibbs’ gateway he saw the girl and Bridge standing upon the verandah waiting his coming, and as he approached them and they caught a nearer view of his great burden of provisions they hailed him with loud acclaim.

“Some artist!” cried the man. “And to think that I doubted your ability to make a successful touch! For- give me! You are the ne plus ultra, non est cumquidibus, in hoc signo vinces, only and original kind of hand-out compellers.”

“How in the world did you do it?” asked the girl, rapturously.

“Oh, it’s easy when you know how,” replied The Oska- loosa Kid carelessly, as, with the help of the others, he carried the fruits of his expedition into the kitchen. Here Bridge busied himself about the stove, adding more wood to the fire and scrubbing a portion of the top plate as clean as he could get it with such crude means as he could discover about the place.

The youth he sent to the nearby brook for water after selecting the least dirty of the several empty tin cans lying about the floor of the summer kitchen. He warned against the use of the water from the old well and while the boy was away cut a generous portion of the bacon into long, thin strips.

Shortly after, the water coming to the boil, Bridge lowered three eggs into it, glanced at his watch, greased one of the new cleaned stove lids with a piece of bacon rind and laid out as many strips of bacon as the lid would accommodate. Instantly the room was filled with the delicious odor of frying bacon.

“M-m-m-m!” gloated The Oskaloosa Kid. “I wish I had bo–asked for more. My! but I never smelled any- thing so good as that in all my life. Are you going to boil only three eggs? I could eat a dozen.”

“The can’ll only hold three at a time,” explained Bridge. “We’ll have some more boiling while we are eating these.” He borrowed his knife from the girl, who was slicing and buttering bread with it, and turned the bacon swiftly and deftly with the point, then he glanced at his watch. “The three minutes are up,” he announced and, with a couple of small, flat sticks saved for the pur- pose from the kindling wood, withdrew the eggs one at a time from the can.

“But we have no cups!’ exclaimed The Oskaloosa Kid, in sudden despair.

Bridge laughed. “Knock an end off your egg and the shell will answer in place of a cup. Got a knife?”

The Kid didn’t. Bridge eyed him quizzically. “You must have done most of your burgling near home,” he commented.

“I’m not a burglar!” cried the youth indignantly. Some- how it was very different when this nice voiced man called him a burglar from bragging of the fact himself to such as The Sky Pilot’s villainous company, or the awestruck, open-mouthed Willie Case whose very ex- pression invited heroics.

Bridge made no reply, but his eyes wandered to the right hand side pocket of the boy’s coat. Instantly the latter glanced guiltily downward to flush redly at the sight of several inches of pearl necklace protruding ac- cusingly therefrom. The girl, a silent witness of the oc- currence, was brought suddenly and painfully to a realization of her present position and recollection of the happenings of the preceding night. For the time she had forgotten that she was alone in the company of a tramp and a burglar–how much worse either might be she could only guess.

The breakfast, commenced so auspiciously, continued in gloomy silence. At least the girl and The Oskaloosa Kid were silent and gloom steeped. Bridge was thought- ful but far from morose. His spirits were unquenchable.

“I am afraid,” he said, “that I shall have to replace James. His defection is unforgivable, and he has mis- placed the finger-bowls.”

The youth and the girl forced wan smiles; but neither spoke. Bridge drew a pouch of tobacco and some papers from an inside pocket.

“‘I had the makings and I smoked

“‘And wondered over different things,

“‘Thinkin’ as how this old world joked

“‘In callin’ only some men kings

“‘While I sat there a-blowin’ rings.'”

He paused to kindle a sliver of wood at the stove. “In these parlous times,” he spoke as though to himself, “one must economize. They are taking a quarter of an ounce out of each five cents worth of chewing, I am told; so doubtless each box must be five or six matches short of full count. Even these papers seem thinner than of yore and they will only sell one book to a customer at that. Indeed Sherman was right.”

The youth and the girl remained occupied with their own thoughts, and after a moment’s silence the vaga- bond resumed:

“‘Me? I was king of anywhere,

“‘Peggin’ away at nothing, hard.

“‘Havin’ no pet, particular care;

“‘Havin’ no trouble, or no pard;

“‘”Just me,” filled up my callin’ card.’ “Say, do you know I’ve learned to love this Knibbs per- son. I used to think of him as a poor attic prune grind- ing away in his New York sky parlor, writing his verse of the things he longed for but had never known; until, one day, I met a fellow between Victorville and Cajon pass who knew His Knibbs, and come to find out this Knibbs is a regular fellow. His attic covers all God’s coun- try that is out of doors and he knows the road from La Bajada hill to Barstow a darned sight better than he knows Broadway.”

There was no answering sympathy awakened in either of his listeners–they remained mute. Bridge rose and stretched. He picked up his knife, wiped off the blade, closed it and slipped it into a trousers’ pocket. Then he walked toward the door. At the threshold he paused and turned. “‘Good-bye girls! I’m through,'” he quoted and passed out into the sunlight.

Instantly the two within were on their feet and follow- ing him.

“Where are you going?” cried The Oskaloosa Kid. “You’re not going to leave us, are you?”

“Oh, please don’t!” pleaded the girl.

“I don’t know,” said Bridge, solemnly, “whether I’m safe in remaining in your society or not. This Oskaloosa Kid is a bad proposition; and as for you, young lady, I rather imagine that the town constable is looking for you right now.”

The girl winced. “Please don’t,” she begged. “I haven’t done anything wicked, honestly! But I want to get away so that they can’t question me. I was in the car when they killed him; but I had nothing to do with it. It is just because of my father that I don’t want them to find me. It would break his heart.”

As the three stood back of the Squibbs’ summer kitchen Fate, in the guise of a rural free delivery carrier and a Ford, passed by the front gate. A mile beyond he stopped at the Case mail box where Jeb and his son Willie were, as usual, waiting his coming, for the rural free delivery man often carries more news than is con- tained in his mail sacks.

“Mornin’ Jeb,” he called, as he swerved his light car from the road and drew up in front of the Case gate.

“Mornin’, Jim!” returned Mr. Case. “Nice rain we had last night. What’s the news?”

“Plenty! Plenty!” exclaimed the carrier. “Lived here nigh onto forty year, man an’ boy, an’ never seen such work before in all my life.”

“How’s that?” questioned the farmer, scenting some- thing interesting.

“Ol’ man Baggs’s murdered last night,” announced the carrier, watching eagerly for the effect of his announce- ment.

“Gosh!” gasped Willie Case. “Was he shot?” It was almost a scream.

“I dunno,” replied Jim. “He’s up to the horspital now, an’ the doc says he haint one chance in a thousand.”

“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Case.

“But thet ain’t all,” continued Jim. “Reggie Paynter was murdered last night, too; right on the pike south of town. They threw his corpse outen a ottymobile.”

“By gol!” cried Jeb Case; “I hearn them devils go by last night ’bout midnight er after. ‘T woke me up. They must o’ ben goin’ sixty mile an hour. Er say,” he stopped to scratch his head. “Mebby it was tramps. They must a ben a score on ’em round here yesterday and las’ night an’ agin this mornin’. I never seed so dum many bums in my life.”

“An’ thet ain’t all,” went on the carrier, ignoring the others comments. “Oakdale’s all tore up. Abbie Prim’s disappeared and Jonas Prim’s house was robbed jest about the same time Ol’ man Baggs ‘uz murdered, er most murdered–chances is he’s dead by this time any- how. Doc said he hadn’t no chance.”

“Gosh!” It was a pater-filius duet.

“But thet ain’t all,” gloated Jim. “Two of the persons in the car with Reggie Paynter were recognized, an’ who do you think one of ’em was, eh? Why one of ’em was Abbie Prim an’ tother was a slick crook from Toledo er Noo York that’s called The Oskaloosie Kid. By gum, I’ll bet they get ’em in no time. Why already Jonas Prim’s got a regular dee-dectiff down from Chicago, an’ the board o’ select-men’s offered a re-ward o’ fifty dollars fer the arrest an’ conviction of the perpetrators of these dastardly crimes!”

“Gosh!” cried Willie Case. “I know–“; but then he paused. If he told all he knew he saw plainly that either the carrier or his father would profit by it and collect the reward. Fifty dollars!! Willie gasped.

“Well,” said Jim, “I gotta be on my way. Here’s the Tribune–there ain’t nothin’ more fer ye. So long! Gid- dap!” and he was gone.

“I don’ see why he don’t carry a whip,” mused Jeb Case. “A-gidappin’ to that there tin lizzie,” he muttered disgustedly, “jes’ like it was as good as a hoss. But I mind the time, the fust day he got the dinged thing, he gets out an’ tries to lead it by Lem Smith’s threshin’ ma- chine.”

Jeb Case preferred an audience worthy his mettle; but Willie was better than no one, yet when he turned to note the effect of his remarks on his son, Willie was no where to be seen. If Jeb had but known it his young hopeless was already in the loft of the hay barn deep in a small, red-covered book entitled: “HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE.”

Bridge, who had had no intention of deserting his help- less companions, appeared at last to yield reluctantly to their pleas. That indefinable something about the youth which appealed strongly to the protective instinct in the man, also assured him that the other’s mask of criminal- ity was for the most part assumed even though the stor- ies of the two yeggmen and the loot bulging pockets argued to the contrary. There was the chance, however, that the boy had really taken the first step upon the road toward a criminal career, and if such were the case Bridge felt morally obligated to protect his new found friend from arrest, secure in the reflection that his own precept and example would do more to lead him back into the path of rectitude than would any police magis- trate or penal institute.

For the girl he felt a deep pity. In the past he had had knowledge of more than one other small-town girl led into wrong doing through the deadly monotony and flagrant hypocrisy of her environment. Himself highly imaginative and keenly sensitive, he realized with what depth of horror the girl anticipated a return to her home and friends after the childish escapade which had cul- minated, even through no fault of hers, in criminal tragedy of the most sordid sort.

As the three held a council of war at the rear of the deserted house they were startled by the loud squeaking of brake bands on the road in front. Bridge ran quickly into the kitchen and through to the front room where he saw three men alighting from a large touring car which had drawn up before the sagging gate. As the foremost man, big and broad shouldered, raised his eyes to the building Bridge smothered an exclamation of surprise and chagrin, nor did he linger to inspect the other mem- bers of the party; but turned and ran quickly back to his companions.

“We’ve got to beat it!” he whispered; “they’ve brought Burton himself down here.”

“Who’s Burton?” demanded the youth.

“He’s the best operative west of New York City,” replied Bridge, as he moved rapidly toward an out- house directly in rear of the main building.

Once behind the small, dilapidated structure which had once probably housed farm implements, Bridge paused and looked about. “They’ll search here,” he prophesied, and then; “Those woods look good to me.”

The Squibbs’ woods, growing rank in the damp ravine at the bottom of the little valley, ran to within a hun- dred feet of the out-building. Dense undergrowth choked the ground to a height of eight or ten feet around the boles of the close set trees. If they could gain the seclusion of that tangled jungle there was little likelihood of their being discovered, provided they were not seen as they passed across the open space between their hiding place and the wood.

“We’d better make a break for it,” advised Bridge, and a moment later the three moved cautiously toward the wood, keeping the out-house between themselves and the farm house. Almost in front of them as they neared the wood they saw a well defined path leading into the thicket. Single-file they entered, to be almost instantly hidden from view, not only from the house but from any other point more than a dozen paces away, for the path was winding, narrow and closely walled by the budding verdure of the new Spring. Birds sang or twit- tered about them, the mat of dead leaves oozed spongily beneath their feet, giving forth no sound as they passed, save a faint sucking noise as a foot was lifted from each watery seat.

Bridge was in the lead, moving steadily forward that they might put as much distance as possible between themselves and the detective should the latter chance to explore the wood. They had advanced a few hundred yards when the path crossed through a small clearing the center of which was destitute of fallen leaves. Here the path was beaten into soft mud and as Bridge came to it he stopped and bent his gaze incredulously upon the ground. The girl and the youth, halting upon either side, followed the direction of his eyes with theirs. The girl gave a little, involuntary gasp, and the boy grasped Bridge’s hand as though fearful of losing him. The man turned a quizzical glance at each of them and smiled, though a bit ruefully.

“It beats me,” he said.

“What can it be?” whispered the boy.

“Oh, let’s go back,” begged the girl.

“And go along to father with Burton?” asked Bridge.

The girl trembled and shook her head. “I would rather die,” she said, firmly. “Come, let’s go on.”

The cause of their perturbation was imprinted deeply in the mud of the pathway–the irregular outlines of an enormous, naked, human foot–a great, uncouth foot that bespoke a monster of another world. While, still more uncanny, in view of what they had heard in the farm house during the previous night, there lay, sometimes partially obliterated by the footprints of the THING, the impress of a small, bare foot–a woman’s or a child’s –and over both an irregular scoring that might have been wrought by a dragging chain!

In the loft of his father’s hay barn Willie Case delved deep into the small red-covered volume, HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE; but though he turned many pages and flitted to and fro from preface to conclusion he met only with disappointment. The pictures of noted bank burg- lars and confidence men aided him not one whit, for in none of them could he descry the slightest resemblance to the smooth faced youth of the early morning. In fact, so totally different were the types shown in the little book that Willie was forced to scratch his head and ex- claim “Gosh!” many times in an effort to reconcile the appearance of the innocent boy to the hardened, crimi- nal faces he found portrayed upon the printed pages.

“But, by gol!” he exclaimed mentally, “he said he was The Oskaloosie Kid, ‘n’ that he shot a man last night; but what I’d like to know is how I’m goin’ to shadder him from this here book. Here it says: ‘If the criminal gets on a street car and then jumps off at the next corner the good detective will know that his man is aware that he is being shadowed, and will stay on the car and telephone his office at the first opportunity.’ ‘N’ere it sez: ‘If your man gets into a carriage don’t run up an’ jump on the back of it; but simply hire an- other carriage and follow.’ How in hek kin I foller this book?” wailed Willie. “They ain’t no street cars ’round here. I ain’t never see a street car, ‘n’as fer a carriage, I reckon he means bus, they’s only one on ’em in Oakdale ‘n’if they waz forty I’d like to know how in hek I’d hire one when I ain’t got no money. I reckon I threw away my four-bits on this book–it don’t tell a feller nothin’ ’bout false whiskers, wigs ‘n’ the like,” and he tossed the book disgustedly into a corner, rose and descended to the barnyard. Here he busied himself about some task that should have been attended to a week before, and which even now was not destined to be completed that day, since Willie had no more than set himself to it than his attention was distracted by the sudden appear- ance of a touring car being brought to a stop in front of the gate.

Instantly Willie dropped his irksome labor and slouched lazily toward the machine, the occupants of which were descending and heading for the Case front door. Jeb Case met them before they reached the porch and Willie lolled against a pillar listening eagerly to all that was said.

The most imposing figure among the strangers was the same whom Bridge had seen approaching the Squibbs’ house a short time before. It was he who acted as spokesman for the newcomers.

“As you may know,” he said, after introducing him- self, “a number of crimes were committed in and around Oakdale last night. We are searching for clews to the perpetrators, some of whom must still be in the neigh- borhood. Have you seen any strange or suspicious char- acters around lately?”

“I should say we hed,” exclaimed Jeb emphatically.

“I seen the wo’st lookin’ gang o’ bums come outen my hay barn this mornin’ thet I ever seed in my life. They must o’ ben upward of a dozen on ’em. They waz makin’ fer the house when I steps in an’ grabs my ol’ shot gun. I hollered at ’em not to come a step nigher ‘n’ I guess they seed it wa’n’t safe monkeyin’ with me; so they skidaddled.”

“Which way did they go?” asked Burton.

“Off down the road yonder; but I don’t know which way they turned at the crossin’s, er ef they kept straight on toward Millsville.”

Burton asked a number of questions in an effort to fix the identity of some of the gang, warned Jeb to tele- phone him at Jonas Prim’s if he saw anything further of the strangers, and then retraced his steps toward the car. Not once bad Jeb mentioned the youth who had purchased supplies from him that morning, and the reason was that Jeb had not considered the young man of sufficient importance, having cataloged him mentally as an unusually early specimen of the summer camper with which he was more or less familiar.

Willie, on the contrary, realized the importance of their morning customer, yet just how he was to cash in on his knowledge was not yet entirely clear. He was al- ready convinced that HOW TO BE A DETECTIVE would help him not at all, and with the natural suspicion of ignorance he feared to divulge his knowledge to the city detective for fear that the latter would find the means to cheat him out of the princely reward offered by the Oakdale village board. He thought of going at once to the Squibbs’ house and placing the desperate criminals under arrest; but as fear throttled the idea in its infancy he cast about for some other plan.

Even as he stood there thinking the great detective and his companions were entering the automobile to drive away. In a moment they would be gone. Were they not, after all, the very men, the only men, in fact, to assist him in his dilemma? At least he could test them out. If necessary he would divide the reward with them! Running toward the road Willie shouted to the departing sleuth. The car, moving slowly forward in low, came again to rest. Willie leaped to the running board.

“If I tell you where the murderer is,” he whispered hoarsely, “do I git the $50.00?”

Detective Burton was too old a hand to ignore even the most seemingly impossible of aids. He laid a kindly hand on Willie’s shoulder. “You bet you do,” he replied heartily, “and what’s more I’ll add another fifty to it. What do you know?”

“I seen the murderer this mornin’,” Willie was gasp- ing with excitement and elation. Already the one hun- dred dollars was as good as his. One hundred dollars! Willie “Goshed!” mentally even as he told his tale. “He come to our house an’ bought some vittles an’ stuff. Paw didn’t know who he wuz; but when Paw went inside he told me he was The Oskaloosie Kid ‘n’ thet he robbed a house last night and killed a man, ‘n’ he had a whole pocket full o’ money, ‘n’ he said he’d kill me ef I told.”

Detective Burton could scarce restrain a smile as he listened to this wildly improbable tale, yet his profes- sional instinct was too keen to permit him to cast aside as worthless the faintest evidence until he had proven it to be worthless. He stepped from the car again and motioning to Willie to follow him returned to the Case yard where Jeb was already coming toward the gate, having noted the interest which his son was arousing among the occupants of the car. Willie pulled at the detective’s sleeve. “Don’t tell Paw about the reward,” he begged; “he’ll keep it all hisself.”

Burton reassured the boy with a smile and a nod, and then as he neared Jeb he asked him if a young man had been at his place that morning asking for food.

“Sure,” replied Jeb; “but he didn’t ‘mount to nothin’. One o’ these here summer camper pests. He paid fer all he got. Had a roll o’ bills ‘s big as ye fist. Little feller he were, not much older ‘n’ Willie.”

“Did you know that he told your son that he was The Oskaloosa Kid and that he had robbed a house and killed a man last night?”

“Huh?” exclaimed Jeb. Then he turned and cast one awful look at Willie–a look large with menace.

“Honest, Paw,” pleaded the boy. “I was a-scairt to tell you, ’cause he said he’d kill me ef I told.”

Jeb scratched his head. “Yew know what you’ll get ef you’re lyin’ to me,” he threatened.

“I believe he’s telling the truth,” said detective Bur- ton. “Where is the man now?” he asked Willie.

“Down to the Squibbs’ place,” and Willie jerked a dirty thumb toward the east.

“Not now,” said Burton; “we just came from there; but there has been someone there this morning, for there is still a fire in the kitchen range. Does anyone live there?”

“I should say not,” said Willie emphatically; “the place is haunted.”

“Thet’s right,” interjected Jeb. “Thet’s what they do say, an’ this here Oskaloosie Kid said they heered things las’ night an’ seed a dead man on the floor, didn’t he M’randy?” M’randy nodded her head.

“But I don’t take no stock in what Willie’s ben tellin’ ye,” she continued, “‘n’ ef his paw don’t lick him I will. I told him tell I’m good an’ tired o’ talkin’ thet one liar ’round a place wuz all I could stand,” and she cast a meaning glance at her husband.

“Honest, Maw, I ain’t a-lyin’,” insisted Willie. “Wot do you suppose he give me this fer, if it wasn’t to keep me from talkin’,” and the boy drew a crumpled one dol- lar bill from his pocket. It was worth the dollar to escape a thrashing.

“He give you thet?” asked his mother. Willie nodded assent.

“‘N’ thet ain’t all he had neither,” he said. “Beside all them bills he showed me a whole pocket full o’ jewlry, ‘n’ he had a string o’ things thet I don’t know jest what you call ’em; but they looked like they was made outen the inside o’ clam shells only they was all round like marbles.”

Detective Burton raised his eyebrows. “Miss Prim’s pearl necklace,” he commented to the man at his side. The other nodded. “Don’t punish your son, Mrs. Case,” he said to the woman. “I believe he has discovered a great deal that will help us in locating the man we want. Of course I am interested principally in finding Miss Prim–her father has engaged me for that purpose; but I think the arrest of the perpetrators of any of last night’s crimes will put us well along on the trail of the missing young lady, as it is almost a foregone conclusion that there is a connection between her disappearance and some of the occurrences which have so excited Oakdale. I do not mean that she was a party to any criminal act; but it is more than possible that she was ab- ducted by the same men who later committed the other crimes.”

The Cases hung open-mouthed upon his words, while his companions wondered at the loquaciousness of this ordinarily close-mouthed man, who, as a matter of fact, was but attempting to win the confidence of the boy on the chance that even now he had not told all that he knew; but Willie had told all.

Finding, after a few minutes further conversation, that he could glean no additional information the de- tective returned to his car and drove west toward Mills- ville on the assumption that the fugitives would seek escape by the railway running through that village. Only thus could he account for their turning off the main pike. The latter was now well guarded all the way to Payson; while the Millsville road was still open.

No sooner had he departed than Willie Case disap- peared, nor did he answer at noon to the repeated ringing of the big, farm dinner bell.

Half way between the Case farm and Millsville de- tective Burton saw, far ahead along the road, two figures scale a fence and disappear behind the fringing black- berry bushes which grew in tangled profusion on either side. When they came abreast of the spot he ordered the driver to stop; but though he scanned the open field carefully he saw no sign of living thing.

“There are two men hiding behind those bushes,” he said to his companions in a low whisper. “One of you walk ahead about fifty yards and the other go back the same distance and then climb the fence. When I see you getting over I’ll climb it here. They can’t get away from us.” To the driver he said: “You have a gun. If they make a break go after ’em. You can shoot if they don’t stop when you tell ’em to.”

The two men walked in opposite directions along the road, and when Burton saw them turn in and start to climb the fence he vaulted over the panel directly op- posite the car. He had scarcely alighted upon the other side when his eyes fell upon the disreputable figures of two tramps stretched out upon their backs and snoring audibly. Burton grinned.

“You two sure can go to sleep in a hurry,” he said. One of the men opened his eyes and sat up. When he saw who it was that stood over him he grinned sheep- ishly.

“Can’t a guy lie down fer a minute in de bushes wid- out bein’ pinched?” he asked. The other man now sat up and viewed the newcomer, while from either side Bur- ton’s companions closed in on the three.

“Wot’s de noise?” inquired the second tramp, looking from one to another of the intruders. “We ain’t done nothin’.”

“Of course not, Charlie,” Burton assured him gaily. “Who would ever suspect that you or The General would do anything; but somebody did something in Oakdale last night and I want to take you back there and have a nice, long talk with you. Put your hands up!”

“We–.”

“Put ’em up!” snapped Burton, and when the four grimy fists had been elevated he signalled to his com- panions to search the two men.

Nothing more formidable than knives, dope, and a needle were found upon them.

“Say,” drawled Dopey Charlie. “We knows wot we knows; but hones’ to gawd we didn’t have nothin’ to do wid it. We knows the guy that pulled it off–we spent las’ night wid him an’ his pal an’ a skoit. He creased me, here,” and Charlie unbuttoned his clothing and ex- posed to view the bloody scratch of The Oskaloosa Kid’s bullet. “On de level, Burton, we wern’t in on it. Dis guy was at dat Squibbs’ place wen we pulls in dere outen de rain. He has a pocket full o’ kale an’ sparklers an’ tings, and he goes fer to shoot me up wen I tries to get away.”

“Who was he?” asked Burton.

“He called hisself de Oskaloosa Kid,” replied Charlie. “A guy called Bridge was wid him. You know him?”

“I’ve heard of him; but he’s straight,” replied Burton. “Who was the skirt?”

“I dunno,” said Charlie; “but she was gassin’ ’bout her pals croakin’ a guy an’ trunin’ ‘im outten a gas wagon, an’ dis Oskaloosa Kid he croaks some old guy in Oak- dale las’ night. Mebby he ain’t a bad ‘un though!”

“Where are they now?” asked Burton.

“We got away from ’em at the Squibbs’ place this mornin’,” said Charlie.

“Well,” said Burton, “you boes come along with me. If you ain’t done nothing the worst you’ll get’ll be three squares and a place to sleep for a few days. I want you where I can lay my hands on you when I need a couple of witnesses,” and he herded them over the fence and into the machine. As he himself was about to step in he felt suddenly of his breast pocket.

“What’s the matter?” asked one of his companions.

“I’ve lost my note book,” replied Burton; “it must have dropped out of my pocket when I jumped the fence. Just wait a minute while I go look for it,” and be returned to the fence, vaulted it and disappeared be- hind the bushes.

It was fully five minutes before he returned but when he did there was a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Find it?” asked his principal lieutenant.

“Yep,” replied Burton. “I wouldn’t have lost it for anything.”

Bridge and his companions had made their way along the wooded path for perhaps a quarter of a mile when the man halted and drew back behind the foliage of a flowering bush. With raised finger he motioned the oth- ers to silence and then pointed through the branches ahead. The boy and the girl, tense with excitement, peered past the man into a clearing in which stood a log shack, mud plastered; but it was not the hovel which held their mute attention–it was rather the figure of a girl, bare headed and bare footed, who toiled stub- bornly with an old spade at a long, narrow excavation.

All too suggestive in itself was the shape of the hole the girl was digging; there was no need of the silent proof of its purpose which lay beside her to tell the watchers that she worked alone in the midst of the for- est solitude upon a human grave. The thing wrapped in an old quilt lay silently waiting for the making of its last bed.

And as the three watched her other eyes watched them and the digging girl–wide, awestruck eyes, filled with a great terror, yet now and again half closing in the shrewd expression of cunning that is a hall mark of crafty ignorance.

And as they watched, their over-wrought nerves sud- denly shuddered to the grewsome clanking of a chain from the dark interior of the hovel.

The youth, holding tight to Bridge’s sleeve, strove to pull him away.

“Let’s go back,” he whispered in a voice that trembled so that he could scarce control it.

“Yes, please,” urged the girl. “Here is another path leading toward the north. We must be close to a road. Let’s get away from here.”

The digger paused and raised her head, listening, as though she had caught the faint, whispered note of hu- man voices. She was a black haired girl of nineteen or twenty, dressed in a motley of flowered calico and silk, with strings of gold and silver coins looped around her olive neck. Her bare arms were encircled by bracelets– some cheap and gaudy, others well wrought from gold and silver. From her ears depended ornaments fash- ioned from gold coins. Her whole appearance was bar- baric, her occupation cast a sinister haze about her; and yet her eyes seemed fashioned for laughter and her lips for kissing.

The watchers remained motionless as the girl peered first in one direction and then in another, seeking an ex- planation of the sounds which had disturbed her. Her brows were contracted into a scowl of apprehension which remained even after she returned to her labors, and that she was ill at ease was further evidenced by the frequent pauses she made to cast quick glances to- ward the dense tanglewood surrounding the clearing.

At last the grave was dug. The girl climbed out and stood looking down upon the quilt wrapped thing at her feet. For a moment she stood there as silent and motionless as the dead. Only the twittering of birds dis- turbed the quiet of the wood. Bridge felt a soft hand slipped into his and slender fingers grip his own, He turned his eyes to see the boy at his side gazing with wide eyes and trembling lips at the tableau within the clearing. Involuntarily the man’s hand closed tightly upon the youth’s.

And as they stood thus the silence was shattered by a loud and human sneeze from the thicket not fifty feet from where they stood. Instantly the girl in the clearing was electrified into action. Like a tigress charging those who stalked her she leaped swiftly across the clearing toward the point from which the disturbance had come. There was an answering commotion in the underbrush as the girl crashed through, a slender knife gleaming in her hand.

Bridge and his companions heard the sounds of a swift and short pursuit followed by voices, one master- ful, the other frightened and whimpering; and a moment afterward the girl reappeared dragging a boy with her –a wide-eyed, terrified, country boy who begged and blubbered to no avail.

Beside the dead man the girl halted and then turned on her captive. In her right hand she still held the menacing blade.

“What you do there watching me for?” she demanded. “Tell me the truth, or I kill you,” and she half raised the knife that he might profit in his decision by this most potent of arguments.

The boy cowered. “I didn’t come fer to watch you,” he whimpered. “I’m lookin’ for somebody else. I’m goin’ to be a dee-tectiff, an’ I’m shadderin’ a murderer; and he gasped and stammered: “But not you. I’m lookin’ for another murderer.”

For the first time the watchers saw a faint smile touch the girl’s lips.

“What other murderer?” she asked. “Who has been murdered?”

“Two an’ mebby three in Oakdale last night,” said Willie Case more glibly now that a chance for dissemi- nating gossip momentarily outweighed his own fears. “Reginald Paynter was murdered an’ ol’ man Baggs an’ Abigail Prim’s missin’. Like es not she’s been murdered too, though they do say as she had a hand in it, bein’ seen with Paynter an’ The Oskaloosie Kid jest afore the murder.”

As the boy’s tale reached the ears of the three hidden in the underbrush Bridge glanced quickly at his com- panions. He saw the boy’s horror-stricken expression fol- low the announcement of the name of the murdered Paynter, and he saw the girl flush crimson.

Without urging, Willie Case proceeded with his story. He told of the coming of The Oskaloosa Kid to his father’s farm that morning and of seeing some of the loot and hearing the confession of robbery and killing in Oakdale the night before. Bridge looked down at the youth beside him; but the other’s face was averted and his eyes upon the ground. Then Willie told of the arrival of the great detective, of the reward that had been of- fered and of his decision to win it and become rich and famous in a single stroke. As he reached the end of his narrative he leaned close to the girl, whispering in her ear the while his furtive gaze wandered toward the spot where the three lay concealed.

Bridge shrugged his shoulders as the palpable infer- ence of that cunning glance was borne in upon him. The boy’s voice had risen despite his efforts to hold it to a low whisper for what with the excitement of the ad- venture and his terror of the girl with the knife he had little or no control of himself, yet it was evident that he did not realize that practically every word he had spoken had reached the ears of the three in hiding and that his final precaution as he divulged the information to the girl was prompted by an excess of timidity and secretiveness.

The eyes of the girl widened in surprise and fear as she learned that three watchers lay concealed at the verge of the clearing. She bent a long, searching look in the direction indicated by the boy and then turned her eyes quickly toward the hut as though to summon aid. At the same moment Bridge stepped from hiding into the clearing. His pleasant ‘Good morning!’ brought the girl around, facing him.

“What you want?” she snapped.

“I want you and this young man,” said Bridge, his voice now suddenly stern. “We have been watching you and followed you from the Squibbs house. We found the dead man there last night;” Bridge nodded toward the quilt enveloped thing upon the ground; “and we sus- pect that you had an accomplice.” Here he frowned meaningly upon Willie Case. The youth trembled and stammered.

“I never seen her afore,” he cried. “I don’ know nothin’ about it. Honest I don’t.” But the girl did not quail.

“You get out,” she commanded. “You a bad man. Kill, steal. He know; he tell me. You get out or I call Beppo. He keel you. He eat you.”

“Come, come, now, my dear,” urged Bridge, “be calm. Let us get at the root of this thing. Your young friend accuses me of being a murderer, does he? And he tells about murders in Oakdale that I have not even heard of. It seems to me that he must have some guilty knowl- edge himself of these affairs. Look at him and look at me. Notice his ears, his chin, his forehead, or rather the places where his chin and forehead should be, and then look once more at me. Which of us might be a murderer and which a detective? I ask you.

“And as for yourself. I find you here in the depths of the wood digging a lonely grave for a human corpse. I ask myself: was this man murdered? but I do not say that he was murdered. I wait for an explanation from you, for you do not look a murderer, though I cannot say as much for your desperate companion.”

The girl looked straight into Bridge’s eyes for a full minute before she replied as though endeavoring to read his inmost soul.

“I do not know this boy,” she said. “That is the truth. He was spying on me, and when I found him he told me that you and your companions were thieves and murderers and that you were hiding there watching me. You tell me the truth, all the truth, and I will tell you the truth. I have nothing to fear. If you do not tell me the truth I shall know it. Will you?”

“I will,” replied Bridge, and then turning toward the brush he called: “Come here!” and presently a boy and a girl, dishevelled and fearful, crawled forth into sight. Willie Case’s eyes went wide as they fell upon the Oskaloosa Kid.

Quickly and simply Bridge told the girl the story of the past night, for he saw that by enlisting her sym- pathy he might find an avenue of escape for his com- panions, or at least a haven of refuge where they might hide until escape was possible. “And then,” he said in conclusion, “when the searchers arrived we followed the foot prints of yourself and the bear until we came upon you digging this grave.”

Bridge’s companions and Willie Case looked their sur- prise at his mention of a bear; but the gypsy girl only nodded her head as she had occasionally during his nar- rative.

“I believe you,” said the girl. “It is not easy to de- ceive Giova. Now I tell you. This here,” she pointed toward the dead man, “he my father. He bad man. Steal; kill; drink; fight; but always good to Giova. Good to no one else but Beppo. He afraid Beppo. Even our people drive us out he, my father, so bad man. We wan- der ’round country mak leetle money when Beppo dance; mak lot money when HE steal. Two days he no come home. I go las’ night look for him. Sometimes he too drunk come home he sleep Squeebs. I go there. I find heem dead. He have fits, six, seven year. He die fit. Beppo stay guard heem. I carry heem home. Giova strong, he no very large man. Beppo come too. I bury heem. No one know we leeve here. Pretty soon I go way with Beppo. Why tell people he dead. Who care? Mak lot trouble for Giova whose heart already ache plenty. No one love heem, only Beppo and Giova. No one love Giova, only Beppo; but some day Beppo he keel Giova now HE is dead, for Beppo vera large, strong bear–fierce bear–ogly bear. Even Giova who love Bep- po is afraid Beppo. Beppo devil bear! Beppo got evil eye.

“Well,” said Bridge, “I guess, Giova, that you and we are in the same boat. We haven’t any of us done any- thing so very bad but it would be embarrassing to have to explain to the police what we have done,” here he glanced at The Oskaloosa Kid and the girl standing beside the youth. “Suppose we form a defensive alli- ance, eh? We’ll help you and you help us. What do you say?”

“All right,” acquiesced Giova; “but what we do with this?” and she jerked her thumb toward Willie Case.

“If he don’t behave we’ll feed him to Beppo,” sug- gested Bridge.

Willie shook in his boots, figuratively speaking, for in reality he shook upon his bare feet. “Lemme go,” he wailed, “an’ I won’t tell nobody nothin’.”

“No,” said Bridge, “you don’t go until we’re safely out of here. I wouldn’t trust that vanishing chin of yours as far as I could throw Beppo by the tail.”

“Wait!” exclaimed The Oskaloosa Kid. “I have it!”

“What have you?” asked Bridge.

“Listen!” cried the boy excitedly. “This boy has been offered a hundred dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the men who robbed and mur- dered in Oakdale last night. I’ll give him a hundred dollars if he’ll go away and say nothing about us.”

“Look here, son,” said Bridge, “every time you open your mouth you put your foot in it. The less you adver- tise the fact that you have a hundred dollars the better off you’ll be. I don’t know how you come by so much wealth; but in view of several things which occurred last night I should not be crazy, were I you, to have to make a true income tax return. Somehow I have faith in you; but I doubt if any minion of the law would be similarly impressed.”

The Oskaloosa Kid appeared hurt and crestfallen. Giova shot a suspicious glance at him. The other girl in- voluntarily drew away. Bridge noted the act and shook his head. “No,” he said, “we mustn’t judge one another hastily, Miss Prim, and I take it you are Miss Prim?” The girl made a half gesture of denial, started to speak, hesitated and then resumed. “I would rather not say who I am, please,” she said.

“Well,” said the man, “let’s take one another at face value for a while, without digging too deep into the past; and now for our plans. This wood will be searched; but I don’t see how we are to get out of it before dark as the roads are doubtless pretty well patrolled, or at least every farmer is on the lookout for suspicious strangers. So we might as well make the best of it here for the rest of the day. I think we’re reasonably safe for the time being–if we keep Willie with us.”

Willie had been an interested auditor of all that passed between his captors. He was obviously terrified; but his terror did not prevent him from absorbing all that he heard, nor from planning how he might utilize the information. He saw not only one reward but sev- eral and a glorious publicity which far transcended the most sanguine of his former dreams. He saw his picture not only in the Oakdale Tribune but in the newspapers of every city of the country. Assuming a stern and arro- gant expression, or rather what he thought to be such, he posed, mentally, for the newspaper cameramen; and such is the power of association of ideas that he was presently strolling nonchalantly before a battery of mo- tion picture machines. “Gee!” he murmured, “wont the other fellers be sore! I s’ppose Pinkerton’ll send for me ’bout the first thing ‘n’ offer me twenty fi’ dollars a week, er mebbie more ‘n thet. Gol durn, ef I don’t hold out fer thirty! Gee!” Words, thoughts even, failed him.

As the others planned they rather neglected Willie and when they came to assisting Giova in lowering her father into the grave and covering him over with earth they quite forgot Willie entirely. It was The Oskaloosa Kid who first thought of him. “Where’s the boy?” he cried suddenly. The others looked quickly about the clearing, but no Willie was to be seen.

Bridge shook his head ruefully. “We’ll have to get out of this in a hurry now,” he said. “That little defective will have the whole neighborhood on us in an hour.”

“Oh, what can we do?” cried the girl. “They mustn’t find us! I should rather die than be found here with–” She stopped abruptly, flushed scarlet as the other three looked at her in silence, and then: “I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know what I was saying. I am so frightened. You have all been good to me.”

“I tell you what we do.” It was Giova speaking in the masterful voice of one who has perfect confidence in his own powers. “I know fine way out. This wood circle back south through swamp mile, mile an’ a half. The road past Squeebs an’ Case’s go right through it. I know path there I fin’ myself. We on’y have to cross road, that only danger. Then we reach leetle stream south of woods, stream wind down through Payson. We all go Gypsies. I got lot clothing in house. We all go Gypsies, an’ when we reach Payson we no try hide–jus’ come out on street with Beppo. Mak’ Beppo dance. No one think we try hide. Then come night we go ‘way. Find more wood an’ leetle lake other side Payson. I know place. We hide there long time. No one ever fin’ us there. We tell two, three, four people in Payson we go Oakdale. They look Oakdale for us if they wan’ fin’ us. They no think look where we go. See?”

“Oh, I can’t go to Payson,” exclaimed the other girl. “Someone would be sure to recognize me.”

“You come in house with me,” Giova assured her, “I feex you so your own mother no know you. You mens come too. I geeve you what to wear like Gypsy mens. We got lots things. My father, him he steal many things from our people after they drive us out. He go back by nights an’ steal.”

The three followed her toward the little hovel since there seemed no better plan than that which she had offered. Giova and the other girl were in the lead, fol- lowed by Bridge and the boy. The latter turned to the man and placed a hand upon his arm. “Why don’t you leave us,” he asked. “You have done nothing. No one is looking for you. Why don’t you go your way and save yourself from suspicion.”

Bridge did not reply.

“I believe,” the youth went on, “that you are doing it for me; but why I can’t guess.”

“Maybe I am,” Bridge half acknowledged. “You’re a good little kid, but you need someone to look after you. It would be easier though if you’d tell me the truth about yourself, which you certainly haven’t up to now.”

“Please don’t ask me,” begged the boy. “I can’t; hon- estly I can’t.”

“Is it as bad as that?” asked the man.

“Oh, its worse,” cried The Oskaloosa Kid. “It’s a thou- sand times worse. Don’t make me tell you, for if I do tell I shall have to leave you, and–and, oh, Bridge, I don’t want to leave you–ever!”

They had reached the door of the cabin now and were looking in past the girl who had halted there as Giova entered. Before them was a small room in which a large, vicious looking brown bear was chained.

“Behold our ghost of last night!” exclaimed Bridge. “By George! though, I’d as soon have hunted a real ghost in the dark as to have run into this fellow.”

“Did you know last night that it was a bear?” asked the Kid. “You told Giova that you followed the foot- prints of herself and her bear; but you had not said any- thing about a bear to us.”

“I had an idea last night,” explained Bridge, “that the sounds were produced by some animal dragging a chain; but I couldn’t prove it and so I said nothing, and then this morning while we were following the trail I made up my mind that it was a bear. There were two facts which argued that such was the case. The first is that I don’t believe in ghosts and that even if I did I would not expect a ghost to leave footprints in the mud, and the other is that I knew that the footprints of a bear are strangely similar to those of the naked feet of man. Then when I saw the Gypsy girl I was sure that what we had heard last night was nothing more nor less than a trained bear. The dress and appearance of the dead man lent themselves to a furtherance of my belief and the wisp of brown hair clutched in his fingers added still further proof.”

Within the room the bear was now straining at his collar and growling ferociously at the strangers. Giova crossed the room, scolding him and at the same time attempting to assure him that the newcomers were friends; but the wicked expression upon the beast’s face gave no indication that he would ever accept them as aught but enemies.

It was a breathless Willie who broke into his mother’s kitchen wide eyed and gasping from the effects of ex- citement and a long, hard run.

“Fer lan’ sakes!” exclaimed Mrs. Case. “Whatever in the world ails you?”

“I got ’em; I got ’em!” cried Willie, dashing for the telephone.

“Fer lan’ sakes! I should think you did hev ’em,” re- torted his mother as she trailed after him in the direc- tion of the front hall. “‘N’ whatever you got, you got ’em bad. Now you stop right where you air ‘n’ tell me what- ever you got. ‘Taint likely its measles, fer you’ve hed them three times, ‘n’ whoopin’ cough ain’t ‘them,’ it’s ‘it,’ ‘n’–.” Mrs. Case paused and gasped–horrified. “Fer lan’ sakes, Willie Case, you come right out o’ this house this minute ef you got anything in your head.” She made a grab for Willie’s arm; but the boy dodged and reached the telephone.

“Shucks!” he cried. “I ain’t got nothin’ in my head,” nor did either sense the unconscious humor of the state- ment. “What I got is a gang o’ thieves an’ murderers, an’ I’m callin’ up thet big city deetectiff to come arter ’em.”

Mrs. Case sank into a chair, prostrated by the weight of her emotions, while Willie took down the receiver af- ter ringing the bell to attract central. Finally he ob- tained his connection, which was with Jonas Prim’s bank where detective Burton was making his headquarters. Here he learned that Burton had not returned; but fi- nally gave his message reluctantly to Jonas Prim after exacting a promise from that gentleman that he would be personally responsible for the payment of the reward. What Willie Case told Jonas Prim had the latter in a machine, with half a dozen deputy sheriffs and speed- ing southward from Oakdale inside of ten minutes.

A short distance out from town they met detective Burton with his two prisoners. After a hurried consulta- tion Dopey Charlie and The General were unloaded and started on the remainder of their journey afoot un- der guard of two of the deputies, while Burton’s com- panions turned and followed the other car, Burton tak- ing a seat beside Prim.