The Daughter of Anderson Crow - George Barr McCutcheon

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This time he almost swore under his breath.

      "But he can't get there," volunteered one of the bystanders.

      "Why can't he?" demanded the marshal.

      "Bridge over Turnip Creek is washed out. Did you forget that?"

      "Of course not," promptly replied Mr. Crow, who had forgotten it; "But, dang it, he c'n swim, can't he?"

      "You say the bridge is gone?" asked the stranger, visibly excited.

      "Yes, and the crick's too high to ford, too."

      "Well, how in thunder am I to get to Crow's Cliff?"

      "There's another bridge four miles upstream. It's still there," said George Ray. Anderson Crow had scornfully washed his hands of the affair.

      "Confound the luck! I haven't time to drive that far. I have to be there at half-past twelve. I'm late now! Is there no way to get across this miserable creek?" He was in the buggy now, whip in hand, and his eyes wore an anxious expression. Some of the men vowed later that he positively looked frightened.

      "There's a foot-log high and dry, and you can walk across, but you can't get the horse and buggy over," said one of the men.

      "Well, that's just what I'll have to do. Say, Mr. Officer, suppose you drive me down to the creek and then bring the horse back here to a livery stable. I'll pay you well for it. I must get to Crow's Cliff in fifteen minutes."

      "I'm no errant-boy!" cried Anderson Crow so wrathfully that two or three boys snickered.

      "You're a darned old crank, that's what you are!" exclaimed the stranger angrily. Everybody gasped, and Mr. Crow staggered back against the hitching-rail.

      "See here, young man, none o' that!" he sputtered. "You can't talk that way to an officer of the law. I'll—"

      "You won't do anything, do you hear that? But if you knew who I am you'd be doing something blamed quick." A dozen men heard him say it, and they remembered it word for word.

      "You go scratch yourself!" retorted Anderson Crow scornfully. That was supposed to be a terrible challenge, but the stranger took no notice of it.

      "What am I to do with this horse and buggy?" he growled, half to himself. "I bought the darned thing outright up in Boggs City, just because the liveryman didn't know me and wouldn't let me a rig. Now I suppose I'll have to take the old plug down to the creek and drown him in order to get rid of him."

      Nobody remonstrated. He looked a bit dangerous with his broad shoulders and square jaw.

      "What will you give me for the outfit, horse, buggy, harness and all? I'll sell cheap if some one makes a quick offer." The bystanders looked at one another blankly, and at last the concentrated gaze fell upon the Pooh-Bah of the town. The case seemed to be one that called for his attention; truly, it did not look like public property, this astounding proposition.

      "What you so derned anxious to sell for?" demanded Anderson Crow, listening from a distance to see if he could detect a blemish in the horse's breathing gear. At a glance, the buggy looked safe enough.

      "I'm anxious to sell for cash," replied the stranger; and Anderson was floored. The boy who snickered this time had cause to regret it, for Mr. Crow arrested him half an hour later for carrying a bean-shooter. "I paid a hundred dollars for the outfit in Boggs City," went on the stranger nervously. "Some one make an offer—and quick! I'm in a rush!"

      "I'll give five dollars!" said one of the onlookers with an apologetic laugh. This was the match that started fire in the thrifty noddles of Tinkletown's best citizens. Before they knew it they were bidding against each other with the true "horse-swapping" instinct, and the offers had reached $21.25 when the stranger unceremoniously closed the sale by crying out, "Sold!" There is no telling how high the bids might have gone if he could have waited half an hour or so. Uncle Gideon Luce afterward said that he could have had twenty-four dollars "just as well as not." They were bidding up a quarter at a time, and no one seemed willing to drop out. The successful bidder was Anderson Crow.

      "You can pay me as we drive along. Jump in!" cried the stranger, looking at his watch with considerable agitation. "All I ask is that you drive me to the foot-log that crosses the creek."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Quite a crowd had collected at the Banner office. There was a sudden hush when the marshal

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