The prisoners could hear the voices of the guards and the jailer raised in an attempt to reason with the unreasoning mob, and then came a final crash and the stamping of many feet upon the floor of the outer room.
Burton’s car drew up before the doorway of the Prim home in Oakdale. The great detective alighted and handed down the missing Abigail. Then he directed that the other prisoners be taken to the county jail.
Jonas Prim and his wife awaited Abigail’s return in the spacious living room at the left of the reception hall. The banker was nervous. He paced to and fro the length of the room. Mrs. Prim fanned herself vigorously although the heat was far from excessive. They heard the motor draw up in front of the house; but they did not venture into the reception hall or out upon the porch, though for different reasons. Mrs. Prim because it would not have been PROPER; Jonas because he could not trust himself to meet his daughter, whom he had thought lost, in the presence of a possible crowd which might have accompanied her home.
They heard the closing of an automobile door and the sound of foot steps coming up the concrete walk. The Prim butler was already waiting at the doorway with the doors swung wide to receive the prodigal daughter of the house of Prim. A slender figure with bowed head ascended the steps, guided and assisted by the detective. She did not look up at the expectant butler waiting for the greeting he was sure Abigail would have for him; but passed on into the reception hall.
“Your father and Mrs. Prim are in the living room,” announced the butler, stepping forward to draw aside the heavy hangings.
The girl, followed by Burton, entered the brightly lighted room.
“I am very glad, Mr. Prim,” said the latter, “to be able to return Miss Prim to you so quickly and unharmed.”
The girl looked up into the face of Jonas Prim. The man voiced an exclamation of surprise and annoyance. Mrs. Prim gasped and sank upon a sofa. The girl stood motionless, her eyes once again bent upon the floor.
“What’s the matter?” asked Burton. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything is wrong, Mr. Burton,” Jonas Prim’s voice was crisp and cold. “This is not my daughter.”
Burton looked his surprise and discomfiture. He turned upon the girl.
“What do you mean—” he started; but she interrupted him.
“You are going to ask what I mean by posing as Miss Prim,” she said. “I have never said that I was Miss Prim. You took the word of an ignorant little farmer’s boy and I did not deny it when I found that you intended bringing me to Mr. Prim, for I wanted to see him. I wanted to ask him to help me. I have never met him, or his daughter either; but my father and Mr. Prim have been friends for many years.
“I am Hettie Penning,” she continued, addressing Jonas Prim. “My father has always admired you and from what he has told me I knew that you would listen to me and do what you could for me. I could not bear to think of going to the jail in Payson, for Payson is my home. Everybody would have known me. It would have killed my father. Then I wanted to come myself and tell you, after reading the reports and insinuations in the paper, that your daughter was not with Reginald Paynter when he was killed. She had no knowledge of the crime and as far as I know may not have yet. I have not seen her and do not know where she is; but I was present when Mr. Paynter was killed. I have known him for years and have often driven with him. He stopped me yesterday afternoon on the street in Payson and talked with me. He was sitting in a car in front of the bank. After we had talked a few minutes two men came out of the bank. Mr. Paynter introduced them to me. He said they were driving out into the country to look at a piece of property — a farm somewhere north of Oakdale — and that on the way back they were going to stop at The Crossroads Inn for dinner. He asked me if I wouldn’t like to come along — he kind of dared me to, because, as you know, The Crossroads has rather a bad reputation.
“Father had gone to Toledo on business, and very foolishly I took his dare. Everything went all right until after we left The Inn, although one of the men — his companion referred to him once or twice as The Oskaloosa Kid — attempted to be too familiar with me. Mr. Paynter prevented him on each occasion, and they had words over me; but after we left the inn, where they had all drunk a great deal, this man renewed his attentions and Mr. Paynter struck him. Both of them were drunk. After that it all happened so quickly that I could scarcely follow it. The man called Oskaloosa Kid drew a revolver but did not fire, instead he seized Mr. Paynter by the coat and whirled him around and then he struck him an awful blow behind the ear with the butt of the weapon.
“After that the other two men seemed quite sobered. They discussed what would be the best thing to do and at last decided to throw Mr. Paynter’s body out of the machine, for it was quite evident that he was dead. First they rifled his pockets, and joked as they did it, one of them saying that they weren’t getting as much as they had planned on; but that a little was better than nothing. They took his watch, jewelry, and a large roll of bills. We passed around the east side of Oakdale and came back into the Toledo road. A little way out of town they turned the machine around and ran back for about half a mile; then they turned about a second time. I don’t know why they did this. They threw the body out while the machine was moving rapidly; but I was so frightened that I can’t say whether it was before or after they turned about the second time.
“In front of the old Squibbs place they shot at me and threw me out; but the bullet missed me. I have not seen them since and do not know where they went. I am ready and willing to aid in their conviction; but, please Mr. Prim, won’t you keep me from being sent back to Payson or to jail. I have done nothing criminal and I won’t run away.”
“How about the robbery of Miss Prim’s room and the murder of Old Man Baggs?” asked Burton. “Did they pull both of those off before they killed Paynter or after?”
“They had nothing to do with either unless they did them after they threw me out of the car, which must have been long after midnight,” replied the girl.
“And the rest of the gang, those that were arrested with you,” continued the detective, “how about them? All angels, I suppose.”
“There was only Bridge and the boy they called The Oskaloosa Kid, though he isn’t the same one that murdered poor Mr. Paynter, and the Gypsy girl, Giova, that were with me. The others were tramps who came into the old mill and attacked us while we were asleep. I don’t know who they were. The girl could have had nothing to do with any of the crimes. We came upon her this morning burying her father in the woods back of the Squibbs’ place. The man died of epilepsy last night. Bridge and the boy were taking refuge from the storm at the Squibbs place when I was thrown from the car. They heard the shot and came to my rescue. I am sure they had nothing to do with — with—” she hesitated.
“Tell the truth,” commanded Burton. “It will go hard with you if you don’t. What made you hesitate? You know something about those two — now out with it.”
“The boy robbed Mr. Prim’s home — I saw some of the money and jewelry — but Bridge was not with him. They just happened to meet by accident during the storm and came to the Squibbs place together. They were kind to me, and I hate to tell anything that would get the boy in trouble. That is the reason I hesitated. He seemed such a nice boy! It is hard to believe that he is a criminal, and Bridge was always so considerate. He looks like a tramp; but he talks and acts like a gentleman.”
The telephone bell rang briskly, and a moment later the butler stepped into the room to say that Mr. Burton was wanted on the wire. He returned to the living room in two or three minutes.
“That clears up some of it,” he said as he entered. “The sheriff just had a message from the chief at Toledo saying that The Oskaloosa Kid is dying in a hospital there following an automobile accident. He knew he was done for and sent for the police. When they came he told them he had killed a man by the name of Paynter at Oakdale last night and the chief called up to ask what we knew about it. The Kid confessed to clear his pal who wa
s only slightly injured in the smash-up. His story corroborates Miss Penning’s in every detail, he also said that after killing Paynter he had shot a girl witness and thrown her from the car to prevent her squealing.”
Once again the telephone bell rang, long and insistently. The butler almost ran into the room. “Payson wants you, sir,” he cried to Burton, “in a hurry, sir, it’s a matter of life and death, sir!”
Burton sprang to the phone. When he left it he only stopped at the doorway of the living room long enough to call in: “A mob has the two prisoners at Payson and are about to lynch them, and, my God, they’re innocent. We all know now who killed Paynter and I have known since morning who murdered Baggs, and it wasn’t either of those men; but they’ve found Miss Prim’s jewelry on the fellow called Bridge and they’ve gone crazy — they say he murdered her and the young one did for Paynter. I’m going to Payson,” and dashed from the house.
“Wait,” cried Jonas Prim, “I’m going with you,” and without waiting to find a hat he ran quickly after the detective. Once in the car he leaned forward urging the driver to greater speed.
“God in heaven!” he almost cried, “the fools are going to kill the only man who can tell me anything about Abigail.”
With oaths and threats the mob, brainless and heartless, cowardly, bestial, filled with the lust for blood, pushed and jammed into the narrow corridor before the cell door where the two prisoners awaited their fate. The single guard was brushed away. A dozen men wielding three railroad ties battered upon the grating of the door, swinging the ties far back and then in unison bringing them heavily forward against the puny iron.
Bridge spoke to them once. “What are you going to do with us?” he asked.
“We’re goin’ to hang you higher ‘n’ Haman, you damned kidnappers an’ murderers,” yelled a man in the crowd.
“Why don’t you give us a chance?” asked Bridge in an even tone, unaltered by fear or excitement. “You’ve nothing on us. As a matter of fact we are both innocent—”
“Oh, shut your damned mouth,” interrupted another of the crowd.
Bridge shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the youth who stood very white but very straight in a far corner of the cell. The man noticed the bulging pockets of the ill fitting coat; and, for the first time that night, his heart stood still in the face of fear; but not for himself.
He crossed to the youth’s side and put his arm around the slender figure. “There’s no use arguing with them,” he said. “They’ve made up their minds, or what they think are minds, that we’re guilty; but principally they’re out for a sensation. They want to see something die, and we’re it. I doubt if anything could stop them now; they’d think we’d cheated them if we suddenly proved beyond doubt that we were innocent.”
The boy pressed close to the man. “God help me to be brave,” he said, “as brave as you are. We’ll go together, Bridge, and on the other side you’ll learn something that’ll surprise you. I believe there is ‘another side,’ don’t you, Bridge?”
“I’ve never thought much about it,” said Bridge; “but at a time like this I rather hope so — I’d like to come back and haunt this bunch of rat brained rubes.”
His arm slipped down the other’s coat and his hand passed quickly behind the boy from one side to the other; then the door gave and the leaders of the mob were upon them. A gawky farmer seized the boy and struck him cruelly across the mouth. It was Jeb Case.
“You beast!” cried Bridge. “Can’t you see that that — that’s — only a child? If I don’t live long enough to give you yours here, I’ll come back and haunt you to your grave.”
“Eh?” ejaculated Jeb Case; but his sallow face turned white, and after that he was less rough with his prisoner.
The two were dragged roughly from the jail. The great crowd which had now gathered fought to get a close view of them, to get hold of them, to strike them, to revile them; but the leaders kept the others back lest all be robbed of the treat which they had planned. Through town they haled them and out along the road toward Oakdale. There was some talk of taking them to the scene of Paynter’s supposed murder; but wiser heads counselled against it lest the sheriff come with a posse of deputies and spoil their fun.
Beneath a great tree they halted them, and two ropes were thrown over a stout branch. One of the leaders started to search them; and when he drew his hands out of Bridge’s side pockets his eyes went wide, and he gave a cry of elation which drew excited inquiries from all sides.
“By gum!” he cried, “I reckon we ain’t made no mistake here, boys. Look ahere!” and he displayed two handsful of money and jewelry.
“Thet’s Abbie Prim’s stuff,” cried one.
The boy beside Bridge turned wide eyes upon the man. “Where did you get it?” he cried. “Oh, Bridge, why did you do it? Now they will kill you,” and he turned to the crowd. “Oh, please listen to me,” he begged. “He didn’t steal those things. Nobody stole them. They are mine. They have always belonged to me. He took them out of my pocket at the jail because he thought that I had stolen them and he wanted to take the guilt upon himself; but they were not stolen, I tell you — they are mine! they are mine! they are mine!”
Another new expression came into Bridge’s eyes as he listened to the boy’s words; but he only shook his head. It was too late, and Bridge knew it.
Men were adjusting ropes about their necks. “Before you hang us,” said Bridge quietly, “would you mind explaining just what we’re being hanged for — it’s sort of comforting to know, you see.”
“Thet’s right,” spoke up one of the crowd. “Thet’s fair. We want to do things fair and square. Tell ’em the charges, an’ then ask ’em ef they got anything to say afore they’re hung.”
This appealed to the crowd — the last statements of the doomed men might add another thrill to the evening’s entertainment.
“Well,” said the man who had searched them. “There might o’ been some doubts about you before, but they aint none now. You’re bein’ hung fer abductin’ of an’ most likely murderin’ Miss Abigail Prim.”
The boy screamed and tried to interrupt; but Jeb Case placed a heavy and soiled hand over his mouth. The spokesman continued. “This slicker admitted he was The Oskaloosa Kid, ‘n’ thet he robbed a house an’ shot a man las’ night; ‘n’ they ain’t no tellin’ what more he’s ben up to. He tole Jeb Case’s Willie ‘bout it; an’ bragged on it, by gum. ‘Nenny way we know Paynter and Abigail Prim was last seed with this here Oskaloosa Kid, durn him.”
“Thanks,” said Bridge politely, “and now may I make my final statement before going to meet my maker?”
“Go on,” growled the man.
“You won’t interrupt me?”
“Naw, go on.”
“All right! You damn fools have made up your minds to hang us. I doubt if anything I can say to you will alter your determination for the reason that if all the brains in this crowd were collected in one individual he still wouldn’t have enough with which to weigh the most obvious evidence intelligently, but I shall present the evidence, and you can tell some intelligent people about it tomorrow.
“In the first place it is impossible that I murdered Abigail Prim, and in the second place my companion is not The Oskaloosa Kid and was not with Mr. Paynter last night. The reason I could not have murdered Miss Prim is because Miss Prim is not dead. These jewels were not stolen from Miss Prim, she took them herself from her own home. This boy whom you are about to hang is not a boy at all — it is Miss Prim, herself. I guessed her secret a few minutes ago and was convinced when she cried that the jewels and money were her own. I don’t know why she wishes to conceal her identity; but I can’t stand by and see her lynched without trying to save her.”
The crowd scoffed in incredulity. “There are some women here,” said Bridge. “Turn her over to them. They’ll tell you, at least that she is not a man.”
Some voices were raised in protest, saying that it was a ruse to escape, while o
thers urged that the women take the youth. Jeb Case stepped toward the subject of dispute. “I’ll settle it durned quick,” he announced and reached forth to seize the slim figure. With a sudden wrench Bridge tore himself loose from his captors and leaped toward the farmer, his right flew straight out from the shoulder and Jeb Case went down with a broken jaw. Almost simultaneously a car sped around a curve from the north and stopped suddenly in rear of the mob. Two men leaped out and shouldered their way through. One was the detective, Burton; the other was Jonas Prim.
“Where are they?” cried the latter. “God help you if you’ve killed either of them, for one of them must know what became of Abigail.”
He pushed his way up until he faced the prisoners. The Oskaloosa Kid gave him a single look of surprise and then sprang toward him with outstretched arms.
“Oh, daddy, daddy!” she cried, “don’t let them kill him.”
The crowd melted away from the immediate vicinity of the prisoners. None seemed anxious to appear in the forefront as a possible leader of a mob that had so nearly lynched the only daughter of Jonas Prim. Burton slipped the noose from about the girl’s neck and then turned toward her companion. In the light from the automobile lamps the man’s face was distinctly visible to the detective for the first time that night, and as Burton looked upon it he stepped back with an exclamation of surprise.
“You?” he almost shouted. “Gad, man! where have you been? Your father’s spent twenty thousand dollars trying to find you.”
Bridge shook his head. “I’m sorry, Dick,” he said, “but I’m afraid it’s too late. The open road’s gotten into my blood, and there’s only one thing that — well—” he shook his head and smiled ruefully— “but there ain’t a chance.” His eyes travelled to the slim figure sitting so straight in the rear seat of Jonas Prim’s car.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 441
