CHAPTER XIV

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Detective Crow found little difficulty in gaining admittance to Colonel

Randall's summer home. He had secreted his badge, and it was indeed a

sorry-looking tramp who asked for a bite to eat at the kitchen door.

Three or four young women were busy with chafing dishes in this

department of the house, and some good-looking young men were looking on

and bothering them with attentions. In the front part of the house a

score of people were laughing and making merry.

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

are there?"

"Oh, there are many more at home like us," trilled out one of the young

women gaily. "You're just in time, you poor old thing, to have some of

the bride-to-be's cake."

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

weddin'?"

"No; but there will be one before many days. It's just a reunion. How I

wish Rosalie Gray were here!" cried another girl.

Just then there was a pounding on the door, and an instant later Isaac

Porter stalked in at the head of the posse.

"Throw up your hands!" called Anderson, addressing himself to the posse,

the members of which stopped in blank amazement. Some of them obligingly

stuck their hands on high. "What do you want here?"

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

faltered Isaac Porter.

"What is the meaning of all this?" called a strong voice from the

dining-room, and the flabbergasted Tinkletownians turned to face Colonel

Randall himself, the owner of the house.

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

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

"Jumpin' Jehosophat!" ejaculated the detective; "it's the body!"

"The school-teacher!" exclaimed the surprised Tinkletownians, as with

their eyes they proceeded to search the figure before them for blood

stains. But no sooner had the chorused words escaped their lips than

they realised how wretchedly commonplace was their blundering expression

in comparison with the faultlessly professional phraseology of their

leader; and, overwhelmed with mortification, the posse ached to recall

them; for that the correct technical term had been applied by one for

years trained to the vernacular of his calling was little consolation to

these sensitive souls, now consumed with envy.

In the meantime, the quarry, if we may be permitted so to designate her,

stood before them as pretty as a picture. At her side was Tom Reddon,

and a dozen guests of the house fell in behind them.

"Did Rosalie tell you?" demanded Miss Banks. "The mean thing! She said

she wouldn't."

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

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

"I should say not. If she'd told me you don't suppose I'd'a' driv' clear

over here in this kinder weather fer nothin', do you? Thunder! Did she

know 'bout it?"

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

"Well, good gosh a'mighty! An' we was a-keepin' from her the awful news

fer fear 'twould give her a backset."

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

"Doggone! I don't believe Rosalie was sick at all," continued Anderson,

quite regardless of the impatience of his listeners; "she jest wanted to

keep from answerin' questions. She jest regularly let everybody believe

you had been slaughtered, an' never opened her mouth."

"Slaughtered!" cried half a dozen people.

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

"Murder?" apprehensively from the excited New Yorkers.

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

las--las--night--by--"

[Illustration: "What is the meaning of all this?"]

"Go slow, Anderson! Better hold your horses!" cautioned Harry

Squires. "Don't forget the body's alive and kic--" and stopping short,

in the hope that his break might escape the school-teacher's attention,

he confusedly substituted, "and here."

Anderson's jaw dropped, but the movement was barely perceptible, the

discomfiture temporary, for to the analytical mind of the great

detective the fact that a murder had been committed was fully

established by the discovery of the blood. That a body was obviously

necessary for the continuance of further investigations he frankly

acknowledged to himself; and not for one instant would any supposition

or explanation other than assassination be tolerated. And it was with

unshaken conviction that he declared:

"Well, somebody was slew, wasn't they? That's as plain's the nose on y'r

face. Don't you contradict me, Harry Squires. I guess Anderson Crow

knows blood when he sees it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you've been trailing us all day in the

belief that some one of us had killed somebody?" demanded Tom Reddon.

Harry Squires explained the situation, Anderson being too far gone to

step into the breach. It may be of interest to say that the Tinkletown

detective was the sensation of the hour. The crowd, merry once more,

lauded him to the skies for the manner in which the supposed culprits

had been trailed, and the marshal's pomposity grew almost to the

bursting point.

"But how about that blood?" he demanded.

"Yes," said Harry Squires with a sly grin, "it was positively identified

as yours, Miss Banks."

"Well, it's the first time I was ever fooled," confessed Anderson

glibly. "I'll have to admit it. The blood really belonged to 'Rast

Little. Boys, the seegars are on me."

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

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

interrupted him.

"Right you are, my dear Sherlock, and I'm going to take her there as

soon as I can. It's what I came East for."

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

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

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

Farnsworth, stepping forward with a wink.

In the library he told the Tinkletown posse that Tom Reddon had met Miss

Banks while she was at school in New York. He was a Chicago

millionaire's son and she was the daughter of wealthy New York people.

Her mother was eager to have the young people marry, but the girl at

that time imagined herself to be in love with another man. In a pique

she left school and set forth to earn her own living. A year's hardship

as governess in the family of Congressman Ritchey and subsequent

disillusionment as a country school-teacher brought her to her senses

and she realised that she cared for Tom Reddon after all. She and Miss

Gray together prepared the letter which told Reddon where she could be

found, and that eager young gentleman did the rest. He had been waiting

for months for just such a message from her. The night of the

spelling-match he induced her to come to Colonel Randall's, and now the

whole house-party, including Miss Banks, was to leave on the following

day for New York. The marriage would take place in a very few weeks.

"I'll accept your explanation," said Mr. Crow composedly as he took a

handful of cigars. "Well, I guess I'll be startin' back. It's gettin'

kind o' late-like."

There was a telegram at the livery stable for him when he reached that

haven of warmth and rest in Tinkletown about dawn the next day. It was

from Chicago and marked "Charges collect."

* * * * *

"What girl and whose body," it said, "do you refer to? Miss Lovering has

been dead two years, and we are settling the estate in behalf of the

other heirs. We were trying to establish her place of residence. Never

mind the body you have lost."

* * * * *

"Doggone," said Anderson, chuckling aloud, "that was an awful good joke

on 'Rast, wasn't it?"

The stablemen stood around and looked at him with jaws that were

drooping helplessly. The air seemed laden with a sombre uncertainty that

had not yet succeeded in penetrating the nature of Marshal Crow.

"Is it from her?" finally asked Ike Smith hoarsely, his lips trembling.

"From what her?"

"Rosalie."

"Thunder, no! It's from my lawyers in Chicago."

"Ain't you--ain't you heerd about it?" half groaned Ike, moving away as

if he expected something calamitous.

"What the dickens are you fellers drivin' at?" demanded Anderson. The

remainder of his posse deserted the red-hot stove and drew near with the

instinctive feeling that something dreadful had happened.

"Ro--Rosalie has been missin' sence early last night. She was grabbed by

some feller near Mrs. Luce's, chucked into a big wagon an' rushed out of

town before Ros Crow could let out a yell. Clean stole her--look out!

Ketch him, Joe!"

Anderson dropped limply into a hostler's arms.