Chapter I: The Constable Keeps Cool

Old Silas K. Mears dashed madly down the main street of the little mountain town, his arms waving excitedly, whiskers blowing back about his ears. “Robbery! Murder! Thieves!” He was shouting at the top of his voice.

From stores and houses people poured forth into the early morning sunlight, babbling questions, calling back and forth, mingling comment with exclamation. Soon a ring of excited townsfolk barred the progress of the excited man, and he slowed his gait to a walk and looked wildly around him.

“Telephone the sheriff!” he said. “We gotta get him out here at once, an’ we’d better get some man from the city that knows all about such things. This here ain’t no ordinary job. This is a real crime.”

Pushed inward by the eager newcomers who gathered on the outside of the noisy circle, those about Mears pressed forward until he was fairly touching the ring on all sides. Then the men parted, as H. F. Horn, local justice of the peace and oracle of the law, came waddling his way through the men.

“Calm down, Mears, calm down an’ tell us about it in a connected way. Mebbe I’d better have ye come down to the office an’ tell me in private, because there might be some things that had better be kept secret, so’s we won’t tip off the crooks.”

That suggestion was greeted by silent opposition on the part of the crowd. The circle, having opened wide enough to allow the pompous justice of the peace ingress, walled around him with unyielding finality, standing on tiptoed hostility, refusing to be balked in its desire to hear the news.

Judge Horn was not particularly popular, anyway. He had blossomed out with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles after a trip to the city, spectacles that he really didn’t need, since he had gone more than sixty years without any aid to his vision, and there was more than a suspicion on the part of the inhabitants of Mesa Flat that the judge had been merely trying to “high-tone” the boys. Judge Horn waddled not so much because of his excessive flesh as because of his ponderous dignity. His face was never seen when it was not puckered into a portentous and scholarly frown. He delighted to walk down the main street of the town, a calfskin law book under his arm, a cigar in his mouth, and his eyes fixed straight ahead in a determined stare of studied preoccupation.

Silas Mears recognized the authority of the law, regained his breath, and launched into a disjointed account of his troubles.

“The safe--they got everything--cleaned me out. This here nitroglycerin stuff blew her all to smithereens and busted everything wide open; ten thousand dollars an’ murder; yep, Ben Drake, my old clerk, the one that does the sweepin’ out an’ all that stuff, is lyin’ there with his head smashed in, an’ his eyes rolled up, and ten thousand dollars gone, an’ lots o’ papers blown here an’ there and everywhere.

“I’m tellin’ you fellows we gotta get busy. We gotta get the sheriff, an’ I’m goin’ to get this here detective from the city that puts on the radio talk about guardin’ against crime. I want a regular smart feller to handle this here crime.”

There came the soft pad of a horse’s hoofs in the dust of the unpaved street, and “Dad” Anderson drew rein on the outskirts of the milling circle of humanity.

“Hi, there--you, Mears! What’s the trouble?”

Mears looked up at the sound of the voice, his eyes ranging over the heads of the spectators to the grim, lined face of the man on horseback, a face that was seamed with years, bronzed with the sun, and in which there twinkled a pair of kindly gray eyes.

“Come on down to the store an’ see for yourself,” said Mears. “I ain’t goin’ to tell this here story more than a dozen times. I’ve been robbed of ten thousand dollars, and Ben Drake’s been murdered; that’s all that’s happened. You’re a fine constable, bein’ home asleep, while these here crooks was dynamitin’ my safe. Me bein’ robbed o’ ten thousand dollars, an’ you comin’ down after it’s all over to ask what it’s all about! That’s the trouble with this here town. We got a lot o’ pensioners on the list o’ peace officers, an’ we ain’t got no real police protection.”

Dad Anderson’s eyes retained their kindly twinkle. “All worked up, ain’t yuh, Mears? Guess I’d better git on down there an’ take a look.”

Mears fought his way forward through the crowd. “Don’t go down there an’ start disturbin’ anything, Dad Anderson. I’m going to have a regular detective from the city come up here an’ take charge o’ this here case, an’ I don’t want none o’ you local fellers bunglin’ up the clews.”

Dad’s eyes hardened just the faintest bit of a glint. “Say, you’d better wait with all that line o’ talk until yuh get yore feelin’s calmed down a mite, Mears. Yuh might say somethin’ yuh didn’t mean.”

The words had no calming effect on the merchant. He flushed and pointed a bony finger at the constable.

“I mean what I said, an’ I’m sayin’ what I mean. Yore just an old has-been. What do you know about crime? Nothin’! What safe robber did yuh ever arrest? Nary one. Yuh don’t know nothin’ more about safe robberies than I do.”

Dad Anderson smiled, a slow, whimsical smile. “Waal, now, don’t start gettin’ all het up about it. I aim to keep peace in the town, an’ the only reason I ain’t arrested no safe robbers durin’ my term o’ office is because there ain’t been no safe robberies. I’ve done kept peace in the town by sorta lookin’ after things a bit. An’ as for safe robberies, there ain’t nothin’ about ’em no different from anything else. Just use your head a bit an’ keep cool, an’ you can find out all there is to find out. It’s like trackin’ a steer or breakin’ a hoss. All yuh gotta do is to keep cool and keep pluggin’.”

Mears sneered. “Oh, is that so? Well, if you had a radio like I have and heard the way these here modern detectives talk about how safes is blowed up an’ all about the classifications o’ finger prints an’ suchlike, yuh wouldn’t show yore ignorance in public. This here business o’ detectin’ safe robbers is a regular business in itself. I heard ‘Big Bill’ Poindexter himself say so over the radio the other night. He said it took the best brains in the whole detective profession--that safe-blowin’ business--an’ he went on an’ told about how safes got dynamited, an’ how the automobile was makin’ it possible for crooks to come into the small country towns, where the authorities didn’t know what was goin’ on in the world. Oh, go ahead on down there if you’ve got to, but don’t disturb none o’ the clews none, because I’m goin’ to get Big Bill Poindexter to come up here on this case. I’m goin’ to dig down an’ pay the money outa my own pocket. I lost ten thousand dollars, an’ I can’t afford to lose that outa my business. I’d go into the hands of the board o’ trade if I couldn’t get that back. I can’t afford to monkey with none of you fellows that don’t savvy this here safe-blowin’ game. I gotta get that money back, and I’m goin’ to get the man that can get it back.”

Dad Anderson made no rejoinder, but swung slightly in the saddle. “Come on, ‘Prince,’” he said softly to the high-strung horse.

The crowd shuffled along in the rear. Judge Horn, trying to maintain his official dignity by keeping in the vanguard, and at the same time maintain his strutting gait, found himself laboring under a handicap, and he turned savagely upon the people who were pressing forward.

“Git back there!” he exclaimed. “You fellows can’t see anything until after I’ve inspected the premises, anyway. Hold up there, constable. I ain’t got any horse, and I’ve got first right to git in that place. The court has got to view the premises before the officers. You’re just an officer of the court.”

Patiently, deferentially Dad Anderson checked his horse. “I didn’t know yuh was there, judge. Why didn’t yuh speak sooner? Slow down, boys! Let’s let the judge get there the same time we do.”

Always patient, never known to lose his temper or to speak an unkind word, Dad Anderson smiled out on life from his weather-beaten face and let his gray eyes twinkle forth their friendly message. No amount of officious authority on the part of Judge Horn could ever lead the patient constable to expose the old fraud or to question the judicial prerogatives which were so frequently assumed by the pompous justice. Always riding his horse, always with a kind word for every one, knowing the name of every dog and every child in the city, Dad Anderson looked out upon the world, made due allowances for human weaknesses, and found that the world was worth saving.