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“Hush up, Anderson. You let me alone.”

The little old car was sailing along at a speed that caused every joint to rattle with joy unconfined. To Anderson’s amazement, and to a certain extent consternation, Mrs. Crow swung into the dirt-road over which the big car was now whizzing a mile or so ahead.

“Here! Where you going?” barked Anderson, arising from the seat.

“There’s going to be hell to pay before you know it, Anderson Crow,” said she, her voice high and squeaky.

“Wha-what was that you said?” gasped her husband, flopping back in the seat. He couldn’t believe his ears.

“Halt!” shouted Anderson Crow from the top of the roadside bank. “Surrender in the name of the Law!”

He spoke just in time.

Crash! They halted!

Deacon Rank’s little car died a glorious, spectacular death. (Harry Squires, in his account, placed it all alone in the list of “unidentified dead.”)

Three minutes after the collision, brawny soldiers were bending over the stretched-out figures of five unconscious men.

Mr. and Mrs. Crow stood on the edge of the group, awe-struck and silent.

“They’re coming around, all right,” said some one at Anderson’s elbow. “He was slowing down when they struck. But there’s no hope for the poor old flivver.”

Anderson found his voice–a quavering, uncertain voice–and exclaimed:

“Stand aside, men! I am the marshal of Tinkletown, an’ them scoundrels are my prisoners.”

His progress was barred by a couple of soldiers. An officer approached.

“Easy, Mr. Marshal–easy, now. This is our affair, you know. I guess you’d better come with me to the colonel. Don’t be alarmed. They shan’t escape.”

“They’re mighty desperit characters–” began Anderson.

“Step this way, please,” said the other shortly.

* * * * *

It was four o’clock in the morning when Mr. and Mrs. Crow were deposited at their front door by the colonel’s automobile. The robbers, under heavy guard, remained in the camp, pending action on the part of the civic authorities. They were very much alive and kicking when Anderson left them, after a pompous harangue on the futility of crime in that neck of the woods.

“Yes, sir, Colonel,” he said, turning to the camp commander, “a crook ain’t got any more chance than a snowball in–you know–when he tries to pull the wool over my eyes. I’ve been ketchin’ thieves and bandits an’ the Lord knows what-all for forty years er more, an’ so forth. I want to thank you, sir, an’ your brave soldier boys–an’ the United States Government also–fer the assistance you have given me tonight. I doubt very much whether I could ‘a’ took ’em single-handed–handicapped as I was by havin’ a woman along. An’ when you git over to France with these brave troops of yours, I c’n tell you one thing: the Kaiser’ll know it, you bet! Never mind about the old car. It’s seen its best days. An’ it ain’t mine, anyhow. I’ll be out here bright and early tomorrow morning with my posse, an’ we’ll take them fellers off’m your hands. If you’ll excuse me now, I guess I’ll be movin’ along to’ards home. I’ve still got a fire to put out, an’ a lot of other things to do besides. I’ve got to let the bank know I have recovered their money an’ left it in good hands, an’ I’ve got to send a posse out to see if they c’n locate George Brubaker’s safe along the road anywheres. An’ what’s more, I’ve got to repair the jail, and officially notify Deacon Rank he’s had an accident to his car.”

Mrs. Crow had little to say until she was snugly in bed. Her husband was getting into his official garments.

“I think you’re foolish to go out again, Anderson,” she said. “It’s not daylight yet. There won’t be anybody around, this time of day, to listen to how you captured those robbers,–and–“

“Don’t you believe it,” said he. “I bet you fifty cents you are the only person in Tinkletown that’s in bed at this minute. They’re all afraid to go to bed, Eva, an’ you can’t blame ’em. Nobody knows I’ve got them desperadoes bound hand and foot and guarded by a whole regiment of U. S. troops, specially deputized for the occasion.”