Quintus Oakes: A Detective Story

by Charles Ross Jackson

Did the negro run? No. He gathered a couple of good-sized stones and followed. He thought the man on the road was dead; and he saw the other one going down into the gully to cross the small stream at the bottom. "Good!" he thought; "I'll follow him. If he sees me now, and comes after me, I can run a long way before he can climb that hill."

The assassin was picking his way—carefully—until he came to the rocky bottom. He wanted to cross the stream where a large flat rock gave an invitation for stepping. He had followed the stony formation carefully, avoiding the earth; he did not wish to leave marks to be traced.

Now, at this moment the negro became conscious of a new danger; he was near the scene of the crime alone, and if found, he would be suspected of having done it. So he looked about for a moment, and then decided to run back to Lorona and his people. He was growing scared. Who could blame him? He saw the murderer stoop down right below him, deep in the gully; and the negro, obeying a sudden impulse, swung one arm and hurled a stone straight at him. It struck the fugitive on the shoulder, turning him half around; and he broke into a run, full tilt, for the brook and the stepping-stone. Joe had not seen the murderer's face, but he told us that the man's chest was protected only by an undershirt. It was a chilly morning, and the fact had impressed him afterward as curious. He watched, and saw the assassin take the brook like a frightened stag, landing first on the rock in the centre, then on the other side. As he stepped on the rock in the middle of the stream, the boy saw something fall from his waist—something red. It fell into the water.

"I'd like to know what that is," he thought; "but I'd better skip." Then horror took possession of him; he crossed the road quickly and dashed into the Mark property. Then he ran to River Road and the bridge, up the incline on the other side of the pond, and into the fields beyond. On he went until Mona was passed; then he sat down in a little patch of wood and thought.

He was sure nobody had seen him except a farmer in the distance, too far away to know he was a negro. He was innocent, and perhaps he had better wait and see the police. Had he done so then and there, all would have been solved sooner than it was; but, poor boy, he had no one to advise him and he was alone with a terrible secret. He had done well; he could identify the murderer perhaps; his was a great responsibility.

He stayed around, and from afar witnessed the crowds of the morning. In the afternoon he sneaked into town, hungry and worn and terribly cold. When he saw the people gathering in the court-room, curiosity conquered. He listened with all his soul, and made up his mind to go in and tell what he knew.

He saw Oakes come forward to give his testimony, and his heart beat fast and furious. He felt ill—the cold sweat poured from him as he heard; but he remained, entranced. He was going to tell all, for surely that tall fellow—Clark, they were calling him,—was the great detective Oakes; he had shined his shoes many times at the stand on Broadway before he went up-town. How peculiar that they didn't seem to know him! Then intelligence came, and he said to himself: "These people don't know him because he does not want them to." Joe did not understand all that had been said, but he knew things were uncanny and that this man Oakes was playing a game.

Suddenly had come the statement of Oakes about the arms, and the tension became too great. He cried out and ran, like the fleet-footed boy that he was, for Lorona.

There he told nothing, except that he had missed the train. His friends gave him food—the murder story was yet vague in the little village—and then he dashed on for New York. He shook the dust from his clothes and, catching a train miles down the line, arrived safely in town. He was far away from Mona at last, but he must see Mr. Elliott, his good friend, and tell him all that he could.

As the negro finished his story he looked around, and partially recovered from the state of ecstasy into which the recitation had thrown him. His eyes were rolling and shifting, his dark skin had that peculiar ashen color that comes to the negro under stress of great excitement.