Three days later, the Sheriff of the County served papers on Oliver October. The prosecuting attorney had refused to lay the matter before the grand jury, as requested by Horace Gooch, but had grudgingly acceded to his demand that an official investigation be instituted and carried to a definite conclusion by the authorities.
“I want you to understand, Oliver,” explained the Sheriff, “that this is none of my doing. Gooch has obtained an order from the court, calling for a search of the swamp and your premises, basing his affidavit on the suspicion that his brother-in-law came to his death by foul means and—er—so on. He doesn’t charge anybody with the crime, as you will see by reading a copy of the order. I guess it won’t amount to much. You will have to submit to an examination, answer a lot of questions, and refrain from any interference whatsoever with the search that is to be conducted. In plain English, the order means that you are to have no voice in the matter and that you are to take no part in the search. It’s in the hands of the law now. I am authorized to begin the investigation at once and not to stop until old Gooch is thoroughly satisfied that a crime has not been committed. As I was saying a few minutes ago, he agrees to pay all the costs arising from this investigation in case nothing comes of it. On the other hand, if your father’s body is found and there is any evidence of foul play, the county naturally is to assume all the costs. The court made him sign a bond to that effect—a regular indemnifying bond. The old man has hired two detectives from Chicago to come down here and take active charge of the work. I hope you won’t have any hard feelings toward me, Baxter. I am only doing my duty as ordered by the court.”
“Not the slightest feeling in the world, Sheriff,” said Oliver warmly. “I wish you would do me a favor, however. The next time you see my uncle, please remind him that my offer to give him five thousand dollars if he finds my poor father—dead or alive—still holds. You can start digging whenever you are ready, Sheriff. You are at liberty to ransack the house and outbuildings, dig up the cellars, pull up the floors, drain the cistern and well—do anything you like, sir; I sha’n’t interfere. If any damage is done to the property, however, I shall be obliged to compel my uncle to pay for it. Don’t forget to tell him that, will you?”
The sheriff grinned. “I wonder if this old bird knows how many votes he’s going to lose by this sort of thing.”
Oliver frowned. “His scheme is to throw suspicion on me, Sheriff. That’s what he is after. It is possible that a good many people will hesitate about voting for a man who is suspected of killing his own father.”
“Don’t you worry, Baxter,” cried the sheriff, slapping the young man on the back. “My wife was talking to a prominent county official this morning—a good Democrat and a candidate for reëlection—and she made him promise not to vote for old Horace Gooch next November. She made him swear on his sacred word of honor not to do it. He went even further and swore he would vote for you, and it will be the first time he has ever voted for a Republican. Well, so long. Here’s a reporter for the Evening Tribune waiting to interview you. He came down with me. He’s a nice feller and he’ll give you a square deal in spite of the fact his paper is opposed to you politically. Of course, he’ll have to play this business up, so don’t get sore if you see your name in the headlines to-night.”
“I sha’n’t,” said Oliver, but more soberly than before. “I suppose there won’t be a day from now on that there isn’t something in the papers about the sensational Baxter case. I tell you, Sheriff, it hurts. I may act as if it doesn’t hurt—but it does.”
“I know it does, Baxter,” said the sheriff sympathetically. “I’m sorry—mighty sorry.”
Fully a week passed before a move was made by the authorities. The newspapers devoted considerable first page space to the new angle in the unsolved Baxter mystery, but not one of them took the matter up editorially. The principal Democratic organ, The Tribune, hinted at a possible disclosure, but went no farther; the Republican sheets withheld their fire until the time seemed ripe to open up on old man Gooch.
Notwithstanding the reticence of the press, the news spread like wildfire that Horace Gooch was actually charging his nephew with the murder of his father. The town of Rumley went wild with anger and indignation. A few hotheads talked of tar and feathers for old man Gooch.