Browning chief. [volume] (Browning, Mont.) 1941-1953, 1948-05-14
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FICTION.
Corner

T JOINED the crowd gathered on the
bridge watching the crew dragging
the lake above the dam.
"Who are they searching for this
hme?" I asked as pushed closer to
the rail.
"Young Doc WARREN" several an
swered at once.
I had never seen young William
Warren, but I knew about him-the
whole town knew about him. He had
Joined the army with our National
Guard. The boys were still singing his
praises. He had been through lot at
the front and had won the complete
devotion of his men by his untiring
efforts and unceasing good humor. He
had returned to his fathers clinic al
most Immediately upon his return to
the States. 1 had heard little about
him in recent months.
"What about the woman they were
dragging for yesterday" asked.
"They found her earlier this morn
Ing. Plain case of suicide. But when
the boats were coming in to the dock
over there by those willows they found
. mans hat. 1t had his name inside
William Warren"
"And about the same time" another
put in, "the police find this car on the
bridge, out of gas and nobody around"
He pointed to green sedan that sew
eral officers were shaking down. "They
find drivers license on the steering
post in the name of young Doc War
rem. They figure something has hap
pened to the Doc, so while they radio
headquarters for a check the boats
lower the grab hooks and start work
ing again."
l edged my way over near a couple
patrolmen who had arrived from head
quarters. Calls to Doc Warrens home,
his office, the two hospitals, all
brought the same response: he wasn't
there.
His wife had told the officers that
he had left home early, before she and
the children were up. He had come
home late after an emergency opera
ton, seemed unable to relax, and had
spent a restless night. She had awak-
ened while he was dressing and asked
if he had call. He explained that he
was just going out to clear the cob
webs from his mind. He had kissed her
goodby. She had thought no more
about it until the police called.
I moved back to the rail to watch
the boats as they trolled slowly toward
us, the graphing hooks searching the
lake bottom in the lane between them.
The water was plenty choppy, a cold
raw wind had been blowing out of the
north since yesterday. Nothing about
the scene seemed urgent. The boats
moved slowly. The crowd just stood
and watched, coat collars turned up
against the wind.
A young boy had crawled under my
arms to press himself against the rail,
excited by his frst-hand experience
with tragedy. "They got somethin',"
he shouted, and the crowd came to life
All turned toward the men in the boats,
watching with strange fascination,
waiting to see what was being dragged
out.
Someone said, That's him." when
the men pulled the thing loose from
the hooks. "They put him in a gunny
sack!"
We saw the men in one of the boats
peering into the sack. Then one of
them, looking up at us, pulled out and
held up decoy some hunter had lost.
There was a murmur of relief, of re-
strained amusement, and the crowd
settled back again into their coat COL
lars.
Someone commented, "This jumping
off bridges is getting to be an cpl
6emic."
Another one questioned, "How do
You know he jumped? Maybe he was
pushed"
Another said, seriously, "That's right.
My boy knew him. He wasn't a cow
ard. If he's in that lake he was MUIR
dered."