CHAPTER VII.
THE TRAMP.
About the middle of November, after the now famous express robbery had taken place, a man, roughly dressed in a coarse suit of blue, wearing a woolen shirt open at the neck, and, knotted around his throat, a gaudy silk handkerchief, was strolling leisurely along the east bottoms near Kansas City. His face was tanned by exposure to the sun, and his shoes had the flattened and battered condition which is the natural consequence of a long and weary tramp. He walked as if he had no particular objective point, and looked like one of those peripatetic gentry who toil not neither do they spin, the genus "tramp." He complacently puffed a short clay nose-warmer, with his hands in his pockets, and taking first one side and then the other of the road, as his fancy dictated, found himself near the old distillery at the outskirts of the city.
A saloon near at hand, with its front door invitingly open, attracted his attention, and the cheering sounds of a violin, scraping out some popular air, gave a further impetus to inclination, and the tramp turned to the open door and entered. Seated on an empty barrel, his foot executing vigorous time to his own music, sat the magician of the horse-hair bow.
Leaning against the bar, or seated at the small tables scattered around, the tramp saw a goodly number of the disciples of Bacchus, while from an inner room the clicking of ivory chips and half suppressed expressions of "I'll see you an' go you tenner better." "A full house pat, what 'er ye got," designated the altar at which the worshipers of "draw poker" were offering sacrifices.
The saloon consisted of one long, low room, on one side of which was located the conventional bar, with its background of glittering decanters and dazzling glasses and its "choice assortment of liquors"—to quote the sign which called attention to these necessary luxuries.
A large stove stood in the center of the room, and a number of small tables were placed around promiscuously, The bar-tender, a smooth-faced, beetle-browed rascal, was engaged in shaking dice for the drinks with a customer, and, to the music of the violin, a light-footed Irishman was executing his national jig, to the great delight and no small edification of his enthusiastic audience.
The wide sombreroes, perched back on the head, pointed out the cowboys who were making up for the lonesome days and nights on the plains.
It was a motley crowd, a fair specimen of the heterogeneous mass of humanity which floats hither and there all over our western States, and contained some villainous-looking fellows.
As the tramp entered, the interest in the jig was developing into enthusiasm. Hands were clapped, and fingers snapped to the time of the nimble heels and toes of the jaunty Corkonian. The violinist was settling down to vigorous work, and Pat, having the incentive of anticipated free drinks as a reward for his efforts, was executing the most intricate of steps.
The tramp lounged to the bar, followed by the suspicious glance of the bar-keeper, who assumed a more respectful demeanor as the object of his suspicions threw down a silver quarter and named his drink. It was quickly furnished, and as quickly disposed of. The dancer had finished his jig and accepted with alacrity the proffered offers to wet his whistle. As he stepped to the bar his glance fell upon the tramp.
"Are ye drinkin' this aivenin'?"
"I am that," responded the tramp,
"Faith, an' its not at yer own expinse, then," with a glance at the ragged clothing and "hard-up" appearance of the wanderer.
"An' a divil sight less at yours," retorted the tramp. "But by the same token, we both get our rosy by manes of our heels."
"Shure fir ye, lad. Its hard up I've been myself before the now, but its a cold day when Barney O'Hara will let a bog-trotter go dry—name your poison."
"Its the rale ould stuff I'll be a takin' straight," and the tramp spread his elbows on the counter and soon demonstrated his ability to gulp down the fiery fluid without any such effeminate trimmings as water in it. After the first glass had been emptied the tramp said:
"I've had a bit of luck to-day; what's your medicine?"
"The same," responded Barney.
The liquor was poured into the glasses, and the tramp, diving deep in his pockets, drew out some small silver currency, and, with a movement expressive of untold wealth, threw it on the counter.
As he did so, the bar-keeper uttered an oath of astonishment, several of the roysterers sprang forward, and Barney, with an exclamation of amazement, put his hand on a Pinkerton detective star, with its terrible eye in the center, which had fallen on the counter with the nickles and dimes the tramp had thrown down.
Dark looks and murderous eyes were turned on the tramp, and more than one hand was placed on a revolver, The bar-keeper with an ugly look, and bullying swagger, stepped from behind the bar and advanced on the tramp, his face distorted with rage, and his fists doubled in a most aggressive manner.
The tramp, without moving, and apparently ignorant of the sensation he had created, raised his glass to his lips, and with a hearty "Here's to ye, lads," tossed off the whisky.
As he replaced his glass, he became aware that he was the center of attention, and facing the bar-keeper, said:
"What's the row with ye? I paid fer the drinks,"
"What are you doin' with a detective's star?" said the bar-keeper,
"Haven't I a right to one; I dunno—finders keepers, losers weepers—I picked the bit of brass up on the road not over an hour ago."
The bar-keeper was not to be pacified by such a story, and in a threatening voice, he asked:
"Are you a man-hunter or not?"
The tramp threw a pitying glance of scorn at the pugilistic whisky-seller, as he replied:
"Be gorra, ye damned fool, do you think that I'd be after givin' myself away like this if I WAS one?"
"In course ye wouldn't," broke in Barney. "Don't be a fool, Jerry, this man is no detective," and Barney fastened the star to the vest which encircled the portly form of the bar-keeper.
"Now ye're one yerself, an' will be after runnin' us all in fer not detectin' enough of the elegant liquor ye handle."
To this the man could make no reply, save a deep, hoarse laugh, and resuming his professional position, was shortly engaged in alleviating the thirst of his patrons.
This little episode had just occurred, when the door of the inner room was thrown violently open and a man, his coat off, rushed up to the bar.
"Here, Jerry, break this fifty for me," at the same time throwing down a fifty-dollar bill, crisp and fresh.
"Your playin' in bad luck to-day, Cook?"
"Yes, damn it," said Cook. "Give me a drink for good luck."
As the bar-keeper uttered the name of Cook a quick, but hardly perceptible glance of intelligence passed between Barney and the tramp.
Cook hastily swallowed his whisky, rushed back to the poker table with a handful of five dollar bills, and quiet reigned over the place. The bar-keeper, who spied a possible good customer in the tramp, had entered into a little conversation at the end of the counter, on which the tramp leaned, the embodiment of solid comfort, puffing his cigar vigorously, or allowing it to burn itself out in little rings of smoke.
"You're a stranger to these parts?"
With an expressive wink, the tramp replied:
"Not so much as ye think, I've spint many a noight around here."
"Night hawk, eh? an' I took you for a man-trailer."
"I've had the spalpeens after myself afore now," spoke the tramp, in a low, confidential whisper.
"You keep yourself devilish low, then, for I know all the lads, and it's the first time I've clapped these two eyes on you."
"Do ye think I mane to let the fly cops put their darbies on me, that I should be nosin' around in the broad day?"
"You're too fly for them, I see," said the bar-keeper, with a sagacious shake of his head. "You an' Barney are a pair."
"Barney? Ye mane the Irish lad that was just here a bit ago?"
"The same. He's square. He's one of you."
The tramp leaned forward, his eyes fastened on the bloodshot eyes of the drink-compounder, and in an earnest tone, asked:
"Is he a bye that could crack a plant with the loikes o' me?"
Impressed with the tone and manner of the tramp, the bar-keeper gazed quickly around the room, and in a still lower tone, replied:
"He's on a lay himself. Would you like to go his pal?" The tramp slowly nodded his head, and after receiving the whispered invitation to come around later, strolled out of the saloon; and so on up the road.
Turning a corner he nearly ran against Barney himself, who was sitting on a horse-block, enjoying a pipe and the sun.
Not a soul was in sight. Satisfying himself of that fact, Barney gazed at the tramp and said:
"By Jove, Chip, I thought you were a goner when that confounded star fell out."
Chip gave a deep sigh of relief, and taking off his hat, pointed to the perspiration which moistened the band:
"Don't that look as though I thought so, too, Sam?"
"How in the name of all that's lovely, did you happen to be so careless?"
"That's what it was, sheer carelessness. I suffered, though, for it. It would have been all up with me if the gang had not been so deucedly stupid. That Jerry is a villain, and no mistake. I told him that I was a profesh, and he told me that you were another, and had a plan to do some fine work without asking permission of the owners. So I am to meet him again to-night, and see if you will not take me as your pal. You have your cue, and will know how to act."
"Chip, did you notice that man Cook?"
"You mean, did I notice the fifty-dollar bill he threw down?"
"Well, both."
"Seems to me he didn't look like a man that ought to be carrying fifty-dollar bills around so recklessly."
"He's a cooper, runs that little shop over there, and hasn't done a stroke of work for a month."
The cooper-shop pointed out by Sam was a small frame building, having the sign, "Oscar Cook—Barrels and Kegs," painted over the door. It was a tumbled-down, rickety affair, evidently having seen its best days.
Chip surveyed it intently, then turned to Sam, inquired:
"That express tag had on it something about a man named Cook, didn't it?"
"Yes, the words, 'it to Cook.'"
"Supposing that Dan Moriarity, whom we now know had some connection with the robbery, had taken the valise, which was sent from St. Louis to Leavenworth, had obeyed the order, for it was evidently an order which was written on the tag, and given 'it to Cook,' it would be fair to infer that the Cook mentioned had some hand in the pudding, too, and ought to be pretty flush about this time."
"You mean—"
"No, I don't mean that the Cook over in the saloon playing poker and the Cook mentioned on the tag are the same person, but we found no Dan Moriarity or Cook in Leavenworth but what was above suspicion, and I think that the men who were smart enough to plan and carry out a robbery such as this was would be shrewd enough to take every possible precaution against discovery. I mean that neither Moriarity or Cook are Leavenworth people, and for all we know to the contrary, may live here in Kansas City."
As Chip finished speaking, a man appeared in front of the cooper shop, and unlocking the door, entered.
"There is Cook, now," said Sam, making a movement as if to rise.
With a motion of the hand Chip cautioned him to remain where he was, and with lazy steps, lounged toward the shop.
CHAPTER VIII.
CAPTURE AND RESCUE.
The White Elephant was a large gambling hall in Kansas City, situated on one of the principal thoroughfares. It was centrally located, and night after night the brilliant lights and crowded tables bore witness to its rushing business.
On this evening the tiger was out with all its claws. Rouge et noir, roulette, faro, keno, and stud-poker were going in full blast. The proprietor, his elegant diamonds flashing in the light, was seated on a raised platform from whence he could survey the entire company—his face, impassive as marble and unreadable as the sphinx, was turned toward the faro lay-out, which this evening appeared to be the center of attraction.
Among the players sat one whose tall form and athletic frame would have been noticeable under any circumstances, but was now more so, as it towered above his fellow-gamesters who crowded around the table.
Before him lay a high pile of chips. He played with the nonchalant air of one who was there merely to pass away a vacant hour, but his stakes were high and he played every shot. His calm, impassioned countenance bore the unmistakable stamp of the professional gambler, and, serene as a quiet mill-pond, he bore his losses or pocketed his winnings with the enviable sang froid which results from a long and intimate acquaintance with the green-baized table.
Every night for a week had this man occupied the same seat, and with careless imperturbability had mulcted the bank of several thousands.
Rieley, the proprietor, himself one of the coolest dare-devil gamblers in the West, had recognized a kindred spirit, but to all advances and efforts to make his acquaintance the stranger had turned a cool shoulder, and his identity was still a matter of conjecture.
Rieley was watching him closely this evening, so intently, indeed, that the stranger, with a look of annoyance, swept the chips into his hat and stepping up to the banker cashed them in and walked out of the room. As he emerged from the door he came in violent contact with a man just entering.
"I beg your pardon."
"Not at—by Jove! Moriarity, you here too?"
"Blest if it isn't Jim!"
"Hush! you fool, speak lower."
"Been up bucking the tiger?"
"I've been making a damned fool of myself. Rieley watched me too close for comfort, and I am going to vamoose."
"When?"
"None of your business. I want you to come with me to-night. I must see
Cook."
"Don't do it, Jim. Pinkerton's men are as thick as blackberries. You will run into one of them if you don't lay low.
"No danger for me. One of them has a room next to mine at the hotel, and I played billiards with him this afternoon."
"You're a cool one, Jim. Too cool. It will get you into trouble yet."
"Damn your croaking, man. Do you show the white feather now?"
"Not I. I only warned you."
"Well, put a clapper to your jaw, and come along."
Boarding a street car, the men stood on the front platform smoking during the long ride to the terminus of the road.
Leaving the car, they plunged through the darkness over the same path trod by the tramp earlier in the afternoon.
The dark form of the distillery loomed up ahead of them, gloomy and lonesome.
Overhead not a star was to be seen, and save an occasional drunkard staggering home, the two men were alone on the road.
A short distance beyond the distillery the cooper-shop squatted beside the street, and the dim flicker of a candle cast its pitiful light through the dirt-encrusted window.
As Moriarity and Cummings stepped from the shadow of the distillery, an indistinct form stole behind them, and keeping just within sight, followed the two men as they wended their lonely way to Cook's shop.
Disdaining all attempts at concealment, Cummings rapped loudly on the door.
The sound of clinking glasses was heard, and a voice, heavy and thick, growled out, "Come in."
A vigorous shove opened the door, and Cummings was about to step inside, but at the sight of another man, a ragged tramp, drinking with Cook, he stopped short.
"Come in, b'hoy, come in; d-d-don't keep the d-d-door open; come right in," stuttered Cook, too drunk to speak intelligibly.
The tramp, elevating his glass above his head, with an inviting gesture, shouted the words of the old drinking song:
"Drink, puppy, drink, let every puppy drink
That's old enough to stand and to swallow.
For we'll pass the bottle round, when we've become a hound,
And merrily we'll drink and we'll hallo."
Cook attempted to join in the chorus, but his voice failed him, his head sank down upon his breast, and, in a drunken stupor, he rolled from his seat, prone upon the ground.
The tramp, rising to his feet, staggered to the side of his companion, and steadying himself with the aid of a chair, made futile attempts to raise his comrade to a perpendicular position. His knees bent under him, the chair fell from his unsteady grasp, and murmuring, "We'll pass the bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbent Cook, passed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus, seemingly dead drunk.
With a bitter curse of rage Cummings stepped forward, and, with rough hands, separated the boon companions, thrusting the tramp without ceremony under the table, Moriarity in the meantime shaking Cook in vain attempts to rouse him from his maudlin stupor. Cook, however, was too far "under the influence" to be aroused, and to the vigorous shakings and punchings would respond only with a hiccough and part of the refrain "puppies drink."
Cummings, in a towering rage at finding Cook in such a helpless condition, paced the small shop with impatient tread, all the time pouring imprecations upon Cook's devoted head. A sudden turn in his short beat brought him facing the window, and flattened against the dirty pane was the face of a man gazing intently into the room.
Another second and the face had disappeared.
Cummings stopped abruptly at the sight of the apparition, his face became livid, and a shade of terror flashed across his countenance. It was but an instant, though, that he stood thus, and calling to Moriarity to follow, he dashed through the door, drawing his ready revolver from his side coat-pocket at the same time, and catching a fleeting glimpse of a flying shadow, sped after it.
Moriarity, somewhat dazed at the unexpected turn of affairs, had risen to his feet, and stood blankly gazing at the open door, not comprehending what had occurred. A movement made by the pseudo tramp, caused him to turn around, and he was gazing straight into the open barrel of a dangerous-looking revolver, held by a steady hand, and cool daring eyes were glancing over the shining barrel, as a voice, decided and commanding, said:
"Hands out, Dan Moriarity, I want you."
Chip, as he was stretched on the floor feigning drunkenness, had kept his ears open, although obliged to keep his eyes closed.
The single candle which lit the room, furnished light too indistinct for him to see the faces of the two visitors, and as he acted his character of the drunken man, he cudgeled his brains to account for their visit.
The sudden disappearance of Cummings, and his calling out, "Moriarity, follow me," cleared the mystery.
He comprehended the situation at once.
While he did not know it was Jim Cummings that had been in the room, his mind with lightning speed grouped the torn express tag, the words "it to Cook," the man Cook, who lay beside him drunk, the fifty-dollar bill which he had changed at the bar-room, together with Dan Moriarity, and quick to reach his conclusions, he saw that it was the Moriarity he wanted, accompanied by some one who had come to see Cook.
Half opening his eyes he saw that Moriarity was standing up, nonplussed at something, and instantly he drew his revolver, and as Moriarity turned around covered him and ordered him to hold out his hands.
Staggered again the second time by seeing a ragged tramp, who a few seconds before was stretched at his feet in a drunken slumber, now erect, perfectly sober, and having the drop on him, Moriarity became more bewildered, and passively held out his hands.
The sharp click of steel handcuffs brought the dazed man to his senses, but too late.
He opened his mouth to cry for aid, but a strong hand was laid on his wind-pipe and the cry died before it was born.
The cold barrel of the revolver against his ear, and the detective's "shut up or I'll shoot," was too strong an argument to combat, and Moriarity submitted to being pushed hurriedly from the room into the open air and dark night.
Chip was beginning to congratulate himself on the important capture he had made, and with his hand on his captive's collar, and his revolver to his ear, was moving towards the center of the street, when a whistling "swish" was heard, the dull thud of a slung shot on the detective's head followed, and, every muscle relaxed, he sank a senseless man in the dust of the road.
"Help me pick him up," said Cummings, "and be quick about it, there's another beak around."
"I can't. I've got his darbies on."
Cummings stooped down, and lifting Chip in his arms, walked rapidly down the road toward the river.
"What are you going to do with him, Jim?"
"Chuck him through the ice. He knows too much."
With the senseless man in his arms, Cummings hurried forward, nor paused until he reached the river bank.
The weather had been piercingly cold for a week, although no snow had fallen, and the river was frozen solid from bank to bank.
To this fact Chip owed his life. When the train robber came to the ice, he sounded it with his heel. It was solid and firm, not even an air hole to be seen.
Baffled in his murderous designs, he debated for a second whether it would not be the best thing to leave the detective on the ice, and let him freeze to death, but the publicity of the place, its proximity to the city, and the risk of having been shadowed by the man whom he had caught gazing through the window, caused him to think of some secure place wherein to put the senseless Chip. He first searched the wounded man's pockets, and, finding the key, released the handcuffs from Moriarity.
The latter, seeing Cummings hesitate, and divining the cause, said in a questioning voice:
"Why not take him to the widow's, Jim?"
"I would a damned sight rather put him through the ice, but its too thick for me. Do you think we can carry him between us?"
"It would never do to let people see us two with a dead man between us."
"Then you must go up town and get a hack."
Moriarity turned back to the shore, and climbing the bank, hurried in the direction of the city.
Left alone with his victim, the desperado bent over him, placing his hand on Chip's heart. It beat steadily, though not strongly, and Cummings experienced a feeling of relief when he felt the regular pulsations.
He had never yet shed blood, and his first passion having died out, he was glad that the thick ice had defeated his first purpose.
The stunned detective stirred, the cold, crisp air was reviving him, and Cummings, his better nature asserting itself, hastily doffed his overcoat and threw it over the recumbent form of his captive.
It was not very long before the noise of carriage wheels were heard, and Moriarity running out on the ice assisted Cummings in carrying Chip to the land and placed him in the carriage, which he had caught on the way to town.
The driver, who had been told that "one of the boys had got more than he could carry," did not concern himself to investigate too closely, and having received his order, drove briskly from the scene.
The darkness and open country gave way to gas-lights and paved streets, over which the carriage rattled at a lively pace. Turning into a side street, Dan pulled the check-strap, and the carriage turned to the curb and stopped.
The detective, still unconscious, was lifted out, the driver paid and dismissed, and the two men, bearing Chip between them, entered a dark, narrow alley.
Proceeding up this for some distance, they entered the low door of a basement and placed their still insensible burden on the floor.
The damp, moldy smell of an underground room filled the air, and but for a slender beam of light which flashed beneath an adjoining door the place was dark as night.
Softly stealing to the door, Moriarity applied his ear to the key-hole, and hearing no sounds within, gave a peculiar double rap on the panel.
Receiving no answer, he cautiously opened the door and disclosed a small, square room, having a low ceiling, and lighted by a single low-burning gas jet.
On the walls hung a large astronomical map, showing the solar system, and divided with the girdle of the zodiac into its various constellations.
A grinning skull, mounted on a black pedestal, stood on a small table in the center of the room, and on shelves against the wall were ranged a number of curiously-shaped bottles.
It was, in fact, the divining-room of a professional fortune-teller.
The room was vacant when Moriarity opened the door, but as he threw it back, a small bell was sounded.
Almost instantly heavy curtains which hung opposite the door were pushed aside, and the fortune-teller appeared.
Advancing with stately strides, her tall form erect and her hands clasped before her, she fastened a pair of cruel, glittering eyes on Moriarity and in a deep voice asked:
"Why this intrusion at this late hour?"
"Oh! drop that stuff, Nance; it won't go down with us; we're no gulls to have pretty things told us by giving you a dollar."
Recognizing her visitor, Nance, in her natural tone, inquired sharply:
"What do you want at this time of night?"
"In the first place we want you to keep your mouth shut. In the next place you must find a place for a man we've got here, and keep him for a while."
"You're a loving nephew, you are, Dan Moriarity, Oh! you come around and see your old aunt when you're up to some devilment, I'm bound."
Moriarity, not deigning to reply to this speech, had gone back to his companion, and now returned with the form of the detective between them.
"My God! you haven't killed him, Dan?"
"He has a pretty sore head, I reckon, but nothing worse. Take us up-stairs."
Following Nance, the men carried Chip behind the curtain, through another room, and ascended a flight of stairs.
Nance threw open a door and Chip was placed upon a bed. The room was sumptuously, even elegantly, furnished. Pictures adorned the walls, a heavy carpet deadened the sound of the feet, and rich curtains kept back the too-inquisitive light.
Chip, wounded and insensible, was in the house of the "widow," the rendezvous of a daring band of robbers and the birth-place of many a dashing raid or successful bank robbery.
CHAPTER IX.
IN THE TOILS.
The dark shadow that had followed Cummings and Moriarity from the distillery to Cook's cooper-shop was none other than the assumed Barney O'Hara, who had aired his heels so jauntily in the saloon that afternoon.
Watching on the outside while Chip was working Cook, he had spotted and shadowed the two men as they came down the road.
The careless exposure of his face to Cummings through the window was the cause of the latter's sudden attempt to catch him.
His nimble heels again stood him in good stead, and in the darkness he easily eluded his pursuer.
Cummings gave up the chase, and returning just in time, had stopped Chip's success by knocking him down with a slungshot and carrying him off.
When Barney, or, rather, Sam, returned to renew his investigation, he found the shop empty, save the intoxicated Cook.
Thinking his late pursuer and his companion had taken the alarm, and that Chip was now doubtless shadowing them, he walked into the shop, and, true to his detective instincts and education, began a diligent search of the place.
He was actively engaged in this work when the sound of hasty footsteps reached his ears. Throwing himself flat on the floor, behind a pile of barrel staves, he drew his revolver and waited. The steps passed by, however, and Sam quickly but quietly left the shop.
He could barely see the form of a man walking rapidly down the street to the horse-car track.
As he passed the window of the saloon the light fell on him, and Sam saw it was one of the two men who had just left the cooper-shop.
Following closely, using all his skill as a successful shadow, he trailed the man to the car, and boarding the front platform rode into town.
Passing a livery stable the man left the car, still followed by Sam.
When Moriarity, for it was he whom Sam was trailing, rode back to the river, Sam was perched on behind the hack.
He saw the wounded Chip placed inside, thanks to the darkness, and still hanging on the back of the carriage was carried back to town.
When the two train robbers turned into the alley Sam was right behind them, so close that he could hear their labored breathing. Suddenly, as if they had been swallowed by the earth, he was left alone in the dark, nonplussed and outwitted.
Not a point of light was visible, and settling himself against the wall of a building, Sam started in for an all-night watch.
He understood the case at once. Chip had been knocked down by the renegades, and, probably still insensible, had been carried to their haunt. Knocked down, either because they had discovered his disguise, or had suspected him.
He was now firmly convinced that if Cook was not an accomplice in the train robbery, he was involved in something criminal, and Sam regretted that he had not been more thorough in his investigations. Now that Chip was in the hands of his enemies, all others sank into insignificance; so with keen eyes and sharp ears, Sam kept his solitary vigil.
The gray dawn of the morning had taken the place of the night, and Sam, under the shadow of a convenient shed door had heard or seen nothing pass his post. The day grew stronger, and, chilled to the bone, the disappointed detective left the alley and wended his way to his boarding-house.
The cause of the sudden disappearance of the two robbers the reader is acquainted with, and the reason Sam failed to see them again was because they had left the house by another exit.
The widow, acting as a go-between and a fence for the light-fingered gentry who patronized her establishment, hid her real calling with the guise of a fortune-teller, and her house, poorly furnished, damp and moldy when entered from the alley, was well furnished in the upper stories.
The room in which Chip was confined was the sybil's chief pride. Every article of furniture, every bit of painting, the carpets, and even the base-burning stove, were the trophies of successful robberies.
The very sheets and towels had been deftly purloined by the widow herself.
It was this stronghold of the "gang," to which Chip, battered and insensible, had been brought by his captors.
Cummings, who from his actions was no stranger to the house, in brief authoritative tones, bade the witch to take charge of this prisoner until further disposition could be made of him.
The widow listened to his words, and with the submission which all his associates rendered to him, promised to do all he commanded.
The first gleam of the morning warned the two men that they must seek their cover, for despite Jim's natural boldness and daring, he was cautious and careful. Instead of descending to the room which had its entrance from the alley, they mounted another flight of stairs, and gaining the roof by means of the scuttle, walked the flat mansard until another hatch-door was reached, and through it they entered a quiet, unassuming appearing house, which stood on the side street from which the alley branched.
The house, though completely furnished, was vacant, and the men reached the street without meeting any one.
Cummings and Moriarity having left, the widow, for the first time ventured to look at her new charge. Her keen eyes noted the disguise which Chip had adopted. The wicked blow which had brought him to this plight had moved the red wig to one side and disclosed the dark clustering hair, now bathed and soaked in his blood.
He was still unconscious, but his strong constitution was regaining its sway, and he moved uneasily on his soft couch.
The widow, now remembering the commands which Cummings had laid upon her, hastened to bring water, and washed the wound. The slung shot had struck squarely across the crown of the head, but the cut was not very large or deep, and the widow, with ready skill, bound it neatly with bandages, and holding a brandy flask to his mouth forced some of its contents down his throat.
The color came back to the detective's face, and in a few moments his eyes opened, and with a dazed expression wandered over the room.
The widow, as she noticed the first signs of returning consciousness had retired from the room, now, with consummate skill, put a kindly, even tender, look toward the sufferer as she reappeared through the door.
Chip, still very much bewildered, his head feeling as though it was whirling off his shoulders, heard a pleasant voice asking: "And how is my poor boy, now?"
Chip gazed vacantly at her, as he responded:
"Who are you? Where am I—my head—"
"Come, come, don't talk. Take this medicine like a good boy, and go to sleep."
With childlike obedience the detective swallowed the draught, which soon took possession of his senses, and he fell asleep.
The widow quietly sat beside him until the opiate had taken full effect. Then muttering "You are safe for four and twenty hours," she descended to her divining-room, leaving the detective deep in slumber, and in complete ignorance of his surroundings.
CHAPTER X.
ON THE WATCH.
Sam Slade and Chip had been comrades at arms for almost two years. Many a dashing capture had they made Adventures and hair-breadth escapes were of frequent occurrence with the two "dare-devils," as the force had dubbed them, and before now each had saved the other's life by some bold stroke or skillful strategy.
Satisfied that Chip was in danger, if not of his life at least of his liberty, Sam hastened to his room, and with the aid of soap and water resumed his natural appearance. The jaunty-looking Irish lad, Barney O'Hara, would never be recognized in the young gentleman who looked at you through gold-rimmed spectacles, with soft gray eyes, and whose sober demeanor and grave countenance bore the stamp of the student or minister.
It was this metamorphized individual that walked languidly to the breakfast table and responded in gentle tones to the woman's salutations which greeted him. Breakfast served and over, Sam again sought his room. His boarding-house had been selected entirely on account of this room. The room had once been occupied by a physician as his office, and, standing on the corner of two streets, had a side entrance to it besides the entrance from the main portion of the house.
Thus the detective could slip in and out entirely unobserved by the boarders or his landlady, the latter supposing him to be a man of enough means to enable him to live without daily labor.
Sam had given her this idea, and supplemented it by stating he was engaged in literary pursuits.
Reaching his room, Sam wrote out a full report for the last twenty-four hours (this constituted his literary labors) to be forwarded to Mr. Pinkerton in Chicago.
After his report was finished, he hastily threw off his clothing, and replaced his sober suit of gray by the flashy costume of a man about town, he stood before his mirror to make up his face.
No actor was more clever than Sam in artistic and realistic disguises. His smooth face was skillfully covered by a beard, short-cropped, his nose was given the slightest rosy tint, and putting on a light overcoat, the studious young gentleman of half an hour ago was transformed into a howling swell.
Tan-colored gloves and a heavy, silver-headed cane completed his costume. Thus arrayed he sallied forth.
It was now nearly noon. The streets were crowded, and Sam kept his eyes well opened, carelessly but keenly scrutinizing every man he met.
One saloon after another was visited, but no sight of the mysterious men who had downed Chip could be obtained.
He had carefully noted his bearings when he left the alley in the morning, so he had no trouble in finding the correct locality again.
His hat was tipped rakishly over his left eye as he swaggered up the alley and entered a beer vault for which the alley was really the entrance. By good luck, no customers were present, and Sam engaged in a lively conversation with the bartender.
Skillful pumping, judiciously mixed with high-priced drinks, soon gave
Sam the entire history of the denizens of the locality.
It was beside the shed door of the beer vault that Sam had kept his solitary watch and ward the previous night, so that somewhere about this point Chip had been carried by his captors.
Gazing through the window, Sam saw a mass of debris; old cans, ashes and the like were scattered in the center of the court or alley, while on both sides, near the buildings, a narrow board walk was laid.
Now, Sam knew that when he entered the place he was on the right-hand side, immediately behind his game.
If they had crossed over to the side on which the beer vault stood, the crunching of the ashes or the noise of the old cans, which would be very apt to be moved, would have advised him of that fact.
Putting these facts together, Sam was almost certain that they had not entered the beer cellar.
Just opposite stood a half-open door, which, flush with the court, would have accounted for the sudden disappearance of the men if they had turned suddenly and entered it. These observations were made by the detective while he was engaged in a lively and pungent conversation with the burly bar-keeper.
The saloon made a good post of observation, and Sam settled himself for an all-day patron if necessary. Taking a seat near the window, he called for a glass of beer, and tilting back his chair took a careful survey of the premises.
The alley was what is termed a "blind alley." On each side were low doors entering the basements of the houses, and the population consisted of rag-pickers, second-hand clothiers and one pawnshop. It was just such a place as one would expect to meet the lowest types of humanity. Dirty children were playing in the half-deserted place, their blue lips and pinched faces speaking eloquently of their poverty. Italian hand-organ grinders were sitting on their door-steps, and slatternly women were leaning from their windows, exchanging gossip in loud, shrill tones. Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the narrow walk, carrying a suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every person he might meet, dodging suddenly into some one of the doors. All this Sam saw, but his eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately opposite.
He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was, so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman. Her eyes, strikingly brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar prevented her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she made. The woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl over her head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.
The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female passed down the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb:
"Rum old gal that."
"Friend of yours?" lazily inquired the detective.
"Naw. I don't have nothin' to do with her, nor she with me. She's a fortune-teller, she is."
"One of them kind that lays out the cards, and spells out your fortune, eh?"
"I dunno. I never was in her den."
"Wonder if she could give me a luck charm?" asked Sam.
"If you've got the dust, she can make you anything. Them as lives around here says she's a witch. Maybe so. I think she's some cursed half-breed, myself. None too good now, I tell you."
"Lived here long?"
"Who? Me?"
"No, the woman."
"I've been here five years, and she was here before me."
"I suppose she has plenty of customers, eh?"
"You bet she has. The fool-killer ought to lay around here for a while.
There were two dandy blokes come out of there this morning."
Sam started, and inwardly cursed his stupidity in letting his game get away from him. The two men of which the bar-keeper spoke, were probably the very persons he wanted, so, in an indifferent tone, he inquired:
"What's her office hours?"
"Any time night or day I reckon. The two swells came out about 10, I guess. Maybe later."
"She don't throw on much style?"
"Don't she though. Silks ain't nothin' to her. She's a clipper when she agonizes."
Fearing, if he kept up the conversation much longer, that the bar-keeper would suspect his game, Sam called for another cigar, and picking up a deck of cards which lay on the table, suggested a game of "seven up." The bar-keeper seated himself with his back to the window, Sam still holding his post of survey.
The game was only just begun, when the fortune-teller, carrying a small bottle, apparently of medicine, returned and entered the door.
Sam's interest in the game died out shortly after, and patrons beginning to appear, the bar-keeper took his accustomed place behind the bar.
The room gradually filled up, and taking advantage of a little crowd near the door, Sam quietly slipped through the door and walked straight across to the fortune-teller's house.
As he entered, the inner door was opened and the dark woman herself appeared.
With inimitable assurance the detective removed his hat and advanced toward her.
Drawing herself up to her full height, the sibyl in a deep, solemn voice said:
"What brings you here?"
"I'm in hard luck. Got scooped up to the White Elephant and want you to give me a luck charm."
The eyes of the hag glittered greedily as Sam held out a five-dollar bill, and throwing the door wide open she bade him enter.
As Sam did so his experienced eye took in the whole room, the skull, charts, bottles and even the cards did not escape his gaze.
Nance pushed forward a chair, and telling him under pain of breaking the spell not to utter a word, she retired behind the curtain.
Left alone Sam took a more deliberate survey of the apartment and could hardly repress an exclamation of satisfaction as he saw lying on the floor the old slouch hat which Chip had worn the preceding day. His face, however, showed nothing as Nance reappeared bearing in one hand a peculiar lamp, scrolled and formed in a fanciful pattern and in the other a large book bound in parchment, covered with hieroglyphics. Putting the lamp on the table she extinguished the gas, and the pale-blue flame of the alcohol in the lamp cast its ghastly beams over the strange place.
Muttering rapidly to herself she threw powder on the flame, causing a green flash to appear each time, with her eyes fastened on the open pages of the book.
Amused at the hollow fraud, Sam looked on, very much interested and racking his brain to devise some means of gaining a further entrance to the house. From its outside appearance he knew he must be in one of the rear rooms, and if Chip was not behind the curtain he must be in an upper story. While he was thus occupied the fortune-teller had finished her incantations, and, taking from a drawer a small amulet sewed in oil skin, handed it to the detective.
"Take this, my son—the stars are auspicious. It will bring you and keep near you good luck and high fortune. Now, depart in peace, for I am weary and would fain seek rest."
His answer surprised her, for, rising abruptly, he struck a match, and, lighting the gas jet, pushed aside the curtains.
With a scream of rage, Nance sprang forward.
"Go but another step, and I'll tear your heart out!"
Disregarding her, the detective pushed forward and threw open the door leading to the ascending stairs.
In a trice he had mounted them and turning to the right, entered a room. His astonishment was so great that he half stopped, for the apartment was furnished in almost regal style; richly-upholstered furniture and oil paintings contrasted so vividly with the squalor and misery of the lower part of the house that the audacious detective could scarcely believe his senses.
A smothered cry of rage and terror behind him warned him, and turning swiftly he beheld Nance, with wild eyes and disheveled hair, springing toward him. In her uplifted hand gleamed the glittering blade of a stilletto, and like a fury she rushed upon the bold intruder.
The trained hand flew to the pocket and the ready revolver leaped forth.
Nance staggered back, the dagger falling from her nerveless hand, as in abject terror she crouched on a chair.
"Don't shoot! don't shoot! See, I won't hurt you," she moaned.
Grasping her by the wrist, and pressing the revolver to her head, Sam said, sternly, and in a voice that would brook no delay:
"What have you done with the man brought here last night?"
Nance pointed to the next room, too frightened to speak, and thrusting her forward, Sam continued his search.
Chip, his head covered with a bandage, and still somewhat confused, recognized his comrade as he entered the room. His mind was clear enough, however, to appreciate the situation, when the terror-stricken hag, pointing her long skinny finger at him, quivered in a tremulous voice: "He's alive; don't you see he's alive?"
Overjoyed at finding Chip safe and still alive, Sam clasped his hands.
"Can you walk, Chip?" he asked,
"I don't know, Sam. I had a devilish close call," and Chip threw back the covers and essayed to step from the bed. His limbs trembled, and throwing up his hands despairingly, he sank back again. A flask of brandy stood on the table, and in an instant Sam had the cork out and had poured some of its contents down his friend's throat.
The generous fluid warmed the blood and revived the strength of the wounded detective, who, making another attempt, stood on his feet.
Throwing his arm around Chip's waist, Sam bade the thoroughly cowed woman to go before him, and was moving slowly to the door when a sharp, stern voice commanded:
"Stop!"
The detectives looked up, and standing in the open door, a revolver in each hand, stood Jim Cummings.
CHAPTER XI.
A MIDNIGHT FLIGHT.
THE two detectives were in a tight fix. One of them sorely wounded; the other, handicapped by his almost helpless comrade, would stand small chance against the burly man who checked their path. But Sam, who was nearly as large in build as was his opponent, and in an even fight, would not have hesitated to bear down upon him, slipped his arm from around Chip, and prepared himself for a desperate struggle.
As his arm passed his side pocket, he felt his revolver. Keeping Chip before him, he slipped his hand onto it, and drew it out, Chip keeping Cummings from observing the movements. The scent of approaching danger had acted on Chip as a strong restorative, and his eyes met those of his late captor unflinchingly as he cried:
"We know you now, Jim Cummings; you've betrayed yourself," and Chip again looked at the triangular gold which his parted lips disclosed on one of his teeth.
Up to this moment the desperado had imagined himself to be unknown, but at the words Chip uttered, he started, and with eyes burning with rage, and features twitching with fury, he turned to Nance, who, still under the spell of complete terror, was huddled in a corner, her hands over her face, not daring to meet the outlaw's eye.
"Ah," he hissed, "you did this," and like a flash his revolver covered her, and the whip-like report rang out. The answering voice of Sam's pistol echoed the first, and when the smoke had lifted, Cummings had disappeared.
Without stopping to look after the hag, Sam lifted Chip in his arms, and hastily descended the stairs, It was dark when the alley was reached, and slowly walking to the corner, a hack was called and the two friends drove rapidly towards Sam's boarding-place.
Stopping but just a second to tuck his friend in bed, Sam hastened to the Central Police Station and, in a few words, placed the case before the chief. The sergeant in charge at the time detailed five men to return with the detective. The house was entered and searched from basement to garret, but the birds had flown. The worn condition of the steps leading to the roof attracted Sam's attention, and further investigation disclosed the fact that this scuttle-way was the means of exit. Sam thus ascertained why his long, weary watch had been fruitless.
After Cummings fired at the fortune-teller he turned quickly and ran up the steps to the roof of the house and so escaped through the vacant dwelling which faced the street. Believing that the old woman had either betrayed him or had been frightened into giving the desired information he decided to "vamoose the ranch" and that quickly. Moriarity must trust to his own good luck, for time was pressing and to save himself he must take an immediate departure.
A thousand schemes passed through his head and a hundred disguises presented themselves to him as he hurried toward his room. Side streets and back alleys were taken and more than once he doubled on his track to ascertain if he was followed. Satisfied that, as yet, no one was on his track, Cummings allowed his fears to vanish. He was still safe and if he could only reach his "den" in safety he could lay low until the first wind had blown over. He knew that in a short time the whole city would be scoured for the noted Jim Cummings, and he laughed derisively as he thought of the open manner he had moved in the town since the robbery. No disguise had been attempted, no great secrecy and if it had not been for the unfortunate affair of the cooper-shop, he might have lived there for years without any suspicions being directed toward him. Although he had moved so openly and boldly he had kept to himself, not even telling Moriarity the location of his residence. To this place he now hurried. It was a large room in a first-class boarding-house whose landlady and boarders would have been horror-stricken had they known that "Mr. Williams," the jolly, good-natured young fellow who had proved such a valuable acquisition to their after-dinner gatherings, was the desperate free-booter who had walked away with the valuable express package.
Cummings was no ordinary robber. Endowed by nature with cool nerves, an active brain and athletic frame, he had all the requirements necessary to make a successful and daring criminal. That he was so the preceding pages have testified. Now that he was threatened with discovery, he did not rush blindly into danger by attempting to flee from it, but he did the exact opposite.
He knew that every train would be watched, that telegrams would stretch out in all directions, and the detectives, now on a hot scent, would crowd him night and day. All these thoughts passed through his mind, as he leaned back in a comfortable chair and puffed his Havana. And he decided it would be best to remain closely to his room until the hue and cry had subsided, and play invalid.
For a week he stirred not from the house. And then thinking the first heat had passed, he commenced strolling out after dark.
One evening, having lighted a cigar, he was walking leisurely up the avenue, all fears of discovery set at rest by his fancied security, when his dream was rudely disturbed by a hand placed lightly on his shoulder. Quick as a panther, he sprang to one side, placing himself on the defensive, and his hand upon his pistol ready for any emergency. His startled gaze met a pitiful sight. Ragged and tattered, his hands, trembling and face blanched with the first touch of delirium tremens, stood Oscar Cook. Tottering up to Cummings, he whispered in tremulous tones:
"Jim, they're after me. They most nabbed me. Save me, Jim, save me!"
Alarmed lest the poor wretch would attract attention, Cummings placed his arm around him, and half-carrying, half-dragging him, bore him to his room. Slipping the latch of the door, he turned up the gas.
Cook sank into a chair, his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. Every muscle was twitching, his eyes, staring stonily ahead, were bloodshot and fevered. Horror was printed on his face, and his fingers, curved like bird's claws, moved spasmodically over his head.
"They're after me, Jim, they're after me," he repeated, again and again.
Greatly disturbed by the sudden appearance of the wretched Cook, Cummings hardly knew how to meet the emergency. If he kept Cook with him, the tremens would come on, and in the delirium of the frenzy Cook would probably say something which would betray Cummings. On the other hand, if he left the house to place Cook in some safe quarters, he courted detection.
He was in a tight box, and this, with the events which had just occurred and his close call of the week previous, made him somewhat nervous. As he looked at the miserable wretch before him he saw that he wore the high-heeled boots and spurs of the cowboys, who make Kansas City a rendezvous. In an instant his course was plain and he proceeded to execute it.
Handing Cook a large glass full of brandy, he bade him drink it. The half-crazed man needed no urging, but clutching the glass he drank it down greedily. Its effect was almost instantaneous. His face lost the horrible expression, his fingers straightened out, and the trembling ceased. Cummings watched him closely, and knowing that the liquor would only sustain him for a short time, he said:
"Cook, where's your horse?"
"Down at the livery stable on the next block."
"Can you get me one at the same place?"
"Yes, a good one, too."
"We must get out of here. The place is too hot for us. All the trains are watched, so we must leave a-horseback. Go get your horse, hire one for me, and we'll vamoose at once."
Cook started up with alacrity, for as long as the brandy was potent the tremens would not effect him.
Cummings hastily changed his apparel, putting on a pair of high boots and over them the fringed leather chapparels. A wide sombrero replaced the derby hat, and when fully costumed he had on the business rig of a typical cow-boy.
He had hardly completed these arrangements when the noise of horse-hoofs on the pavement was heard. Opening the shutter Cummings waved his hand, and placing his revolver in the holster ran down the steps.
He had written a note to his landlady saying that pressing business of the most urgent kind had suddenly called him out of town, and it was uncertain when he could return. This he left on the table and the landlady saw him no more.
The horses were fresh, and striking into a canter the two men made for the open country. The excitement and motion combined with the bracing air drove the fumes of the liquor from Cook's head, and before many miles had been passed he was comparatively free from the terrible malady which threatened to consume him.
The suburbs were passed, and under the clear sky and bright stars, the willing horses spurned the frozen mud from beneath their feet as they flew, neck and neck, down the road. Neither men had spoken a word since the start, but sitting low in the saddle, gave the horses loose reins nor checked them an instant.
They had left the road and were speeding over the frozen prairie, skirting a small clump of scrub oak, when just before them, a solitary horseman could be seen, leisurely walking his steed. At the sudden appearance of the stranger, both men instinctively reined in their horses and pulled up short. The man at that moment, heard them, and giving a hasty look backward, drove his spurs into his horse, dashed forward at full speed.
In sheer deviltry, Cummings did likewise, followed by Cook, and gave chase to the flying horseman. It was nearly dawn. The gray light was brightening the landscape, and, observing his game more closely, Cummings saw something familiar in his form; and when he glanced over his shoulder to see his pursuers, the heavy mustache could be seen, even in that uncertain light.
Placing his fingers to his lips, Jim gave three whistles, two short and one long sounds. The shrill tones reached the stranger, who turned half around in his saddle and saw Cummings waving his hat. Checking his speed somewhat he allowed the distance between them to become less, but holding his horse well in hand, if any signs of treachery were observed he could have some chance of escaping.
As the two men swept toward him they cried as in one voice:
"Moriarity!"
Moriarity, for such it was, immediately drew up his horse and the three friends were soon shaking hands.
"The fly-cops made it too hot for me, boys," said Dan. "I came within an ace of being caught. One of the beaks had his hands on me, but I knocked him down and lit out."
"Where are you bound for now?" asked Cummings.
"Down to Swanson's ranche."
"We were heading the same way," said Cummings.
Swanson's ranche, situated in the northeastern part of the Indian Territory, near Coulby's Bluff, was about one hundred and fifty miles south of Kansas City. The rolling prairie which stretched between was interspersed with ranches, and an occasional small town, but for the greater part was wild and uninhabited.
Swanson, an Americanized Norwegian, had married a Cherokee squaw, which enabled him to locate in the Indian country. His reputation was none of the best, but his unscrupulous character and well-known skill with the Winchester caused him to be feared, and an officer of the law would think twice before making any attempts to disturb him. It was at this place that the three fugitives were seeking refuge.
The sun had risen, and it was broad day when Cummings, who naturally took the lead, commanded a halt.
A clump of cotton-wood trees on the verge of a small, shallow creek offered a good camping ground.
Hobbling their horses, after taking the saddles from them, they allowed them to graze at will, and the party busied themselves in collecting wood for a fire.
A few sheep which had escaped from some ranch were grazing near the spot, and Moriarity, who had his Winchester, dropped one by a well-directed ball back of the shoulder.
The warm fleece was taken from the still quivering body, and the appetizing smell of mutton steaks reminded the hungry men that the breakfast hour had long since passed. The meal over, nature asserted her claims, and the thoroughly tired-out travelers wrapped themselves in their blankets and fell asleep.
They were not disturbed, for the trail which they had taken was seldom traveled over, and it was late in the afternoon when they were once more on their way.
The trail led over the beds of dried-up streams, and skirted the numerous patches of scrub oak and cotton-wood trees which were scattered all over the prairie. The long prairie grass sometimes brushed the feet of the horsemen, and coveys of prairie chickens flew up and scurried away as the three outlaws galloped past. Mile after mile was left behind, the tough Indian ponies they bestrode keeping the tireless lope for which they are noted without slacking the pace or becoming exhausted. The three riders were expert horsemen, and had been accustomed to the saddle almost from infancy.
Little was said and few words spoken by the men as they skimmed over the prairie save to call attention to some obstacle in the way, or to some change in the trail, which stretched before them plain and distinct.
The few Indians and half-breeds they met paid no attention to them, thinking them to be cowboys bound for their camp, and in fact they did resemble those hardy specimens of plainsmen who range this country herding cattle or sheep.
When the chill of the night had set in, Cummings ordered a second halt, and the horses, hobbled, commenced to graze on the short buffalo-grass which spread underfoot. The remainder of the carcass of mutton which Moriarity had shot had been strapped back of his saddle, and was now cut up into suitable sizes for the fire which Cook had built. The meat, laid on the glowing embers, was soon cooked and, their hunger appeased, the men, wrapped in their blankets, their feet to the fire, composed themselves for slumber.
The long hours of the night passed on, the fire had died out, when Cummings, awakened by a sudden feeling of chilliness, rose to his feet and piled some twigs and branches together to make a blaze. As he stooped to the ground the faint, far-off beats of horses' hoofs reached his quick ear.
"Dan! Cook! Wake up! Get up lively!" he cried, as he made a dash for his saddle and threw it on his horse. "They are after us."
The camp was instantly in commotion, the saddles thrown over the horses and tightened with ready and experienced hands, and vaulting into the saddles the three men rode out into the bright moonlight as a company of ten men, armed to the teeth, swept like a whirlwind around the edge of the timber.
A yell reached the ears of the three fugitives as they galloped out on the prairie and a voice, clear and commanding, rang out in tones familiar to Moriarity, who had heard them in the cooper-shop when the tramp commanded him to hold out his hands.
"There they are lads. Forward!"
Uttering a deep round oath Dan turned in his saddle, giving the horse the head, and leveling his rifle fired point-blank at the pursuing party.
A cry of derision greeted the shot, and Cummings, saying "Hold your shots, you fool," drove his spurs cruelly into the horse's flanks and, followed closely by his companions, dashed down the trail toward Swanson's ranche.