CHAPTER XII.
THE PURSUIT.
Chip and Sam were not the only Pinkerton men in Kansas City at this time engaged on the Adams Express robbery case, for from the time Cook awoke from the drunken stupor in which Cummings and Moriarity found him at the cooper-shop on the night when Chip was captured he had been shadowed constantly by Barney, who with Chip had found the letter heads in Fotheringham's trunk.
Day and night had Barney followed him, and he was but a short distance behind when Cummings took Cook on the verge of the delirium tremens to his room.
When Cook came back with the horses and with Cummings rode away, Barney hastened to Chip, who, fully recovered from the terrible blow on the head, had again assumed his duties, and reported the fact to him.
Sam, who was on the lookout for Moriarity, was notified at once, and the three detectives, laying the matter before the chief of police, were furnished with seven mounted men armed to the teeth, and all of them old Texas rangers.
This formidable troop had left the city scarcely an hour after the robbers had started. The direction they took and the nature of the country pointed to Swanson's ranche as the point for which the outlaws were making.
All night long the posse rode, and had they not taken a wrong trail, would have caught up to the robbers at their first camp.
Retracing their path, a short halt only was made, saddle girths were tightened, the rifles closely inspected, and Chip, giving the cry of "Forward," led the company on the hot scent.
Like a good general, Chip spread his men to the right and left of the trail, so that in moving forward a wide swath of country was swept.
The first camp which the outlaws had made was discovered by the scout on the left flank. Raising the Texan yell, the rank closed in and gathered around the spot.
One of the men, an old Indian hunter, burnt by the sun to living bronze, and scarred by the many hand-to-hand conflicts he had had with the red savages, leaped from his horse, his keen eyes fastened to the ground, read the signs which the outlaws had left as if they were printed words.
Pointing to the fire and the remnants of the burnt meat and bones near it, he said:
"They ain't more'n three hours ahead of us, and there's more than the two. Three fellars ate their grub here this morning."
"How do you make that out?" said Chip.
"Well, Cap'n, I've fit Ingins and herded cattle more'n twenty year, off an' on, and if there ain't been three men here not over three hour ago, I lose my reckonin'. See here, in this soft place where the sun has melted the ground a bit, is hoof-marks, and they belong to three different horses."
"Perhaps they stole a horse?"
"Mebbe so, and mebben't so. I reckon it mebben't so. Cause why? The fellar as walked over this patch wore boots and spurs, long rowels on 'em, too. See where they cut the mud. Here is another one, a derned sight smaller foot, and here is one that had a sharp heel. No, Cap'n, they picked up a man somewhar along the road."
To this the others who had come out with the detectives gave their unqualified assent, and Chip cried:
"Three hours ahead is a good lead on us, boys. We must climb along."
The command was again given, and, rendered more eager and enthusiastic by the knowledge that only thirty miles was between them and their game, the men moved forward with a cheer.
Another short halt was made for supper and the trail was again covered just as the robbers had about commenced to sleep. A sharp lookout was maintained and the bright light of the full moon turned night into day and made the task so much the easier.
As they rode around the edge of the timber in which Cummings and his companions were secreted they had no suspicion that they had gained so rapidly on the flying renegades, so that the sudden appearance of the men for whom they were searching somewhat surprised them. Giving their peculiar yell they pressed forward with a great burst of speed, not even checking the gait when the ball which Moriarity sent whistled over them.
Instantly several rifles were leveled at the flying robbers, and had not Chip commanded them not to shoot it would have fared ill with Jim Cummings and his companions.
With the speed of the wind the horses flew down the trail, the rapid hoof beats rang out on the still night and sent the slinking coyotes howling to their lairs. Just peering above the horizon could be seen the dark outlines of Goody's Bluff, fifteen miles away, and if Cummings could but reach its shadow he was safe, even from the posse which was pursuing him, for he would then be in the Indian Territory. Looking back at his pursuers, who in a solid group were following him so closely that he could almost distinguish their features, so bright was the night, he saw that their horses were not driven at the full height of their speed, but were rather being held back. Alarmed at this he communicated his fears to his companions, who, one on each side, were bending forward in the saddle, urging and caressing their horses to get all there was out of them, and right gamely did the stanch animals respond to the touch of the spur or pat of the hand, as they beat out mile after mile behind them, the hoof-beats echoed by the flying party behind. With starting eye-balls eagerly fixed on the dim outlines of the bluff, the hunted men watched it grow larger and more distinct, and hope began to revive in their breasts when a sharp "ping" of a rifle, followed by the whistle of the ball passing over their heads broke the silence of the wordless chase.
As with one impulse, each man threw himself flat on his horse's neck, but did not for an instant relax speed or spur. Another shot followed, and Chip's voice, ringing and clear, shouted:
"If you don't halt, we'll shoot your horses."
"Shoot and be damned," said Jim Cummings, almost exultingly, as he drew his revolver from his belt. "Two can play at that game," and drawing a hasty bead on Chip, he pulled the trigger.
Chip's horse, giving a convulsive leap to one side, staggered a little, and fell behind, but was soon in the lead again, apparently unhurt.
"Boys," shouted Cummings, "d'ye see that dry creek bed. On the other side we're safe," The pursuing posse, hearing these words, and knowing their full import, gave spurs to their horses, and the distance between the two parties closed up so rapidly that the three outlaws could hear the heavy breathing of the following horses.
Their own animals began to show signs of distress, and the dry creek bed was still a long, long distance off.
Nearer and nearer crept Chip and his men, the thirteen men, pursuers and pursued, was almost in one party. Chip, who lead, and Cummings, who rode behind his comrades, were not a horse's length apart.
Slowly the gallant beast Chip bestrode pushed forward, gaining little by little until his nose almost reached the flank of Jim's steed.
"Jim Cummings, do you surrender?" and the sharp click of a revolver was heard.
With a malignant scowl Cummings half turned in his saddle, and saying:
"No, damn me, no; not while I live," placed his revolver at the head of
Chip's mount and sent the ball crashing to its brain.
Down in its tracks shot the noble steed, the dark, rich blood jetting from the ghastly hole, and deluging Chip with its crimson flood.
Chip, with the address of an experienced horseman, had lighted upon his feet, his revolver still clutched in his hand.
The sudden fall of the leading horse had caused the remainder of the party to haul up short to avoid running horse and rider down. This left the road clear before him, and Chip, dropping on his knee took a long careful sight at Cummings and fired.
A sudden swerve of Jim's horse saved him, but uttering a cry of pain, Cook's steed, struck in a vital point, stopped short, and trembling in every limb slowly sank to the ground. Cook, taken so unexpectedly, had shot over his horse's head, and now lay, unconscious, in the center of the trail, his two companions, driving the spurs deeper into the flanks of their almost exhausted animals, dashed down the banks of the dividing line and stood safe on Indian Territory.
The unconscious Cook was at once surrounded by the detectives and posse, and a generous dose of brandy poured down his throat brought him to his senses.
Chagrined beyond measure at the escape of his man, just when he was about to put his hand on him, and at the loss of his horse, Chip was in no humor to allow a technical boundary line to keep him from capturing his men, who, riding around the edge of an elevation on the prairie were now lost to sight.
"Brodey," he said, turning to the ranger who had been the guide of the expedition from the time it started from Kansas City, "how far is it to Swanson's ranche?"
"A matter of twenty-five miles, as the crow flies."
"How far by the trail?"
"Well, Cap'n," responded Brodey, reflectively, as he threw his knee over the pommel of his saddle, "lemme see. The trail goes by that there belt of timber, then jines the stage-road to Allewe, an' follows that a piece, then it shunts off to the west straight for the bluff thar, purty nearly a bee-line. Thirty mile, sure—mebbe less."
"Is that the Indian Territory 'tother side of the divide?"
"Jesso—Cherokee Nation."
"What sort of a man is this Swanson?"
"Half-buffalo, half-painter, an' other half crocodile. He's wuss than a half-breed Apache, an would as soon shoot a man as to drink, an' Swanson's a right powerful punisher of the whisky-jug."
"Yes! yes! I know all that, but is he cunning, shrewd, sharp, you know?"
"Got eyes like an Injun, ears like a coyote an' a nose sharp as a gopher snake."
"He must be a tough combination, but I'll do it, all the same."
"Do what, Chip?" asked Sam.
"Go down to Swanson's and bring in my man."
"Bars and buffler skins," cried Brodey. "You don't mean to say that you will do such a blame fool thing as that. Sho!"
"Not alone, Chip," said Sam. "I go with you."
"See hyar, young fellers," expostulated Brodey. "Do ye know what your doin'! Got any idee ye'll come back alive! I've been in some tough places before now, but shoot my worthless carcass if I want to go to Swanson's. He's killed a man, torn out his heart and eaten it raw, fer a fact."
"Pshaw, who would believe such a yarn as that, man."
"Swar to gosh it's true," continued Brodey. "I don't believe thar's a man in the States what's got as much devil to thar square inch as this man Swanson. Better not go, Cap'n. I'd hate tremendous to have you killed."
Chip laughed lightly, as he stroked the neck of the Ranger's horse, and said:
"Brodey, I've been a detective for five years, and in those five years I've looked almost sure death in the face more than a score of times. I have seen the knife raised which was to be buried in my heart the next second. I have felt the revolver spit its flames plump in my face. I have been tied hand and feet and laid across the rail, with a lightning express train not over a thousand feet off, coming down like the wind, and I am a live man to-day. The man isn't born yet that can kill me."
Chip said all this in a modest tone and no signs of braggadocio, for it was all true, and his listeners knew he was telling facts by his bearing and manner.
"Yes," broke in Sam, "and I was with you on several of these occasions, and what's more, I shall be with you on this one you are planning."
"I want you should be—but enough of this talk. We can do nothing more now. Our men have given us the slip. Dismount, boys, and give the nags a breathing spell."
Cook, by this time, had regained his senses, and was sitting up in the middle of the trail rubbing his shoulder and wearing a most woebegone and dazed look upon his expressive countenance. Observing this, Chip walked toward him, and imitating a drunken stagger, sang:
"Drink, puppies, drink; let every puppy drink, That's old enough to stand and to swallow."
As the first strains fell on his ears, Cook started, and regarding Chip with questioning eyes, inquired:
"Who are you fellows anyway; can't you let peaceable travelers alone without shooting their horses?"
"Oh! you were peaceable travelers, were you? Well, now, that's strange, we took you to be some horse thieves that have been skurrying around these parts lately."
"Do you think I look like a horse-thief?" indignantly.
"Is that your own horse?"
"Not exactly. I hired—"
"Ah! yes, you hired it—they all say that—you hired it some time ago and have forgotten to pay the bill—"
"Well, I didn't either, I hired it for a week, and—"
"Really, Mr. Cook, you were going to make quite a visit—"
"My name ain't Cook."
"No? Let us call you Mr. Cook just for the sake of the argument. It's a good name, is Cook. I used to know a fellow named Cook once. He had a cooper-shop on the east bottoms, Kansas City. I went over to see him a week or so ago, and we had a high old time I can assure you. Cook was a very amusing gentleman. He could sing like Brignoli. What was that song he could sing so nicely? Oh! yes, I have it."
"For we'll pass the bottle 'round When we've—"
"The tramp!" ejaculated Cook looking at Chip with amazement.
"The same, at your service, Mr. Cook, for that is your name, isn't it?"
"I'm caught," confessed the puzzled Cook. "What are you making game of me for? What do you want me for?"
"Nothing, nothing. We were afraid you might prolong your anticipated visit to such a length that we grew homesick for you, so I got some of the boys together, a sort of a picnic, you know, to ask you not to stay too long," bantered Chip. "We really can't take 'no' for an answer, Mr. Cook, really you must consider our feelings and return with us."
"I guess I can't help myself," said Cook grimly.
"It does look a little that way, don't it?"
Cook shook his head as he arose to his feet, and stooping over his dead horse unloosed the girth and drew off the saddle, nor did he make any objection when Chip secured his revolver and ammunition belt. Escape was entirely cut off from him and he accepted his capture in a resigned spirit, because he could not help himself.
"Brodey, how far is the railroad from here?"
"About fifteen miles over thar," pointing toward the east, "Blue Jacket lies thar, and is on the Missouri, Kansas and Texas."
"We'll make for it. You take the prisoner behind you and I will mount with Sam."
The cavalcade were soon in motion, leaving the dead horses to be devoured by the buzzards and coyotes which were already beginning to gather around.
Arriving at Blue Jacket, the party left Chip and his prisoner, and turning to the north cantered off for Kansas City.
CHAPTER XIII. SWANSON'S RANCHE—THE DETECTIVES IN ROBBER'S RETREAT—THE SUCCESS OF THE DOCTOR—ANOTHER ROBBERY PLANNED.
In the center of a beautiful valley, with high, rugged bluffs rising on all sides, and intersected by a clear stream of spring water, which fell in tiny cascades and little waterfalls, turning and twisting like a silver snake, stood Swanson's Ranche. The low frame building, surrounded on four sides by a wide porch, and standing on a gentle elevation which fell away to the creek, was the home of the redoubtable Swanson, who was monarch of all he surveyed for miles around. The evening was rapidly advancing into night, and the large open fireplace, huge and yawning, was roaring with the cheerful fire which Swanson's obedient squaw had built, that her liege lord might not be chilled by the cold wind which whistled over the plains.
The floor of the large room, covered with fur rugs and huge buffalo-skins, was made of pounded clay, and the feet of many years had hardened it to almost stone-like solidity.
Saddles, lariats, rifles, high boots, and all the trappings and harness belonging to a cowboy's outfit littered the place, and stretched out on the robes and furs, in easy, careless attitudes, lay some half-dozen men.
Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number. Thick clouds of tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack.
Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche—Swanson. Cast in a Herculean mold, he stood over six feet tall, his broad shoulders surmounted by a neck like a bull, and his red, cunning face, almost hid from sight by the thick, bushy whiskers which covered it.
He had been relating, with great gusto, some adventure in which he had played a prominent part, and raising his broad hand in the air he brought it down on a table near him, as he exclaimed:
"And if any detective comes skulking around this shanty, I swear I'll cut out his sneaking heart, and make him eat it raw"—when the sound of horses broke the thread of his discourse, and a voice was heard shouting:
"Hello-o-o, the house!"
"Yes, an be right smart about it, dis chile most froze."
A young fellow near the door sprang to open it, and thrusting his head out, said:
"Come in, there's no dogs around."
"Dats all right, honey, we ain't got no fear of de hounds, me an' the
Doctor ain't."
"Keep quiet, you black imp," said the voice which had first been heard,
"Hobble the nags and bring in my saddle, boys."
"All right, sah; I's hearin' you, sah."
To this conversation, which had taken place outside, the men in the room had listened with great interest. Anything was welcome that served to break the monotony of ranche life, and a stir of expectation went through the room as the two strangers were heard dismounting.
The door opened and the new-comers entered.
"By the great horn spoon if this ain't the old hoss doctor hisself!" exclaimed Swanson, as he reached out his huge paw. "I thought the Apaches had lifted your scalp years ago."
"You can't kill a good hoss doctor, Swanson," replied the Doctor, grasping the offered hand and giving it a hearty shake. "Good hoss doctors don't grow on every bush."
"Boys," said Swanson, turning the Doctor around. "This hyar gentleman is Doctor Skinner—"
"Late graduate of the Philadelphia Veterinary Surgical Institute. Has practised in seventeen States and four Territories. Can cure anything on hoofs, from the devil to the five-legged broncho of Arizona, which has four legs, one on each corner, and one attached to his left flank. With it, he can travel faster than the swiftest race horse, and when hunted by the native red men, he throws it over his neck, and smiles urbanely upon his baffled pursuers."
Swanson roared with delight as the Doctor rolled this off his tongue, and slapping him on the back, cried:
"You're the same old codger. Haven't changed an inch in seven years. You've got to stay here a week, two weeks, a month. I've plenty of sick stock, and some of the boys have horses that need polishing."
"Yes, sah!" broke in the Doctor's companion, a full-blooded negro.
"We's gwine to camp down hyar shuah a monf—"
"Hold your tongue, Scip," said the Doctor. "I'm the talking man here. Yes! gentlemen," addressing the attentive cowboys, "I can cure anything that touches the ground—biped, quadruped, or centipede—glanders, botts, greased hoofs, heaves, blind staggers, it makes no odds. My universal, self-acting, double compound elixir of equestrian ointment will perform a cure in each and every case. It is cheap! It is sure! It is patented! It is the best, and it is here. You may roll up, you may tumble up, you may walk up, any way to get up, or send your money up, and you will receive a two-quart bottle of this precious liquid, of which I am the sole owner, proprietor and manufacturer."
Again Swanson expressed his unbounded delight, and the audience signified their entire approbation by shouting:
"Go it, old hoss; keep it up!"
When the doctor first entered, Cummings, who was extended on a large bear skin, fastened a searching look on him, taking in every feature and article of wearing apparel, and Moriarity, who was stretched near him, regarded the new-comer with suspicious eyes, but when they witnessed the cordial greeting which Swanson gave, they dismissed their suspicions and entering into the spirit of the evening, applauded as loudly and noisily as the rest.
Scip, who had been attending to the horses outside, now stuck his head through the door and shouted:
"Tole you what it was, Massa Doctor, dis yer chile can't tote dat bundle in alone, nohow."
"All right, Scip, I'll help you," and disregarding, with a wave of his hands, the proffers of assistance which were tendered him, the doctor stepped onto the porch and found Scip struggling with a large pack, strapped to the back of a broncho, tugging and jerking, and swearing under his breath at "the old fool rope."
Coming close to him the doctor said aloud:
"Be careful you black imp of Satan; what are you so rough about?" and then followed in a whisper, "the men are both there, Chip."
Scip, or rather, Chip, adopting the same tactics, replied:
"Honey, I's handlin' dis yeah smoof as cottonseed oil"—whispering, "what a rascally-looking lot."
The Doctor and Scip were none other than the two detectives. When Chip reached Kansas City he hunted around for some suitable disguise which would carry him through in safety. In his perplexity he went to the chief of police, with whom he was on the most friendly terms, and put the case before him.
The chief said:
"About seven years ago there used to be an old fraud named Skinner, a sort of horse-doctor, who stepped somewhat over the line and walked off with some other fellow's nag. He is now putting in his time at Jefferson City. He was hale fellow well met with all that gang, especially Swanson, and I think if you could run down to Jefferson City, put the case before the warden, you could get pointers from him."
That afternoon Chip was in Jefferson City, and walking over to the penitentiary, found the warden willing, and Skinner was called to the visitor's cage.
He had three years more to serve, and, on being told that any service he could render the State would be taken into account and to his credit, he gave Chip a minute and detailed description of his costume, manner of doing business, and brought up many interesting reminiscenses, which Chip carefully noted.
Sam, who had a peculiar talent for disguises, was to take the part of Doctor Skinner, and Chip as his negro servant could slip in and out without attracting much attention.
It was in these assumed characters that the detectives made their entre into Swanson's habitat.
Further private conversation was barred by the massive form of Swanson filling the door, and urging his friend the Doctor to let "his nigger" take charge of the stock.
"Can't be did, colonel," said the Doctor, "can't be trusted alone near this pack. Scip has too much love for the bottom of the flask to allow him too much freedom here."
"Well, I'll send one of the boys out. Hyar, you, Abe; mosey out thar and yank that pack in hyar."
Abe, a strong, strapping young plainsman, lifted the pack to his shoulder, and, followed by the "Easy, young man; step lightly; glass, you know; this side up with care," of the doctor, deposited it upon the floor.
Opening the pack the Doctor held aloft a large square bottle, on which was pasted a yellow label, "Dr. Skinner's Incomparable Horse Healer," commenced rapidly to dilate upon the peculiar excellence of the nostrum.
"Gentleman, what is good for the noble brute is good for man. This compound, this superior selection of seventeen separate solvents is warranted to dissipate the most chronic complaints. It will incite slumber, mend the broken heart, cause the hair to grow, is good for chapped hands, sore eyes and ingrowing toe-nails. It is a panacea for all evils and a trial will cost you nothing."
He passed the bottle to Swanson, who stood listening to his glib tongue in amused wonder, and invited him to test the medicine. Nothing loth, the giant took a huge drink.
"Whisky," he shouted, joyfully, "the real, old stuff," and smacking his lips he again applied them to the bottle. It was passed around, and the doctor at once became the most popular man on the ranche.
Scip, who had finally succeeded in securing his horses to his satisfaction, during which time he had made a tour of the premises and obtained the lay of the land, now entered the room and pushing his way through the crowd gathered around the Doctor and his bottle of "cure all," spread his hands to the fire, standing beside Cummings.
"Where did you pick up the darkey, Doctor?" inquired Swanson, designating Scip by a jerk of his thumb.
"The hard fact is, gentlemen, that we picked each other up. I was 1907 and Scip was 1908.
"How's that?"
"I repeat. I was 1907 and Scip was 1908."
"You mean to say you were doing—"
"Simply that and nothing more, I found a halter in the road one day and picked it up, carrying it with me, and it wasn't until a most officious individual in blue coat and brass buttons came along and rudely placed a pair of exquisite steel bracelets on my delicate wrists, that I learned that a horse was tied at the other end of the halter, and the gentleman who is supposed to dispense justice in Kansas City urged me to remove to Jefferson City for a time; that is all. The number of my room was 1907 and my colored friend here had the apartment next to mine."
"Yah, yah," laughed Scip, "we bof did our time together, suah."
This new claim on Swanson's friendship had its effect, and the generous quantities of whisky which he had swallowed having put him into an extraordinary good humor, he threw his arms around the doctor and vowed he would keep him all his life.
Thus the two detectives by a bold piece of strategy, had gained entrance to the express robbers' asylum and had been offered the right hand of fellowship. The evening wore on, cards were produced, and the click of the ivory poker chips was heard above the low hum of conversation. The doctor did not care to take a hand, and Scip, apparently tired out with his day's journey, had thrown himself on a buffalo-robe in a corner, and seemed fast asleep.
The Doctor, his eyes half closed, and slowly puffing his pipe, closely and keenly eyed every face in the room; but most of all, he gazed at Swanson, who, partly overcome by liquor, was leaning back in an easy, cane-bottomed chair, looking into the fire. A malignant frown, ever and anon, knit his low brow, and his cruel mouth curled so as to show his teeth, as his thoughts passed through his befuddled brain.
Cummings and Moriarity, who had withdrawn from the main party, had their heads together, earnestly engaged in conversation. Cummings was evidently endeavoring to persuade his fainter hearted comrade to do something, for he often bent a significant look on Swanson, or pointed his thumb toward him, but Moriarity, whose eyes were half indicative of fear, would shake his head as if in expostulation.
The Doctor saw all this, through his half-closed eyes and strained his ears to catch even the slightest shred of their consultation, but the outlaws talked in such low tones that he was unable to hear anything.
A glance at Skip, who was gently snoring near them, put his mind at rest, for he saw that the darkey was taking in every word that dropped, feigning sleep all the time. A sudden movement by some of the men, roused Swanson, and looking at a huge silver watch, he ordered them all to bed at once. Which command was obeyed by all except Cummings, Moriarity, the Doctor and Scip.
An inner room, fitted with bunks, was used as the dormitory, but the two robbers, as special guests had rooms to themselves. Going to a cupboard, and bringing out an armful of blankets, Swanson threw them on the floor.
"There my hearty, you and your boy will have to camp out here to-night.
We're crowded, so make yourself comfortable," and then bidding them
"Good-night," he staggered to his bed.
Nothing could suit the detectives better than this. A room to themselves, a warm fire, plenty of blankets and no suspicions of their true character.
Smoothing the blankets over the bear skins, the two friends lay down and a whispered conversation commenced.
"What were Cummings and Moriarity talking about, Chip?" said Sam, in a cautious tone.
"Cummings wants to rob the old man, Swanson. He says he's got thousands of dollars salted somewhere around here and thinks they might as well make hay while the sun shines, but Dan was afraid to do it."
"What a precious pair of rascals, but we can use this idea first-rate to get them over the line again."
"I thought of the same thing as they were talking. If you could only bring it up without awaking any suspicions, we might offer to help him do the job."
"Trust me for that, old fellow. Even if we have to commit actual robbery, I'll do it."
"Well, keep your eyes open, and don't be caught sleeping. Go to sleep, now. I'll keep first watch."
This was the regular system of the two operators. While one slept the other kept watch and to this fact a large portion of their success was due.
The ranche became quiet, its denizens all sleeping, and the night passed without any disturbance.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE DOCTOR TURNS CONSPIRATOR—THE PLOT TO ROB THE RANCHE.
The pseudo doctor had been at the ranche a week, during which he had become quite chummy with Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity, who, finding that time hung very heavy on their hands, welcomed the jovial, story-telling doctor and spent most of their time in his company.
Swanson, who was moving his stock further west and making preparations for the spring round-up, was obliged to be in the saddle all day and sometimes late at night. Although a hard drinker, an unscrupulous rascal and an inveterate gambler, he was a good stock-raiser, and kept good care of his cattle. He employed a large force of cowboys or herders, and, acting himself as captain of the round-up, he would absent himself from home for days at a time.
One morning the Doctor, flashing a significant glance toward Scip, which said, "Take your cue and follow me," remarked in a careless tone:
"I reckon the old man must have considerable dust salted down by this time."
As the remark was a general one made to Cummings, Moriarity and Scip, the latter answered:
"Yes, sah; Mass Swanson got a pile of gold laid up for a rainy day, suah."
The Doctor continued:
"He's had more than the average run of good luck the last few years. He told me the other day that he only lost a few head all year, and was just going to ship a big lot to Chicago."
Cummings, blowing a blue column of tobacco smoke toward the rafters, said:
"It's always been a question to me where he keeps his money. There's no bank around here."
"Oh! he's a shrewd old chap, Swanson is," replied the Doctor. "He has a private bank somewhere near here probably."
"Seems to me that would be pretty risky," said Cummings. "If he keeps it planted around here what would hinder some one from finding the cache and getting off with the plunder?"
"I made that very remark to him," the Doctor answered; "and he laughed and said it would take something smarter than a cowboy or an Injun to find it, but there are others beside cowboys and Injuns that come this way," with a meaning smile. Cummings noted the smile, and glancing at Moriarity, said:
"How would you go at it, Doctor, if you were to make the attempt?"
The Doctor laughed quietly, as if he appreciated the joke, and leaning back in his chair, his thumbs in the arm-holes of his vest, his feet stretched on a chair before him, he answered:
"Well, Cummings, I don't know as I would like to do it. Swanson's a good friend of mine, and—"
"Hang it all, man, who the devil asked you to do it?" replied Jim, hotly. "I was only joking; do you think I wanted you to—"
"Not at all, my dear fellow, not at all," said the Doctor, in a soothing tone. "No one supposed for a minute that you thought of such a thing, but if I was going to do a job like that I wouldn't care to do it alone. Two, certainly not more than three, more to help would be necessary. I would go at it about this way: The first thing would be to find out where Swanson kept his money. It is doubtless kept in close proximity to this place, evidently well secreted, for Swanson is not a man to let his right hand know what his left hand is doing. I think I would be apt to get him full some evening, then let him win a big pot from me in poker, and, feigning drunkenness, I would watch very keenly what he did with the money. You may depend on it, it is somewhere in this house. After I ascertained the hiding-place I would surprise the old fellow in his sleep with the aid of my confederates, and gagging him, and then binding his arms and feet, would rob his bank at my pleasure. THAT is the way I should do it."
Cummings had followed every word, nodding his approval and manifesting his interest in various ways, and, without noticing what he was saying, muttered to himself, but so loud that the Doctor overheard it, "Just the way I would do it, and I will yet."
"What makes you think Swanson keeps his wealth on the premises,
Doctor?" asked Moriarity.
"Safest and most convenient place," replied the Doctor, "He probably has had a special hole or cranny made for it, a double wall of some room, behind some picture or something like that. I recollect a chap that had a picture in his room, fastened close to the wall just like that picture there," and the Doctor pointed to the only picture in the house, a representation of the ranche painted by some wandering artist. "It was a painting of a man's face and by pressing the eye a spring was released and the whole picture swung back, showing a cavity back of it in which the old miser kept his valuables."
Scip, who was always cutting some caper, here rose to his feet, saying
"Dunno, but mebbe Massa Swanson keep he truck behind that chromiow. Heah now, I'se Massa Swanson," and Scip imitated Swanson's gait, "I'se playin' poker wid you gemmen. I'se out o' cash; Massa Cummins thar, he got a king full, and lay ovah my bob-tail flush, I say, 'Hole on thar, Massa Cummins, I'se got to unlock de combinashun of my safe.' Den I walk ovah to de picture, an' I hit a crack with my fist, so Well, I be damned!"
The rest sprang to their feet in astonishment for, illustrating his remarks, Scip had struck the center of the oil painting with his hand, and stood dumb-founded, for the picture noiselessly swung forward and disclosed a large recess in the wall in which little sacks of some sort of money were piled one on the other. Scip, who was evidently the most surprised one of the party, was, however, the first to regain his composure. Pushing the frame to its place again the sharp click of the spring lock was heard, and turning swiftly around he caught meaning glances passing between Cummings and Moriarity.
"Humph!" he said to himself, "Swanson's money is as good as gone now unless we nab these two rascals soon."
The Doctor, who had reseated himself, remarked in a tone of wonder,
"Really, this is a most remarkable coincidence, most remarkable indeed."
"Oh! shut up that mummery, Doctor," broke in Cummings roughly, as he reared his head and squared his shoulders evidently intending to make a strike, "You and your nigger knew all about this, so you may as well own up."
The Doctor, receiving a nod from Scip, leaned forward, his eyes fastened intently on Cummings and his voice sunk to a low whisper, replied:
"And you may as well own up, too. We're all in the same boat. That is just what you are here for, and if you think I am fool enough to loaf around this hole a week for nothing, it shows you don't know me. I need you two and you need Scip and myself. Come, is it a bargain?"
In answer Cummings held out his hand. The Doctor grasped it cordially and holding his left hand to Moriarity, who took it, said:
"We four, for Scip is my pal, can do it OK, We can—"
"Why not do it now," said Cummings, with energy. "Our horses are here and we can put a whole day between us and the ranche before Swanson returns."
Now this was just what Sam (the Doctor) did not want. During the week which he and Scip had been spending at the ranche, seven or eight new men had been taken in by Swanson, who, as was before said, was getting in shape for the spring round-up. Of these new men six were Pinkerton detectives, and at this particular time were several miles from the ranche herding cattle. It was necessary that these men should be notified by Scip of the plot, and be ready to spring the trap as soon as the game was in the toils. For this reason the Doctor did not want the robbery to occur before the next night at the earliest. So shaking his head decidedly, he said in an emphatic manner:
"No, it won't do; it would spoil the whole thing. All the money is in the shape of specie and tied up in bags. We have nothing in which to carry it, and would have to load it as it is on our horses. Besides, Swanson is expecting a large payment for his last shipment to-day. I know this, as he told me so, and we may make ten thousand dollars by waiting a day longer."
After some demurring, Cummings acquiesced, although with very bad grace.
"All right, have it your own way; but no later than to-morrow night."
"To-morrow night it is, then," said the Doctor; then, as if struck with some suspicion, he turned suddenly and said:
"And the Lord have mercy on your soul, Jim Cummings, if you or your mate play us false."
"No fear of that, Doctor," replied the train robber. "You'll find me true blue at any rate—you're a man after my own heart. I wish I had known you sooner."
"Why?"
"Because, last October I did a little job and was almost nabbed because one of my pals weakened."
Moriarity looked somewhat confused, but apparently not noticing it (but in reality nothing escaped the hawk eyes of the disguised detective) the Doctor said:
"Last October! By Jove, you ARE the Jim Cummings that did up the Adams Express Co. The papers were full of it. If there is any man I have wanted to meet it is you." And the Doctor with great enthusiasm grasped the express robber's hand with every expression of intense admiration beaming from his eyes.
His vanity tickled by this expression of homage, Cummings drew himself to his full height, and replied:
"Well, yes, I did that work, and if you will stick by me we can work another one just as good."
"I'm with you, and when I say 'I,' it means Scip, too, for he is a treasure."
Scip ducked his head as he said:
"We's a hull team and a dog under the waggin, but, Massa Doctor, I'se goin' out to look after the bosses," and he left the room.
Moriarity, picking up a rifle and cartridge belt, said he was going out for a canter and see what luck he could have in the way of game. This left Cummings and the Doctor alone.
Glancing out the window they saw Moriarity gallop off, and a short distance behind Scip on his horse, following.
"Where did you pick up that darkey, Doctor?" asked Cummings.
"In St. Louis, about five years ago. He is a good one, faithful and brave, and will never squeal. He is just the man to help us on this new deal."
The subject of this conversation was all this time galloping over the level prairie, following closely behind Moriarity, who, with his rifle thrown across the pommel of his saddle, was on the look out for anything in the way of game which might come along.
As they rode along they would meet one of the herders sitting at ease on his horse, or galloping madly after some refractory steer that was making a break for freedom. They had, in their ride, passed four of these men, and to every one Scip gave a signal, merely the wave of his hand in a peculiar manner, to which the men had responded likewise. They were nearing another stand, the ranchman, astride his pony, stood against the sky like a bronze bit of sculpture. As they came within speaking distance Scip, drawing in his horse, said.
"I's goin' to loaf aroun' heah a bit, Massa Dan, I'll wait fer you."
"All right," responded Dan, who gave his horse the spurs and swiftly disappeared behind the swell of land. Scip, walking his nag, drew near the cowboy.
"Hye thar, honey, got any 'bacco?"
"Plenty, blacky, plenty,"
"Den give me some."
"What is it, Chip?" asked the cowboy as Moriarity swept out of sight.
"We have work to do to-morrow night, Barney, you must get the boys together, go down the divide to the ford and cross over, ready to come when I whistle. To-morrow night we must bag our game."
"We will be there, Chip, and I am glad of it, for its devilish monotonous staying out here all day."
"There will be a break in the monotony that will suit you. Be sure to be at the other side of the ford before twelve to-morrow night."
Chip then explained to him the details of the projected robbery and the plan of capturing the outlaws as soon as they had crossed into Kansas, for the divide was the southern state line of that state.
Barney, again repeating his statement that he would be there, loped his horse after some cattle that was straying too far off, and Chip, or rather Scip, stretching himself on the ground, awaited Moriarity's return.
They arrived home in time for supper, and found Swanson had returned from Blue Jacket, where he had gone that morning, and the fact that he had made up beds for the Doctor and Scip in a side room was accepted by Cummings as proof that he had received the money he expected and wanted the room to himself that he might put his wealth behind the picture unobserved.
The next day the ranche was deserted save by the four conspirators, who made preparations for the robbery of Swanson's money which was to take place that night. The picture was tried until the proper point for touching the hidden spring was found. A supply of food was quietly secreted in a bag and hid near the divide. Some heavy flour sacks made of canvas were ripped open and suitable bags for carrying the money were made from the pieces. All these preparations were made without interruption or discovery, and excepting a long ride which Scip made in the afternoon, ostensibly for the purpose of exercising his horse but really that he might again see the detectives who were acting as cowboys, the day wore along without any incident out of the ordinary way.
CHAPTER XV.
THE ROBBERY—CUMMINGS' NARROW ESCAPE—THE CAPTURE OF MORIARITY—JIM CUMMINGS SLIPS FROM THE TOILS—MR. PINKERTON TAKES A HAND.
The ranche was asleep. Heavy breathing and deep snores from the sleeping-rooms indicated that slumber had fallen on all the inmates. Swanson, who had been repeatedly urged to drink by Cummings and Moriarity and had accepted every invitation, was stretched on his back a drunken mass of stupidity.
The stamping of the horses and distant movements of the thousands of head of cattle alone broke the silence of the night and the darkness had cast its pall over the entire place.
In the large room Scip and the Doctor coolly and calmly awaited the hour of their triumph. Fear was a stranger to both, and as they quietly conversed in whispered accents it would be difficult to believe that they were about to engage in a most desperate enterprise. In another room lay Cummings and Moriarity, completely dressed. The former, with his habitual sang froid, was whispering to Moriarity, who, somewhat excited, was calmed by his companion's nonchalance, and as the hour for the work drew near became like him. A stealthy step, noiseless as an Indian's, interrupted the conversation, and the faint rap on the door gave them the long-looked-for signal.
Creeping on their hands and knees down the hall past Swanson's door, through which his hoarse breathing could be heard, the two men entered the room in which the treasure was stored. The dying embers in the fire-place created a dull glow, showing the Doctor and Scip, booted and spurred, standing in the center of the room. Softly Cummings approached the picture, his finger found the spring through the canvas and, pressing it hard, the frame swung slowly forward as if reluctant to give up its precious charge.
Rapidly taking one bag after another from the cavity Cummings passed them to Moriarity, who placed them in the bags prepared for them.
The Doctor and Scip had gone outside and now brought the four horses nearer the door. This they did that they might have as little to do with the robbery as possible, and they had so managed it that Jim and Dan had done the actual theft.
Moriarity had brought two of the bags which the Doctor had placed on his own and Scip's horse and had gone back for the third, when the door from the inner hall opened, and, his tangled hair hanging in mats over his eyes, his clothing disarranged, his face purple with rage and a revolver in each hand, Swanson appeared before the surprised robbers.
The dim light of the fire showed the picture open, and befogged as his brain was by the whisky, he realized he was being robbed, and with a roar like a mad bull he sprang upon Cummings.
Swift as a flash Cummings' fist, sent forward with all the force of his powerful frame, struck the ranchman under the ear, and tossing his arms above his head he fell like a dead man on the floor.
The sound of many feet hurrying to the scene was heard and, leaving the bag which he was about to take when Swanson sprang on him, Cummings bolted through the door, vaulted on his horse and followed closely by his companions, rushed swiftly into the darkness. It was none too soon, for at once a half score of men poured from the house, and the vicious snap of the rifles, followed by the pin-n-n-g of the bullets, as they cut the air close to their heads, caused the four men to drive their spurs into their ponies until the blood dropped from their lacerated flanks.
Galloping swiftly to where the herding ponies were tethered, Cummings sprang from his horse and, whipping out his keen bowie knife, cut lariat after lariat, stampeding the whole herd. This done he remounted his horse, saying,
"NOW, we can take our time. They won't get a horse to saddle under an hour," cantered off with an easy, strength-saving gait.
"Curse that Swanson," broke in Cummings, after riding in silence a few moments. "Curse him, he kept me from making an extra ten thousand by his cursed appearance."
Neither the Doctor nor Scip replied to this outburst from the disappointed outlaw. The time for action was coming, and as fast as their horses could gallop, the two outlaws were riding toward the trap laid for them. Leaning forward, with the skill of an expert pickpocket, Scip drew the revolver from the holster on Cummings' saddle, and dropped it in the dry grass which bordered the trail. Watching his opportunity, he pushed his horse against Moriarity, and in the slight confusion caused by the collision, he managed to obtain Dan's revolver in the same way. A whisper told the doctor that this had been done, and the disguised detectives each rode beside the man which they were to capture, the Doctor keeping his eye on Cummings and Scip ready to pull Moriarity off his horse at the proper time.
On the other side of the river, or divide, dark shadows stood under the few cottonwood trees, motionless and quiet as the grave, their ears strained to catch the first sound of their quarry, and their hands grasping the ready revolver.
The far-off sound of galloping horses warned them that the time to act had come, and soon the splashing of the water in the creek told them to stand ready.
The voice of Scip was heard saying in loud tones:
"Heah's de trail, gemmen, ovah dis yah way."
The scurry of hoofs as the horses clambered up the steep banks, the low-spoken words of encouragement which were given their steeds by the robbers, and suddenly the shrill whistle giving the long-looked-for signal rang out on the still air.
As Scip gave the whistle he passed his arm around Moriarity, saying:
"Dan Moriarity, you are my prisoner."
His words were instantly followed by the rush of the detectives who had been lying in ambush, and Moriarity, taken completely by surprise, threw his hands above his head in token of surrender, and then passively submitted to having the darbies snapped on his wrists.
Cummings, at the first note of the vibrating signal, had his eyes opened. His hand flew to his holster, and the mocking laugh of the detective followed the discovery that his revolver was gone.
Sam laid his hand on the outlaw's shoulder, and pressing his revolver against his head, called on him to surrender.
Throwing his hands over his head as Moriarity had done, he suddenly brought his clinched fists full against Sam's temple, putting into the blow the strength of three men. Without a groan the detective's head sank forward, his revolver dropped from his nerveless grasp, and he lay unconscious on his horse's back.
A yell of exultation, and Cummings, turning his horse, dashed down the bank, through the stream, and disappeared in the darkness on the other side.
Instantly the detectives followed, leaving two men to guard Moriarity, for in the darkness Sam's condition was not noticed, but seeing the folly of attempting a pursuit in so dark a night, Chip's whistle recalled them, and the chagrined and disappointed operatives gathered around the cottonwood trees.
Sam, who had merely been stunned, soon recovered, and with the aid of some brandy Richard was himself once more.
The notorious Jim Cummings had escaped, but two of his accomplices,
Cook and Moriarity, were in the clutches of the law.
Dan maintained a dogged silence as the cavalcade cantered toward Kansas City, nor did he speak a word until he was safe behind the bars in that city.
"You have caught me by a dirty, shabby trick, but you will never lay your hands on Jim Cummings," he boasted.
To this Chip replied with a smile, "We'll see, Daniel, we'll see. Make yourself comfortable, for you will stay here a good long time, my cock robin."
A growl and a curse was all that Dan deigned to answer, and turning on his heel Chip left the prison.
Mr. Pinkerton, who had received almost daily reports of what had occurred, which reports Chip had contrived to mail through some one of the detectives disguised as cowboys, now telegraphed that he would be in Kansas City the following night. Chip and Sam met him at the railway station and he accompanied them to Chip's room.
A full and detailed recital of all that occurred was given him by his subordinates, who then put the case in his hands.
"Boys," he said, "we must get one of these men, either Cook or
Moriarity, to squeal."
"They are both afraid of Jim Cummings, I can see that in every word they speak," said Chip, "they would rather go to Jefferson City than to turn State's evidence."
"We must work on them in some other manner, then. Sam," turning to the detective, "are you a good hand at forgery?"
"I can imitate most any one's handwriting," said Sam. "Sit down and I will dictate a letter to you."
Sam, taking some paper from the table, wrote as Mr. Pinkerton dictated.
MR. WILLIAM PINKERTON:
DEAR SIR—The letter I wrote to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat is all correct, excepting that I did not tell who plugged the bell-cord. The man, Dan Moriarity, who is now under arrest in Kansas City, was the man who did it. He also forged the order which I gave to the messenger Fotheringham, and was the one who planned the robbery. I make this statement, relying on your word of honor to secure me a light sentence if I turn State's evidence and give information leading to the recovery of the money which I secured.
Yours truly, JIM CUMMINGS.
Mr. Pinkerton, taking from his pocket-book the train robber's letter which he wrote to the St. Louis newspaper, handed it to Sam.
"There is a letter in Jim's handwriting. Now sit down and write this letter in the same hand."
In an hour the detective had completed his work and laid the forged letter before his superior. It was cleverly done, and Mr. Pinkerton felt satisfied.
"Now for the jail," he said, and accompanied by his two "bowers," as he often called them, he left the room and walked to the Kansas City jail.
CHAPTER XVI.
MORIARITY IN THE SWEAT-BOX—THE SUCCESS OF THE FORGED LETTER—MORIARITY CONFESSES.
Dan Moriarity, seated on a bare plank bench in his cell, was passing away the weary hours in figuring how he was to get out of the bad scrape into which he had plunged. He was now fully satisfied that the detectives were very certain that he had a hand in the express-car robbery—but how did they get hold of that dangerous fact? Not through Cook, for since his incarceration in the jail Dan had talked with Cook in the corridors, and Cook had sworn by all that was good and holy that he had not divulged a single word, and knowing that Cook stood in mortal fear of Cummings, as did he himself, Dan believed him.
It was not at all probable that either Haight or Weaver had given the thing away in Chicago, for Dan knew from Cummings that they had not been disturbed, and Cummings had not, or would not have given any information. Then how did the cursed "man-hunters" find out that he had helped in the affair?
Dan was busily engaged in trying to solve this knotty question when the bailiff in charge entered the door and told Dan to follow him to the office.
When Dan reached the room he found three gentlemen awaiting him, all strange faces to the robber. The eldest of the three, as he came in, pointed to a chair, and with commanding brevity and in a tone which indicated that he was used to being obeyed, told him to sit down.
The full glare of the light streaming in through the window fell full upon his face, while the remainder of the party, their faces turned toward him, were comparatively in the shadow, thus having him at a disadvantage. As was before remarked, Moriarity possessed a certain amount of bull courage, and seeing he was in for it, and feeling that he was to be put through the sweating process he sat erect in his chair, his lips compressed and his whole demeanor that of a cornered man determined to fight.
Mr. Pinkerton saw that and with courteous suavity inquired, "Is this
Mr. Moriarity?"
"What's the use of asking me; you know well enough who I am," replied
Dan, in short, curt syllables.
"Of course, of course; but I thought I might be mistaken."
"Well, you aren't."
"Now, Mr. Moriarity, I think if you are inclined to you can get yourself out of this scrape."
"Ya-as, I suppose so.
"You will let me introduce myself. My name is William Pinkerton."
Dan looked at the great detective with interest and a certain amount of awe, which, however, he quickly overcame and determined to keep a stiffer upper lip than ever.
"Oh! You're Billy Pinkerton, are you?"
"Yes, I am Billy Pinkerton, and I've been hunting for you for some time."
"Well, you ought to be satisfied; you've caught me."
"More than satisfied, Mr. Moriarity, for I've caught your friend too."
"Cook?"
"Oh, he was jailed before you."
"You don't mean Jim?"
"Exactly."
"You can't stuff me with any such yarn as that."
"Would you like to see him?" asked Mr. Pinkerton, quickly.
"Seeing's believing."
Turning to the bailiff Mr. Pinkerton inquired:
"What cell is Jim Cummings in?"
"Forty-three, sir."
"Will you take us there?"
"Yes, sir. This way, please."
The detectives with Moriarity followed the turnkey and passing the entire length of the corridor paused in front of cell forty-three.
The door of solid sheet steel had a small circular opening in it through which the guards could inspect their prisoners.
Opening this Mr. Pinkerton looked in, then stepping back told Moriarity to step forward.
Dan applied his eye to the opening and in surprised tones exclaimed,
"By God, it IS Jim."
He again looked and clinching his fist pounded on the door. "Jim! Jim!" he cried. "They got you at—"
"Here, none of that," said the bailiff in a gruff tone. "None of that,
I say," and taking Dan by the arm he marched him back to the office.
"You see, Mr. Moriarity, I told the truth," said Mr. Pinkerton in a pleasant voice.
"Looks like it," growled Dan. "But I don't see how the devil you did it."
"Very easily done. He gave himself up."
"What's that?" shouted Dan as he almost bounded from his chair.
"He gave himself up, I said," repeated Mr. Pinkerton.
"Jim Cummings gave himself up," said Dan slowly as if trying to grasp the idea.
"Exactly. He saw we had him and that he couldn't get away, so to make his sentence as light as possible he did the best thing he could do and surrendered."
Almost dumbfounded by this surprise Dan sat speechless and stared blankly at the detective.
"Do you know, Mr. Moriarity," Mr. Pinkerton continued, "you strike me as being remarkably clever."
Arousing himself Dan answered in a savage tone:
"What are you driving at now?"
"I mean that up to the time that Cummings surrendered himself we thought he was the principal man in the case, the prime mover and director of the whole affair, but now we find we are mistaken. That is why I say you are clever. You simply used him as a cat's paw, and played hide and seek with our whole force, and a man that can do that as long as you did is remarkably clever," and Mr. Pinkerton smiled admiringly at the man who sat before him. Puzzled at the words, and trying to see beneath the surface, Dan said: "Oh! come now, stop your chaffing, I won't squeal, and you can't make me. What do you want me for anyway?"
Mr. Pinkerton's face became stern, and dropping the tone of levity which he had employed, he opened the letter Sam had forged, and suddenly handing it to Dan, said:
"We want to know if what Jim Cummings says there is true."
Somewhat impressed by Mr. Pinkerton's manner, Dan commenced to read the letter.
At first he hardly understood its purport, but slowly the realization of his friend's treachery came over him, and springing to his feet he brought his fist down on his chair and shouted in angry tones:
"It's a damned lie!"
Without noticing the baliff or the detectives, he paced the floor with angry strides, his eyes flashing and the veins in his forehead swelling until they stood out like whip cords.
The baliff, at a sign from Mr. Pinkerton, stationed himself at the door, but too excited to notice the movement, Dan continued to walk to and fro like a caged lion.
"That is why he gave himself up, the coward—the lying turn-tale! The treacherous dog! Swearing it off on me to save a few years of his miserable life out of jail. See here!" stopping suddenly before Mr. Pinkerton, "That traitor made me swear I would never squeal. All I got out of the whole swag was two thousand dollars, but even then, if he had done the square thing, I would have kept mum, though I were sent down to rock-pile. But the man that would play that low, scaley trick on me is going to suffer for it. What do you want to know?"
"Now you are getting sensible," said Mr. Pinkerton. "We want to get the money. You know where it is? We know that last October a valise was sent to you from St. Louis to Leavenworth, which you were to give to Cook. We know that Cook received some of the stolen money. You had some, too. We have shadowed you all over Kansas City. You have been seen in the White Elephant playing faro, you were followed to the widow's fortune-telling room. We know where you lived, and have letters which you received from Jim Cummings.
"That isn't his name," broke in Dan.
Mr. Pinkerton stopped. He saw he had Dan up to the proper point, and where before he would have died rather than given a grain of information in connection with the case, he was now anxious to tell all he knew of it. Dan continued:
"Jim Cummings isn't his right name any more'n it's mine. His name is
Fred Wittrock, and he lives in Chicago."
"Where?"
"At—West Lake street."
"Will you swear to that?"
"Yes, I will; he runs a coalyard there. He and a man named Weaver. I had nothing to do with robbing the car. It was all done before I ran across Wittrock near Pacific, and he gave me $2,000 to keep my mouth shut and help plant the plunder."
"Do you know where it is planted?"
"Part of it, yes. Weaver and another fellow named Haight have some hid in Chicago. Some is hid in the graveyard near Leaven worth, and some of it behind Cook's cooper-shop."
"Has Fotheringham got any of it?"
"Fotheringham hadn't anything to do with it—any more'n you did—Wittrock knocked him down and he couldn't help himself."
"Mr. Moriarity, if all this is true, you will be benefited by the information you have given," then turning to the baliff, he said, "We are through now." Moriarity, still cursing Cummings, was led back to the cell, and the detectives left the jail for Chip's boarding-house.
"It's plain sailing now, boys," said Mr. Pinkerton; "this end has been
worked dry, and you must return to Chicago with me. Cummings, or rather
Wittrock, if Moriarity has spoken the truth, will certainly make for
Chicago, and you must be ready for him."
The next day the three detectives were on their way to Chicago, leaving Barney, who had played the part of Jim Cummings in cell 43, to remain in Kansas City and hunt for the "planted swag."