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JIM CUMMINGS

OR

THE GREAT ADAMS EXPRESS ROBBERY

With a portrait of the notorious Jim Cummings and illustrations of
scenes connected with the great robbery

By Frank Pinkerton

Vol. I, March 1887. The Pinkerton Detective Series, issued monthly, by
subscription, $3.00 per annum.

Chicago

CHAPTER I.

THE CONSPIRATORS--THE FORGED LETTER--THE PLAN.

In the rear room of a small frame building, the front of which was
occupied as a coal office, located on West Lake street, Chicago, three
men were seated around a square pine table. The curtains of the window
were not only drawn inside, but the heavy shutters were closed on the
outside. A blanket was nailed over the only door of the room, and every
thing and every action showed that great secrecy was a most important
factor of the assembly.

The large argand burner of a student's lamp filled the small room with
its white, strong light, The table was covered with railroad
time-tables, maps, bits of paper, on which were written two names a
great number of times, and pens of different makes and widths of point
were scattered amidst the papers.

One man, a large, powerfully-built fellow, deep-chested, and
long-limbed, was occupied in writing, again and again, the name of
"J.B. Barrett." He had covered sheet after sheet with the name, looking
first at a letter before him, but was still far from satisfied. "Damn a
man who will make his 'J's' in such a heathenish way."

"Try it again, Wittrock," said one of his companions.

"Curse you," shouted the man called Wittrock. "How often must I tell
you not to call me that name. By God, I'll bore a hole through you yet,
d'ye mind, now."

"Oh, no harm been done, Cummings; no need of your flying in such a stew
for nothing. We're all in the same box here, eh?"

"Well, you be more careful hereafter," said "Cummings," and again he
bent to his laborious task of forging the name of "J.B. Barrett."

Nothing was heard for half an hour but the scratching of the pen, or
the muttered curses of Cummings (as he was called).

Suddenly he threw down his pen with a laugh of triumph, and holding a
piece of paper before him, exclaimed: "There, lads, there it is;
there's the key that will unlock a little mint for us."

Throwing himself back in his chair, he drew a cigar from his pocket,
and, lighting it, listened with great satisfaction to the words of
praise uttered by his companions as they compared the forged with the
genuine signature.

These three men were on the eve of a desperate enterprise. For months
they had been planning and working together, and the time for action
was rapidly approaching.

The one called "Cummings," the leader, was apparently, the youngest one
of the three. There was nothing in his face to denote the criminal. A
stranger looking at him, would imagine him to be a good-natured, jovial
chap, a little shrewd perhaps, but fond of a good dinner, a good drink,
a good cigar, and nothing else.

One of his colleagues, whom he called "Roe," evidently an alias, was
smaller in size, but had a determined expression on his face, that
showed him to be a man who would take a desperate chance if necessary.

The third man, called sometimes Weaver, and sometimes Williams, was the
smallest one of the conspirators, and also the eldest. His frame,
though small, was compact and muscular, but his face lacked both the
determination of Roe and the frank, open expression of Cummings.

After scrutinizing the forgery for a time, Roe returned it to Cummings
and said, "Jim, who has the run out on the Frisco when you make the
plant?"

"A fellow named Fotheringham, a big chap, too. I was going to lay for
the other messenger, Hart, who is a small man, and could be easily
handled, but he has the day run now."

"This Fotheringham will have to be a dandy if he can tell whether
Barrett has written this or not, eh, Jim?"

"Aye, that he will. Let me once get in that car, and if the letter
don't work, I'll give him a taste of the barker."

"No shooting, Jim, no shooting, I swear to God I'll back out if you
spill a drop of blood."

Jim's eyes glittered, and he hissed between his teeth:

"You back out, Roe, and you'll see some shooting."

Roe laughed a nervous laugh, and said, as he pushed some blank
letter-heads toward Cummings, "Who's goin' to back out, only I don't
like the idea of shooting a man, even to get the plunder. Here's the
Adam's Express letter-heads I got to-day. Try your hand on the letter."

Cummings, somewhat pacified, with careful and laborious strokes of the
pen, wrote as follows:

"SPRINGFIELD, Mo., October 24th, '86.

MESSENGER, TRAIN No. 3, ST. L & ST. F. RTE:

DR. SIR:  You will let the bearer, John Broson, Ride in your car to
Peirce, and give him all the Instructions that you can.  Yours,

J.B. Barrett, R.A."

"Hit it the first time. Look at that Roe; cast your eye on that elegant
bit of literature, Weaver," and Cummings, greatly excited, paced up and
down the room, whistling, and indulging in other signs of huge
gratification.

"Well done, Jim, well done. Now write the other one, and we'll go and
licker up."

Again Cummings picked up his facile pen, and was soon successful in
writing the following letter, purporting to be from this same J. B.
Barrett.

"SPRINGFIELD, Mo., Oct. 21, '86.

"JOHN BRONSON, Esq., St. Louis, Mo.

"DR. SIR: Come at once to Peirce City by train No. 3, leaving St. Louis
8:25 p.m. Inclosed find note to messenger on the train, which you can
use for a pass in case you see Mr. Damsel in time. Agent at Peirce City
will instruct you further.

"Respectfully,             J. B. BARRETT, R. A."

Jim drew a long, deep sigh of relief as he muttered:

"Half the work is done; half the work is done."

Drawing the railroad map of the Chicago & Alton road toward him, he put
the pen point on St. Louis, and slowing following the St. L. & S. F.
Division, paused at Kirkwood.

"Roe, here's the place I shall tackle this messenger. It is rather
close to St. Louis, but it's down grade and the train will be making
fast time. She stops at Pacific--here, and we will jump the train
there, strike for the river, and paddle down to the K. & S. W. You must
jump on at the crossing near the limits, plug the bell cord so the
damned messenger can't pull the rope on me, and I will have him foul."

Roe listened attentively to these instructions, nodding his head slowly
several times to express his approval, and said:

"When will we go down?"

Jim Cummings, looking at the time-table, answered:

"This is--what date is this, Weaver?"

"October 11th."

"Two weeks from to-day will be the 25th. That is on--let's see, that is
Tuesday."

"Two weeks from to-day, Roe, you will have to take the train at St.
Louis; get your ticket to Kirkwood. I see by this time-table that No. 3
does stop there. When you get off, run ahead, plug the bell-cord, and I
will wait till she gets up speed after leaving Kirkwood before I draw
my deposit."

Thus did these three men plan a robbery that was to mulct the Adams
Express Company of $100,000, baffle the renowned Pinkertons for weeks
and excite universal admiration for its boldness, skill, and
completeness.

The papers upon which Cummings had exercised his skill, were torn into
little bits, the time-tables and maps were folded and placed in coat
pockets, the lamp extinguished, and three men were soon strolling down
Lake street as calmly as if they had no other object than to saunter
into their favorite bar-room, and toss off a social drink or two.

CHAPTER II.

THE SUCCESS OF THE LETTERS--THE ATTACK--THE ROBBERS--THE ESCAPE.

The Union depot at St. Louis was ablaze with lights. The long Kansas
City train was standing, all made up, the engine coupled on, and almost
ready to pull out. Belated passengers were rushing frantically from the
ticket window to the baggage-room, and then to the train, when a man,
wearing side whiskers, and carrying a small valise, parted from his
companion at the entrance to the depot, and, after buying a ticket to
Kirkwood, entered the smoking car. His companion, a tall, well-built
man, having a smooth face, and a very erect carriage, walked with a
business-like step down the platform until he reached the express car.
Tossing the valise which he carried into the car, he climbed in himself
with the aid of the hand-rail on the side of the door, and, as the
messenger came toward him, he held out his hand, saying:

"Is this Mr. Fotheringham?"

"Yes, that's my name."

"I have a letter from Mr. Bassett for you," and, taking it from his
pocket, he handed it to the messenger.

Fotheringham read the letter carefully, and placing it in his pocket,
said:

"Going to get a job, eh?"

"Yes, the old man said he would give me a show, and as soon as there
was a regular run open, he would let me have it."

"Well, I'm pretty busy now; make yourself comfortable until we pull
out, and then I'll post you up as best I can, Mr. Bronson."

Mr. "Bronson" pulled off his overcoat, and, seating himself in a chair,
glanced around the car.

In one end packages, crates, butter, egg-cases, and parts of machinery
were piled up. At the other end a small iron safe was lying. As it
caught Bronson's eye an expression came over his face, which, if
Fotheringham had seen, would have saved him a vast amount of trouble.
But the messenger, too busy to notice his visitor, paid him no
attention, and in a moment Bronson was puffing his cigar with a
nonchalant air, that would disarm any suspicions which the messenger
might have entertained, but he had none, as it was a common practice to
send new men over his run, that he might "break them in."

The train had pulled out, and after passing the city limits, was flying
through the suburbs at full speed.

Fotheringham, seated in front of his safe, with his way bills on his
lap, was checking them off as Bronson called off each item of freight
in the car.

The long shriek of the whistle and the jerking of the car caused by the
tightening of the air brake on the wheels, showed the train to be
approaching a station.

"This is Kirkwood," said Fotheringham, "nothing for them to-night."

The train was almost at a standstill, when Bronson, saying "What sort
of a place is it?" threw back the door and peered out into the dark.

As he did so, a man passed swiftly by, and in passing glanced into the
car. As Bronson looked, he saw it was the same man that had bought a
ticket for Kirkwood and had ridden in the smoker.

The train moved on. Bronson shut the door and buttoned his coat.
Fotheringham, still busy on his way bills, was whistling softly to
himself, and sitting with his back to his fellow passenger.

Some unusual noise in the front end of the car caught his ear, and
raising his head, he exclaimed:

"What's that?"

The answer came, not from the front of the car but from behind.

A strong muscular hand was placed on his neck. A brawny arm was thrown
around his chest, and lifted from the chair, he was thrown violently to
the floor of the car.

In a flash he realized his position. With an almost superhuman effort,
he threw Bronson from him, and reaching around felt for his revolver.
It was gone, and thrown to the other end of the car.

Little did the passengers on the train know of the stirring drama which
was being enacted in the car before them. Little did they think as they
leaned back in their comfortable seats, of the terrific struggle which
was then taking place. On one hand it was a struggle for $100,000; on
the other, for reputation, for honor, perhaps for life.

Fotheringham, strong as he vas (for he was large of frame, and
muscular) was no match for his assailant. He struggled manfully, but
was hurled again to the floor, and as he looked up, saw the cold barrel
of a 32-calibre pointed at his head. Bronson's face, distorted with
passion and stern with the fight, glared down at him, as he hissed
through his teeth:

"Make a sound, and you are a dead man."

The messenger, seeing all was lost, lay passive upon the floor. The
robber, whipping out a long, strong, silk handkerchief, tied his hands
behind his back, and making a double-knotted gag of Fotheringham's
handkerchief, gagged him. Searching the car he discovered a shawl-strap
with which he tied the messenger's feet, and thus had him powerless as
a log. Then, and not till then, did he speak aloud.

"Done, and well done, too."

The flush faded from his face, his eye became sullen, and drawing the
messenger's chair to him he sat down. As he gazed at his discomfited
prisoner an expression of intense relief came over his features. His
forged letters had proved successful, his only formidable obstacle
between himself and his anticipated booty lay stretched at his feet,
helpless and harmless. The nature of the car prevented any interruption
from the ends, as the only entrance was through the side doors, and he
had all night before him to escape.

Now for the plunder. The key to the safe was in Fotheringham's pocket.
It took but a second to secure it, and but another second to use it in
unlocking the strong-box. The messenger, unable to prevent this in any
way, looked on in intense mental agony. He saw that he would be
suspected as an accomplice. The mere fact that one man could disarm,
bind and gag him, would be used as a suspicious circumstance against
him. Although he did not know the exact sum of money in the safe he was
aware that it was of a very considerable amount, and he fairly writhed
in his agony of mind. In an instant Cummings (or, as he had been called
by the messenger, Bronson) was on his feet, revolver in hand, and again
the cruel, murderous expression dwelt on his face, as he exclaimed:

"Lie still, damn you, lie still. If you attempt to create an alarm,
I'll fill you so full of lead that some tenderfoot will locate you for
a mineral claim. D'ye understand?"

After this facetious threat he paid no further attention to the
messenger.

Emptying his valise of its contents of underclothing and linen, he
stuffed it full of the packages of currency which the safe contained.

One package, containing $30,000, from the Continental Bank of St.
Louis, was consigned to the American National Bank of Kansas City.
Another large package held $12,000, from the Merchants National Bank of
St. Louis for the Merchants Bank of Forth Smith, Arkansas, and various
other packages, amounting altogether to $53,000.

With wonderful sang froid, Cummings stuffed this valuable booty in his
valise, and then proceeded to open the bags containing coin. His keen
knife-blade ripped bag after bag, but finding it all silver, he
desisted, and turning to Fotheringham, demanded:

"Any gold aboard?"

Fotheringham shook his head in reply.

"Does that mean there is none, or you don't know?"

Again the messenger shook his head.

"Well, I reckon your right, all silver, too heavy and don't amount to
much."

As he was talking, the whistle of the engine suddenly sound two short
notes, and the air-brakes were applied.

The train stopped, and the noise of men walking on the gravel was heard.

As Fotheringham lay there, his ears strained to catch every sound, and
hoping for the help that never came, his heart gave a joyful throb, as
some one pounded noisily on the door. Almost at the same instant he
felt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his head, and the ominous
"click, click" was more eloquent than threats or words could be.

The pounding ceased, and in a short time the train moved on again.

Apparently not satisfied that the messenger was bound safe and fast,
Cummings took the companion strap to the one which pinioned the feet of
his victim, and passing it around his neck, fastened it to the handle
of the safe in such a way that any extra exertion on Fotheringham's
part would pull the safe over and choke him.

Opening the car door, he threw away the clothing which he had taken
from his valise.

Returning to the messenger, he stooped over him, and took from his
pocket the forged letter with which he gained entrance to the car.

Fotheringham tried to speak, but the gag permitted nothing but a
rattling sound to escape.

"I know what you want, young fellow. You want this letter to prove that
you had some sort of authority to let me ride. Sorry I can't
accommodate you, my son, but those devilish Pinkertons will be after me
in twenty-four hours, and this letter would be just meat to them. I'll
fix you all right, though. My name's Cummings, Jim Cummings, and I'll
write a letter to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that will clear you
Honest to God, I will. You've been pretty generous to-night; given me
lots of swag, and I'll never go back on you.

"Give my love to Billy Pinkerton when you see him. Tell him Jim
Cummings did this job."

As he uttered these words, the train commenced slacking up, and as it
stopped, Cummings, opening the door, with his valuable valise, leaped
to the ground, closed the door behind him, the darkness closed around
him and he was gone.

Inside the car, a rifled safe, a bound and gagged messenger, and the
Adams Express Company was poorer by $100,000 than it was when the
'Frisco train pulled out of the depot the evening before.

CHAPTER III.

PINKERTON TO THE RESCUE.

The next day the country knew of the robbery. Newspapers in every city
had huge head lines, telling the story in the most graphic style.

JESSE JAMES OUTDONE! The Adams Express Company ROBBED OF $100,000!

THE EXPRESS MESSENGER FOUND GAGGED AND BOUND TO HIS OWN SAFE--THE
ROBBER ESCAPES--ABSOLUTELY NO CLEWS--PINKERTON TO THE RESCUE!

Mr. Damsel, the superintendent of the St. Louis branch of the Adams
Express Company, was pacing anxiously up and down his private office.
Fotheringham was relating his exciting experience, which a stenographer
immediately took down in shorthand. At frequent intervals Mr. Damsel
would ask a searching question, to which the messenger replied in a
straightforward manner and without hesitation. It was a trying ordeal
to him. Innocent as he was, his own testimony was against him. He knew
it and felt it, but nothing that he could do or say would lighten the
weight of the damaging evidence. He could but tell the facts and await
developments. When he was through Mr. Damsel left him in the office,
and immediately telegraphed to every station between Pacific and St.
Louis to look for the linen and underclothing which the robbers had
thrown from the car. The wires were working in all directions, giving a
full description of Cummings and such other information as would lead
to his discovery.

Local detectives were closeted with Mr. Damsel all day, but so shrewdly
and cunningly had the express robber covered his tracks, that nothing
but the bare description of the man could be used as a clew.

Fotheringham was put through the "sweating process" time and again,
but, though he gave the most minute and detailed account of the affair,
the detectives could find nothing to help them.

That Fotheringham "stood in" with the robber was the universal theory.
The story of the letter and order from Mr. Barrett was received with
derision and suspicion.

Mr. Damsel himself was almost confident that his employee had a hand in
the robbery. It was a long and anxious day, and as it wore along and no
new developments turned up, Mr. Damsel became more anxious and
troubled: $100,000 is a large sum and the Adams Express Company had a
reputation at stake. What was to be done?

Almost instantly the answer came: telegraph for Pinkerton.

The telegram was sent, and when William Pinkerton wired back that he
would come at once. Mr. Damsel felt his load of responsibility begin to
grow lighter, and he waited impatiently for the morning to come.

The next morning about 10 o'clock Mr. Damsel received a note, signed
"Pinkerton," requesting him to call at room 84 of the Southern Hotel.
He went at once. A pleasant-faced gentleman, with a heavy mustache and
keen eyes, greeted him, and Mr. Damsel was shaking hands with the
famous detective, on whose shoulders had fallen the mantle of his
father, Allan Pinkerton, probably the finest detective the world has
ever seen.

Mr. Damsel had his stenographer's notes, which had been transcribed on
the type-writer, and Mr. Pinkerton carefully and slowly read every word.

"What sort of a man is this Fotheringham?"

"He is a large, well built, and I should say, muscular young fellow.
Has always been reliable before, and has been with us some years."

"Has he ever been arrested before?"

"He says twice. Once for shooting off a gun on Sunday, and again for
knocking a man down for insulting a lady."

"You think he is guilty--that is, you think he had a hand in the
robbery?"

"Mr. Pinkerton, I regret to say I do. It doesn't seem probable that a
strong, hearty man would allow another man to disarm him, gag him, tie
him hand and foot, get away with $100,000, and all that without a
desperate struggle, and he hasn't the sign of a scratch or bruise on
him."

"N-n-no, it doesn't. Still it could be done. You have him under arrest,
then."

"Not exactly. He is in my office now, and apparently has no thought of
trying to escape."

"Well, Mr. Damsel, I am inclined to think that this man Fotheringham
knows no more of this robbery than he has told you. If he is in
collusion with the robber, or robbers--for I think that more than one
had to do with it--he would have made up a story in which two or more
had attacked him. He would have had a cut in the arm, a bruised head or
some such corroborating testimony to show. The fact that he was held up
by a single man goes a good way, in my judgment, to prove him innocent
of any criminal connection with the robbery. We must look elsewhere for
the culprits."

"Had you not better see Fotheringham?"

"Of course I intend doing that. Did you secure the clothing which this
so-called Cummings threw out of the train?"

"Telegrams have been sent out, and I hope to have it sent in by
to-morrow."

"That is good--we may find something which we can grasp. The public
generally have an idea that a detective can make something out of
nothing that the merest film of a clew is all that is necessary with
which to build up a strong substantial edifice of facts. It is only the
Messieurs La Coqs and 'Old Sleuths' of books and illustrated weeklies
that are possessed with the second sight, and can hunt down the
shrewdest criminals, without being bound to such petty things as clews,
circumstantial evidence or witnesses. We American detectives can
generally make 4 by putting 2 and 2 together, but we must have a
starting point, and an old shirt or a pair of stockings, such as this
robber threw away, may contain just what we need."

A knock on the door, and an employee of the office entered.

"Mr. Damsel, the entire road has been carefully searched, and no trace
of the clothing can be found."

"That's bad," said Mr. Pinkerton, "we should have found that."

Mr. Damsel bade the employee to return to the office, and turning to
Mr. Pinkerton, said:

"The case is in your hands. Do what you want, if any man can run that
Cummings down, you can."

"Well, I'll take it. I should advise you first to have Fotheringham
arrested as an accomplice. While I do not think he is one, he may be;
at any rate it will lead the principals in the case to believe we are
on the wrong track, but I must confess there don't seem to be any track
at all, wrong or right."

"I will do that. I will swear out a warrant to-day against him."

Mr. Damsel took his leave, and that night Fotheringham slept behind
iron bars.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DETECTIVE AND THE MESSENGER.

After Mr. Damsel had left the hotel, Mr. Pinkerton sat in deep thought.
He had carefully re-read Fotheringham's statement, but could find
nothing that could be put out as a tracer; no little straw to tell
which way the wind was blowing.

"Cummings, Cummings, Jim Cummings. By George, that can't be the Jim
Cummings that used to flock with the Jesse James gang. That Cummings
was a gray-haired man, while this Cummings is young, about 26 years
old. Besides he is a much larger than Jesse James' Jim Cummings. That
name is evidently assumed.

"This statement says he was dressed in a good suit of clothes, and wore
a very flashy cravat. Furthermore, he bragged a good deal about what he
would do with the money. Also that he would write a letter to the St.
Louis Globe-Democrat exonerating the messenger. Well, a man who will
brag like that, and wears flashy articles of neck-wear, is just the man
that will talk too much, or make some bad break. If he writes that
letter, he's a goner. There will be something in it that will give me a
hold. The paper, the ink, the hand-writing, the place and time it was
mailed--something that will give him away."

"I must see this messenger, and I must see him here; alone. He may be
able to give me a little glimmer of light."

To think with "Billy" Pinkerton was to act.

He pressed the annunciator button, and sitting down, wrote a short note
to Mr. Damsel, requesting him to bring Fotheringham with him to his
room.

The bell-boy who answered the call bore the note away with him, and in
a short time, Mr. Pinkerton, looking out of his window, saw Mr. Damsel
in his buggy drive up to the hotel accompanied by a young man, whom Mr.
Pinkerton recognized from the description given him, as the unfortunate
Fotheringham, who had evidently, as yet, not been arrested.

It took but a few moments for Mr. Damsel to reach Room 84, and after
introducing Fotheringham to the detective, left him there.

Fotheringham wore a worried and hunted look. The black rings under his
eyes told of loss of sleep, and his whole demeanor was that of a
discouraged person. Still he bore the keen scrutiny of the detective
without flinching, and looking him squarely in the eye, said:

"Mr. Pinkerton, don't ask me to repeat my story again. I have told it
time after time. I have been cross-questioned, and turned and twisted
until I almost believe I committed the robbery myself, tied my own
hands and feet, put the gag in my own mouth, and hid the money some
place."

Mr. Pinkerton did not answer him, but gazing at him with those sharp,
far-seeing eyes, which had ferreted out so many crimes, and had made so
many criminals tremble, took in every detail of Fotheringham's
features, as if reading his very soul. Fotheringham leaned back, closed
his eyes wearily, as if it were a matter of the smallest consequence
what might occur, and remained in that position until Mr. Pinkerton
spoke.

"Mr. Fotheringham, I don't believe you had anything to do with the
robbery, except being robbed."

"Thank God for those words, Mr. Pinkerton," exclaimed the messenger in
broken tones, the tears welling to his eyes. "That's the first bit of
comfort I've had since the dastardly villain first knocked me down."

"Can you not give me some peculiarity which you noticed about this
Cummings? How did he talk?"

"Slowly, with a very pleasant voice."

"Did he have any marks about him--any scars?"

Fotheringham sat in deep thought for a while.

"He had a triangular gold filling on one of his front teeth, and he had
a way of hanging his head a little to one side, as if he were deaf, but
I did not see any scars, excepting a bit of court-plaster on one of the
fingers of his right hand."

"Was he disguised at all?"

"Not a bit, at least I could see no disguise on him."

"How did he walk?"

"Very erect, and, yes, I noticed he limped a little, as if he had a
sore foot."

"I see by this report," taking up the papers Mr. Damsel had left, "that
you have given a very close and full description of his appearance, but
that amounts to little. Disguises are easy, and the mere changing of
clothing will effect a great difference."

"I am positive, from his features, that he was a hard drinker. He had
been drinking before he came to the car, as I smelled it on his breath."

"Well, Mr. Fotheringham, I will not detain you any longer. If you are
innocent, you know you have nothing to fear."

"Except the disgrace of being arrested."

"Possibly," said Mr. Pinkerton, shortly, and bowing his visitor out, he
pondered long and deeply over the case; but he felt he was groping in
the dark, for the robber had apparently left no trace behind him. He
had appeared on the scene, done his work, and the dark shadows of the
night had swallowed him up, and Mr. Pinkerton, for the time, was
completely baffled.

"If he would only write that letter," he muttered, "and I believe he
will--"

A tap at the door followed these words, and two men entered--both
Pinkerton detectives.

One of them carried a bundle in his arms.

As Mr. Pinkerton caught sight of it, his face lightened up.

"Ah! You did get it?"

"Yes; found them in a ditch the other side of Kirkwood."

Mr. Pinkerton laughed, and taking the bundle, said:

"Mr. Damsel said they could not be found; but I knew you, Chip. It was
a good move on your part to go after these clothes without waiting for
orders. You are starting in well, my boy, and if you have the making of
a detective in you, this case will bring it out."

Chip blushed. Such words of praise from his superior were worth working
for. The youngest man on the force, he had his spurs to win, and the
approbation of his chief was reward enough.

The bundle was untied, and disclosed a shirt, a pair of drawers, socks
and a dirty handkerchief. As the clothing fell on the floor, the odor
of some sort of liniment filled the room, and on the leg of the
drawers, below the knee, a stain was seen. Examining it more closely, a
little clotted blood was seen. The stain extended half way around the
leg, and showed that the cut or bruise was quite an extensive one.

"No wonder he limped," said Mr. Pinkerton, as he dropped the drawers
and picked up the handkerchief.

The handkerchief, a common linen one, had evidently been used as a
bandage, for it was stained with the liniment, and covered with blood
clots. In one corner had been written a name, but the only letters now
readable were "W--r--k."

This was placed on the table and the shirt carefully examined.

Nothing, not even the maker's name, could be seen. It was a cheap
shirt, such as could be bought at any store which labels everything
belonging to a man as "Gents' Furnishing." The socks were common, and
like thousands of similar socks.

"Not much of a find, Chip--the letters on the handkerchief can be found
in a hundred different names--a sore knee is covered by a pair of
trousers, and one out of every ten men you meet, limps."

The other detective, who had all this time been silent, now laid some
Adams Express letter-heads on the table. On these were written "J. B.
Barrett," in all forms of chirography--several sheets were covered with
the name.

"Where did you get these?"

"Out of Fotheringham's trunk, in his room."

"By Jove, what a consummate actor that man is. Do you know, boys, up to
this minute, I firmly believed that messenger was innocent--I have been
sold like an ordinary fool," and Mr. Pinkerton looked at the tell-tale
papers admiringly, for, although he felt a trifle chagrined at being
taken in so nicely, he could not but pay tribute to the man who did it,
for the man that could get the better of "Billy" Pinkerton, must be one
of extraordinary ability.

"If you please," said Chip, "I do not see that the mere finding of this
paper in Fotheringham's trunk should fasten suspicion on him. If he was
shrewd enough to capture the money, he would certainly not leave such
damaging evidence as this paper would be. It seems to me that it would
be a very plausible theory to advance, that the real robbers placed
this in his trunk to direct suspicion against him. In fact, it was the
first thing to be seen when the lid was lifted, for I was with Barney
when he searched the room."

Barney said nothing to his companion's remarks, but nodded his head to
show that he acquiesced.

Mr. Pinkerton listened carefully, and merely saying, "we'll look at
this later," gave a very careful and complete description of Cummings,
which he directed Chip and Barney to take to the St. Louis branch of
this firm, and from there send it through all the divisions and
sub-divisions of this vast detective cob-web.

After issuing further and more orders relating to the case in hand, he
put on his hat, and descended to the hotel office, followed by his two
subordinates.

After the exciting episode in the express car had been brought to a
close by Jim Cummings leaping from the car, the train moved on, and
left him alone, the possessor of nearly $100,000. The game had been a
desperate one, and well played, and nervy and cool as he was, the
desperado was forced to seat himself on a pile of railroad ties, until
he could regain possession of himself, for he trembled in every limb,
and shook as with a chill. He pulled himself together, however, and
picking up his valise, with its valuable contents, turned toward the
river.

He stepped from tie to tie, feeling his way in the darkness, every
sense on the alert, and straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of some
landmark. He had walked nearly a mile when, from behind a pile of brush
heaped up near the track, a man stepped forth. The double click of a
revolver was heard, and in an imperative tone, the unknown man called
out:

"Halt! Put your hands above your head. I've got the drop on you!"

Startled as he was by the sudden appearance of the man, and hardly
recovered from his hard fight with the messenger, Cummings was too
brave and too daring to yield so tamely. Dropping his valise, he sprang
upon the audacious stranger so suddenly that he was taken completely by
surprise. The sharp report of the revolver rang out upon the quiet
night, and the two men, Cummings uppermost, fell upon the grading of
the road. The men were very evenly matched, and the fortunes of war
wavered from one to the other. The hoarse breathing, the muttered
curses, and savage blows told that a desperate conflict was taking
place. Clasped in each other's embrace, the men lay, side by side,
neither able to gain the mastery. Far around the curve the rumbling of
an approaching freight train was heard. Nearer and nearer it came, and
still the men fought on. With a grip of iron Cummings held the
stranger's throat to the rail, and with arms of steel clasped around
Cummings, his assailant pressed him to the ground.

It was an even thing, a fair field and no favor, when the sudden flash
of the headlight of the approaching engine, as it shot around the
curve, caused both men to lose their hold and spring from the track.
The strong, clear light flooded both with its brilliancy, and in that
instant mutual recognition took place.

"Wittrock!"

"Moriarity!"

The train swept by, and the darkness again settled around the late
combatants.

Cummings was the first to speak.

"How the devil did you get here, Dan?"

"Just what I was going to ask you, Fred."

"Then you didn't get my letter?"

"What letter."

"I wrote you from Chicago, to be on hand at the 'plant' to-night."

"Did you send it to Leavenworth?"

"Yes."

"I am on my way there now. Got busted in St. Louis, couldn't make a
raise, and I commenced to count ties for Leavenworth."

"Yes, then you took me for some jay, and tried to hold me up. It's
lucky I met you, I need you."

"Any money in it?"

"Slathers of it."

"What's your lay?"

Cummings hesitated a minute before replying, and then said:

"Dan! you went back on me once, I don't know that I can trust you, you
are too--"

"Trust me! You give Dan Moriarity a chance to cover some tin, and he's
yours, body and soul."

"What's your price to help me, and keep your mouth shut?"

"$2,000."

"It's a go," and Cummings held out his hand.

The compact was thus sealed, and lighting a match, Cummings commenced
to look for his valise.

It had, fortunately, fallen outside the rails, and picking it up,
Cummings led the way, followed by the somewhat surprised and still more
curious Moriarity.

At this point on the Missouri river, the bluffs rise abruptly from the
banks. The railroad, winding around the curves, was literally hewn from
the solid rock. Deep gullies and ravines, starting from the water,
Intersected all portions of the country, and the thick underbrush made
this place a safe and secure hiding-place for fugitives from justice,
river pirates and moonshiners.

Cummings, at a point where one of these gullies branched off from the
railroad, turned into it, and with confident steps, followed closely by
Moriarity, scaled the rocky precipice. Half way up the toilsome ascent,
he halted, and placing his fingers in his mouth, gave three shrill
whistles. Two short, and one long drawn sounds.

It was immediately answered; and in an instant, a flaming torch sprang
into view, and almost as quickly was extinguished.

A short climb, and turning sharply to the right, Cummings again
stopped. The signal, repeated softly, was answered by a voice asking:

"Who comes there?"

To which Cummings replied:

"It is I, be not afraid," at the same time poking Moriarity in the
ribs, and chuckling:

"I haven't forgotten my Bible yet, eh, Dan?"

A blanket was lifted to one side, and disclosed to view the entrance to
a natural cave, into the wall of which was stuck a naming, pitch-pine
knot. Entering, the blanket was dropped, and preceded by a man, whose
features the fitful glare of the torch failed to reveal, the two
adventurers were ushered into the main portion of the cavern.

In one corner the copper kettle and coiled worm of a whisky still told
it was the abode of an illicit distiller, or a "moonshiner."

A large fire cast a ruddy glow over the cave, and blankets and cooking
utensils were scattered about. As the guide stepped into the light, he
turned around, his eyes first falling on the well-stuffed valise and
then upon Cummings' face, which wore such an expression of success and
satisfaction that he exclaimed, as he held out his hand:

"By the ghost of Jesse James, you did it, old man."

"This looks like it, don't it?" said the successful express-car robber,
holding his valise to the light. "Don't you know this man, Haight?"

"Damme, if it isn't Dan Moriarity."

"The same old penny--Haight," and Moriarity clasped his hand.

Haight, as host, did the honors. An empty flour barrel, covered by a
square board, made an acceptable table. Small whisky barrels did duty
as chairs, and a substantial repast of boiled fish, partridges and gray
squirrels, supplemented with steaming glasses of hot toddy, satisfied
the inner man, and, for a time, caused them to forget the exciting
train of events through which they had just passed.

After their hunger had been appeased pipes were lit, and the fragrant
glass of spirits, filled to the brim, were placed conveniently and
seductively near at hand.

Cummings then related, in detail, his night's exploit and ended by
opening the valise and taking out the packages of currency which it
contained. It was a strange picture to gaze upon. The fire-lit cave,
shrouded outside with mystery and darkness, but its heart alive with
light and warmth; the rude appliances and paraphernalia for distilling
the contraband "mountain dew"; the floor strewn with blankets,
cooking-tins, a rifle or two, and provisions, while, bathed in the warm
glow of the cheerful fire, secure from pursuit and comfortably housed
from the weather, the three men, with greedy eyes, drank in the
enchanting vision of luxurious wealth, which lay, bound in its neat
wrappers, upon the floor of the cave.

Not one of these men could be classed with professional criminals,
Moriarity, perhaps, had several times done some "fine work," but was
unknown in the strata of crime, and was never seen in the society of
"experts."

His attack upon Cummings could be called his debut, just as Cummings'
late success could be looked on as his first definite step within the
portals of outlawry and crime. Haight, as an accessory to the robbery,
had hardly taken his first plunge. Some time before this these same
men, with others, had planned an extensive robbery on the same line,
but Moriarity weakened at the last moment and the whole thing fell
through. It was this incident which caused Cummings to doubt his
trustworthiness. Still Moriarity had a certain amount of bull courage,
of which Cummings was aware, and if his palm was but crossed by the
almighty dollar he would be a valuable ally. For this reason Cummings
had taken him again into his confidence.

For some moments the three men sat silently puffing their pipes and
picturing the delight of spending their ill-gotten booty, when
Cummings, rising from his seat, placed the money on the table and cut
the strings which bound it together.

A hasty count revealed $53,000 in currency and about $40,000 in bonds,
mortgage deeds, and other unconvertible valuables.

He had evidently fully considered his plans, and without any previous
beating around the bush, proceeded to execute them.

Opening a package of smaller bills he divided it into three parts,
giving Haight and Moriarity each a share. The remainder of the plunder
he again divided into three portions, and taking the larger one for
himself, proceeded to wrap it and tie it securely; his companions,
taking their cue from him, doing likewise.

"Boys," he then said, "as soon as the robbery is discovered the company
will turn hell itself upside down to find it. Pinkerton will be on our
trail in forty-eight hours. The first thing they will do will be to
suspect the messenger. He will be arrested, and while they are
monkeying with him we must get out of the way. I told the poor devil I
would write a letter to some paper, I think I said the Globe-Democrat,
which would clear him, but we must make ourselves safe first.

"Dan, you must get to Leavenworth, find Cook, and have him plant what
you have. Haight will go to Chicago and know what to do, while
I--well--I am going south for my health."

Stopping abruptly he drew his revolver, and stepping up to Moriarity,
placed the cold muzzle to his temple. His eyes, cold as steel and sharp
as an arrow, were fastened upon Dan's very heart, and speaking with
terrible earnestness, he said:

"Dan Moriarity, if ever you break faith with me, I'll kill you like a
cur, so help me God!"

Moriarity stood the ordeal without flinching, and holding his right
hand above his head, took a solemn oath never to betray, by word or
deed, the trust which had been placed in him.

Without another word each man carefully placed his particular charge
securely about his person. Every scrap of paper was gathered up, and,
after extinguishing the fire, the three men left the cave, and in the
dawn of the early morning descended to the railroad track.

Hands were shaken, the last words of advice given, and Cummings plunged
into the labyrinth of gullies and underbrush, leaving his companions
each to pursue his own way, Moriarity going west, while Haight, going
east, sprang the fence, and entering a thick patch of bushes, brought
out a horse, saddled and bridled. Mounting this he struck into a quick
canter across the country toward St. Louis.

CHAPTER V.

THE FIRST CLEW FOUND.

Mr. Pinkerton had passed an anxious week, Never before had he been so
completely baffled. The finding of the letter-heads with Bartlett's
name written on them in Fotheringham's trunk had quite upset his
theories. Yet the most searching examination could find nothing in the
suspected messenger's previous movements, upon which to fasten any
connection with the robbery.

The vast machinery of Pinkerton's Detective Agency was at work all over
the country. His brightest and keenest operatives had been brought
together in St. Louis, Kansas City, Leavenworth and Chicago. False
clews were sprung every day, and run down to a disappointed
termination. But all to no purpose. Outwitted and baffled, Mr.
Pinkerton was treading his apartment at the Southern Hotel with
impatient steps; his brow was wrinkled with thought and his eyes heavy
with loss of sleep. In his vast and varied experience with criminals he
had never yet met one who had so completely covered his tracks as this
same Jim Cummings. Of one thing he was satisfied, however, and that
was, that no professional criminal had committed the robbery, and again
that two or more men were concerned in it.

In Fotheringham's description of the robbery, he had mentioned hearing
an unusual noise in the fore part of the car, as if some one were
tapping on the partition, and on examining the car, the bell-cord was
found to be plugged. This showed an accomplice, or perhaps more than
one.

That it was not done by a professional was clear, because Mr.
Pinkerton, having the entire directory and encyclopedia of crime and
criminals at his fingers' end, knew of no one that would have gone
about the affair as this man Cummings had done.

As everything else has its system, and each system has its followers,
so robbery has its method, and each method its advocates and
practitioners. This is so assuredly the fact that the detective almost
instantly recognizes the hand which did the work by the manner in which
the work was done.

This particular robbery was unique. An express car had never been
looted in this manner before. "Therefore," said Mr. Pinkerton, "it was
done by a new man, and although this new man had the nerve, brains and
shrewdness necessary to successfully terminate his plans, yet he will
lack the cunning and experience of an old hand in keeping clear of the
detectives and the law, and will do some one thing which will put us
upon his track."

He had just arrived at this comforting conclusion, when an impatient
rap was heard on the door, followed almost instantly by Mr. Damsel
opening it and entering the room.

In his hand he held a letter, and, full of excitement, he waved it over
his head, as he said:

"He has written a letter."

A gleam of satisfaction was in Mr. Pinkerton's eye as he took the paper
from Mr. Damsel, but his manner was entirely void of excitement, and
his voice was calm and even, as he replied:

"I expected he would do something of that sort."

Mr. Damsel--his excitement somewhat allayed by the nonchalant manner
with which the detective had received the news--seated himself on the
sofa.

Mr. Pinkerton read the letter carefully.

It was headed "St. Joe, Missouri," and addressed to the editor of the
St. Louis Globe-Democrat, and a large number of sheets, closely written
in a backhand, was signed "Yours truly, Jim Cummings." It stated, in
substance, that the robbery had been carefully planned some time before
the occurrence. That entrance had been gained to the express car by the
presentation of a forged order from Route Agent Bartlett, and that
Fotheringham was entirely innocent of the entire affair.

The letter related, minutely, all that occurred from the time the train
left St. Louis until it reached Pacific.

It told how the messenger was attacked, gagged and bound, and, in fact,
was such a complete expose of the robbery that Mr. Pinkerton laid it
down with an incredulous smile, saying:

"Nothing to that, Mr. Damsel. That letter was not written by the
robber, but is a practical joke, played by some one who gleaned all his
information from the newspapers."

"Indeed," responded Mr. Damsel, "then what do you say to this?" and he
handed Mr. Pinkerton two pieces of calendered white wrapping paper,
showing the seals of the Adams Express Company upon it, the strings
cut, but the paper still retaining the form of an oblong package.

Surprised and puzzled, Mr. Pinkerton saw they were the original
wrappings of the $30,000 and $12,000 packages which had been taken from
the safe by the robber. The addresses were still on the paper, and Mr.
Damsel, in a most emphatic tone, said:

"I'm prepared to swear that they are genuine."

Mr. Pinkerton, still silent, re-read the letter, carefully weighing
each word, and this time finishing it.

He came to one paragraph, which read:

"Now to prove these facts * * * * I took my gun, a Smith we had
practiced on, and checked the package in the St. Louis Union Depot,
under the initials J. M. Now if you want a good little gun and billy,
go and get out the packages checked to J. M. in the Union Depot October
25th; there are probably seventy-five or eighty cents charges on it by
this time, but the gun alone is worth $10. Also, if you want a
double-barreled shot-gun, muzzle-loader, go along the bank of the
Missouri River, on the north side, about a mile below St. Charles
bridge, and about twenty feet along the bank, just east of that dike
that runs out into the river, and you will find in a little gully a
shot-gun and a musket. Be careful. I left them both loaded with
buckshot and caps on the tubes. They were laying, wrapped up in an
oil-cloth, with some weeds thrown over them. Also, down on the river
just below the guns, I left my skiff and a lot of stuff, coffee-pot,
skillet, and partially concealed, just west of the skiff, you will find
a box of grub, coffee, bacon, etc. I came down the river in a skiff
Tuesday night, October 26-27, from a point opposite Labodie. It is a
run of thirty-five or thirty-six miles. They should all be there unless
some one found them before you got there." * * * *

Mr. Pinkerton, in a brown study, tapping the table with his fingers,
sat for some moments. Rising abruptly, he placed his hat on his head,
and requesting Mr. Damsel to follow, left the room. In a short time he
was in the Union Depot, and stepping up to the clerk of the
parcel-room, asked for a package which had been left there October
25th, marked "J. M.," stating that he had lost his ticket. After some
search, the clerk brought forward a parcel tied in a newspaper.

"This is marked J. M., and was left here October 25th."

"That is the one," said Mr. Pinkerton, and paying the charges, hastened
back to the hotel.

In spite of his habitual calmness and sang froid, Mr. Pinkerton's hand
trembled as he cut the string. As the paper was unwrapped, both men
gave an exclamation of surprise and joy, for disclosed to view was a
revolver, a billy, some shirts and papers.

"At last," cried Mr. Pinkerton, and he eagerly scanned the various
articles. The revolver was an ordinary, self-cocking Smith & Wesson.
The billy was the sort called "life-preservers." The Adams Express
letter-heads were covered with the names "J. B. Barrett" and "W. H.
Damsel." Mr. Pinkerton passed these to his companions.

"They are pretty fair forgeries. Hang me, if it don't look as though I
had written that name myself."

The detective, all this time, was scrutinizing each article, hoping to
find something new.

With the papers he took out a printed ballad-sheet of the kind sold on
the streets by newsboys and fakirs. Turning it over, he saw something
written on it, and looking closely, read, "----, Chestnut street."

The handwriting was the same as the handwriting of the letter. The
first clew had been found.

CHAPTER VI.

"CHIP" BINGHAM.

George Bingham, or as he was familiarly called, "Chip" Bingham, was the
youngest operative in Mr. Pinkerton's service. His talents, in the
detective line, ranged considerably higher than did the general run of
his associates. Possessing an analytical mind, he could take the
effect, and, by logical conclusions, retrace its path to the
fundamental cause, and following this principle, he had made many
valuable discoveries in mystery-shrouded cases, and had, many times,
picked the end of a clew from a seemingly hopeless snarl, and raveled
the entire mesh of circumstantial evidence, and made from it a strong
cord of substantiated facts. Mr. Pinkerton had early recognized this
talent, and having, besides, a peculiar attachment to the handsome
young fellow, he frequently placed delicate and intricate cases into
his hands, always with good results. It was for Chip, then, he sent,
when he had finished his examination of the valuable package.

Mr. Damsel, his mind somewhat freed from the trouble and worry it had
carried since the robbery, had left Mr. Pinkerton alone and returned to
his office.

Chip, on receipt of his superior's message, immediately repaired to
Room 84. His downcast countenance and disappointed air told of
fruitless endeavors to catch even the slightest real clew. He said
nothing as he entered the room, but with a gesture of hopeless failure
he sank into a chair and awaited his chief's pleasure.

"Chip, I've got a starter."

With an indulgent smile Chip nodded his head, but failed to exhibit any
extraordinary interest.

Mr. Pinkerton's eyes twinkled. He understood the situation, but time
was valuable and he could not waste any in humorous by-play. So without
further parleying he handed Chip the tell-tale letter.

The young detective, almost from the first word, put the letter down as
a practical joke, perpetrated on the newspaper, but as the missive
progressed he became interested, and when he had reached that portion
which told of the package every fiber of his detective instinct was
alive, and Mr. Pinkerton had no need of pointing to the precious parcel
as corroborative evidence that the letter was genuine.

In an instant Chip was examining the contents. Every portion of the
revolver, billy and letterheads was searched with deepest scrutiny. The
printed sheet of ballad music was picked up, the verses read and the
sheet turned.

An exclamation burst from his lips, as his eye caught the words,
written in lead pencil, "----Chestnut Street," and placing it beside
the letter, he saw it was written by the same hand. "The devil! Here is
a starter!"

His face glowed with animation, his eyes had the alert look of a hound
on a hot scent, and carefully noting the number in his memorandum book,
without waiting instructions from Mr. Pinkerton, he picked up his hat
and hurriedly left the room.

Mr. Pinkerton, in full sympathy with his subordinate, lit a cigar, and
settled back for a comfortable smoke until Chip made his report.

Chip, regaining the street, engaged a hack standing near the hotel, and
stopping it a short distance from the number he wanted on Chestnut
street, walked the remaining distance to the house.

A sign "Board by the week or day," and another one, "Furnished rooms to
let," showed it to be an ordinary boarding-house. Chip had fully
decided within himself, during the ride, that the men who had left the
parcel had also left St. Louis. While it was not so much an
improbability that the men would still be in the city, it was far more
probable that they would put some distance between themselves and the
scene of their exploit. For this reason, Chip decided that a plain
course would result in no unfortunate mishap or premature flushing of
the game.

Ascending the steps, he rang the bell.

The landlady of the house herself opened the door.

Before Chip could speak, she said:

"You're a detective, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Chip, somewhat surprised, and regretting immediately that
he had not made his entrance in a more detective-like manner.

"I've been expecting some of you. You want to know about those two men
that stopped with me a short time before the 'Frisco express robbery?"

Seeing at once that he was conversing with a more than ordinary shrewd
individual, Chip replied, "That's just what I'm here for. But why do
you ask that question?"

"Well, I suspicioned something was wrong with them two men. They came
here on the fifteenth of October, and paid me a week's board in
advance. They kept their room almost all the time, and when I went in
to clean it, I saw a lot of railroad time-tables and maps scattered
around. One of them was always in the room. It was never left alone. A
week before the robbery, the smaller man left, he said for Kansas City,
and the larger man told me if a letter came to the house, directed to
Williams, that is for him. Well, on the Friday before the robbery, such
a letter did come, and the big man, after reading it, said he had to go
to Kansas City at once, but he didn't leave the house until Monday, and
the next day the robbery occurred."

"Can you give me a description of the men?"

The landlady thereupon gave a full description of the larger man, which
Chip carefully inserted in his note book, and recognized as the same
given by Fotheringham of his assailant on that memorable night. But her
description of the smaller of the two was somewhat vague, as she said
he was only in the house a short time, and she saw very little of him.

"May I go up to the room?"

"Yes; come this way."

Entering the room, the first thing which met the detective's eye was a
bottle containing some sort of liniment, having on it a label of a
neighboring druggist, In a closet a pair of drawers were found, and
with the dark brown stain below the knee was almost identical to that
which Chip had found on the railroad track, and which the robber had
thrown from the express car. Not satisfied with this, Chip ripped up
the carpet, and as a reward for his labor found an express tag, or
rather a portion of one, for the tag was torn in two pieces. On the tag
Chip read the portion of an address, "----ority," and below,
"----worth, Kansas." Further questioning of the garrulous landlady
gained a description of the valise which the larger man carried away
with him. It tallied with the description given by Fotheringham of the
valise into which Jim Cummings had put the stolen money.

Gathering his trophies together, Chip bid his talkative lady friend
good-day, and immediately bent his steps toward the drug store, from
which had come the bottle of liniment.

No, the druggist could not recollect what particular person had bought
that bottle, but if the young man would call on Doctor B----, he could
probably ascertain the fact from him, as the liniment was put up from
the Doctor's prescription. Chip, in a short time, was ushered into the
Doctor's presence.

Yes, the Doctor not only recollected the man, but gave a very close
description of him. The man had come to him, suffering from a bad
bruise or cut on the leg below the knee. Nothing serious, but so
painful that it caused him to limp. He had made out the prescription of
the unguent which the bottle had contained, and the man had paid for
it. But he gave no name, nor in what manner he had received the injury.

Chip, satisfied with his work, left the physician, and whistling for
his jehu, drove back to the hotel.

That the large man who had boarded with the landlady at ---- Chestnut
street, and had bought and used the ointment, was identical with Jim
Cummings, the express robber, Chip had not the shadow of a doubt. The
smaller man was, of course, his accomplice. He had seen where the men
had secreted themselves a week before the robbery, he vas even pretty
certain of their movements during that time, but the question was where
had they gone AFTER the deed was committed. Who and where was the
accomplice? What other men had aided and abetted them in the scheme?
With his mind full of these perplexing queries, he sought Mr.
Pinkerton's room, and laid before him the result of his search.

Mr. Pinkerton listened attentively and picking up the torn express tag,
examined it carefully.

It was a portion of an ordinary tag, such as is used by the Adams
Express Company.

It had been torn about the middle. The strings were still on it. From
its appearance it had been addressed, and the person, not satisfied
with his work, had torn it in two and thrown it on the floor, from
which it had probably been swept in a corner, and eventually got under
the edge of the carpet, where Chip had found it. It read.

  ority

worth Kansas

[Illustration: a drawing of a torn ticket.]

On the reverse side in faint penciled characters were the words: "it to
Cook," From the blurred appearance of the words it was evident that a
rubber had been used to erase them. These words had escaped Chip's
notice, but as soon as Mr. Pinkerton saw them, he said:

"I see it all, Chip. I see it all. A message was written on the tag,
probably giving some instructions, such as 'Send it to Cook,' or 'Give
it to Cook,' and the person sending it changing his mind about writing
his instructions so openly tried to erase the words with a rubber, but
failing to do it tore the tag up and addressed another one.

"The package to which this was to have been tied was sent to some man
whose name ends in 'ority and who was in Leavenworth, Kansas. We can
find that out to-morrow, Chip, so turn in and get some sleep."

The next morning the books of the company were overhauled, and after a
long, patient and careful search it was found that on October 23d, two
days before the robbery, a valise had been expressed to a Daniel
Moriarity, Leavenworth, Kansas, charges prepaid, by a man named John
Williams.

That evening Chip left St. Louis for Leavenworth and Mr. Pinkerton
returned to Chicago.

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.

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."