Books: Jim Cummings
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Frank Pinkerton >> Jim Cummings
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"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."
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