Books: Jim Cummings

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To this the others who had come out with the detectives gave their
unqualified assent, and Chip cried:

"Three hours ahead is a good lead on us, boys. We must climb along."

The command was again given, and, rendered more eager and enthusiastic
by the knowledge that only thirty miles was between them and their game,
the men moved forward with a cheer.

Another short halt was made for supper and the trail was again covered
just as the robbers had about commenced to sleep. A sharp lookout was
maintained and the bright light of the full moon turned night into day
and made the task so much the easier.

As they rode around the edge of the timber in which Cummings and his
companions were secreted they had no suspicion that they had gained so
rapidly on the flying renegades, so that the sudden appearance of the
men for whom they were searching somewhat surprised them. Giving their
peculiar yell they pressed forward with a great burst of speed, not even
checking the gait when the ball which Moriarity sent whistled over them.

Instantly several rifles were leveled at the flying robbers, and had not
Chip commanded them not to shoot it would have fared ill with Jim
Cummings and his companions.

With the speed of the wind the horses flew down the trail, the rapid
hoof beats rang out on the still night and sent the slinking coyotes
howling to their lairs. Just peering above the horizon could be seen the
dark outlines of Goody's Bluff, fifteen miles away, and if Cummings
could but reach its shadow he was safe, even from the posse which was
pursuing him, for he would then be in the Indian Territory. Looking back
at his pursuers, who in a solid group were following him so closely that
he could almost distinguish their features, so bright was the night, he
saw that their horses were not driven at the full height of their speed,
but were rather being held back. Alarmed at this he communicated his
fears to his companions, who, one on each side, were bending forward in
the saddle, urging and caressing their horses to get all there was out
of them, and right gamely did the stanch animals respond to the touch of
the spur or pat of the hand, as they beat out mile after mile behind
them, the hoof-beats echoed by the flying party behind. With starting
eye-balls eagerly fixed on the dim outlines of the bluff, the hunted men
watched it grow larger and more distinct, and hope began to revive in
their breasts when a sharp "ping" of a rifle, followed by the whistle of
the ball passing over their heads broke the silence of the wordless
chase.

As with one impulse, each man threw himself flat on his horse's neck,
but did not for an instant relax speed or spur. Another shot followed,
and Chip's voice, ringing and clear, shouted:

"If you don't halt, we'll shoot your horses."

"Shoot and be damned," said Jim Cummings, almost exultingly, as he drew
his revolver from his belt. "Two can play at that game," and drawing a
hasty bead on Chip, he pulled the trigger.

Chip's horse, giving a convulsive leap to one side, staggered a little,
and fell behind, but was soon in the lead again, apparently unhurt.

"Boys," shouted Cummings, "d'ye see that dry creek bed. On the other
side we're safe," The pursuing posse, hearing these words, and knowing
their full import, gave spurs to their horses, and the distance between
the two parties closed up so rapidly that the three outlaws could hear
the heavy breathing of the following horses.

Their own animals began to show signs of distress, and the dry creek bed
was still a long, long distance off.

Nearer and nearer crept Chip and his men, the thirteen men, pursuers and
pursued, was almost in one party. Chip, who lead, and Cummings, who rode
behind his comrades, were not a horse's length apart.

Slowly the gallant beast Chip bestrode pushed forward, gaining little by
little until his nose almost reached the flank of Jim's steed.

"Jim Cummings, do you surrender?" and the sharp click of a revolver was
heard.

With a malignant scowl Cummings half turned in his saddle, and saying:

"No, damn me, no; not while I live," placed his revolver at the head of
Chip's mount and sent the ball crashing to its brain.

Down in its tracks shot the noble steed, the dark, rich blood jetting
from the ghastly hole, and deluging Chip with its crimson flood.

Chip, with the address of an experienced horseman, had lighted upon his
feet, his revolver still clutched in his hand.

The sudden fall of the leading horse had caused the remainder of the
party to haul up short to avoid running horse and rider down. This left
the road clear before him, and Chip, dropping on his knee took a long
careful sight at Cummings and fired.

A sudden swerve of Jim's horse saved him, but uttering a cry of pain,
Cook's steed, struck in a vital point, stopped short, and trembling in
every limb slowly sank to the ground. Cook, taken so unexpectedly, had
shot over his horse's head, and now lay, unconscious, in the center of
the trail, his two companions, driving the spurs deeper into the flanks
of their almost exhausted animals, dashed down the banks of the dividing
line and stood safe on Indian Territory.

The unconscious Cook was at once surrounded by the detectives and posse,
and a generous dose of brandy poured down his throat brought him to his
senses.

Chagrined beyond measure at the escape of his man, just when he was
about to put his hand on him, and at the loss of his horse, Chip was in
no humor to allow a technical boundary line to keep him from capturing
his men, who, riding around the edge of an elevation on the prairie were
now lost to sight.

"Brodey," he said, turning to the ranger who had been the guide of the
expedition from the time it started from Kansas City, "how far is it to
Swanson's ranche?"

"A matter of twenty-five miles, as the crow flies."

"How far by the trail?"

"Well, Cap'n," responded Brodey, reflectively, as he threw his knee over
the pommel of his saddle, "lemme see. The trail goes by that there belt
of timber, then jines the stage-road to Allewe, an' follows that a
piece, then it shunts off to the west straight for the bluff thar, purty
nearly a bee-line. Thirty mile, sure--mebbe less."

"Is that the Indian Territory 'tother side of the divide?"

"Jesso--Cherokee Nation."

"What sort of a man is this Swanson?"

"Half-buffalo, half-painter, an' other half crocodile. He's wuss than a
half-breed Apache, an would as soon shoot a man as to drink, an'
Swanson's a right powerful punisher of the whisky-jug."

"Yes! yes! I know all that, but is he cunning, shrewd, sharp, you know?"

"Got eyes like an Injun, ears like a coyote an' a nose sharp as a gopher
snake."

"He must be a tough combination, but I'll do it, all the same."

"Do what, Chip?" asked Sam.

"Go down to Swanson's and bring in my man."

"Bars and buffler skins," cried Brodey. "You don't mean to say that you
will do such a blame fool thing as that. Sho!"

"Not alone, Chip," said Sam. "I go with you."

"See hyar, young fellers," expostulated Brodey. "Do ye know what your
doin'! Got any idee ye'll come back alive! I've been in some tough
places before now, but shoot my worthless carcass if I want to go to
Swanson's. He's killed a man, torn out his heart and eaten it raw, fer a
fact."

"Pshaw, who would believe such a yarn as that, man."

"Swar to gosh it's true," continued Brodey. "I don't believe thar's a
man in the States what's got as much devil to thar square inch as this
man Swanson. Better not go, Cap'n. I'd hate tremendous to have you
killed."

Chip laughed lightly, as he stroked the neck of the Ranger's horse, and
said:

"Brodey, I've been a detective for five years, and in those five years
I've looked almost sure death in the face more than a score of times. I
have seen the knife raised which was to be buried in my heart the next
second. I have felt the revolver spit its flames plump in my face. I
have been tied hand and feet and laid across the rail, with a lightning
express train not over a thousand feet off, coming down like the wind,
and I am a live man to-day. The man isn't born yet that can kill me."

Chip said all this in a modest tone and no signs of braggadocio, for it
was all true, and his listeners knew he was telling facts by his bearing
and manner.

"Yes," broke in Sam, "and I was with you on several of these occasions,
and what's more, I shall be with you on this one you are planning."

"I want you should be--but enough of this talk. We can do nothing more
now. Our men have given us the slip. Dismount, boys, and give the nags a
breathing spell."

Cook, by this time, had regained his senses, and was sitting up in the
middle of the trail rubbing his shoulder and wearing a most woebegone
and dazed look upon his expressive countenance. Observing this, Chip
walked toward him, and imitating a drunken stagger, sang:

"Drink, puppies, drink; let every puppy drink, That's old enough to
stand and to swallow."

As the first strains fell on his ears, Cook started, and regarding Chip
with questioning eyes, inquired:

"Who are you fellows anyway; can't you let peaceable travelers alone
without shooting their horses?"

"Oh! you were peaceable travelers, were you? Well, now, that's strange,
we took you to be some horse thieves that have been skurrying around
these parts lately."

"Do you think I look like a horse-thief?" indignantly.

"Is that your own horse?"

"Not exactly. I hired--"

"Ah! yes, you hired it--they all say that--you hired it some time ago
and have forgotten to pay the bill--"

"Well, I didn't either, I hired it for a week, and--"

"Really, Mr. Cook, you were going to make quite a visit--"

"My name ain't Cook."

"No? Let us call you Mr. Cook just for the sake of the argument. It's a
good name, is Cook. I used to know a fellow named Cook once. He had a
cooper-shop on the east bottoms, Kansas City. I went over to see him a
week or so ago, and we had a high old time I can assure you. Cook was a
very amusing gentleman. He could sing like Brignoli. What was that song
he could sing so nicely? Oh! yes, I have it."

"For we'll pass the bottle 'round When we've--"

"The tramp!" ejaculated Cook looking at Chip with amazement.

"The same, at your service, Mr. Cook, for that is your name, isn't it?"

"I'm caught," confessed the puzzled Cook. "What are you making game of
me for? What do you want me for?"

"Nothing, nothing. We were afraid you might prolong your anticipated
visit to such a length that we grew homesick for you, so I got some of
the boys together, a sort of a picnic, you know, to ask you not to stay
too long," bantered Chip. "We really can't take 'no' for an answer, Mr.
Cook, really you must consider our feelings and return with us."

"I guess I can't help myself," said Cook grimly.

"It does look a little that way, don't it?"

Cook shook his head as he arose to his feet, and stooping over his dead
horse unloosed the girth and drew off the saddle, nor did he make any
objection when Chip secured his revolver and ammunition belt. Escape was
entirely cut off from him and he accepted his capture in a resigned
spirit, because he could not help himself.

"Brodey, how far is the railroad from here?"

"About fifteen miles over thar," pointing toward the east, "Blue Jacket
lies thar, and is on the Missouri, Kansas and Texas."

"We'll make for it. You take the prisoner behind you and I will mount
with Sam."

The cavalcade were soon in motion, leaving the dead horses to be
devoured by the buzzards and coyotes which were already beginning to
gather around.

Arriving at Blue Jacket, the party left Chip and his prisoner, and
turning to the north cantered off for Kansas City.

CHAPTER XIII. SWANSON'S RANCHE--THE DETECTIVES IN ROBBER'S RETREAT--THE
SUCCESS OF THE DOCTOR--ANOTHER ROBBERY PLANNED.

In the center of a beautiful valley, with high, rugged bluffs rising on
all sides, and intersected by a clear stream of spring water, which fell
in tiny cascades and little waterfalls, turning and twisting like a
silver snake, stood Swanson's Ranche. The low frame building, surrounded
on four sides by a wide porch, and standing on a gentle elevation which
fell away to the creek, was the home of the redoubtable Swanson, who was
monarch of all he surveyed for miles around. The evening was rapidly
advancing into night, and the large open fireplace, huge and yawning,
was roaring with the cheerful fire which Swanson's obedient squaw had
built, that her liege lord might not be chilled by the cold wind which
whistled over the plains.

The floor of the large room, covered with fur rugs and huge buffalo-
skins, was made of pounded clay, and the feet of many years had hardened
it to almost stone-like solidity.

Saddles, lariats, rifles, high boots, and all the trappings and harness
belonging to a cowboy's outfit littered the place, and stretched out on
the robes and furs, in easy, careless attitudes, lay some half-dozen
men.

Jim Cummings and Dan Moriarity were of the number. Thick clouds of
tobacco smoke curled and eddied to the low ceiling, and seated near the
fire to get the benefit of the light were a couple of card-playing
ranchmen, indulging in a game of California Jack.

Standing with his back to the blaze, his feet spread apart, and his
hands deep in his pockets, stood the owner of the ranche--Swanson. Cast
in a Herculean mold, he stood over six feet tall, his broad shoulders
surmounted by a neck like a bull, and his red, cunning face, almost hid
from sight by the thick, bushy whiskers which covered it.

He had been relating, with great gusto, some adventure in which he had
played a prominent part, and raising his broad hand in the air he
brought it down on a table near him, as he exclaimed:

"And if any detective comes skulking around this shanty, I swear I'll
cut out his sneaking heart, and make him eat it raw"--when the sound of
horses broke the thread of his discourse, and a voice was heard
shouting:

"Hello-o-o, the house!"

"Yes, an be right smart about it, dis chile most froze."

A young fellow near the door sprang to open it, and thrusting his head
out, said:

"Come in, there's no dogs around."

"Dats all right, honey, we ain't got no fear of de hounds, me an' the
Doctor ain't."

"Keep quiet, you black imp," said the voice which had first been heard,
"Hobble the nags and bring in my saddle, boys."

"All right, sah; I's hearin' you, sah."

To this conversation, which had taken place outside, the men in the room
had listened with great interest. Anything was welcome that served to
break the monotony of ranche life, and a stir of expectation went
through the room as the two strangers were heard dismounting.

The door opened and the new-comers entered.

"By the great horn spoon if this ain't the old hoss doctor hisself!"
exclaimed Swanson, as he reached out his huge paw. "I thought the
Apaches had lifted your scalp years ago."

"You can't kill a good hoss doctor, Swanson," replied the Doctor,
grasping the offered hand and giving it a hearty shake. "Good hoss
doctors don't grow on every bush."

"Boys," said Swanson, turning the Doctor around. "This hyar gentleman
is Doctor Skinner--"

"Late graduate of the Philadelphia Veterinary Surgical Institute. Has
practised in seventeen States and four Territories. Can cure anything on
hoofs, from the devil to the five-legged broncho of Arizona, which has
four legs, one on each corner, and one attached to his left flank. With
it, he can travel faster than the swiftest race horse, and when hunted
by the native red men, he throws it over his neck, and smiles urbanely
upon his baffled pursuers."

Swanson roared with delight as the Doctor rolled this off his tongue,
and slapping him on the back, cried:

"You're the same old codger. Haven't changed an inch in seven years.
You've got to stay here a week, two weeks, a month. I've plenty of sick
stock, and some of the boys have horses that need polishing."

"Yes, sah!" broke in the Doctor's companion, a full-blooded negro. "We's
gwine to camp down hyar shuah a monf--"

"Hold your tongue, Scip," said the Doctor. "I'm the talking man here.
Yes! gentlemen," addressing the attentive cowboys, "I can cure anything
that touches the ground--biped, quadruped, or centipede--glanders,
botts, greased hoofs, heaves, blind staggers, it makes no odds. My
universal, self-acting, double compound elixir of equestrian ointment
will perform a cure in each and every case. It is cheap! It is sure! It
is patented! It is the best, and it is here. You may roll up, you may
tumble up, you may walk up, any way to get up, or send your money up,
and you will receive a two-quart bottle of this precious liquid, of
which I am the sole owner, proprietor and manufacturer."

Again Swanson expressed his unbounded delight, and the audience
signified their entire approbation by shouting:

"Go it, old hoss; keep it up!"

When the doctor first entered, Cummings, who was extended on a large
bear skin, fastened a searching look on him, taking in every feature and
article of wearing apparel, and Moriarity, who was stretched near him,
regarded the new-comer with suspicious eyes, but when they witnessed the
cordial greeting which Swanson gave, they dismissed their suspicions and
entering into the spirit of the evening, applauded as loudly and noisily
as the rest.

Scip, who had been attending to the horses outside, now stuck his head
through the door and shouted:

"Tole you what it was, Massa Doctor, dis yer chile can't tote dat bundle
in alone, nohow."

"All right, Scip, I'll help you," and disregarding, with a wave of his
hands, the proffers of assistance which were tendered him, the doctor
stepped onto the porch and found Scip struggling with a large pack,
strapped to the back of a broncho, tugging and jerking, and swearing
under his breath at "the old fool rope."

Coming close to him the doctor said aloud:

"Be careful you black imp of Satan; what are you so rough about?" and
then followed in a whisper, "the men are both there, Chip."

Scip, or rather, Chip, adopting the same tactics, replied:

"Honey, I's handlin' dis yeah smoof as cottonseed oil"--whispering,
"what a rascally-looking lot."

The Doctor and Scip were none other than the two detectives. When Chip
reached Kansas City he hunted around for some suitable disguise which
would carry him through in safety. In his perplexity he went to the
chief of police, with whom he was on the most friendly terms, and put
the case before him.

The chief said:

"About seven years ago there used to be an old fraud named Skinner, a
sort of horse-doctor, who stepped somewhat over the line and walked off
with some other fellow's nag. He is now putting in his time at Jefferson
City. He was hale fellow well met with all that gang, especially
Swanson, and I think if you could run down to Jefferson City, put the
case before the warden, you could get pointers from him."

That afternoon Chip was in Jefferson City, and walking over to the
penitentiary, found the warden willing, and Skinner was called to the
visitor's cage,

He had three years more to serve, and, on being told that any service he
could render the State would be taken into account and to his credit, he
gave Chip a minute and detailed description of his costume, manner of
doing business, and brought up many interesting reminiscenses, which
Chip carefully noted.

Sam, who had a peculiar talent for disguises, was to take the part of
Doctor Skinner, and Chip as his negro servant could slip in and out
without attracting much attention.

It was in these assumed characters that the detectives made their entre
into Swanson's habitat.

Further private conversation was barred by the massive form of Swanson
filling the door, and urging his friend the Doctor to let "his nigger"
take charge of the stock.

"Can't be did, colonel," said the Doctor, "can't be trusted alone near
this pack. Scip has too much love for the bottom of the flask to allow
him too much freedom here."

"Well, I'll send one of the boys out. Hyar, you, Abe; mosey out thar and
yank that pack in hyar."

Abe, a strong, strapping young plainsman, lifted the pack to his
shoulder, and, followed by the "Easy, young man; step lightly; glass,
you know; this side up with care," of the doctor, deposited it upon the
floor.

Opening the pack the Doctor held aloft a large square bottle, on which
was pasted a yellow label, "Dr. Skinner's Incomparable Horse Healer,"
commenced rapidly to dilate upon the peculiar excellence of the nostrum.

"Gentleman, what is good for the noble brute is good for man. This
compound, this superior selection of seventeen separate solvents is
warranted to dissipate the most chronic complaints. It will incite
slumber, mend the broken heart, cause the hair to grow, is good for
chapped hands, sore eyes and ingrowing toe-nails. It is a panacea for
all evils and a trial will cost you nothing."

He passed the bottle to Swanson, who stood listening to his glib tongue
in amused wonder, and invited him to test the medicine. Nothing loth,
the giant took a huge drink.

"Whisky," he shouted, joyfully, "the real, old stuff," and smacking his
lips he again applied them to the bottle. It was passed around, and the
doctor at once became the most popular man on the ranche.

Scip, who had finally succeeded in securing his horses to his
satisfaction, during which time he had made a tour of the premises and
obtained the lay of the land, now entered the room and pushing his way
through the crowd gathered around the Doctor and his bottle of "cure
all," spread his hands to the fire, standing beside Cummings.

"Where did you pick up the darkey, Doctor?" inquired Swanson,
designating Scip by a jerk of his thumb.

"The hard fact is, gentlemen, that we picked each other up. I was 1907
and Scip was 1908.

"How's that?"

"I repeat. I was 1907 and Scip was 1908."

"You mean to say you were doing--"

"Simply that and nothing more, I found a halter in the road one day and
picked it up, carrying it with me, and it wasn't until a most officious
individual in blue coat and brass buttons came along and rudely placed a
pair of exquisite steel bracelets on my delicate wrists, that I learned
that a horse was tied at the other end of the halter, and the gentleman
who is supposed to dispense justice in Kansas City urged me to remove to
Jefferson City for a time; that is all. The number of my room was 1907
and my colored friend here had the apartment next to mine."

"Yah, yah," laughed Scip, "we bof did our time together, suah."

This new claim on Swanson's friendship had its effect, and the generous
quantities of whisky which he had swallowed having put him into an
extraordinary good humor, he threw his arms around the doctor and vowed
he would keep him all his life.

Thus the two detectives by a bold piece of strategy, had gained entrance
to the express robbers' asylum and had been offered the right hand of
fellowship. The evening wore on, cards were produced, and the click of
the ivory poker chips was heard above the low hum of conversation. The
doctor did not care to take a hand, and Scip, apparently tired out with
his day's journey, had thrown himself on a buffalo-robe in a corner, and
seemed fast asleep.

The Doctor, his eyes half closed, and slowly puffing his pipe, closely
and keenly eyed every face in the room; but most of all, he gazed at
Swanson, who, partly overcome by liquor, was leaning back in an easy,
cane-bottomed chair, looking into the fire. A malignant frown, ever and
anon, knit his low brow, and his cruel mouth curled so as to show his
teeth, as his thoughts passed through his befuddled brain.

Cummings and Moriarity, who had withdrawn from the main party, had their
heads together, earnestly engaged in conversation. Cummings was
evidently endeavoring to persuade his fainter hearted comrade to do
something, for he often bent a significant look on Swanson, or pointed
his thumb toward him, but Moriarity, whose eyes were half indicative of
fear, would shake his head as if in expostulation.

The Doctor saw all this, through his half-closed eyes and strained his
ears to catch even the slightest shred of their consultation, but the
outlaws talked in such low tones that he was unable to hear anything.

A glance at Skip, who was gently snoring near them, put his mind at
rest, for he saw that the darkey was taking in every word that dropped,
feigning sleep all the time. A sudden movement by some of the men,
roused Swanson, and looking at a huge silver watch, he ordered them all
to bed at once. Which command was obeyed by all except Cummings,
Moriarity, the Doctor and Scip.

An inner room, fitted with bunks, was used as the dormitory, but the two
robbers, as special guests had rooms to themselves. Going to a cupboard,
and bringing out an armful of blankets, Swanson threw them on the floor.

"There my hearty, you and your boy will have to camp out here to-night.
We're crowded, so make yourself comfortable," and then bidding them
"Good-night," he staggered to his bed.

Nothing could suit the detectives better than this. A room to
themselves, a warm fire, plenty of blankets and no suspicions of their
true character.

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