CHAPTER VIII.
CAPTURE AND RESCUE.
The White Elephant was a large gambling hall in Kansas City, situatedon one of the principal thoroughfares. It was centrally located, andnight after night the brilliant lights and crowded tables bore witnessto 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. Theproprietor, his elegant diamonds flashing in the light, was seated on araised platform from whence he could survey the entire company--hisface, impassive as marble and unreadable as the sphinx, was turnedtoward the faro lay-out, which this evening appeared to be the centerof attraction.
Among the players sat one whose tall form and athletic frame would havebeen noticeable under any circumstances, but was now more so, as ittowered above his fellow-gamesters who crowded around the table.
Before him lay a high pile of chips. He played with the nonchalant airof one who was there merely to pass away a vacant hour, but his stakeswere high and he played every shot. His calm, impassioned countenancebore the unmistakable stamp of the professional gambler, and, serene asa quiet mill-pond, he bore his losses or pocketed his winnings with theenviable sang froid which results from a long and intimate acquaintancewith the green-baized table.
Every night for a week had this man occupied the same seat, and withcareless imperturbability had mulcted the bank of several thousands.
Rieley, the proprietor, himself one of the coolest dare-devil gamblersin the West, had recognized a kindred spirit, but to all advances andefforts to make his acquaintance the stranger had turned a coolshoulder, and his identity was still a matter of conjecture.
Rieley was watching him closely this evening, so intently, indeed, thatthe stranger, with a look of annoyance, swept the chips into his hatand stepping up to the banker cashed them in and walked out of theroom. As he emerged from the door he came in violent contact with a manjust 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 closefor comfort, and I am going to vamoose."
"When?"
"None of your business. I want you to come with me to-night. I must seeCook."
"Don't do it, Jim. Pinkerton's men are as thick as blackberries. Youwill 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 smokingduring the long ride to the terminus of the road.
Leaving the car, they plunged through the darkness over the same pathtrod by the tramp earlier in the afternoon.
The dark form of the distillery loomed up ahead of them, gloomy andlonesome.
Overhead not a star was to be seen, and save an occasional drunkardstaggering home, the two men were alone on the road.
A short distance beyond the distillery the cooper-shop squatted besidethe street, and the dim flicker of a candle cast its pitiful lightthrough the dirt-encrusted window.
As Moriarity and Cummings stepped from the shadow of the distillery, anindistinct 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 thedoor.
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 stepinside, but at the sight of another man, a ragged tramp, drinking withCook, he stopped short.
"Come in, b'hoy, come in; d-d-don't keep the d-d-door open; come rightin," stuttered Cook, too drunk to speak intelligibly.
The tramp, elevating his glass above his head, with an invitinggesture, 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, hishead sank down upon his breast, and, in a drunken stupor, he rolledfrom 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 toraise his comrade to a perpendicular position. His knees bent underhim, the chair fell from his unsteady grasp, and murmuring, "We'll passthe bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbentCook, 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 roughhands, separated the boon companions, thrusting the tramp withoutceremony under the table, Moriarity in the meantime shaking Cook invain attempts to rouse him from his maudlin stupor. Cook, however, wastoo far "under the influence" to be aroused, and to the vigorousshakings and punchings would respond only with a hiccough and part ofthe refrain "puppies drink."
Cummings, in a towering rage at finding Cook in such a helplesscondition, paced the small shop with impatient tread, all the timepouring imprecations upon Cook's devoted head. A sudden turn in hisshort beat brought him facing the window, and flattened against thedirty 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 facebecame livid, and a shade of terror flashed across his countenance. Itwas but an instant, though, that he stood thus, and calling toMoriarity to follow, he dashed through the door, drawing his readyrevolver from his side coat-pocket at the same time, and catching afleeting glimpse of a flying shadow, sped after it.
Moriarity, somewhat dazed at the unexpected turn of affairs, had risento his feet, and stood blankly gazing at the open door, notcomprehending what had occurred. A movement made by the pseudo tramp,caused him to turn around, and he was gazing straight into the openbarrel of a dangerous-looking revolver, held by a steady hand, and cooldaring eyes were glancing over the shining barrel, as a voice, decidedand commanding, said:
"Hands out, Dan Moriarity, I want you."
Chip, as he was stretched on the floor feigning drunkenness, had kepthis ears open, although obliged to keep his eyes closed.
The single candle which lit the room, furnished light too indistinctfor him to see the faces of the two visitors, and as he acted hischaracter of the drunken man, he cudgeled his brains to account fortheir 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-dollarbill 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 hewanted, accompanied by some one who had come to see Cook.
Half opening his eyes he saw that Moriarity was standing up, nonplussedat something, and instantly he drew his revolver, and as Moriarityturned around covered him and ordered him to hold out his hands.
Staggered again the second time by seeing a ragged tramp, who a fewseconds before was stretched at his feet in a drunken slumber, nowerect, perfectly sober, and having the drop on him, Moriarity becamemore 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 hiswind-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, andMoriarity submitted to being pushed hurriedly from the room into theopen air and dark night.
Chip was beginning to congratulate himself on the important capture hehad made, and with his hand on his captive's collar, and his revolverto his ear, was moving towards the center of the street, when awhistling "swish" was heard, the dull thud of a slung shot on thedetective's head followed, and, every muscle relaxed, he sank asenseless man in the dust of the road.
"Help me pick him up," said Cummings, "and be quick about it, there'sanother beak around."
"I can't. I've got his darbies on."
Cummings stooped down, and lifting Chip in his arms, walked rapidlydown 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, norpaused until he reached the river bank.
The weather had been piercingly cold for a week, although no snow hadfallen, 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 airhole to be seen.
Baffled in his murderous designs, he debated for a second whether itwould not be the best thing to leave the detective on the ice, and lethim freeze to death, but the publicity of the place, its proximity tothe city, and the risk of having been shadowed by the man whom he hadcaught gazing through the window, caused him to think of some secureplace wherein to put the senseless Chip. He first searched the woundedman's pockets, and, finding the key, released the handcuffs fromMoriarity.
The latter, seeing Cummings hesitate, and divining the cause, said in aquestioning voice:
"Why not take him to the widow's, Jim?"
"I would a damned sight rather put him through the ice, but its toothick 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 inthe direction of the city.
Left alone with his victim, the desperado bent over him, placing hishand on Chip's heart. It beat steadily, though not strongly, andCummings experienced a feeling of relief when he felt the regularpulsations.
He had never yet shed blood, and his first passion having died out, hewas 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 hisovercoat 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 Chipto the land and placed him in the carriage, which he had caught on theway to town.
The driver, who had been told that "one of the boys had got more thanhe 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 sidestreet, Dan pulled the check-strap, and the carriage turned to the curband stopped.
The detective, still unconscious, was lifted out, the driver paid anddismissed, 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 abasement and placed their still insensible burden on the floor.
The damp, moldy smell of an underground room filled the air, and butfor a slender beam of light which flashed beneath an adjoining door theplace 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 asmall, square room, having a low ceiling, and lighted by a singlelow-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 variousconstellations.
A grinning skull, mounted on a black pedestal, stood on a small tablein the center of the room, and on shelves against the wall were rangeda 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 itback, a small bell was sounded.
Almost instantly heavy curtains which hung opposite the door werepushed aside, and the fortune-teller appeared.
Advancing with stately strides, her tall form erect and her handsclasped before her, she fastened a pair of cruel, glittering eyes onMoriarity 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 gullsto 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 nextplace you must find a place for a man we've got here, and keep him fora while."
"You're a loving nephew, you are, Dan Moriarity, Oh! you come aroundand 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 hiscompanion, 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 usup-stairs."
Following Nance, the men carried Chip behind the curtain, throughanother room, and ascended a flight of stairs.
Nance threw open a door and Chip was placed upon a bed. The room wassumptuously, even elegantly, furnished. Pictures adorned the walls, aheavy carpet deadened the sound of the feet, and rich curtains keptback the too-inquisitive light.
Chip, wounded and insensible, was in the house of the "widow," therendezvous of a daring band of robbers and the birth-place of many adashing raid or successful bank robbery.
Jim Cummings; Or, The Great Adams Express Robbery Page 8