Jim Cummings; Or, The Great Adams Express Robbery Part 9

"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."

"d.a.m.n 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 c.u.mmings 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, c.u.mmings rapped loudly on the door.

The sound of clinking gla.s.ses was heard, and a voice, heavy and thick, growled out, "Come in."

A vigorous shove opened the door, and c.u.mmings 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 gla.s.s 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 pa.s.s 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, p.r.o.ne 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 pa.s.s the bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the rec.u.mbent Cook, pa.s.sed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus, seemingly dead drunk.

With a bitter curse of rage c.u.mmings 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."

c.u.mmings, 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.

c.u.mmings 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 c.u.mmings, and his calling out, "Moriarity, follow me," cleared the mystery.

He comprehended the situation at once.

While he did not know it was Jim c.u.mmings 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 pa.s.sively 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 c.u.mmings, "and be quick about it, there's another beak around."

"I can't. I've got his darbies on."

c.u.mmings 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, c.u.mmings 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 c.u.mmings hesitate, and divining the cause, said in a questioning voice:

"Why not take him to the widow's, Jim?"

"I would a d.a.m.ned sight rather put him through the ice, but its too thick for me. Do you think we can carry him between us?"