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.