The train stopped, and the noise of men walking on the gravel was heard.
As Fotheringham lay there, his ears strained to catch every sound, and hoping for the help that never came, his heart gave a joyful throb, as some one pounded noisily on the door. Almost at the same instant he felt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his head, and the ominous "click, click" was more eloquent than threats or words could be.
The pounding ceased, and in a short time the train moved on again.
Apparently not satisfied that the messenger was bound safe and fast, Cummings took the companion strap to the one which pinioned the feet of his victim, and passing it around his neck, fastened it to the handle of the safe in such a way that any extra exertion on Fotheringham's part would pull the safe over and choke him.
Opening the car door, he threw away the clothing which he had taken from his valise.
Returning to the messenger, he stooped over him, and took from his pocket the forged letter with which he gained entrance to the car.
Fotheringham tried to speak, but the gag permitted nothing but a rattling sound to escape.
"I know what you want, young fellow. You want this letter to prove that you had some sort of authority to let me ride. Sorry I can't accommodate you, my son, but those devilish Pinkertons will be after me in twenty-four hours, and this letter would be just meat to them. I'll fix you all right, though. My name's Cummings, Jim Cummings, and I'll write a letter to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that will clear you Honest to God, I will. You've been pretty generous to-night; given me lots of swag, and I'll never go back on you.
"Give my love to Billy Pinkerton when you see him. Tell him Jim
Cummings did this job."
As he uttered these words, the train commenced slacking up, and as it stopped, Cummings, opening the door, with his valuable valise, leaped to the ground, closed the door behind him, the darkness closed around him and he was gone.