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.