THE TRAMP.
About the middle of November, after the now famous express robbery had
taken place, a man, roughly dressed in a coarse suit of blue, wearing a
woolen shirt open at the neck, and, knotted around his throat, a gaudy
silk handkerchief, was strolling leisurely along the east bottoms near
Kansas City. His face was tanned by exposure to the sun, and his shoes
had the flattened and battered condition which is the natural
consequence of a long and weary tramp. He walked as if he had no
particular objective point, and looked like one of those peripatetic
gentry who toil not neither do they spin, the genus "tramp." He
complacently puffed a short clay nose-warmer, with his hands in his
pockets, and taking first one side and then the other of the road, as
his fancy dictated, found himself near the old distillery at the
outskirts of the city.
A saloon near at hand, with its front door invitingly open, attracted
his attention, and the cheering sounds of a violin, scraping out some
popular air, gave a further impetus to inclination, and the tramp
turned to the open door and entered. Seated on an empty barrel, his
foot executing vigorous time to his own music, sat the magician of the
horse-hair bow.
Leaning against the bar, or seated at the small tables scattered
around, the tramp saw a goodly number of the disciples of Bacchus,
while from an inner room the clicking of ivory chips and half
suppressed expressions of "I'll see you an' go you tenner better." "A
full house pat, what 'er ye got," designated the altar at which the
worshipers of "draw poker" were offering sacrifices.
The saloon consisted of one long, low room, on one side of which was
located the conventional bar, with its background of glittering
decanters and dazzling glasses and its "choice assortment of
liquors"--to quote the sign which called attention to these necessary
luxuries.
A large stove stood in the center of the room, and a number of small
tables were placed around promiscuously, The bar-tender, a
smooth-faced, beetle-browed rascal, was engaged in shaking dice for the
drinks with a customer, and, to the music of the violin, a light-footed
Irishman was executing his national jig, to the great delight and no
small edification of his enthusiastic audience.
The wide sombreroes, perched back on the head, pointed out the cowboys
who were making up for the lonesome days and nights on the plains.
It was a motley crowd, a fair specimen of the heterogeneous mass of
humanity which floats hither and there all over our western States, and
contained some villainous-looking fellows.
As the tramp entered, the interest in the jig was developing into
enthusiasm. Hands were clapped, and fingers snapped to the time of the
nimble heels and toes of the jaunty Corkonian. The violinist was
settling down to vigorous work, and Pat, having the incentive of
anticipated free drinks as a reward for his efforts, was executing the
most intricate of steps.
The tramp lounged to the bar, followed by the suspicious glance of the
bar-keeper, who assumed a more respectful demeanor as the object of his
suspicions threw down a silver quarter and named his drink. It was
quickly furnished, and as quickly disposed of. The dancer had finished
his jig and accepted with alacrity the proffered offers to wet his
whistle. As he stepped to the bar his glance fell upon the tramp.
"Are ye drinkin' this aivenin'?"
"I am that," responded the tramp,
"Faith, an' its not at yer own expinse, then," with a glance at the
ragged clothing and "hard-up" appearance of the wanderer.
"An' a divil sight less at yours," retorted the tramp. "But by the same
token, we both get our rosy by manes of our heels."
"Shure fir ye, lad. Its hard up I've been myself before the now, but
its a cold day when Barney O'Hara will let a bog-trotter go dry--name
your poison."
"Its the rale ould stuff I'll be a takin' straight," and the tramp
spread his elbows on the counter and soon demonstrated his ability to
gulp down the fiery fluid without any such effeminate trimmings as
water in it. After the first glass had been emptied the tramp said:
"I've had a bit of luck to-day; what's your medicine?"
"The same," responded Barney.
The liquor was poured into the glasses, and the tramp, diving deep in
his pockets, drew out some small silver currency, and, with a movement
expressive of untold wealth, threw it on the counter.
As he did so, the bar-keeper uttered an oath of astonishment, several
of the roysterers sprang forward, and Barney, with an exclamation of
amazement, put his hand on a Pinkerton detective star, with its
terrible eye in the center, which had fallen on the counter with the
nickles and dimes the tramp had thrown down.
Dark looks and murderous eyes were turned on the tramp, and more than
one hand was placed on a revolver, The bar-keeper with an ugly look,
and bullying swagger, stepped from behind the bar and advanced on the
tramp, his face distorted with rage, and his fists doubled in a most
aggressive manner.
The tramp, without moving, and apparently ignorant of the sensation he
had created, raised his glass to his lips, and with a hearty "Here's to
ye, lads," tossed off the whisky.
As he replaced his glass, he became aware that he was the center of
attention, and facing the bar-keeper, said:
"What's the row with ye? I paid fer the drinks,"
"What are you doin' with a detective's star?" said the bar-keeper,
"Haven't I a right to one; I dunno--finders keepers, losers weepers--I
picked the bit of brass up on the road not over an hour ago."
The bar-keeper was not to be pacified by such a story, and in a
threatening voice, he asked:
"Are you a man-hunter or not?"
The tramp threw a pitying glance of scorn at the pugilistic
whisky-seller, as he replied:
"Be gorra, ye damned fool, do you think that I'd be after givin' myself
away like this if I WAS one?"
"In course ye wouldn't," broke in Barney. "Don't be a fool, Jerry, this
man is no detective," and Barney fastened the star to the vest which
encircled the portly form of the bar-keeper.
"Now ye're one yerself, an' will be after runnin' us all in fer not
detectin' enough of the elegant liquor ye handle."
To this the man could make no reply, save a deep, hoarse laugh, and
resuming his professional position, was shortly engaged in alleviating
the thirst of his patrons.
This little episode had just occurred, when the door of the inner room
was thrown violently open and a man, his coat off, rushed up to the bar.
"Here, Jerry, break this fifty for me," at the same time throwing down
a fifty-dollar bill, crisp and fresh.
"Your playin' in bad luck to-day, Cook?"
"Yes, damn it," said Cook. "Give me a drink for good luck."
As the bar-keeper uttered the name of Cook a quick, but hardly
perceptible glance of intelligence passed between Barney and the tramp.
Cook hastily swallowed his whisky, rushed back to the poker table with
a handful of five dollar bills, and quiet reigned over the place. The
bar-keeper, who spied a possible good customer in the tramp, had
entered into a little conversation at the end of the counter, on which
the tramp leaned, the embodiment of solid comfort, puffing his cigar
vigorously, or allowing it to burn itself out in little rings of smoke.
"You're a stranger to these parts?"
With an expressive wink, the tramp replied:
"Not so much as ye think, I've spint many a noight around here."
"Night hawk, eh? an' I took you for a man-trailer."
"I've had the spalpeens after myself afore now," spoke the tramp, in a
low, confidential whisper.
"You keep yourself devilish low, then, for I know all the lads, and
it's the first time I've clapped these two eyes on you."
"Do ye think I mane to let the fly cops put their darbies on me, that I
should be nosin' around in the broad day?"
"You're too fly for them, I see," said the bar-keeper, with a sagacious
shake of his head. "You an' Barney are a pair."
"Barney? Ye mane the Irish lad that was just here a bit ago?"
"The same. He's square. He's one of you."
The tramp leaned forward, his eyes fastened on the bloodshot eyes of
the drink-compounder, and in an earnest tone, asked:
"Is he a bye that could crack a plant with the loikes o' me?"
Impressed with the tone and manner of the tramp, the bar-keeper gazed
quickly around the room, and in a still lower tone, replied:
"He's on a lay himself. Would you like to go his pal?" The tramp slowly
nodded his head, and after receiving the whispered invitation to come
around later, strolled out of the saloon; and so on up the road.
Turning a corner he nearly ran against Barney himself, who was sitting
on a horse-block, enjoying a pipe and the sun.
Not a soul was in sight. Satisfying himself of that fact, Barney gazed
at the tramp and said:
"By Jove, Chip, I thought you were a goner when that confounded star
fell out."
Chip gave a deep sigh of relief, and taking off his hat, pointed to the
perspiration which moistened the band:
"Don't that look as though I thought so, too, Sam?"
"How in the name of all that's lovely, did you happen to be so
careless?"
"That's what it was, sheer carelessness. I suffered, though, for it. It
would have been all up with me if the gang had not been so deucedly
stupid. That Jerry is a villain, and no mistake. I told him that I was
a profesh, and he told me that you were another, and had a plan to do
some fine work without asking permission of the owners. So I am to meet
him again to-night, and see if you will not take me as your pal. You
have your cue, and will know how to act."
"Chip, did you notice that man Cook?"
"You mean, did I notice the fifty-dollar bill he threw down?"
"Well, both."
"Seems to me he didn't look like a man that ought to be carrying
fifty-dollar bills around so recklessly."
"He's a cooper, runs that little shop over there, and hasn't done a
stroke of work for a month."
The cooper-shop pointed out by Sam was a small frame building, having
the sign, "Oscar Cook--Barrels and Kegs," painted over the door. It was
a tumbled-down, rickety affair, evidently having seen its best days.
Chip surveyed it intently, then turned to Sam, inquired:
"That express tag had on it something about a man named Cook, didn't
it?"
"Yes, the words, 'it to Cook.'"
"Supposing that Dan Moriarity, whom we now know had some connection
with the robbery, had taken the valise, which was sent from St. Louis
to Leavenworth, had obeyed the order, for it was evidently an order
which was written on the tag, and given 'it to Cook,' it would be fair
to infer that the Cook mentioned had some hand in the pudding, too, and
ought to be pretty flush about this time."
"You mean--"
"No, I don't mean that the Cook over in the saloon playing poker and
the Cook mentioned on the tag are the same person, but we found no Dan
Moriarity or Cook in Leavenworth but what was above suspicion, and I
think that the men who were smart enough to plan and carry out a
robbery such as this was would be shrewd enough to take every possible
precaution against discovery. I mean that neither Moriarity or Cook are
Leavenworth people, and for all we know to the contrary, may live here
in Kansas City."
As Chip finished speaking, a man appeared in front of the cooper shop,
and unlocking the door, entered.
"There is Cook, now," said Sam, making a movement as if to rise.
With a motion of the hand Chip cautioned him to remain where he was,
and with lazy steps, lounged toward the shop.