CAPTURE AND RESCUE.
The White Elephant was a large gambling hall in Kansas City, situated
on one of the principal thoroughfares. It was centrally located, and
night after night the brilliant lights and crowded tables bore witness
to its rushing business.
On this evening the tiger was out with all its claws. Rouge et noir,
roulette, faro, keno, and stud-poker were going in full blast. The
proprietor, his elegant diamonds flashing in the light, was seated on a
raised platform from whence he could survey the entire company--his
face, impassive as marble and unreadable as the sphinx, was turned
toward the faro lay-out, which this evening appeared to be the center
of attraction.
Among the players sat one whose tall form and athletic frame would have
been noticeable under any circumstances, but was now more so, as it
towered above his fellow-gamesters who crowded around the table.
Before him lay a high pile of chips. He played with the nonchalant air
of one who was there merely to pass away a vacant hour, but his stakes
were high and he played every shot. His calm, impassioned countenance
bore the unmistakable stamp of the professional gambler, and, serene as
a quiet mill-pond, he bore his losses or pocketed his winnings with the
enviable sang froid which results from a long and intimate acquaintance
with the green-baized table.
Every night for a week had this man occupied the same seat, and with
careless imperturbability had mulcted the bank of several thousands.
Rieley, the proprietor, himself one of the coolest dare-devil gamblers
in the West, had recognized a kindred spirit, but to all advances and
efforts to make his acquaintance the stranger had turned a cool
shoulder, and his identity was still a matter of conjecture.
Rieley was watching him closely this evening, so intently, indeed, that
the stranger, with a look of annoyance, swept the chips into his hat
and stepping up to the banker cashed them in and walked out of the
room. As he emerged from the door he came in violent contact with a man
just entering.
"I beg your pardon."
"Not at--by Jove! Moriarity, you here too?"
"Blest if it isn't Jim!"
"Hush! you fool, speak lower."
"Been up bucking the tiger?"
"I've been making a damned fool of myself. Rieley watched me too close
for comfort, and I am going to vamoose."
"When?"
"None of your business. I want you to come with me to-night. I must see
Cook."
"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."
"Damn 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 Cummings 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, Cummings rapped loudly on the
door.
The sound of clinking glasses was heard, and a voice, heavy and thick,
growled out, "Come in."
A vigorous shove opened the door, and Cummings 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 glass 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 pass 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, prone 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 pass
the bottle round," he lurched forward, and falling across the recumbent
Cook, passed from the worship of Bacchus to the arms of Morpheus,
seemingly dead drunk.
With a bitter curse of rage Cummings 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."
Cummings, 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.
Cummings 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 Cummings, and his calling out, "Moriarity,
follow me," cleared the mystery.
He comprehended the situation at once.
While he did not know it was Jim Cummings 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 passively 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 Cummings, "and be quick about it, there's
another beak around."
"I can't. I've got his darbies on."
Cummings 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, Cummings 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 Cummings hesitate, and divining the cause, said in a
questioning voice:
"Why not take him to the widow's, Jim?"
"I would a damned sight rather put him through the ice, but its too
thick for me. Do you think we can carry him between us?"
"It would never do to let people see us two with a dead man between us."
"Then you must go up town and get a hack."
Moriarity turned back to the shore, and climbing the bank, hurried in
the direction of the city.
Left alone with his victim, the desperado bent over him, placing his
hand on Chip's heart. It beat steadily, though not strongly, and
Cummings experienced a feeling of relief when he felt the regular
pulsations.
He had never yet shed blood, and his first passion having died out, he
was glad that the thick ice had defeated his first purpose.
The stunned detective stirred, the cold, crisp air was reviving him,
and Cummings, his better nature asserting itself, hastily doffed his
overcoat and threw it over the recumbent form of his captive.
It was not very long before the noise of carriage wheels were heard,
and Moriarity running out on the ice assisted Cummings in carrying Chip
to the land and placed him in the carriage, which he had caught on the
way to town.
The driver, who had been told that "one of the boys had got more than
he could carry," did not concern himself to investigate too closely,
and having received his order, drove briskly from the scene.
The darkness and open country gave way to gas-lights and paved streets,
over which the carriage rattled at a lively pace. Turning into a side
street, Dan pulled the check-strap, and the carriage turned to the curb
and stopped.
The detective, still unconscious, was lifted out, the driver paid and
dismissed, and the two men, bearing Chip between them, entered a dark,
narrow alley.
Proceeding up this for some distance, they entered the low door of a
basement and placed their still insensible burden on the floor.
The damp, moldy smell of an underground room filled the air, and but
for a slender beam of light which flashed beneath an adjoining door the
place was dark as night.
Softly stealing to the door, Moriarity applied his ear to the key-hole,
and hearing no sounds within, gave a peculiar double rap on the panel.
Receiving no answer, he cautiously opened the door and disclosed a
small, square room, having a low ceiling, and lighted by a single
low-burning gas jet.
On the walls hung a large astronomical map, showing the solar system,
and divided with the girdle of the zodiac into its various
constellations.
A grinning skull, mounted on a black pedestal, stood on a small table
in the center of the room, and on shelves against the wall were ranged
a number of curiously-shaped bottles.
It was, in fact, the divining-room of a professional fortune-teller.
The room was vacant when Moriarity opened the door, but as he threw it
back, a small bell was sounded.
Almost instantly heavy curtains which hung opposite the door were
pushed aside, and the fortune-teller appeared.
Advancing with stately strides, her tall form erect and her hands
clasped before her, she fastened a pair of cruel, glittering eyes on
Moriarity and in a deep voice asked:
"Why this intrusion at this late hour?"
"Oh! drop that stuff, Nance; it won't go down with us; we're no gulls
to have pretty things told us by giving you a dollar."
Recognizing her visitor, Nance, in her natural tone, inquired sharply:
"What do you want at this time of night?"
"In the first place we want you to keep your mouth shut. In the next
place you must find a place for a man we've got here, and keep him for
a while."
"You're a loving nephew, you are, Dan Moriarity, Oh! you come around
and see your old aunt when you're up to some devilment, I'm bound."
Moriarity, not deigning to reply to this speech, had gone back to his
companion, and now returned with the form of the detective between them.
"My God! you haven't killed him, Dan?"
"He has a pretty sore head, I reckon, but nothing worse. Take us
up-stairs."
Following Nance, the men carried Chip behind the curtain, through
another room, and ascended a flight of stairs.
Nance threw open a door and Chip was placed upon a bed. The room was
sumptuously, even elegantly, furnished. Pictures adorned the walls, a
heavy carpet deadened the sound of the feet, and rich curtains kept
back the too-inquisitive light.
Chip, wounded and insensible, was in the house of the "widow," the
rendezvous of a daring band of robbers and the birth-place of many a
dashing raid or successful bank robbery.