IN THE TOILS.
The dark shadow that had followed Cummings and Moriarity from the
distillery to Cook's cooper-shop was none other than the assumed Barney
O'Hara, who had aired his heels so jauntily in the saloon that
afternoon.
Watching on the outside while Chip was working Cook, he had spotted and
shadowed the two men as they came down the road.
The careless exposure of his face to Cummings through the window was
the cause of the latter's sudden attempt to catch him.
His nimble heels again stood him in good stead, and in the darkness he
easily eluded his pursuer.
Cummings gave up the chase, and returning just in time, had stopped
Chip's success by knocking him down with a slungshot and carrying him
off.
When Barney, or, rather, Sam, returned to renew his investigation, he
found the shop empty, save the intoxicated Cook.
Thinking his late pursuer and his companion had taken the alarm, and
that Chip was now doubtless shadowing them, he walked into the shop,
and, true to his detective instincts and education, began a diligent
search of the place.
He was actively engaged in this work when the sound of hasty footsteps
reached his ears. Throwing himself flat on the floor, behind a pile of
barrel staves, he drew his revolver and waited. The steps passed by,
however, and Sam quickly but quietly left the shop.
He could barely see the form of a man walking rapidly down the street
to the horse-car track.
As he passed the window of the saloon the light fell on him, and Sam
saw it was one of the two men who had just left the cooper-shop.
Following closely, using all his skill as a successful shadow, he
trailed the man to the car, and boarding the front platform rode into
town.
Passing a livery stable the man left the car, still followed by Sam.
When Moriarity, for it was he whom Sam was trailing, rode back to the
river, Sam was perched on behind the hack.
He saw the wounded Chip placed inside, thanks to the darkness, and
still hanging on the back of the carriage was carried back to town.
When the two train robbers turned into the alley Sam was right behind
them, so close that he could hear their labored breathing. Suddenly, as
if they had been swallowed by the earth, he was left alone in the dark,
nonplussed and outwitted.
Not a point of light was visible, and settling himself against the wall
of a building, Sam started in for an all-night watch.
He understood the case at once. Chip had been knocked down by the
renegades, and, probably still insensible, had been carried to their
haunt. Knocked down, either because they had discovered his disguise,
or had suspected him.
He was now firmly convinced that if Cook was not an accomplice in the
train robbery, he was involved in something criminal, and Sam regretted
that he had not been more thorough in his investigations. Now that Chip
was in the hands of his enemies, all others sank into insignificance;
so with keen eyes and sharp ears, Sam kept his solitary vigil.
The gray dawn of the morning had taken the place of the night, and Sam,
under the shadow of a convenient shed door had heard or seen nothing
pass his post. The day grew stronger, and, chilled to the bone, the
disappointed detective left the alley and wended his way to his
boarding-house.
The cause of the sudden disappearance of the two robbers the reader is
acquainted with, and the reason Sam failed to see them again was
because they had left the house by another exit.
The widow, acting as a go-between and a fence for the light-fingered
gentry who patronized her establishment, hid her real calling with the
guise of a fortune-teller, and her house, poorly furnished, damp and
moldy when entered from the alley, was well furnished in the upper
stories.
The room in which Chip was confined was the sybil's chief pride. Every
article of furniture, every bit of painting, the carpets, and even the
base-burning stove, were the trophies of successful robberies.
The very sheets and towels had been deftly purloined by the widow
herself.
It was this stronghold of the "gang," to which Chip, battered and
insensible, had been brought by his captors.
Cummings, who from his actions was no stranger to the house, in brief
authoritative tones, bade the witch to take charge of this prisoner
until further disposition could be made of him.
The widow listened to his words, and with the submission which all his
associates rendered to him, promised to do all he commanded.
The first gleam of the morning warned the two men that they must seek
their cover, for despite Jim's natural boldness and daring, he was
cautious and careful. Instead of descending to the room which had its
entrance from the alley, they mounted another flight of stairs, and
gaining the roof by means of the scuttle, walked the flat mansard until
another hatch-door was reached, and through it they entered a quiet,
unassuming appearing house, which stood on the side street from which
the alley branched.
The house, though completely furnished, was vacant, and the men reached
the street without meeting any one.
Cummings and Moriarity having left, the widow, for the first time
ventured to look at her new charge. Her keen eyes noted the disguise
which Chip had adopted. The wicked blow which had brought him to this
plight had moved the red wig to one side and disclosed the dark
clustering hair, now bathed and soaked in his blood.
He was still unconscious, but his strong constitution was regaining its
sway, and he moved uneasily on his soft couch.
The widow, now remembering the commands which Cummings had laid upon
her, hastened to bring water, and washed the wound. The slung shot had
struck squarely across the crown of the head, but the cut was not very
large or deep, and the widow, with ready skill, bound it neatly with
bandages, and holding a brandy flask to his mouth forced some of its
contents down his throat.
The color came back to the detective's face, and in a few moments his
eyes opened, and with a dazed expression wandered over the room.
The widow, as she noticed the first signs of returning consciousness
had retired from the room, now, with consummate skill, put a kindly,
even tender, look toward the sufferer as she reappeared through the
door.
Chip, still very much bewildered, his head feeling as though it was
whirling off his shoulders, heard a pleasant voice asking: "And how is
my poor boy, now?"
Chip gazed vacantly at her, as he responded:
"Who are you? Where am I--my head--"
"Come, come, don't talk. Take this medicine like a good boy, and go to
sleep."
With childlike obedience the detective swallowed the draught, which
soon took possession of his senses, and he fell asleep.
The widow quietly sat beside him until the opiate had taken full
effect. Then muttering "You are safe for four and twenty hours," she
descended to her divining-room, leaving the detective deep in slumber,
and in complete ignorance of his surroundings.