JIM CUMMINGS IN PINKERTON'S SWEAT-BOX--HIS CONFESSION.
All night long "Jim Cummings" walked the narrow limits of his
room--still undaunted and fearless as of old. The gravity of his
position only made him the more daring, and when the first beams of the
morning broke through the barred window he had recovered his usual grit
and nerve, and determined to die hard and game. Mr. Pinkerton, alone,
came into the room just as the outlaw had finished the excellent
breakfast which had been served him. Jim looked up, and holding out his
hand, in a cheery voice said:
"Good morning, Mr. Pinkerton."
For a second Mr. Pinkerton hardly knew what to say. He was prepared to
encounter either a desperate or a sullen prisoner, and was somewhat
taken back when he received such a cordial greeting. It was but a
second, and fully alive to all the tricks and maneuvers practiced by
arrested criminals, he was on the qui vive.
"Good morning, Mr. 'Cummings'. I trust you have had a good breakfast?"
"Oh, fair."
"You slept well?"
"Tip-top."
"I trust you will be able to amuse yourself during the day."
"I won't amuse you, that's certain."
"You have been doing that for some time."
"That's all right. Now, what am I here for?"
"Just so. What ARE you here for?"
"You've got the wrong man, Mr. Pinkerton."
"Indeed?"
"Just now you called me 'Mr. Cummings'."
"I should, perhaps, have said Mr. Wittrock."
"What did you call me 'Cummings' for, then."
"As you christened yourself you ought to know."
"I'm arrested, of course, now for what?"
"To tell the fact, Mr. Wittrock, it is because some time last October
you played a little joke on the Adams Express Company, and they
appreciated it so highly that they hired me to find you so that they
could tell you so."
"You dare accuse me of committing that robbery?"
"That's about the size of it."
"Why, man, I wasn't within five hundred miles of the place when it
occurred."
"Where were you?"
"I was in New Orleans."
"Positive of that?"
"I can PROVE it."
"You can?"
"Yes, I can. You go over to my coalyard at--West Lake street, and ask
my partner, Weaver. He will tell you where I was at that time."
"Is he your partner?"
"Yes."
"Strange, very strange. He said he bought you out last October."
"You've been there, have you?"
"That is what he said."
"He lies."
"Or you do."
"You wouldn't dare say that outside of this room."
"Don't get excited, Mr. Wittrock. We have had enough bantering. You
might as well make a clean breast of the whole affair, for we have a
clear case against you."
"I tell you I was at New Orleans at the time."
"You were not. Listen to me and I can prove you are a liar."
Wittrock flushed, and he began to get angry, which was just what Mr.
Pinkerton wanted, and glaring at his persecutor he folded his arms and
settled defiantly back in his chair. Mr. Pinkerton quietly continued:
"A week before the robbery was committed you and a man named Haight
took a room at Chestnut street. On the twenty-third of October you sent
a valise to Daniel Moriarity at Leavenworth, Kansas, and a letter
instructing him to give its contents to Oscar Cook, of Kansas City. A
few days after you committed the robbery, and in a cave near Pacific,
you, with Moriarity and Haight, divided the ill-gotten wealth. You then
rowed down the river to St. Louis, or near there, and from thence went
to Kansas City. You were often seen playing faro at the White Elephant,
and one night you knocked one of my men senseless when he had arrested
Moriarity, and took him to old Nance, the widow. Still later, you, Cook
and Moriarity took refuge at Swanson's ranche in the Indian Territory,
and after attempting to rob your host, which attempt was frustrated by
my men, you came, in some roundabout way, to Chicago, where you put up
at the Commercial Hotel, disguised by a false mustache. Every evening
you went to West Lake street, and last night you were arrested. Now,
Mr. Wittrock, what have you to say?"
"That's a very pretty yarn; but as I don't happen to be the man that
did all that I don't see how it concerns me."
"Look at that and tell me what you have to say," and Mr. Pinkerton laid
before him the sworn deposition of Daniel Moriarity, in which all the
facts that Mr. Pinkerton had been relating were set forth, Wittrock did
not show a trace of feeling other than amusement, as he read the long
and legally worded document, and passing it back to Mr. Pinkerton with
a gesture of disdain, he said:
"So on the strength of that cock-and-bull story you mean to hold me for
that robbery?"
"Partly so."
"There isn't a word of truth in it. That man, Moriarity, is a noted
liar."
"Ah!" said Mr. Pinkerton, quickly, "you know Moriarity?"
"That is--I mean--yes, I sort of know him," stammered Wittrock, in
confusion; "I have heard of him."
"You are in desperate straits, Mr. Wittrock," said the detective. "In
such desperate straits that you are doing the worst possible
thing--denying all that is proved true. We have you safe and secure,
and enough evidence against you to send you to Jefferson City for a
long term of years. You can lighten your sentence by one thing."
"You don't catch me that way, I am not to be taken in by soft words,
and all the traps you set for me won't make me confess that I had
anything to do with the robbery. You've arrested me without cause, and
if there is any law in the land I'll make you suffer for it," and
Wittrock walked excitedly around the room.
Mr. Pinkerton did not reply to this, but touching a bell, told the man
who opened the door to bring in the other prisoners.
Wittrock had resumed his seat, his head bowed forward and eyes cast
down, but hearing the door opening, he glanced up and saw Weaver and
Haight, followed by two detectives, ushered into his room.
Both of them looked discouraged and broken-spirited. The heart had been
taken from them by their arrest, and Wittrock's boldness and defiant
manner began to melt as he saw his faint-hearted accomplices.
"You here, too," he exclaimed.
"Looks like it, don't it," said Haight, with a grim smile.
"You may as well own up, Fred," said Weaver, "they have the drop on us."
"Coward!" hissed Wittrock. Then turning suddenly to Mr. Pinkerton, he
said:
"That cur is right, you have the drop on us."
"Then you confess you committed the robbery?"
"Yes," he answered, curtly.
"Was Fotheringham in the ring, too?"
"Fotheringham hadn't a thing to do with it."
"How came it, then, that we found some of the Adams express letter
heads in his trunk, and which were not the ones printed for the
company?"
"Did you do that?"
"Yes; ten or twenty sheets."
"He never got them from us. The first time I ever saw him was when I
jumped on his car in St. Louis."
Mr. Pinkerton looked at the frank, open face of the train robber, and
wondered that such a man could have committed the crime for which he
was now locked up in the "Pinkerton strong box." His manner and tone of
sincerity, when he declared Fotheringham innocent of any complicity
with him or his companions, carried conviction with it. He believed
himself that a blunder had been made, and Fotheringham was wrongfully
accused.
"I said, a short time ago," he continued, addressing Wittrock, "that
you could lighten your sentence if you wanted to do so."
"How?"
"Tell me where you have hid the money."
Wittrock hesitated, and glanced at his companions. Perhaps he saw in
their faces, that if he didn't tell, they would. He was willing,
however, to give them the same benefit accorded him, and pointing to
Weaver, he said:
"Weaver knows where the money is planted in Chicago, and Cook has some
hid around his shanty in Kansas City. I put some under the large tree,
just east of the gate of the old graveyard at Leavenworth."
A sign from Mr. Pinkerton to one of the detectives, and taking Weaver
with him, the man left the room.
Shortly after, Mr. Pinkerton, with the remaining detectives, also took
his leave, and the two express robbers were alone.
The door had scarcely closed, when, dropping his cool and calm
demeanor, Wittrock sprang from his chair and confronting Haight with
flaming eyes, he whispered in terrible tones:
"Moriarity turned informer, he swore away our liberty, and all our work
has been turned to naught by the cowardly traitor. Listen to me,
Haight, listen well, and when you see the poltroon tell him that Jim
Cummings swore he would cut his heart out. Aye! _I_ WILL DO IT, though
he were guarded behind double bars. I'll search him out and tear the
traitor heart from his breast and make him eat it, by God--make him eat
it."
A gurgling sound and hissing gasps recalled the furious man to his
senses, and he saw that in his frenzy of anger he had clutched his
companion by the throat and was choking him purple in the face.
A few gasps, and Haight had recovered his breath, rubbing his throat
ruefully, and edging away from his dangerous and excited companion.
His passionate outburst over Wittrock regained his composure, and
lighting a cigar, gave one to Haight, remarking in a light tone:
"I beg your pardon, old man, I didn't mean to hurt you."
"Next time don't take me for Moriarity," puffing the peace-offering.
"Do you know whom I would like to see? Those two chaps that arrested
me."
As if in answer to his call the door opened, and Sam, with Chip
following, entered.
Wittrock recognized them, and with a hearty "Good-morning, gentlemen,"
motioned them to a seat, with as little ceremony as if the room was in
his own house.
"Good-morning, Jim," said Chip, "I'm sorry we had to pull you in last
night."
"It was a ground-hog case, eh?"
"You don't seem to recognize us," said Sam.
"Yes, I do; you gave me enough cause last night to remember you all my
life."
"Suah enough, Massa Cummins," broke in Chip, imitating Scip's voice.
Wittrock gazed at the speaker, and in astonishment, cried:
"Scip!"
"Suah as you bawn, honey, I's de same ole Scip."
"And you?" turning to Sam.
"Doctor Skinner, at your service,"
"Then you're the two I have to thank for my being here."
"We helped the thing a little."
As they were talking, Weaver returned with the detective, bringing
several packages of money, still in the original wrappers, which
Wittrock had taken from the safe of the express car.
The sight of the recovered plunder placed a quietus on the arrested
men, who now saw that the last link in the chain had been forged, and
felt the walls of the penitentiary looming up before them.
Settling into a stubborn silence, they sullenly refused to utter
another word, and maintained this position until they were placed on
the train for St. Louis, where they were locked up to answer the
indictments which the grand jury had already found against them.
*****
Fotheringham, who had all this time laid in jail, still protested his
innocence. He stated that the letter heads found in his trunk he had
taken from the general desk in the company's office, and that the
reason the signatures of Route Agent Bartlett was found on the paper,
was due to the fact that he was about to write for a permit for a
vacation Christmas, and simply practised writing the name.
This explanation was received with smiles, but his friends came to the
rescue, and proved that he was in the habit of writing names on every
bit of paper which came to hand. That this eccentricity was well known,
and his explanation should be received with favor. The grand jury,
however, found an indictment against him, and he was held as an
accomplice to the robbery.
APPENDIX.
WHEN the now noted express car robbers, Wittrock, Haight and Weaver,
were brought up for trial, they pleaded "guilty," and were sentenced to
a term of years in the Missouri State penitentiary at Jefferson City. A
few days later the train carried them to that city, and as they passed
the various places, Wittrock pointed out the gully in which was located
the moonshiner's cave where the plunder was divided, and then, as the
train rounded the curve, he depicted, in graphic language, the struggle
between Moriarity and himself, which was only ended by the freight
train bearing down on them.
When the train arrived at Jefferson City the three prisoners were
driven to the warden's office of the penitentiary, and, after going
through the regular formalities, the striped suits were put on them,
and they became CONVICTS.
Oscar Cook was sentenced to a term of years on the charge of being an
accessory after the fact, but Moriarity, in consideration of the
valuable services he had rendered the State, was not prosecuted.
The house of Nance, the widow, fortune-teller and "fence," was broken
up, and with it the rendezvous of one of the most daring bands of
highwaymen which had ever infested that section of the country, Nance
escaped the clutches of the law and disappeared from sight.
The detective work in connection with this case was as skillful, daring
and successful as any that have made the detectives of Paris world
famous.
Starting with the bit of torn express tag and following, thread by
thread, the broken bits of clews which were discovered by the hawk eyes
of the operatives until the arrest of Cook, it was as pretty a piece of
business as ever brought criminals to their just punishment.
A most remarkable fact connected with the robbery and the subsequent
detection of its participators, is that from first to last not a single
human life was taken.
Unlike Jesse or Frank James, Redney Burns, Frank Rande or other noted
outlaws, who always shot before a move was made, Jim Cummings pitted
brute strength and brain power against brute strength and brain power.
He doubtless would not have hesitated to take life if pushed to the
last extremity, but he placed more reliance on his cunning, shrewdness
and ready brain than on the deadly bullet.
Jesse James on a fleet horse, a revolver in each hand, and surrounded
by his band of horse thieves and cutthroats, was audacious and bold,
and would not hesitate to take desperate chances, but it is doubtful if
he would have quietly and with business-like foresight, prepared for
every emergency, forged a letter on a forged letter-head of an express
company, gained access to the car, and, single-handed, attack and bind
a man nearly as strong as himself, and then leisurely helped himself to
his booty.
The writer is not holding Jim Cummings up in a laudatory spirit, or as
an object to be envied and imitated, but as everything else has its
degrees of comparison, so has the methods employed in committing
robbery, and the address, audacity, skill, success and intelligence
displayed by Jim Cummings in robbing the Adams Express Company of a
cool $53,000, cannot help but excite a feeling akin to admiration. As
this was his first attempt, it would take subsequent years to measure
the height which he might attain as a highwayman. It may be that the
modern Jack Sheppard had his career nipped in the bud by the Pinkerton
Detective Agency. That "eye that never sleeps" must have winked pretty
often, when it learned of the various and narrow escapes Jim Cummings
had from its agents, and Mr. Pinkerton confessed afterward, that he
passed many anxious nights and days on account of Jim Cummings. The
money was gathered together from the various sources designated by the
robbers, and when counted was found to be almost the whole sum
originally put in the safe, The robbery was committed in the latter
part of October, and the early part of the following January found the
principals wearing the convicts' stripes.
* * * * *
The foregoing narrative would be incomplete did it not relate the
incidents which brought Swanson's ranche to a pile of ashes, and
Swanson himself to an untimely end.
When Cummings and Moriarity, with Sam and Chip, the detectives,
disguised as the Doctor and Scip, his negro servant, dashed away from
the ranche, carrying the greater part of his wealth, Swanson was lying,
an unconscious man, on the floor of the large room. The blow which
felled him to the ground had been given with the full force of
Cummings' right arm, and partly overcome by the copious libations of
which he had partaken previous to his short but decisive fight with the
train robber, it was several hours before he regained his senses. His
men had rushed to the pony herd at the first alarm, only to find a
stampede had loosened all the horses, and they were helpless to pursue
the robbers.
Swanson's rage, when he fully realized that he had been robbed, was
something terrible. He roamed the vicinity of the ranche armed to the
heel, cursing and foaming at the mouth, pouring maledictions of the
most blasphemous character upon the men who had repaid his hospitality
with such a scurvy trick.
When finally the ponies had been corralled, he vaulted on one, and
galloping with the speed of the wind, set out in pursuit of the robbers
who had mulcted him of his wealth. All the day he ranged the country,
until his horse, completely exhausted, refused to move another step.
His own excited passion had calmed down somewhat, so hobbling his
horse, he threw himself on the open prairie and sank into a deep
slumber.
During his absence a strange procession rode up to the ranche.
A large band of Cherokee Indians and half-breeds, headed by a chief of
the tribe, loped up the trail, and dismounting, asked for Swanson.
The angry tones and flashing eyes of the red men portended a storm, and
suspicious of coming danger to the master of the ranche, a cowboy
mounted his pony and galloped off to warn Swanson.
For several months previous the Indians had been missing stock from
their herds of cattle. Steers and yearlings had mysteriously
disappeared, even under the keen eyes and sharp ears of the Cherokees
themselves. All efforts to discover the thieves had proved fruitless,
until chagrined and mortified by their ill success, the Indians
resolved to let nothing escape nor a stone unturned which would lead to
the detection of the parties making away with their cattle.
Relays of scouts were detailed, and a few days previous to their
appearance at Swanson's ranche the first trail had been found, which
they followed with all the skill and cunning that have made the red men
of America peculiarly famous. Day and night the pursuit had been
followed, and it led them direct to Swanson's.
He had long been suspected of such methods of procuring his stock, but
so cunningly had he managed to cover his tracks that he had escaped
being caught lip to this time.
His day of punishment had arrived, and his executioners were gathered
around the ranche awaiting his return.
The cowboy had failed to find him, and the early morning found Swanson
returning home. The Indians had posted scouts in all directions, and
when one of them galloped in, conveying the intelligence that Swanson
was coming, the temporary camp was awakened, and with their blankets
over their heads, the Indians patiently waited for their victim.
All unsuspicious of danger, he came at a hard gallop over the range,
nor did he discover his visitors until he wheeled around the corner of
the house and found himself in their midst.
A dozen hands immediately grappled him, dragging him from the saddle
and pinioned his arms behind him. Not a word had been spoken, their
silence and his own guilty conscience told him that he had no mercy to
hope for. As husband of a Cherokee squaw, he was looked on as a member
of their tribe, and as such would be tried by their methods, found
guilty or not guilty; and if guilty, he knew he would be shot at once.
His reckless, bold spirit asserted itself at this critical period, and
holding his head erect, he asked, speaking the Cherokee tongue:
"Am I a coyote, that my brother traps me in this way?"
The dignified chief, folding his arms across his breast, his face stern
and forbidding, replied:
"Coyote! No, dog of a pale-face. The coyote would yelp in mockery to
hear you call yourself one."
"That isn't answering my question, Eagle Claw, What I want to know is,
why am I jumped on in this way?" asked Swanson, his tone pacific and
calm, and his manner free from anger, for he saw that it would require
a deal of diplomacy to get him out of the scrape.
"You shall be answered, but not here," and the chief, Eagle Claw,
placing his curved hand to his mouth, emitted a shrill, piercing yell
which was repeated by the line of scouts until the most remote vidette
heard, and headed his horse to the ranche. The Indians in some parts of
the Territory are partly civilized and live in organized towns and
villages, electing their head men from time to time. Others are wild
and uncivilized, wandering from place to place, pitching their tepees
of buffalo hide on the bank of some rippling stream, or, sequestered in
some lovely valley, engage in the pursuit of game and in the care of
their herds of ponies and cattle.
It was to the latter class that Eagle Claw and his band belonged. Gaudy
paint, vemillion and yellow, smeared their faces in all the fantastic
designs which their grotesque imaginations could invent. The tanned
buckskin leggins, fringed and beaded, were supported at the waist by a
belt of leather embroidered and figured. A blanket thrown carelessly
over the shoulder completed the costume, with the addition of mocassins
made of rawhide. Their ponies were selected from the cream of their
stock, and the gorgeous trappings of the saddles and harness made a
most picturesque scene as the cavalcade filed over the plains.
Riding between two stalwart specimens of the Cherokee tribe, Swanson
was closely guarded. All the answer he could get for his indignant
questionings was a surly "Humph," or a sullen admonition to keep quiet.
The chief led the party due southwest from Swanson's ranche, and all
day long the sturdy ponies were kept at the long, swinging lope which
enables them to cover miles during a day.
Late in the afternoon the chief, raising in his stirrups, gave a
peculiar, vibrating yell, which was immediately taken up by his
followers until the welkin rang with the penetrating sounds.
Like a faint echo an answering yell came back, and soon the forms of
horsemen, dashing over the range, could be discerned.
Familiar with all the Indian customs Swanson recognized the yell. It
told the camp that the scouting party had returned successful.
A short canter and the entire band wheeled around the edge of a tract
of timber and came out upon the village, pitched on the banks of a
stream of water, the tepees grouped in a circle around the chief's
wigwam, the blue smoke curling lazily through the aperture at the top,
and the welcome smell of cooking meats permeating the place. Swanson
was given in charge of a guard and escorted to a vacant tepee, where he
was firmly bound, hand and foot, and thrown upon a pile of fur robes.
A large fire had been built near Eagle Claw's wigwam, and one by one
the sub-chiefs, head-men and old Indians of the tribe gravely stalked
toward it and seated themselves in the circle.
Rising from his place Eagle Claw ordered the prisoner to be brought
forward.
As Swanson caught sight of the council-fire, the stern faces
surrounding it, and the grave air of his captors, his guilty heart sank
within him, and, trembling in every joint, he was hardly able to totter
to the place assigned him. The Indians noted his condition with
scornful eyes, and Eagle Claw, advancing from the rest, said:
"How now, does the coyote tremble because he is asked to join the
council with his brethren?"
The mocking words brought Swanson's pluck back again, and drawing
himself to his full height he answered:
"You red devil! Don't brother me. Drop that beating around the bush and
out with the truth."
"'Tis well. A liar is a curse to his people. The Cherokees are men of
truth and have but a single tongue."
"The Cherokees are the biggest rascals in the Territory, the meanest
horse-thieves, and couldn't tell the truth to save their rascally necks
from the halter," said Swanson.
The Indian's eyes flashed ominously at these words, and rising his
voice, he said:
"My brother has a long tongue. It might be well if it were cut out; but
we know he is joking, for is he not a Cherokee himself?"
"Not I. You can't make a mustang out of a broken-down broncho and you
can't make a white man out of an Indian."
"But you took one of the fairest of our young maidens to your tepee,
and--"
"Fairest young maiden? I took the skinniest rack-a-bones in the tribe.
The old hag! She was too lazy to earn her salt, and was the biggest
fool that ever wore calico."
A terrible look of rage came into Eagle Claw's face, for Swanson had
married his own sister, and such an insult was not to be brooked. But
with all the powers of dissimulation which the Indian possesses, he
forced a smile to his lips, and, blandly speaking, pointed to the
thongs around Swanson's arms.
"It is not well that our brother should be tied that way," and drawing
his keen knife, he cut the thongs, and Swanson freed his arms.
His arms free, all of Swanson's courage returned. Hastily glancing
around the circle, he suddenly shot out his right arm. Reeling
backward, Eagle Claw fell to the ground, and the Indians saw something
pass them like the wind, straight for the pony herd.
In an instant the camp was in commotion, hoarse yells came from tawny
throats, and in swift pursuit of the flying Swanson the braves ran
after him.
He had the start, however, and agile and athletic to a remarkable
degree, his hands pressed to his side, his mouth closed and saving his
wind, he sped before the pursuing red men and gained the corral of the
ponies.
The Indians had not taken his knife from him, and hastily selecting his
steed, the leather lariat was severed in a trice, and vaulting on his
back, Swanson made a dash for life into the darkness. The thundering of
hoofs told him that the red devils were close after him. Turning
abruptly to one side he rode at right angles to his former course, and
suddenly drawing up his horse he stood still. The sound of the chase
neared him, and presently he heard them sweeping past, the darkness
completely shrouding himself and his horse from their keen eyes.
Leaping to the ground, he placed his ear to the earth, and the faint
throbbing of the horse hoofs beating the ground grew fainter as his
pursuers rode further away.
Mounting his horse again, he commenced slowly and stealthily to
circumnavigate the camp, and it wasn't until he had gained the opposite
side, that he ventured to put his horse to a gallop.
He had never been in that section of the country before, but it did not
matter so long as he could put a good distance between himself and his
captors in which direction he rode.
The dawn of the next day found his horse loping along, Swanson keeping
a sharp eye out for Indians.
He was satisfied that he had at last eluded pursuit, and turning into a
clump of timber he tied his horse with the remnants of the lariat and
threw himself on the ground near it.
All day long he slept, and as evening closed in he turned his horse
from the timber and mounting a slight elevation near it, he gazed
around for landmarks. To his surprise, he recognized the country as
that near his own ranche, and feeling the pangs of hunger in a most
distressing degree, he urged his horse in the direction of the ranche.
He had ridden several hours, and he knew that he must be somewhere near
his place, when, rising before him, he discerned the house.
Almost simultaneous with his discovery a wide sheet of flame burst from
the roof and, dismayed and astonished, Swanson checked his horse.
A multitude of yells rent the air, and Swanson, turning his horse again
fled before the avenging Cherokees, but a hissing whistling sound was
heard, a long, writhing lariat shot out, and the noose, falling over
Swanson's shoulders, drew together with the run, and, lifted completely
from the saddle, Swanson was thrown senseless to the ground. A
bucketful of water was dashed over his face, and recovering he saw the
demon faces of Eagle Claw and his band surrounding him.
"My brother was cold and we started a fire that he might get warm. He
was lost and we made a light to guide him here. We love our brother
Swanson. We would always have him with us," jeered the Indian.
To this Swanson was incapable of replying. His senses were benumbed and
he hardly realized what was going on around him. Staggering to his feet
he reeled to and fro like a drunken man.
As he walked toward the fire, he was suddenly grasped from behind, and
again were his arms pinioned. There was no escape for him this time.
Forced to his knees, he was placed facing half a dozen of the best
marksmen of the tribe. His shirt was torn open, exposing his hairy
breast. A signal was given, and the sharp reports of the rifles rang
out in tune with the crackling timbers of the house, and falling to his
face, Swanson gave a convulsive struggle and died as his own roof fell
in; and a mass of blackened timbers marked the place where once stood
Swanson's ranche.
THE END.