CHAPTER II.
THE SUCCESS OF THE LETTERS--THE ATTACK--THE ROBBERS--THE ESCAPE.
The Union depot at St. Louis was ablaze with lights. The long KansasCity train was standing, all made up, the engine coupled on, and almostready to pull out. Belated passengers were rushing frantically from theticket window to the baggage-room, and then to the train, when a man,wearing side whiskers, and carrying a small valise, parted from hiscompanion at the entrance to the depot, and, after buying a ticket toKirkwood, entered the smoking car. His companion, a tall, well-builtman, having a smooth face, and a very erect carriage, walked with abusiness-like step down the platform until he reached the express car.Tossing the valise which he carried into the car, he climbed in himselfwith the aid of the hand-rail on the side of the door, and, as themessenger came toward him, he held out his hand, saying:
"Is this Mr. Fotheringham?"
"Yes, that's my name."
"I have a letter from Mr. Bassett for you," and, taking it from hispocket, he handed it to the messenger.
Fotheringham read the letter carefully, and placing it in his pocket,said:
"Going to get a job, eh?"
"Yes, the old man said he would give me a show, and as soon as therewas a regular run open, he would let me have it."
"Well, I'm pretty busy now; make yourself comfortable until we pullout, and then I'll post you up as best I can, Mr. Bronson."
Mr. "Bronson" pulled off his overcoat, and, seating himself in a chair,glanced around the car.
In one end packages, crates, butter, egg-cases, and parts of machinerywere piled up. At the other end a small iron safe was lying. As itcaught Bronson's eye an expression came over his face, which, ifFotheringham had seen, would have saved him a vast amount of trouble.But the messenger, too busy to notice his visitor, paid him noattention, and in a moment Bronson was puffing his cigar with anonchalant air, that would disarm any suspicions which the messengermight have entertained, but he had none, as it was a common practice tosend new men over his run, that he might "break them in."
The train had pulled out, and after passing the city limits, was flyingthrough the suburbs at full speed.
Fotheringham, seated in front of his safe, with his way bills on hislap, was checking them off as Bronson called off each item of freightin the car.
The long shriek of the whistle and the jerking of the car caused by thetightening of the air brake on the wheels, showed the train to beapproaching a station.
"This is Kirkwood," said Fotheringham, "nothing for them to-night."
The train was almost at a standstill, when Bronson, saying "What sortof a place is it?" threw back the door and peered out into the dark.
As he did so, a man passed swiftly by, and in passing glanced into thecar. As Bronson looked, he saw it was the same man that had bought aticket for Kirkwood and had ridden in the smoker.
The train moved on. Bronson shut the door and buttoned his coat.Fotheringham, still busy on his way bills, was whistling softly tohimself, and sitting with his back to his fellow passenger.
Some unusual noise in the front end of the car caught his ear, andraising his head, he exclaimed:
"What's that?"
The answer came, not from the front of the car but from behind.
A strong muscular hand was placed on his neck. A brawny arm was thrownaround his chest, and lifted from the chair, he was thrown violently tothe floor of the car.
In a flash he realized his position. With an almost superhuman effort,he threw Bronson from him, and reaching around felt for his revolver.It was gone, and thrown to the other end of the car.
Little did the passengers on the train know of the stirring drama whichwas being enacted in the car before them. Little did they think as theyleaned back in their comfortable seats, of the terrific struggle whichwas then taking place. On one hand it was a struggle for $100,000; onthe other, for reputation, for honor, perhaps for life.
Fotheringham, strong as he vas (for he was large of frame, andmuscular) was no match for his assailant. He struggled manfully, butwas hurled again to the floor, and as he looked up, saw the cold barrelof a 32-calibre pointed at his head. Bronson's face, distorted withpassion and stern with the fight, glared down at him, as he hissedthrough his teeth:
"Make a sound, and you are a dead man."
The messenger, seeing all was lost, lay passive upon the floor. Therobber, whipping out a long, strong, silk handkerchief, tied his handsbehind his back, and making a double-knotted gag of Fotheringham'shandkerchief, gagged him. Searching the car he discovered a shawl-strapwith which he tied the messenger's feet, and thus had him powerless asa log. Then, and not till then, did he speak aloud.
"Done, and well done, too."
The flush faded from his face, his eye became sullen, and drawing themessenger's chair to him he sat down. As he gazed at his discomfitedprisoner an expression of intense relief came over his features. Hisforged letters had proved successful, his only formidable obstaclebetween himself and his anticipated booty lay stretched at his feet,helpless and harmless. The nature of the car prevented any interruptionfrom the ends, as the only entrance was through the side doors, and hehad all night before him to escape.
Now for the plunder. The key to the safe was in Fotheringham's pocket.It took but a second to secure it, and but another second to use it inunlocking the strong-box. The messenger, unable to prevent this in anyway, looked on in intense mental agony. He saw that he would besuspected as an accomplice. The mere fact that one man could disarm,bind and gag him, would be used as a suspicious circumstance againsthim. Although he did not know the exact sum of money in the safe he wasaware that it was of a very considerable amount, and he fairly writhedin his agony of mind. In an instant Cummings (or, as he had been calledby the messenger, Bronson) was on his feet, revolver in hand, and againthe cruel, murderous expression dwelt on his face, as he exclaimed:
"Lie still, damn you, lie still. If you attempt to create an alarm,I'll fill you so full of lead that some tenderfoot will locate you fora mineral claim. D'ye understand?"
After this facetious threat he paid no further attention to themessenger.
Emptying his valise of its contents of underclothing and linen, hestuffed it full of the packages of currency which the safe contained.
One package, containing $30,000, from the Continental Bank of St.Louis, was consigned to the American National Bank of Kansas City.Another large package held $12,000, from the Merchants National Bank ofSt. Louis for the Merchants Bank of Forth Smith, Arkansas, and variousother packages, amounting altogether to $53,000.
With wonderful sang froid, Cummings stuffed this valuable booty in hisvalise, and then proceeded to open the bags containing coin. His keenknife-blade ripped bag after bag, but finding it all silver, hedesisted, and turning to Fotheringham, demanded:
"Any gold aboard?"
Fotheringham shook his head in reply.
"Does that mean there is none, or you don't know?"
Again the messenger shook his head.
"Well, I reckon your right, all silver, too heavy and don't amount tomuch."
As he was talking, the whistle of the engine suddenly sound two shortnotes, and the air-brakes were applied.
The train stopped, and the noise of men walking on the gravel was heard.
As Fotheringham lay there, his ears strained to catch every sound, andhoping for the help that never came, his heart gave a joyful throb, assome one pounded noisily on the door. Almost at the same instant hefelt the cold muzzle of a revolver against his head, and the ominous"click, click" was more eloquent than threats or words could be.
The pounding ceased, and in a short time the train moved on again.
Apparently not satisfied that the messenger was bound safe and fast,Cummings took the companion strap to the one which pinioned the feet ofhis victim, and passing it around his neck, fastened it to the handleof the safe in such a way that any extra exertion on Fotheringham'spart would pull the safe over and choke him.
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Opening the car door, he threw away the clothing which he had takenfrom his valise.
Returning to the messenger, he stooped over him, and took from hispocket the forged letter with which he gained entrance to the car.
Fotheringham tried to speak, but the gag permitted nothing but arattling sound to escape.
"I know what you want, young fellow. You want this letter to prove thatyou had some sort of authority to let me ride. Sorry I can'taccommodate you, my son, but those devilish Pinkertons will be after mein twenty-four hours, and this letter would be just meat to them. I'llfix you all right, though. My name's Cummings, Jim Cummings, and I'llwrite a letter to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that will clear youHonest to God, I will. You've been pretty generous to-night; given melots of swag, and I'll never go back on you.
"Give my love to Billy Pinkerton when you see him. Tell him JimCummings did this job."
As he uttered these words, the train commenced slacking up, and as itstopped, Cummings, opening the door, with his valuable valise, leapedto the ground, closed the door behind him, the darkness closed aroundhim and he was gone.
Inside the car, a rifled safe, a bound and gagged messenger, and theAdams Express Company was poorer by $100,000 than it was when the'Frisco train pulled out of the depot the evening before.