Jim Cummings | Page 4

he tied the messenger's feet, and thus had him
powerless as a 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 the
messenger's chair to him he sat down. As he gazed at his discomfited
prisoner an expression of intense relief came over his features. His
forged letters had proved successful, his only formidable obstacle
between himself and his anticipated booty lay stretched at his feet,
helpless and harmless. The nature of the car prevented any interruption
from the ends, as the only entrance was through the side doors, and he
had 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 in
unlocking the strong-box. The messenger, unable to prevent this in any
way, looked on in intense mental agony. He saw that he would be
suspected as an accomplice. The mere fact that one man could disarm,
bind and gag him, would be used as a suspicious circumstance against
him. Although he did not know the exact sum of money in the safe he
was aware that it was of a very considerable amount, and he fairly
writhed in his agony of mind. In an instant Cummings (or, as he had
been called by the messenger, Bronson) was on his feet, revolver in
hand, and again the 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 for a mineral
claim. D'ye understand?"
After this facetious threat he paid no further attention to the messenger.
Emptying his valise of its contents of underclothing and linen, he

stuffed 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 of St. Louis for the Merchants Bank of Forth Smith, Arkansas,
and various other packages, amounting altogether to $53,000.
With wonderful sang froid, Cummings stuffed this valuable booty in
his valise, and then proceeded to open the bags containing coin. His
keen knife-blade ripped bag after bag, but finding it all silver, he
desisted, 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 to
much."
As he was talking, the whistle of the engine suddenly sound two short
notes, 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, and
hoping for the help that never came, his heart gave a joyful throb, as
some one pounded noisily on the door. Almost at the same instant he
felt 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
of his victim, and passing it around his neck, fastened it to the handle of
the safe in such a way that any extra exertion on Fotheringham's part
would pull the safe over and choke him.
Opening the car door, he threw away the clothing which he had taken
from his valise.
Returning to the messenger, he stooped over him, and took from his
pocket the forged letter with which he gained entrance to the car.
Fotheringham tried to speak, but the gag permitted nothing but a
rattling sound to escape.

"I know what you want, young fellow. You want this letter to prove
that you had some sort of authority to let me ride. Sorry I can't
accommodate you, my son, but those devilish Pinkertons will be after
me in twenty- four hours, and this letter would be just meat to them. I'll
fix you all right, though. My name's Cummings, Jim Cummings, and
I'll write a letter to the St. Louis Globe-Democrat that will clear you
Honest to God, I will. You've been pretty generous to-night; given me
lots of swag, and I'll never go back on you.
"Give my love to Billy Pinkerton when you see him. Tell him Jim
Cummings did this job."
As he uttered these words, the