“Yes, the words, ‘it to Cook.’”
“Supposing that Dan Moriarity, whom we now know
had some connection with the robbery, had taken the
valise, which was sent from St. Louis to Leavenworth,
had obeyed the order, for it was evidently an order
which was written on the tag, and given ‘it
to Cook,’ it would be fair to infer that the
Cook mentioned had some hand in the pudding, too, and
ought to be pretty flush about this time.”
“You mean—”
“No, I don’t mean that the Cook over in
the saloon playing poker and the Cook mentioned on
the tag are the same person, but we found no Dan Moriarity
or Cook in Leavenworth but what was above suspicion,
and I think that the men who were smart enough to
plan and carry out a robbery such as this was would
be shrewd enough to take every possible precaution
against discovery. I mean that neither Moriarity
or Cook are Leavenworth people, and for all we know
to the contrary, may live here in Kansas City.”
As Chip finished speaking, a man appeared in front
of the cooper shop, and unlocking the door, entered.
“There is Cook, now,” said Sam, making
a movement as if to rise.
With a motion of the hand Chip cautioned him to remain
where he was, and with lazy steps, lounged toward
the shop.
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.
