“Why this intrusion at this late hour?”
“Oh! drop that stuff, Nance; it won’t
go down with us; we’re no gulls to have pretty
things told us by giving you a dollar.”
Recognizing her visitor, Nance, in her natural tone,
inquired sharply:
“What do you want at this time of night?”
“In the first place we want you to keep your
mouth shut. In the next place you must find a
place for a man we’ve got here, and keep him
for a while.”
“You’re a loving nephew, you are, Dan
Moriarity, Oh! you come around and see your old aunt
when you’re up to some devilment, I’m bound.”
Moriarity, not deigning to reply to this speech, had
gone back to his companion, and now returned with
the form of the detective between them.
“My God! you haven’t killed him, Dan?”
“He has a pretty sore head, I reckon, but nothing
worse. Take us up-stairs.”
Following Nance, the men carried Chip behind the curtain,
through another room, and ascended a flight of stairs.
Nance threw open a door and Chip was placed upon a
bed. The room was sumptuously, even elegantly,
furnished. Pictures adorned the walls, a heavy
carpet deadened the sound of the feet, and rich curtains
kept back the too-inquisitive light.
Chip, wounded and insensible, was in the house of
the “widow,” the rendezvous of a daring
band of robbers and the birth-place of many a dashing
raid or successful bank robbery.
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.
