“I haven’t forgotten my Bible yet, eh, Dan?”

A blanket was lifted to one side, and disclosed to view the entrance to a natural cave, into the wall of which was stuck a naming, pitch-pine knot.  Entering, the blanket was dropped, and preceded by a man, whose features the fitful glare of the torch failed to reveal, the two adventurers were ushered into the main portion of the cavern.

In one corner the copper kettle and coiled worm of a whisky still told it was the abode of an illicit distiller, or a “moonshiner.”

A large fire cast a ruddy glow over the cave, and blankets and cooking utensils were scattered about.  As the guide stepped into the light, he turned around, his eyes first falling on the well-stuffed valise and then upon Cummings’ face, which wore such an expression of success and satisfaction that he exclaimed, as he held out his hand: 

“By the ghost of Jesse James, you did it, old man.”

“This looks like it, don’t it?” said the successful express-car robber, holding his valise to the light.  “Don’t you know this man, Haight?”

“Damme, if it isn’t Dan Moriarity.”

“The same old penny—­Haight,” and Moriarity clasped his hand.

Haight, as host, did the honors.  An empty flour barrel, covered by a square board, made an acceptable table.  Small whisky barrels did duty as chairs, and a substantial repast of boiled fish, partridges and gray squirrels, supplemented with steaming glasses of hot toddy, satisfied the inner man, and, for a time, caused them to forget the exciting train of events through which they had just passed.

After their hunger had been appeased pipes were lit, and the fragrant glass of spirits, filled to the brim, were placed conveniently and seductively near at hand.

Cummings then related, in detail, his night’s exploit and ended by opening the valise and taking out the packages of currency which it contained.  It was a strange picture to gaze upon.  The fire-lit cave, shrouded outside with mystery and darkness, but its heart alive with light and warmth; the rude appliances and paraphernalia for distilling the contraband “mountain dew”; the floor strewn with blankets, cooking-tins, a rifle or two, and provisions, while, bathed in the warm glow of the cheerful fire, secure from pursuit and comfortably housed from the weather, the three men, with greedy eyes, drank in the enchanting vision of luxurious wealth, which lay, bound in its neat wrappers, upon the floor of the cave.

Not one of these men could be classed with professional criminals, Moriarity, perhaps, had several times done some “fine work,” but was unknown in the strata of crime, and was never seen in the society of “experts.”