As they reached the foot of the stairs the door of the coal office opened and three men stepped out on the sidewalk.

"The devil," said Chip, "that is more than I bargained for."

The three men stood a moment conversing, then the detectives heard Cummings say:

"I'll be back in an hour," as he turned east and walked away.

The other two, Weaver and Haight, turned in the opposite direction and sauntered slowly along.

Turning to the two men who had been sent to relieve them, Chip said:

"Follow those two, and arrest them if possible without any noise; your warrant covers them."

By this time Cummings was some little distance below them, strolling leisurely along, and at the next corner the detectives saw him enter a saloon.

Crossing the street, their revolvers in their side coat-pockets ready for use, Sam and Chip entered the saloon.

Cummings, without the false mustache, which he had either removed or lost (in fact it dropped off as he entered the coalyard) had just ordered a drink as the detectives entered.

Without a second's hesitation Chip stepped up to him, and placing his hand on the train robber's shoulder, said quietly:

"Fred Wittrock, alias Jim Cummings, I want you."

Wittrock sprang back as though he had been shot, and glaring like an enraged lion, seemed about to rush upon the audacious detective.

In a twinkling the cold barrels of two revolvers were leveled at his head and, with the address and skill of a practiced adept, Sam passed his twisted steel wire "come alongs" around the outlaw's wrist, and Jim Cummings' career stopped short. Any attempt at escape was hopeless, and in silent surrender he held out his other hand and Chip snapped the hand-cuffs on him.

Before the people in the saloon had recovered from their astonishment, the detectives had taken desperate prisoner away, and finding a livery stable near drove to the Pinkerton headquarters. Haight and Weaver had not gone a block before the two detectives arrested them without any struggle, so that within one short half hour the three principals of the GREAT ADAMS EXPRESS robbery were placed behind the bars.



CHAPTER XVIII.

JIM CUMMINGS IN PINKERTON'S SWEAT-BOX—HIS CONFESSION.

All night long "Jim Cummings" walked the narrow limits of his room— still undaunted and fearless as of old. The gravity of his position only made him the more daring, and when the first beams of the morning broke through the barred window he had recovered his usual grit and nerve, and determined to die hard and game. Mr. Pinkerton, alone, came into the room just as the outlaw had finished the excellent breakfast which had been served him. Jim looked up, and holding out his hand, in a cheery voice said:

"Good morning, Mr. Pinkerton."

For a second Mr. Pinkerton hardly knew what to say. He was prepared to encounter either a desperate or a sullen prisoner, and was somewhat taken back when he received such a cordial greeting. It was but a second, and fully alive to all the tricks and maneuvers practiced by arrested criminals, he was on the qui vive.

"Good morning, Mr. 'Cummings'. I trust you have had a good breakfast?"

"Oh, fair."

"You slept well?"

"Tip-top."

"I trust you will be able to amuse yourself during the day."

"I won't amuse you, that's certain."

"You have been doing that for some time."

"That's all right. Now, what am I here for?"

"Just so. What ARE you here for?"

"You've got the wrong man, Mr. Pinkerton."

"Indeed?" "Just now you called me 'Mr. Cummings'."

"I should, perhaps, have said Mr. Wittrock."

"What did you call me 'Cummings' for, then."

"As you christened yourself you ought to know."

"I'm arrested, of course, now for what?"

"To tell the fact, Mr. Wittrock, it is because some time last October you played a little joke on the Adams Express Company, and they appreciated it so highly that they hired me to find you so that they could tell you so."

"You dare accuse me of committing that robbery?"

"That's about the size of it."

"Why, man, I wasn't within five hundred miles of the place when it occurred."

"Where were you?"

"I was in New Orleans."

"Positive of that?"

"I can PROVE it."

"You can?"

"Yes, I can. You go over to my coalyard at—West Lake street, and ask my partner, Weaver. He will tell you where I was at that time."

"Is he your partner?"

"Yes."

"Strange, very strange. He said he bought you out last October."

"You've been there, have you?"

"That is what he said."

"He lies."

"Or you do."

"You wouldn't dare say that outside of this room."

"Don't get excited, Mr. Wittrock. We have had enough bantering. You might as well make a clean breast of the whole affair, for we have a clear case against you."

"I tell you I was at New Orleans at the time."

"You were not. Listen to me and I can prove you are a liar."

Wittrock flushed, and he began to get angry, which was just what Mr. Pinkerton wanted, and glaring at his persecutor he folded his arms and settled defiantly back in his chair. Mr. Pinkerton quietly continued:

"A week before the robbery was committed you and a man named Haight took a room at Chestnut street. On the twenty-third of October you sent a valise to Daniel Moriarity at Leavenworth, Kansas, and a letter instructing him to give its contents to Oscar Cook, of Kansas City. A few days after you committed the robbery, and in a cave near Pacific, you, with Moriarity and Haight, divided the ill-gotten wealth. You then rowed down the river to St. Louis, or near there, and from thence went to Kansas City. You were often seen playing faro at the White Elephant, and one night you knocked one of my men senseless when he had arrested Moriarity, and took him to old Nance, the widow. Still later, you, Cook and Moriarity took refuge at Swanson's ranche in the Indian Territory, and after attempting to rob your host, which attempt was frustrated by my men, you came, in some roundabout way, to Chicago, where you put up at the Commercial Hotel, disguised by a false mustache. Every evening you went to West Lake street, and last night you were arrested. Now, Mr. Wittrock, what have you to say?"

"That's a very pretty yarn; but as I don't happen to be the man that did all that I don't see how it concerns me."

"Look at that and tell me what you have to say," and Mr. Pinkerton laid before him the sworn deposition of Daniel Moriarity, in which all the facts that Mr. Pinkerton had been relating were set forth, Wittrock did not show a trace of feeling other than amusement, as he read the long and legally worded document, and passing it back to Mr. Pinkerton with a gesture of disdain, he said:

"So on the strength of that cock-and-bull story you mean to hold me for that robbery?"

"Partly so."

"There isn't a word of truth in it. That man, Moriarity, is a noted liar."

"Ah!" said Mr. Pinkerton, quickly, "you know Moriarity?"

"That is—I mean—yes, I sort of know him," stammered Wittrock, in confusion; "I have heard of him."

"You are in desperate straits, Mr. Wittrock," said the detective. "In such desperate straits that you are doing the worst possible thing— denying all that is proved true. We have you safe and secure, and enough evidence against you to send you to Jefferson City for a long term of years. You can lighten your sentence by one thing."

"You don't catch me that way, I am not to be taken in by soft words, and all the traps you set for me won't make me confess that I had anything to do with the robbery. You've arrested me without cause, and if there is any law in the land I'll make you suffer for it," and Wittrock walked excitedly around the room.

Mr. Pinkerton did not reply to this, but touching a bell, told the man who opened the door to bring in the other prisoners.

Wittrock had resumed his seat, his head bowed forward and eyes cast down, but hearing the door opening, he glanced up and saw Weaver and Haight, followed by two detectives, ushered into his room.

Both of them looked discouraged and broken-spirited. The heart had been taken from them by their arrest, and Wittrock's boldness and defiant manner began to melt as he saw his faint-hearted accomplices.

"You here, too," he exclaimed.

"Looks like it, don't it," said Haight, with a grim smile.

"You may as well own up, Fred," said Weaver, "they have the drop on us."

"Coward!" hissed Wittrock. Then turning suddenly to Mr. Pinkerton, he said:

"That cur is right, you have the drop on us."

"Then you confess you committed the robbery?"

"Yes," he answered, curtly.

"Was Fotheringham in the ring, too?"

"Fotheringham hadn't a thing to do with it."

"How came it, then, that we found some of the Adams express letter heads in his trunk, and which were not the ones printed for the company?"

"Did you do that?"

"Yes; ten or twenty sheets."

"He never got them from us. The first time I ever saw him was when I jumped on his car in St. Louis."

Mr. Pinkerton looked at the frank, open face of the train robber, and wondered that such a man could have committed the crime for which he was now locked up in the "Pinkerton strong box." His manner and tone of sincerity, when he declared Fotheringham innocent of any complicity with him or his companions, carried conviction with it. He believed himself that a blunder had been made, and Fotheringham was wrongfully accused.

"I said, a short time ago," he continued, addressing Wittrock, "that you could lighten your sentence if you wanted to do so."

"How?"

"Tell me where you have hid the money."

Wittrock hesitated, and glanced at his companions. Perhaps he saw in their faces, that if he didn't tell, they would. He was willing, however, to give them the same benefit accorded him, and pointing to Weaver, he said;

"Weaver knows where the money is planted in Chicago, and Cook has some hid around his shanty in Kansas City. I put some under the large tree, just east of the gate of the old graveyard at Leavenworth."

A sign from Mr. Pinkerton to one of the detectives, and taking Weaver with him, the man left the room.

Shortly after, Mr. Pinkerton, with the remaining detectives, also took his leave, and the two express robbers were alone.

The door had scarcely closed, when, dropping his cool and calm demeanor, Wittrock sprang from his chair and confronting Haight with flaming eyes, he whispered in terrible tones:

"Moriarity turned informer, he swore away our liberty, and all our work has been turned to naught by the cowardly traitor. Listen to me, Haight, listen well, and when you see the poltroon tell him that Jim Cummings swore he would cut his heart out. Aye! I WILL DO IT, though he were guarded behind double bars. I'll search him out and tear the traitor heart from his breast and make him eat it, by God—make him eat it."

A gurgling sound and hissing gasps recalled the furious man to his senses, and he saw that in his frenzy of anger he had clutched his companion by the throat and was choking him purple in the face.

A few gasps, and Haight had recovered his breath, rubbing his throat ruefully, and edging away from his dangerous and excited companion.

His passionate outburst over Wittrock regained his composure, and lighting a cigar, gave one to Haight, remarking in a light tone:

"I beg your pardon, old man, I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Next time don't take me for Moriarity," puffing the peace-offering.

"Do you know whom I would like to see? Those two chaps that arrested me."

As if in answer to his call the door opened, and Sam, with Chip following, entered.

Wittrock recognized them, and with a hearty "Good-morning, gentlemen," motioned them to a seat, with as little ceremony as if the room was in his own house.

"Good-morning, Jim," said Chip, "I'm sorry we had to pull you in last night."

"It was a ground-hog case, eh?"

"You don't seem to recognize us," said Sam.

"Yes, I do; you gave me enough cause last night to remember you all my life."

"Suah enough, Massa Cummins," broke in Chip, imitating Scip's voice.

Wittrock gazed at the speaker, and in astonishment, cried:

"Scip!"

"Suah as you bawn, honey, I's de same ole Scip."

"And you?" turning to Sam.

"Doctor Skinner, at your service,"

"Then you're the two I have to thank for my being here."

"We helped the thing a little."

As they were talking, Weaver returned with the detective, bringing several packages of money, still in the original wrappers, which Wittrock had taken from the safe of the express car.

The sight of the recovered plunder placed a quietus on the arrested men, who now saw that the last link in the chain had been forged, and felt the walls of the penitentiary looming up before them.

Settling into a stubborn silence, they sullenly refused to utter another word, and maintained this position until they were placed on the train for St. Louis, where they were locked up to answer the indictments which the grand jury had already found against them.

*****

Fotheringham, who had all this time laid in jail, still protested his innocence. He stated that the letter heads found in his trunk he had taken from the general desk in the company's office, and that the reason the signatures of Route Agent Bartlett was found on the paper, was due to the fact that he was about to write for a permit for a vacation Christmas, and simply practised writing the name.

This explanation was received with smiles, but his friends came to the rescue, and proved that he was in the habit of writing names on every bit of paper which came to hand. That this eccentricity was well known, and his explanation should be received with favor. The grand jury, however, found an indictment against him, and he was held as an accomplice to the robbery.

APPENDIX.

WHEN the now noted express car robbers, Wittrock, Haight and Weaver, were brought up for trial, they pleaded "guilty," and were sentenced to a term of years in the Missouri State penitentiary at Jefferson City. A few days later the train carried them to that city, and as they passed the various places, Wittrock pointed out the gully in which was located the moonshiner's cave where the plunder was divided, and then, as the train rounded the curve, he depicted, in graphic language, the struggle between Moriarity and himself, which was only ended by the freight train bearing down on them.

When the train arrived at Jefferson City the three prisoners were driven to the warden's office of the penitentiary, and, after going through the regular formalities, the striped suits were put on them, and they became CONVICTS.

Oscar Cook was sentenced to a term of years on the charge of being an accessory after the fact, but Moriarity, in consideration of the valuable services he had rendered the State, was not prosecuted.

The house of Nance, the widow, fortune-teller and "fence," was broken up, and with it the rendezvous of one of the most daring bands of highwaymen which had ever infested that section of the country, Nance escaped the clutches of the law and disappeared from sight.

The detective work in connection with this case was as skillful, daring and successful as any that have made the detectives of Paris world famous.

Starting with the bit of torn express tag and following, thread by thread, the broken bits of clews which were discovered by the hawk eyes of the operatives until the arrest of Cook, it was as pretty a piece of business as ever brought criminals to their just punishment.

A most remarkable fact connected with the robbery and the subsequent detection of its participators, is that from first to last not a single human life was taken.

Unlike Jesse or Frank James, Redney Burns, Frank Rande or other noted outlaws, who always shot before a move was made, Jim Cummings pitted brute strength and brain power against brute strength and brain power. He doubtless would not have hesitated to take life if pushed to the last extremity, but he placed more reliance on his cunning, shrewdness and ready brain than on the deadly bullet.

Jesse James on a fleet horse, a revolver in each hand, and surrounded by his band of horse thieves and cutthroats, was audacious and bold, and would not hesitate to take desperate chances, but it is doubtful if he would have quietly and with business-like foresight, prepared for every emergency, forged a letter on a forged letter-head of an express company, gained access to the car, and, single-handed, attack and bind a man nearly as strong as himself, and then leisurely helped himself to his booty.

The writer is not holding Jim Cummings up in a laudatory spirit, or as an object to be envied and imitated, but as everything else has its degrees of comparison, so has the methods employed in committing robbery, and the address, audacity, skill, success and intelligence displayed by Jim Cummings in robbing the Adams Express Company of a cool $53,000, cannot help but excite a feeling akin to admiration. As this was his first attempt, it would take subsequent years to measure the height which he might attain as a highwayman. It may be that the modern Jack Sheppard had his career nipped in the bud by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. That "eye that never sleeps" must have winked pretty often, when it learned of the various and narrow escapes Jim Cummings had from its agents, and Mr. Pinkerton confessed afterward, that he passed many anxious nights and days on account of Jim Cummings. The money was gathered together from the various sources designated by the robbers, and when counted was found to be almost the whole sum originally put in the safe, The robbery was committed in the latter part of October, and the early part of the following January found the principals wearing the convicts' stripes,

* * * * *

The foregoing narrative would be incomplete did it not relate the incidents which brought Swanson's ranche to a pile of ashes, and Swanson himself to an untimely end.

When Cummings and Moriarity, with Sam and Chip, the detectives, disguised as the Doctor and Scip, his negro servant, dashed away from the ranche, carrying the greater part of his wealth, Swanson was lying, an unconscious man, on the floor of the large room. The blow which felled him to the ground had been given with the full force of Cummings' right arm, and partly overcome by the copious libations of which he had partaken previous to his short but decisive fight with the train robber, it was several hours before he regained his senses. His men had rushed to the pony herd at the first alarm, only to find a stampede had loosened all the horses, and they were helpless to pursue the robbers.

Swanson's rage, when he fully realized that he had been robbed, was something terrible. He roamed the vicinity of the ranche armed to the heel, cursing and foaming at the mouth, pouring maledictions of the most blasphemous character upon the men who had repaid his hospitality with such a scurvy trick.

When finally the ponies had been corralled, he vaulted on one, and galloping with the speed of the wind, set out in pursuit of the robbers who had mulcted him of his wealth. All the day he ranged the country, until his horse, completely exhausted, refused to move another step. His own excited passion had calmed down somewhat, so hobbling his horse, he threw himself on the open prairie and sank into a deep slumber.

During his absence a strange procession rode up to the ranche.

A large band of Cherokee Indians and half-breeds, headed by a chief of the tribe, loped up the trail, and dismounting, asked for Swanson.

The angry tones and flashing eyes of the red men portended a storm, and suspicious of coming danger to the master of the ranche, a cowboy mounted his pony and galloped off to warn Swanson.

For several months previous the Indians had been missing stock from their herds of cattle. Steers and yearlings had mysteriously disappeared, even under the keen eyes and sharp ears of the Cherokees themselves. All efforts to discover the thieves had proved fruitless, until chagrined and mortified by their ill success, the Indians resolved to let nothing escape nor a stone unturned which would lead to the detection of the parties making away with their cattle.

Relays of scouts were detailed, and a few days previous to their appearance at Swanson's ranche the first trail had been found, which they followed with all the skill and cunning that have made the red men of America peculiarly famous. Day and night the pursuit had been followed, and it led them direct to Swanson's.

He had long been suspected of such methods of procuring his stock, but so cunningly had he managed to cover his tracks that he had escaped being caught lip to this time.

His day of punishment had arrived, and his executioners were gathered around the ranche awaiting his return.

The cowboy had failed to find him, and the early morning found Swanson returning home. The Indians had posted scouts in all directions, and when one of them galloped in, conveying the intelligence that Swanson was coming, the temporary camp was awakened, and with their blankets over their heads, the Indians patiently waited for their victim.

All unsuspicious of danger, he came at a hard gallop over the range, nor did he discover his visitors until he wheeled around the corner of the house and found himself in their midst.

A dozen hands immediately grappled him, dragging him from the saddle and pinioned his arms behind him. Not a word had been spoken, their silence and his own guilty conscience told him that he had no mercy to hope for. As husband of a Cherokee squaw, he was looked on as a member of their tribe, and as such would be tried by their methods, found guilty or not guilty; and if guilty, he knew he would be shot at once.

His reckless, bold spirit asserted itself at this critical period, and holding his head erect, he asked, speaking the Cherokee tongue:

"Am I a coyote, that my brother traps me in this way?"

The dignified chief, folding his arms across his breast, his face stern and forbidding, replied:

"Coyote! No, dog of a pale-face. The coyote would yelp in mockery to hear you call yourself one."

"That isn't answering my question, Eagle Claw, What I want to know is, why am I jumped on in this way?" asked Swanson, his tone pacific and calm, and his manner free from anger, for he saw that it would require a deal of diplomacy to get him out of the scrape.

"You shall be answered, but not here," and the chief, Eagle Claw, placing his curved hand to his mouth, emitted a shrill, piercing yell which was repeated by the line of scouts until the most remote vidette heard, and headed his horse to the ranche. The Indians in some parts of the Territory are partly civilized and live in organized towns and villages, electing their head men from time to time. Others are wild and uncivilized, wandering from place to place, pitching their tepees of buffalo hide on the bank of some rippling stream, or, sequestered in some lovely valley, engage in the pursuit of game and in the care of their herds of ponies and cattle.

It was to the latter class that Eagle Claw and his band belonged. Gaudy paint, vemillion and yellow, smeared their faces in all the fantastic designs which their grotesque imaginations could invent. The tanned buckskin leggins, fringed and beaded, were supported at the waist by a belt of leather embroidered and figured. A blanket thrown carelessly over the shoulder completed the costume, with the addition of mocassins made of rawhide. Their ponies were selected from the cream of their stock, and the gorgeous trappings of the saddles and harness made a most picturesque scene as the cavalcade filed over the plains.

Riding between two stalwart specimens of the Cherokee tribe, Swanson was closely guarded. All the answer he could get for his indignant questionings was a surly "Humph," or a sullen admonition to keep quiet. The chief led the party due southwest from Swanson's ranche, and all day long the sturdy ponies were kept at the long, swinging lope which enables them to cover miles during a day.

Late in the afternoon the chief, raising in his stirrups, gave a peculiar, vibrating yell, which was immediately taken up by his followers until the welkin rang with the penetrating sounds.

Like a faint echo an answering yell came back, and soon the forms of horsemen, dashing over the range, could be discerned.

Familiar with all the Indian customs Swanson recognized the yell. It told the camp that the scouting party had returned successful.

A short canter and the entire band wheeled around the edge of a tract of timber and came out upon the village, pitched on the banks of a stream of water, the tepees grouped in a circle around the chief's wigwam, the blue smoke curling lazily through the aperture at the top, and the welcome smell of cooking meats permeating the place. Swanson was given in charge of a guard and escorted to a vacant tepee, where he was firmly bound, hand and foot, and thrown upon a pile of fur robes.

A large fire had been built near Eagle Claw's wigwam, and one by one the sub-chiefs, head-men and old Indians of the tribe gravely stalked toward it and seated themselves in the circle.

Rising from his place Eagle Claw ordered the prisoner to be brought forward.

As Swanson caught sight of the council-fire, the stern faces surrounding it, and the grave air of his captors, his guilty heart sank within him, and, trembling in every joint, he was hardly able to totter to the place assigned him. The Indians noted his condition with scornful eyes, and Eagle Claw, advancing from the rest, said:

"How now, does the coyote tremble because he is asked to join the council with his brethren?"

The mocking words brought Swanson's pluck back again, and drawing himself to his full height he answered:

"You red devil! Don't brother me. Drop that beating around the bush and out with the truth."

"'Tis well. A liar is a curse to his people. The Cherokees are men of truth and have but a single tongue."

"The Cherokees are the biggest rascals in the Territory, the meanest horse-thieves, and couldn't tell the truth to save their rascally necks from the halter," said Swanson.

The Indian's eyes flashed ominously at these words, and rising his voice, he said:

"My brother has a long tongue. It might be well if it were cut out; but we know he is joking, for is he not a Cherokee himself?"

"Not I. You can't make a mustang out of a broken-down broncho and you can't make a white man out of an Indian."

"But you took one of the fairest of our young maidens to your tepee, and—"

"Fairest young maiden? I took the skinniest rack-a-bones in the tribe. The old hag! She was too lazy to earn her salt, and was the biggest fool that ever wore calico."

A terrible look of rage came into Eagle Claw's face, for Swanson had married his own sister, and such an insult was not to be brooked. But with all the powers of dissimulation which the Indian possesses, he forced a smile to his lips, and, blandly speaking, pointed to the thongs around Swanson's arms.

"It is not well that our brother should be tied that way," and drawing his keen knife, he cut the thongs, and Swanson freed his arms.

His arms free, all of Swanson's courage returned. Hastily glancing around the circle, he suddenly shot out his right arm. Reeling backward, Eagle Claw fell to the ground, and the Indians saw something pass them like the wind, straight for the pony herd.

In an instant the camp was in commotion, hoarse yells came from tawny throats, and in swift pursuit of the flying Swanson the braves ran after him.

He had the start, however, and agile and athletic to a remarkable degree, his hands pressed to his side, his mouth closed and saving his wind, he sped before the pursuing red men and gained the corral of the ponies.

The Indians had not taken his knife from him, and hastily selecting his steed, the leather lariat was severed in a trice, and vaulting on his back, Swanson made a dash for life into the darkness. The thundering of hoofs told him that the red devils were close after him. Turning abruptly to one side he rode at right angles to his former course, and suddenly drawing up his horse he stood still. The sound of the chase neared him, and presently he heard them sweeping past, the darkness completely shrouding himself and his horse from their keen eyes.

Leaping to the ground, he placed his ear to the earth, and the faint throbbing of the horse hoofs beating the ground grew fainter as his pursuers rode further away.

Mounting his horse again, he commenced slowly and stealthily to circumnavigate the camp, and it wasn't until he had gained the opposite side, that he ventured to put his horse to a gallop.

He had never been in that section of the country before, but it did not matter so long as he could put a good distance between himself and his captors in which direction he rode.

The dawn of the next day found his horse loping along, Swanson keeping a sharp eye out for Indians.

He was satisfied that he had at last eluded pursuit, and turning into a clump of timber he tied his horse with the remnants of the lariat and threw himself on the ground near it.

All day long he slept, and as evening closed in he turned his horse from the timber and mounting a slight elevation near it, he gazed around for landmarks. To his surprise, he recognized the country as that near his own ranche, and feeling the pangs of hunger in a most distressing degree, he urged his horse in the direction of the ranche.

He had ridden several hours, and he knew that he must be somewhere near his place, when, rising before him, he discerned the house.

Almost simultaneous with his discovery a wide sheet of flame burst from the roof and, dismayed and astonished, Swanson checked his horse.

A multitude of yells rent the air, and Swanson, turning his horse again fled before the avenging Cherokees, but a hissing whistling sound was heard, a long, writhing lariat shot out, and the noose, falling over Swanson's shoulders, drew together with the run, and, lifted completely from the saddle, Swanson was thrown senseless to the ground. A bucketful of water was dashed over his face, and recovering he saw the demon faces of Eagle Claw and his band surrounding him.

"My brother was cold and we started a fire that he might get warm. He was lost and we made a light to guide him here. We love our brother Swanson. We would always have him with us," jeered the Indian,

To this Swanson was incapable of replying. His senses were benumbed and he hardly realized what was going on around him. Staggering to his feet he reeled to and fro like a drunken man.

As he walked toward the fire, he was suddenly grasped from behind, and again were his arms pinioned. There was no escape for him this time. Forced to his knees, he was placed facing half a dozen of the best marksmen of the tribe. His shirt was torn open, exposing his hairy breast. A signal was given, and the sharp reports of the rifles rang out in tune with the crackling timbers of the house, and falling to his face, Swanson gave a convulsive struggle and died as his own roof fell in; and a mass of blackened timbers marked the place where once stood Swanson's ranche.

THE END.