“Go down to Swanson’s and bring in my man.”

“Bars and buffler skins,” cried Brodey.  “You don’t mean to say that you will do such a blame fool thing as that.  Sho!”

“Not alone, Chip,” said Sam.  “I go with you.”

“See hyar, young fellers,” expostulated Brodey.  “Do ye know what your doin’!  Got any idee ye’ll come back alive!  I’ve been in some tough places before now, but shoot my worthless carcass if I want to go to Swanson’s.  He’s killed a man, torn out his heart and eaten it raw, fer a fact.”

“Pshaw, who would believe such a yarn as that, man.”

“Swar to gosh it’s true,” continued Brodey.  “I don’t believe thar’s a man in the States what’s got as much devil to thar square inch as this man Swanson.  Better not go, Cap’n.  I’d hate tremendous to have you killed.”

Chip laughed lightly, as he stroked the neck of the Ranger’s horse, and said: 

“Brodey, I’ve been a detective for five years, and in those five years I’ve looked almost sure death in the face more than a score of times.  I have seen the knife raised which was to be buried in my heart the next second.  I have felt the revolver spit its flames plump in my face.  I have been tied hand and feet and laid across the rail, with a lightning express train not over a thousand feet off, coming down like the wind, and I am a live man to-day.  The man isn’t born yet that can kill me.”

Chip said all this in a modest tone and no signs of braggadocio, for it was all true, and his listeners knew he was telling facts by his bearing and manner.

“Yes,” broke in Sam, “and I was with you on several of these occasions, and what’s more, I shall be with you on this one you are planning.”

“I want you should be—­but enough of this talk.  We can do nothing more now.  Our men have given us the slip.  Dismount, boys, and give the nags a breathing spell.”

Cook, by this time, had regained his senses, and was sitting up in the middle of the trail rubbing his shoulder and wearing a most woebegone and dazed look upon his expressive countenance.  Observing this, Chip walked toward him, and imitating a drunken stagger, sang: 

“Drink, puppies, drink; let every puppy drink, That’s old enough to stand and to swallow.”

As the first strains fell on his ears, Cook started, and regarding Chip with questioning eyes, inquired: 

“Who are you fellows anyway; can’t you let peaceable travelers alone without shooting their horses?”

“Oh! you were peaceable travelers, were you?  Well, now, that’s strange, we took you to be some horse thieves that have been skurrying around these parts lately.”

“Do you think I look like a horse-thief?” indignantly.

“Is that your own horse?”

“Not exactly.  I hired—­”

“Ah! yes, you hired it—­they all say that—­you hired it some time ago and have forgotten to pay the bill—­”