“I beg your pardon, but would you mind giving me some fire?”

Cummings held out his lighted cigar, at the same time darting a searching look at his questioner, but in the handsome, well-dressed, almost dandified young man before him, he failed to recognize the uncouth, grimacing Scip of Swanson’s ranche.

The pair rode along together, and after passing Halsted street some distance, Chip saw that he was getting ready to jump off at the next cross street, so, as soon as the car reached the street, Chip stepped off and walked briskly toward Lake street.

Cummings rode to the other crossing and did the same, utterly without any suspicion whatever.

Although Chip walked straight ahead, he kept his eye on the dark figure moving parallel to his course on the other side, and saw it turn abruptly to the left and enter the alley.

Quickening his steps, Chip hurried to the house in which the watch was kept, and bounding up the steps, to his delight, found Sam in the room.

“Cummings is over there,” said Chip, excitedly.

“Sure?”

“As certain as I am that I live.”

“Come on, then!” and Sam ran down the steps, followed by Chip and the other two detectives.

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.