"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: