“Cookie, you’re no good,” he called out. “The stew’s rotten. Here, take this!”
He flicked the biscuit, which caught the cook on the side of the head. For a moment the man started. With his hand upon his temple he flashed a look of hatred towards his assailant. Long Jim laughed carelessly.
“Say, cookie,” the latter went on, “where did you get them eyes? Guess we’ll have to tame you a bit.”
The meal was soon over, and Jim strolled across to where the others were saddling up. He passed his left arm through the reins of his horse and turned once more to look at Craig.
“Say, you mind you do better to-night, young fellow. Eh!”
He stopped short with a cry of pain. The horse had suddenly started, wrenching at the reins. Jim’s arm hung helplessly down from the shoulder.
“Gee, boys, he’s broken it!” he groaned. “Say, this is hell!”
He swore in agony. They all crowded around him.
“What’s wrong, Jim?”
“It’s broken, sure!”
“Wrong, you helpless sons of loons!” Jim yelled. “Can’t any of you do something?”
The cook suddenly pushed his way through the little crowd. He took Jim’s shoulder firmly in one hand and his arm in the other. The cowboy howled with pain.
“Let go my arm!” he shouted. “Kill him, boys! My God, I’ll make holes in you for this!”
He snatched at his gun with his other hand and the cowboys scattered a little. The cook stepped back, the gun flashed out, only to be suddenly lowered. Jim looked incredulously towards his left arm, which hung no longer helplessly by his side. He swung it backwards and forwards, and a broad grin slowly lit up his lean, brown face. He thrust the gun in his holster and held out his hand.
“Cookie, you’re all right!” he exclaimed. “You’ve done the trick this time. Say, you’re a miracle!”
The cook smiled.
“Your arm was just out of joint,” he remarked. “It was rather a hard pull but it’s all right now.”
Jim looked around at the others.
“And to think that I might have killed him!” he exclaimed. “Cookie, you’re a white boy. You’ll do. We’re going to like you here.”
Craig watched them ride off. The bitterness had passed from his face. Slowly he began to clean up. Then he crept underneath the wagon and rested….
CRAIG WINS THE COWPUNCHER’S ADMIRATION BY HIS SKILL AS A VIOLINIST.
THE COWBOYS CONSULT A MAP WHILE ARRANGING FOR CRAIG’S ESCAPE.
Evening came and with it a repetition of his labours. When everything was ready to serve, he stepped from behind the wagon and looked across the rolling stretch of open country. There was no one in sight. Softly, almost stealthily, he crept up to the wagon, fetched out from its wooden case a small violin, made his way to the further side of the wagon, sat down with his back to the wheel and began to play. His eyes were closed. Sometimes the movements of his fingers were so slow that the melody seemed to die away. Then unexpectedly he picked it up, carrying the same strain through quick, convulsive passages, lost it again, wandered as though in search of it, extemporising all the time, yet playing always with the air of a man who feels and sees the hidden things. Suddenly the bow rested motionless. A look of fear came into his face. He sprang up. The cowboys were all stealing from the other side of the wagon. They had arrived and dismounted without his hearing them. He sprang to his feet and began to stammer apologies. Long Jim’s hand was laid firmly upon his shoulders.
“Say, cookie, you don’t need to look so scared. You ain’t done nothing wrong. Me and the boys, we like your music. Sing us another tune on that fiddle!”
“I haven’t neglected anything,” Craig faltered. “It’s all ready to serve.”
“The grub can wait,” Jim replied. “Pull the bow, partner, pull the bow.”
The cook looked at him for a moment incredulously. Then he realised that the cowboy was in earnest. He picked up the bow and commenced to play again. They sat around him, wondering, absolutely absorbed. No one even made a move towards the food. It was Craig who led them there at last himself, still playing. Long Jim threw his arm almost caressingly around his shoulder.
“Say, Cookie,” he began, “there ain’t never no questions asked concerning the past history of the men who find their way out here, just so long as they don’t play the game yellow. Maybe you’ve fitted up a nice little hell for yourself somewhere, but we ain’t none of us hankering to know the address. You’re white and you’re one of us and any time any guy wants to charge you rent for that little hell where you got the furniture of your conscience stored, why, you just let us settle with him, that’s all. Now, one more tune, Cookie.”
Craig shook his head. He had turned away to where the kettle was hissing on the range fire.
“It is time you had your food,” he said.
Long Jim took up the violin and drew the bow across it. There was a chorus of execrations. Craig snatched it from him. He suddenly turned his back upon them all. He had played before as though to amuse himself. He played now with the complete, almost passionate absorption of the artist. His head was uplifted, his eyes half closed. He was no longer the menial, the fugitive from justice. He was playing himself into another world, playing amidst a silence which, considering his audience, was amazing. They crouched across the table and watched him. Long Jim stood like a figure of stone. The interruption which came was from outside.
“More of these damned tourists,” Long Jim muttered. “Women, too!”
Craig had stopped playing. He turned his head slowly. Quest was in the act of dismounting from his horse. By his side was the Professor; just behind, Lenora and Laura. Long Jim greeted them with rough cordiality.
“Say, what are you folks looking for?” he demanded.
Quest pointed to Craig.
“We want that man,” he announced. “This is Inspector French from New York. I am Sanford Quest.”
There was a tense silence. Craig covered his face with his hands, then suddenly looked up.
“I won’t come,” he cried fiercely. “You’ve hounded me all round the world. I am innocent. I won’t come.”
Quest shrugged his shoulders. He took a step forward, but Long Jim, as though by accident, sauntered in the way.
“Got a warrant?” he asked tersely.
“We don’t need it,” Quest replied. “He’s our man, right enough.”
“Right this minute he’s our cook,” drawled Long Jim, “and we ain’t exactly particular about going hungry to please a bunch of strangers. Cut it short, Mister. If you ain’t got a warrant, you ain’t got this man. Maybe we don’t sport finger-bowls and silk socks, but we’re civilised enough not to let no slim dude walk off with one of our boys without proper authority. So you can just meander along back where you come from. Ain’t that right, boys?”
There was a sullen murmur of assent. Quest turned back and whispered for a moment to the Inspector. Then he turned to Long Jim.
“All right,” he agreed. “The Inspector here and I will soon see to that.