Craig has not been
seen since the accident to the Limited, a fortnight ago, and by
many is supposed to have perished in the wreck. He was in the
charge of Inspector French, and was on his way to New York to
stand his trial for homicide. French was taken to the hospital,
suffering from concussion of the brain, but is now
convalescent."
The man read the paragraph twice. Then he set down the paper and looked
steadily across the rolling prairie land. There was a queer, bitter little
smile upon his lips.
"So it begins again!" he muttered.
There was a cloud of dust in the distance. The man rose to his feet,
shaded his eyes with his hand and shambled round to the back of the wagon,
where a long table was set out with knives and forks, hunches of bread and
tin cups. He walked a little further away to the fire, and slowly stirred
a pot of stew. The little party of cowboys came thundering up. There was a
chorus of shouts and exclamations, whistlings and good-natured chaff, as
they threw themselves from their horses. Long Jim stood slowly cracking
his whip and looking down the table.
"Say, boys, I think he's fixed things up all right," he remarked. "Come on
with the grub, cookie."
Silently the man filled each dish with the stew and laid it in its place.
Then he retired to the background and the cowboys commenced their meal.
Long Jim winked at the others as he picked up a biscuit.
"Cookie, you're no good," he called out. "The stew's rotten.
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