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....
[Illustration: CRAIG WINS THE COWPUNCHER'S ADMIRATION BY HIS SKILL AS A
VIOLINIST.]
[Illustration: 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.
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