Part 57 (2/2)
”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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.l!”
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 G.o.d, I'll make holes in you for this!”
He s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.sed from his face.
Slowly he began to clean up. Then he crept underneath the wagon and rested....
[Ill.u.s.tration: CRAIG WINS THE COWPUNCHER'S ADMIRATION BY HIS SKILL AS A VIOLINIST.]
[Ill.u.s.tration: THE COWBOYS CONSULT A MAP WHILE ARRANGING FOR CRAIG'S ESCAPE.]
Evening came and with it a repet.i.tion 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 pa.s.sages, 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.”
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