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….
