The cow pony (which of all horses loathes a bad rider) showed the whites of his eyes wickedly, laid his ears back into his mane and bucked madly with fright. The Chinaman, chattering like a monkey, described a perfect parabola and alighted right side up on the only tuft of grass within ten yards.
In an instant he bounced to his feet, took one look at the surrounding society, and made a bolt for the cook-wagon, the one place that was familiar to him.
At the door he encountered the sheepmen’s regular cook coming out to see what the trouble 158 was, and the next moment witnessed the near-annihilation of the yellow peril.
Sims and Jimmie Welsh pulled the burly cook off in time to save the Oriental, and the latter sat up with a dazed, frightened air.
“Yah! Makee much damee hellee!” he announced.
“Too much damee hellee,” said Sims sententiously. “John, you good fighter. Me like you. What you do here?”
“Me bling message,” and he reached into his blouse and drew out a piece of paper folded and pinned.
This he handed to Sims, who promptly opened it and started to read. In a minute he stopped and yelled for everyone who was not in the immediate circle to gather round and listen. Then, haltingly, he read aloud the following:
Dear Sims:
Ah Sin who brings you this is a bang-up cook, and I am sending him to you to get a job. Pay him fifty dollars on the spot in advance for his first month. I told him you would. He was the Bar T cook, I am sorry to say, but there was no other way of getting a message to you than to send him.