“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.  Here, take this!”

He flicked the biscuit, which caught the cook on the side of the head.  For a moment the man started.  With his hand upon his temple he flashed a look of hatred towards his assailant.  Long Jim laughed carelessly.

“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 passed 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 hell!”

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 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.”