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.  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.”

“The grub can wait,” Jim replied.  “Pull the bow, partner, pull the bow.”

The cook looked at him for a moment incredulously.  Then he realised that the cowboy was in earnest.  He picked up the bow and commenced to play again.  They sat around him, wondering, absolutely absorbed.  No one even made a move towards the food.  It was Craig who led them there at last himself, still playing.  Long Jim threw his arm almost caressingly around his shoulder.

“Say, Cookie,” he began, “there ain’t never no questions asked concerning the past history of the men who find their way out here, just so long as they don’t play the game yellow.  Maybe you’ve fitted up a nice little hell for yourself somewhere, but we ain’t none of us hankering to know the address.  You’re white and you’re one of us and any time any guy wants to charge you rent for that little hell where you got the furniture of your conscience stored, why, you just let us settle with him, that’s all.  Now, one more tune, Cookie.”

Craig shook his head.  He had turned away to where the kettle was hissing on the range fire.