still stuck halfway to my stummick. All Chinks can cook. Hire him an' the boys 'll chip in for the extry pay." Sheridan saw gleaming approval in the face of the second cowboy.
"Can you cook?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Fifty a month and found. Does that suit you?"
"Yes."
"Can you ride?"
"I will try."
Sheridan glanced towards the town, expecting to see a dust cloud heralding the lynching party he was sure would materialize shortly, if only for the supposed sport of the thing.
"Jackson, you take his grip," he said. "He'll have enough to do to manage Rand's horse. Rand goes with the steers. He won't be back till tomorrow. The horse is down by the chute. Get off there now and ride as fast as he can stay on. You didn't give me your name?" he asked the newly appointed chef.
"Quong. Quong Li. I think they are coming from the town."
He did not show any signs of nervousness. Sheridan still regarded him as a mystery. Dust showed on the outskirts of the town and they could hear shouts. But the mob had not started. It seemed to be waiting for others to join the party. Jackson took the suitcase and he and his comrade walked their ponies so as to screen Quong Li, walking at a fast clip ahead of them, losing no time, but unflurried, apparently the least anxious of any of them.
Sheridan lingered to talk to the agent.
