seems to."

"Now, I ain't drunk," Cheyenne declared solemnly. "I sure wish I was.
You know Little Jim is my boy. Well, his ma is livin' over to Laramie.
She writ to me to come back to her, onct. I reckon Sears got tired of
her. She lived with him a spell after she quit me. Folks say Sears
treated her like a dog. I guess I wasn't man enough, when I heard
that--"

"You mean Panhandle Sears--at Antelope?"

"Him."

"Oh, I see!" said Bartley slowly. "And that crap game, at Antelope--I
see!"

"If Panhandle had a-jumped me, instead of you, that night, I'd 'a'
killed him. Do you know why Wishful stepped in and put Sears down?
Wishful did that so that there wouldn't be a killin'. That's the second
time Sears has had his chance to git me, but he won't take that chance.
That's the second time we met up since--since my wife left me. The third
time it'll be lights out for somebody. I ain't drunk."

"Then Sears has got a yellow streak?"

"Any man that uses a woman rough has. When Jimmy's ma left us, I reckon
I went loco. It wa'n't just her _leavin'_ us. But when I heard she had
took up with Sears, and knowin' what he was--I just quit. I was workin'
down here at the ranch, then. I went up North, figurin' to kill him.
Folks thought I was yellow, for not killin' him. They think so right
now. Mebby I am.

"I worked up North a spell, but I couldn't stay. So I lit out and come
down South again. First time I met up with Sears was over on the Tonto.
He stepped up and slapped my face, in front of a crowd, in the Lone
Star. And I took it. But I told him I'd sure see him again, and give him
another chance to slap my face.

"You see, Panhandle Sears is that kind--he's got to work himself up to
kill a man. And over there at Antelope, that night, he just about knowed
that if he lifted a finger, I'd git him. He figured to start a ruckus,
and then git me in the mix-up. Wishful was on, and he stopped that
chance. Folks think that because I come ridin' and singin' and joshin'
that I ain't no account. Mebby I ain't."

Cheyenne poured another drink for himself. Bartley declined to drink
again. He was thinking of this squalid tragedy and of its possible
outcome. The erstwhile sprightly Cheyenne held a new significance for
the Easterner. That a man could ride up and down the trails singing, and
yet carry beneath it all the grim intent some day to kill a man--

Bartley felt that Cheyenne had suddenly become a stranger, an unknown
quantity, a