ishful mildly,
yet with a peculiar significance.

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.

"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that,
you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it."

"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley.

"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of
sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did
not know Panhandle.

Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his
position near Panhandle.

This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to
come into the game.

Wishful shook his head. "No use tryin' to bust his luck," he said,
indicating Cheyenne.

"Oh, I don't know," said Panhandle.

"And he's got good backin'," continued Wishful.

Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that
the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a
challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough
Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner.

Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and
money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side
of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his competitor alone. Bartley
happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was
gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former
vigor and luck.

Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He
was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no
aid from the gods of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line.

Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his
right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot
you, either hand," he said.

"And win," murmured Wishful.

Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money
on the table," he snarled.

"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly.

Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a
handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said;
"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw."

"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the
pile of money again.

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't p