lay
on that money," he stated tensely. "Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley,
there."

"What have you got to say about it," challenged Panhandle, turning to
Bartley.

"Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement. I
backed Cheyenne to win."

"No dam' tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!" exclaimed Panhandle.
"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached
toward the money.

"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished."

"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!"

"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley.

Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling,
slapped Bartley's face.

Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the
head. Panhandle dropped in a heap.

It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had
happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley
was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a
man out.

"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough
stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for
a while."

"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his
winnings.

Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face.
Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former
attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him
to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.

"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there,"
said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go
slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you
git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed
you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left
without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would
have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways
of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the
lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.

Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You
staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne.

Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his
pocket.

"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne,