"This ought to be the last, for me," said Bartley, drinking. "But don't
let that make any difference to you."

Cheyenne drank and shrugged his shoulders. He leaned back and gazed at
the opposite wall. Bartley vaguely realized that the Mexicans were
chattering, that two or three persons had come in, and that the
atmosphere was heavy with tobacco smoke. He unbuttoned his shirt-collar.

Presently Cheyenne twisted round in his chair. "Remember Little Jim,
back at the Hastings ranch?"

"I should say so! It would be difficult to forget him."

"Miss Dorry thinks a heap of that kid."

"She 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!"