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 sinister jester, in fact, a dangerous man. He leaned forward
and touched Cheyenne's arm.

"Why not give up the idea of--er--getting Sears; and settle down, and
make a home for Little Jim?"

"When Aunt Jane took him, the understandin' was that Jimmy was to be
raised respectable, which is the same as tellin' me that I don't have
nothin' to do with raisin' him. Me, I got to keep movin'."

Bartley turned toward the doorway as a tall figure loomed through the
haze of tobacco smoke: a gaunt, heavy-boned man, bearded and limping
slightly. With him were several companions, booted and spurred;
evidently just in from a hard ride.

Cheyenne turned to Bartley. "That's Bill Sneed--and his crowd. I ain't
popular with 'em--right now."