"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the
saloon.

With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long
table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful
evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest
attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the
exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of
greeting to Cheyenne.

Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for
Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around
the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch
Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him.
Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley
caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.

The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead
there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle
in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the
game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a
punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on
the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars.

Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of
"Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the
board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean
outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He
evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom