Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.

His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy
wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He
forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few
minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.

When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small
group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad
engineer, and Cheyenne.

Bartley turned to a bystander.

"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said.

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"Never saw him until to-night."

"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly.

"How is that?"

"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of
Cheyenne's."

"Oh, I see."

Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had
withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely.