right hand. Hitherto he had been shooting with his left. "I'll shoot
you, either hand," he said.

"And win," murmured Wishful.

Panhandle whirled and confronted Wishful. "I don't see any of your money
on the table," he snarled.

"I'll come in--on the next game," stated Wishful mildly.

Panhandle's last dollar was on the table. He reached forward and drew a
handful of bills from the pile and counted them. "Fifty," he said;
"fifty against the pot that you don't make your next throw."

"Suits me," said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try. Panhandle reached toward the
pile of money again.

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him. "You can't play
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.