"Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!" And Panhandle reached
toward the money.

"Just a minute," said Bartley quietly. "The game is finished."

"Take your mouth out of this, you dam' dude!"

"Put your gun on the table--and then tell me that," said Bartley.

Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling,
slapped Bartley's face.

Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the
head. Panhandle dropped in a heap.

It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had
happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley
was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a
man out.

"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough
stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for
a while."

"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his
winnings.

Wishful, the silent, doused a glass of water in Panhandle's face.
Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former
attitude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him