to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.

"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there,"
said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go
slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you
git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed
you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left
without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would
have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways
of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the
lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.

Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You
staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne.

Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his
pocket.

"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the bar.

His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken,
accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit
more silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted.

Alone in his room at the hotel, Bartley wondered what would have
happened if Wishful had not rapped Panhandle on the head. Bartley
recalled the fact that he had drawn back his arm, intending to take one
good punch at Panhandle, even if it were his last. But Panhandle had