"They ain't, eh?"

"Course, they make a right good audience, when you're singin'. They do
all the listenin'," said another puncher.

"Huh! They ain't one of you got a hoss that can listen to you, without
blushin'. You fellas think you're a hard-ridin'--"

"Ridin' beats walkin'," suggested Long Lon.

"Keep a-joshin'. I like it. Shows how much you don't know. I--hello, Mr.
Bartley! Shake hands with Lon Pelly--but I guess you met him, over to
Antelope. You needn't to mind the rest of these guys. They're harmless."

"I don't want to interrupt--" began Bartley.

"Set right in!" they invited in chorus. "We're just listenin' to
Cheyenne preachin' his own funeral sermon."

Bartley seated himself in the doorway of the bunk-house. The joshing
ceased. Cheyenne, who could never keep his hands still, toyed with the
dice. Presently one of the boys suggested that Cheyenne show them some
fancy work with a six-gun--"just to keep your wrist limber," he
concluded.

Cheyenne shook his head. But, when Bartley intimated that he would like
to see Cheyenne shoot, Cheyenne rose.

"All right. I'll shoot any fella here for ten bucks--him to name the
target."