Part 6 (1/2)

”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 Wishful had withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely.

Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won.

He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around the table, standing close to Panhandle.

Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious insult to his compet.i.tor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that Cheyenne was still a heavy winner.

Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle and Cheyenne were intent upon their game.

”You kin see better from that side of the table,” said Wishful mildly, yet with a peculiar significance.

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.

”I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill,” murmured Wishful. ”Accordin' to that, you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it.”

”I don't understand what you're driving at,” said Bartley.

”That's just why I spoke to you.” And Wishful's face expressed a sort of sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did not know Panhandle.

Wishful turned away casually. Bartley noticed that he again took up his position near Panhandle.

This time Panhandle glanced up and asked Wishful if he didn't want to come into the game.

Wishful shook his head. ”No use tryin' to bust his luck,” he said, indicating Cheyenne.

”Oh, I don't know,” said Panhandle.

”And he's got good backin',” continued Wishful.

Panhandle slanted a narrow glance toward Bartley, and Bartley felt that the other had somehow or other managed to convey an insult and a challenge in that glance, which suggested the contempt of the tough Westerner for the supposedly tender Easterner.

Bartley did not know just what was on the boards, aside from dice and money, but he took Wishful's hint and moved around to Panhandle's side of the table, leaving Cheyenne facing his compet.i.tor alone. Bartley happened to catch Cheyenne's eye. The happy-go-lucky expression was gone. Cheyenne's face seemed troubled, yet he played with his former vigor and luck.

Panhandle posed insolently, his thumb in his belt, watching the dice. He was all but broke. Cheyenne kept rolling the bones, but now he evoked no aid from the G.o.ds of African golf. His lips were set in a thin line.

Suddenly he tossed up the dice, caught them and transferred them to his 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.