“I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day.  Their ranch is south of here, I believe.”

“Yep.  Plumb south, on the Concho road.  I’m ridin’ down that way.”

“Well, we will talk about it later,” said Bartley as they entered the saloon.

With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful evidently about to make a throw with the dice.  No one paid the slightest attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of greeting to Cheyenne.

Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around the table.  Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch Cheyenne’s arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him.  Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt.  Bartley caught a name:  “Panhandle.”  He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.

The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne’s face and in its stead there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle in the blue eyes.  Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the game.  Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a punch than he had imagined possible.  A pile of silver and bills lay on the table—­a tidy sum—­no less than two hundred dollars.

Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of “Jimmy Hicks” to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the board.  The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice.  A lean outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw.  He evidently did not want to locate an individual called “Little Joe,” whom he importuned incessantly to stay away.

Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile with a rapidity which amazed Bartley.  Hitherto craps had meant to him three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and pennies.  But this game was of robust proportions.  It had pep and speed.

Bartley became interested.  His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try his luck.  But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa.  So he contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as they won or lost.  Bartley felt that some one was close behind him looking over his shoulder.  Cheyenne’s eyes were fixed on the player known as “Panhandle,” and on no other person at that table.  Bartley turned back to the game.

Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name.  The game stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from Cheyenne to the man known as “Panhandle.”  Then the game was resumed, but it was a quieter game.  One or two of the players withdrew.