“Play a five for me,” said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne.

“I’ll do that—­fifty-fifty,” said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and handed him a bill.

Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured the dice.  Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back Cheyenne to win—­“shootin’ with either hand,” Wishful concluded.  Bartley noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar.  Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.

His throws were wild, careless, and lucky.  Slowly he accumulated easy wealth.  His forehead was beaded with sweat.  His eyes glistened.  He forgot his song.  Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.

When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small group—­’Wishful, the man called “Panhandle,” a fat Mexican, a railroad engineer, and Cheyenne.

Bartley turned to a bystander.

“Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck,” he said.

“Is he a friend of yours?”

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  Wishful had withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely.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