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 competitor 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 gods 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.

Panhandle’s last dollar was on the table.  He reached forward and drew a handful of bills from the pile and counted them.  “Fifty,” he said; “fifty against the pot that you don’t make your next throw.”

“Suits me,” said Cheyenne, picking up the dice and shaking them.

Cheyenne threw and won on the third try.  Panhandle reached toward the pile of money again.

Cheyenne, who had not picked up the dice, stopped him.  “You can’t play on that money,” he stated tensely.  “Half of it belongs to Mr. Bartley, there.”

“What have you got to say about it,” challenged Panhandle, turning to Bartley.

“Half of the money on the table is mine, according to agreement.  I backed Cheyenne to win.”

“No dam’ tenderfoot can tell me where to head in!” exclaimed Panhandle.  “Go on and shoot, you yella-bellied waddie!” And Panhandle reached toward the money.

“Just a minute,” said Bartley quietly.  “The game is finished.”

“Take your mouth out of this, you dam’ dude!”

“Put your gun on the table—­and then tell me that,” said Bartley.

Panhandle lowered his hand to his gun, hesitated, and then whirling, slapped Bartley’s face.

Wishful, the silent, jerked out his own gun and rapped Panhandle on the head.  Panhandle dropped in a heap.