Cheyenne picked up the dice and listened.  He heard Sneed stepping heavily about the kitchen, and he heard an occasional and vivid exclamation from one of the card-players.  He glanced at the distant edge of timber.  He shook his head.  “Can’t make it!” he declared, and again he threw the dice.

One of the cubes rolled off the bench.  He stooped and picked it up.  As he straightened, he stared.  Just at the edge of the timber he saw Little Jim’s pony, and Little Jim’s black hat.  Some one in the cabin pushed back a chair.  Evidently the card game was finished.

Then Cheyenne heard Sneed’s voice:  “Just lay off that game, if you want to eat.  Come and get it.”

Wondering what Little Jim was up to, Cheyenne turned and walked into the cabin.  “Guess I’ll wash up, first,” he said, gazing about as though looking for the wherewithal to wash.  He knew well enough where the basin was.  He had noticed it out by the kitchen door, when he rode up to the cabin.  Sneed told him where to find the basin.  Cheyenne stepped round the cabin.  Covertly he glanced toward the edge of the timber.  Little Jim had disappeared.

Entering the cabin briskly, Cheyenne took his place at the table and ate heartily.

Lawson, who seemed to be Sneed’s right-hand man, was the first to speak to him.  “Bill tells me you are huntin’ hosses.”

“Yep!  That little gray and the buckskin, out in your corral, are my hosses.  They strayed—­”

“Didn’t see no brand on ’em,” declared Lawson.

“Nope.  They never was branded.  I raised ’em both, when I was workin’ for Senator Steve, over to the Box-S.”

“That sounds all right.  But you got to show me.  I bought them cayuses from a Chola, down in the valley.”

Cheyenne suspected that Lawson was trying to create argument and, in so doing, open up a way to make him back down and leave or take the consequences of his act in demanding the horses.

“Honest, they’re my hosses,” declared Cheyenne, turning to Sneed.

“You’ll have to talk to Lawson,” said Sneed.

Cheyenne frowned and scratched his head.  Suddenly his face brightened.  “Tell you what I’ll do!  I’ll shoot you craps for ’em.”

“That’s all right, but what’ll you put up against ’em?” asked Lawson.

“What did you pay for ’em?” queried Cheyenne.

“Fifty bucks.”

“You got ’em cheap.  They’re worth that much to me.”  Cheyenne pushed back his chair and, fishing in his jeans, dug up a purse.  “Here’s my fifty.  As soon as you get through eatin’ we’ll shoot for the ponies.”

Lawson, while finishing his meal, made up his mind that Cheyenne would not get away with that fifty dollars, game or no game; and, also, that he would not get the horses.  Cheyenne knew this—­knew the kind of man he was dealing with.  But he had a reason to keep the men in the cabin.  Little Jim was out there somewhere, and up to something.  If any of the men happened to catch sight of Little Jim, they would suspect Cheyenne of some trickery.  Moreover, if Little Jim were caught—­but Cheyenne refused to let himself think of what might happen in that event.