Now Panhandle was broke again.  He stated that unpleasant fact to his companions, Posmo and Shorty,—­the latter a town loafer he had picked up in Antelope.  Shorty had nothing to say.  Panhandle’s drunken aggressive cowed him.  But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen stock, felt that he had been cheated.  Panhandle had promised him a third of his share of the money.  Panhandle had kept on promising from day to day, liquidating his promises with whiskey.  And now there was no money.

Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then.  But Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told that he was broke, turned on Posmo.

“What you got to say about it, anyway?” he asked with that curious stubbornness born in liquor.

“I say that you owe me a hundred dollar,” declared Posmo.

“Well, go ahead and collect!”

“Yes, go ahead and collect,” said Shorty, suddenly siding with Panhandle.  “We blowed her in.  We’re broke, but we ain’t cryin’ about it.”

“That is all right,” said Posmo quietly.  “If the money is gone, she is gone; yes?”

“That’s the way to say it!” asserted Panhandle, changing front and slapping Posmo on the shoulder.  “We’re broke, and who the hell cares?”

“Let’s have a drink,” suggested Shorty.  “I got a couple of beans left.”

They slouched out from the back room and stood at the bar.  Panhandle immediately became engaged in noisy argument with one of the frequenters of the place.  Senator Brown’s name was mentioned by the other, but mentioned casually, with no reference whatever to stolen horses.

Panhandle laughed.  “So old Steve is down here lookin’ for his hosses, eh?”

“What horses?”

The question, spoken by no one knew whom, chilled the group to silence.

Panhandle saw that he had made a blunder.  “Who wants to know?” he queried, gazing round the barroom.

“Why, it’s in all the papers,” declared the bartender conciliatingly.  “The Box-S horses was run off a couple of weeks ago.”

Panhandle turned his back on the group and called for a drink.

Shorty was tugging gently at his sleeve.  “Posmo’s beat it, Pan.”

“To hell with him!  Beat it yourself if you feel like it.”

“I’ll stick Pan,” declared Shorty, yet his furtive eyes belied his assertion.

* * * * *

For three days Bartley had tried to find where Cheyenne was staying, but without success, chiefly because Cheyenne kept close to his room during the daytime, watching the entrance to the Hole-in-the-Wall, waiting for Panhandle to step out into the daylight, when there would be folk on the street who could witness that Panhandle had drawn his gun first.  Cheyenne determined to give his enemy that chance, and then kill him.  But thus far Panhandle had not appeared on the street in the daytime, so far as Cheyenne knew.