Some one turned from the street into the hall below and rapidly climbed the stairs.  Cheyenne heard a knock at the door opposite his.  That room was unoccupied.  Then came a brisk knock at his own door.

“What do you want?”

“Is that you, Cheyenne?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Bartley.  I just found out from Colonel Stevenson where you were camping.”

Cheyenne stepped to the door and unlocked it.

Bartley entered, glanced round the room, and then shook hands with Cheyenne.  “Been a week trying to find you.  How are you and how are the horses?  Man, but it was a long, lonesome ride from San Andreas!  If it hadn’t been for that dog that adopted me—­by the way, Colonel Stevenson was telling Senator Brown that Panhandle is in town.  I suppose you know it.”

“I seen him, this evenin’.”

“So did I. Just passed him as I came down here.  The Colonel said you were camping somewhere opposite the Hole-in-the-Wall.  How is everything?”

“Quiet.”

“Were you going anywhere?”

“No place in particular.”

Bartley sat down on the edge of the bed and lighted a cigarette.  Cheyenne stood as though waiting for him to leave.  There was something queer about Cheyenne.  His eyes were somber, his manner stiff and unnatural.  His greeting had been cool.

“About that man Panhandle—­” Bartley began, but Cheyenne interrupted with a gesture.

“You say you saw him, on your way down here?”

“Yes.  He didn’t seem to recognize me.  He was walking fast.”

“How was Little Jim when you left?”

“Just fine!”

“And the folks?”

“Same as ever.  Miss Gray—­”

“Well, I reckon I’ll be steppin’ along.  Glad I saw you again.”

“Going to leave town to-night?”

“I aim to.”

Bartley could no longer ignore Cheyenne’s attitude.  He knew that something had happened or was about to happen.  Cheyenne’s manner did not invite question or suggestion.  Yet Bartley had promised Dorothy that he would exert what influence he had—­and it seemed a critical time, just at that moment.

“I’d like to talk with you a minute, if you have time,” said Bartley.

“Won’t do no good, pardner.”  And without waiting for Bartley to say anything more, Cheyenne stepped up to him and held out his hand.  “So long,” he said.

“Well, good luck!” replied Bartley, and shook hands with him heartily.  “I hope you win.”

Cheyenne gestured toward the door.  Bartley stepped out into the hallway.  The light in the room flickered out.

“I reckon you’ll be goin’ back to your hotel,” said Cheyenne.  “Wait.  I’ll just step down first.”

At the foot of the stairs Cheyenne paused and glanced up and down the street.  Directly across the way the Hole-in-the-Wall was ablaze with light.  A few doors east of the gambling-hall an indistinct group of riders sat their horses as though waiting for some one.  Cheyenne drew back into the shadows of the hallway.