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.

Bartley peered out over Cheyenne's shoulder. From up the street in the
opposite direction came the distant click of boot-heels. A figure strode
swiftly toward the patch of white light in front of the gambling-hall.

"Just stand back a little, pardner," said Cheyenne.

Bartley felt his heart begin to thump as Cheyenne gently loosened his
gun in the holster.

"It's Panhandle!" whispered Bartley, as the figure of Sears was
silhouetted against the lighted windows of the place opposite.

Out of the shadows where the