Partners of Chance Part 6

"Never saw him until to-night."

"He ain't as lucky as you think," stated the other significantly.

"How is that?"

"Panhandle, the man with the scar on his face, ain't no friend of Cheyenne's."

"Oh, I see."

Bartley turned from the man, and watched the players. Wishful had withdrawn from the game, but he stood near the table, watching closely.

Presently the fat Mexican quit playing and left. Cheyenne threw and won.

He played as though the dice were his and he was giving an exhibition for the benefit of the other players. Finally the engineer quit, and counted his winnings. Cheyenne and the man, Panhandle, faced each other, with Bartley standing close to Cheyenne and Wishful, who had moved around the table, standing close to Panhandle.

Panhandle took up the dice. There was no joy in his play. He shot the dice across the table viciously. Every throw was a, sort of insidious insult to his compet.i.tor, Cheyenne. Bartley was more interested in the performance than the actual winning or losing, although he realized that Cheyenne was still a heavy winner.

Presently Wishful stepped over to Bartley and touched his arm. Panhandle and Cheyenne were intent upon their game.

"You kin see better from that side of the table," said Wishful mildly, yet with a peculiar significance.

Bartley glanced up, his face expressing bewilderment.

"I seen you slip Cheyenne a bill," murmured Wishful. "Accordin' to that, you're backin' him. Thought I'd just mention it."

"I don't understand what you're driving at," said Bartley.

"That's just why I spoke to you." And Wishful's face expressed a sort of sad wonder. But then, the Easterner had not been in town long and he did not know Panhandle.

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 compet.i.tor 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 G.o.ds 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.

It had happened so quickly that Bartley hardly realized what had happened. Panhandle was on the floor, literally down and out. Bartley was surprised that such an apparently light tap on the head should put a man out.

"Get him out of here," said Tom, the proprietor. "I don't want any rough stuff in here. And if I were in your boots, Cheyenne, I'd leave town for a while."

"I'm leavin' to-morrow mornin'." Cheyenne was coolly counting his winnings.

Wishful, the silent, doused a gla.s.s of water in Panhandle's face.

Presently Panhandle was revived and helped from the saloon. His former att.i.tude of belligerency had entirely evaporated. Wishful followed him to the hitch-rail and saw him mount his horse.

"Your best bet is to fan it back where you come from, and stay there,"

said Wishful softly. "You don't belong in this town, and you can't go slappin' any of my guests in the face and get away with it. And when you git so you can think it over, just figure that if I hadn't 'a' slowed you down, Cheyenne would 'a' killed you."

Panhandle did not feel like discussing the question just then. He left without even turning to glance back. If he had glanced back, he would have seen that Wishful had disappeared. Wishful, familiar with the ways of Panhandle and his kind, immediately sought the shadows, leaving the lighted doorway a blank. He entered the saloon from the rear.

Cheyenne was endeavoring to make Bartley take half of the winnings. "You staked me--and it's fifty-fifty, pardner," insisted Cheyenne.

Finally Bartley accepted his share of the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

"Now I can get back at you," stated Cheyenne, gesturing toward the bar.

His gesture included both Wishful and Bartley. Bartley, a bit shaken, accepted the invitation. Wishful, not at all shaken, but rather a bit more silent and melancholy than heretofore, also accepted.