Partners of Chance. Henry Herbert Knibbs
on the band, in gold, 'From Steve to Cheyenne, hoping it will always fit.' Do I know Steve Brown? Next time you see him just ask him about Cheyenne Hastings."
"I met the Senator, yesterday. Come to think of it, he did mention your name--'Cheyenne--and said you knew the country."
"Was you lookin' for a guide, mebby?"
"Well, not exactly. But I hope to see something of Arizona."
"Uh-huh. Well, I travel alone, mostly. But right now I'm flat broke. If you was headin' south--"
"I expect to visit Mr. and Mrs. Brown some day. Their ranch is south of here, I believe."
"Yep. Plumb south, on the Concho road. I'm ridin' down that way."
"Well, we will talk about it later," said Bartley as they entered the saloon.
With a few exceptions, the men in the place were grouped round a long table, in the far end of the room, at the head of which stood Wishful evidently about to make a throw with the dice. No one paid the slightest attention to the arrival of Bartley and his companion, with the exception of the proprietor, who nodded to Bartley and spoke a word of greeting to Cheyenne.
Bartley did the honors which included a sandwich and a glass of beer for Cheyenne, who leaned with his elbow on the bar gazing at the men around the table. Out of the corner of his eye Bartley saw the proprietor touch Cheyenne's arm and, leaning across the bar, whisper something to him. Cheyenne straightened up and seemed to be adjusting his belt. Bartley caught a name: "Panhandle." He turned and glanced at Cheyenne.
The humorous expression had faded from Cheyenne's face and in its stead there was a sort of grim, speculative line to the mouth, and no twinkle in the blue eyes. Bartley stepped over to the long table and watched the game. Craps, played by these free-handed sons of the open, had more of a punch than he had imagined possible. A pile of silver and bills lay on the table--a tidy sum--no less than two hundred dollars.
Wishful, the sad-faced, seemed to be importuning some one by the name of "Jimmy Hicks" to make himself known, as the dice rattled across the board. The players laughed as Wishful relinquished the dice. A lean outlander, with a scarred face, took up the dice and made a throw. He evidently did not want to locate an individual called "Little Joe," whom he importuned incessantly to stay away.
Side bets were made and bills and silver withdrawn or added to the pile with a rapidity which amazed Bartley. Hitherto craps had meant to him three or four newsboys in an alley and a little pile of nickels and pennies. But this game was of robust proportions. It had pep and speed.
Bartley became interested. His fingers itched to grasp the dice and try his luck. But he realized that his amateurish knowledge of the game would be an affront to those free-moving sons of the mesa. So he contented himself with watching the game and the faces of the men as they won or lost. Bartley felt that some one was close behind him looking over his shoulder. Cheyenne's eyes were fixed on the player known as "Panhandle," and on no other person at that table. Bartley turned back to the game.
Just then some one recognized Cheyenne and spoke his name. The game stopped and Bartley saw several of the men glance curiously from Cheyenne to the man known as "Panhandle." Then the game was resumed, but it was a quieter game. One or two of the players withdrew.
"Play a five for me," said Bartley, turning to Cheyenne.
"I'll do that--fifty-fifty," said Cheyenne as Bartley stepped back and handed him a bill.
Cheyenne straightway elbowed deeper into the group and finally secured the dice. Wishful, for some unknown reason, remarked that he would back Cheyenne to win--"shootin' with either hand," Wishful concluded. Bartley noticed that again one or two players withdrew and strolled to the bar. Meanwhile, Cheyenne threw and sang a little song to himself.
His throws were wild, careless, and lucky. Slowly he accumulated easy wealth. His forehead was beaded with sweat. His eyes glistened. He forgot his song. Bartley stepped over to the bar and chatted for a few minutes with the proprietor, mentioning Senator Steve and his wife.
When Bartley returned to the game the players had dwindled to a small group--'Wishful, the man called "Panhandle," a fat Mexican, a railroad engineer, and Cheyenne.
Bartley turned to a bystander.
"Cheyenne seems to be having all the luck," he said.
"Is he a friend of yours?"
"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 competitor, 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 competitor 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 gods 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