CHEYENNE PLAYS BIG
Watching from his darkened window, Cheyenne had seen Panhandle leave the
Hole-in-the-Wall, and stride up the street alone. It was the first time
Cheyenne had seen Sears since he had taken the single room opposite the
gambling-house. Cheyenne stepped back, drew down the curtain, and turned
on the light. The bare board floor was littered with cigarette stubs. A
pair of saddle-bags hung on the iron bedstead. Other furniture was a
chair, a scratched and battered washstand, a cracked mirror. Standing by
the washstand Cheyenne took his gun from its holster, half-cocked it,
and punched out the loaded cartridges. He pulled the pin, pushed the
cylinder out with his thumb, and examined it against the light.
Carefully he cleaned and replaced the cylinder, reloaded it, held the
hammer back, and spun the cylinder with his hand. Finally he thrust the
gun in the holster and, striding to the bed, sat down, his chin in his
hands.
Somewhere out there on the street, or in the Hole-in-the-Wall, he would
meet his enemy--in a few minutes, perhaps. There would be no wordy
argument. They understood each other, and had understood each other,
since that morning, long ago when they had passed each other on the
road--Panhandle riding in to Laramie and Cheyenne and Little Jim riding
from the abandoned home. Cheyenne thought of Little Jim, of his wife,
and, by some queer trick of mind, of Bartley. He knew that the Easterner
was in town. The stableman at the Top-Notch had told him. Well, he had
seen Panhandle. Now he would go out and meet him, or overtake him.
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.
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 riders waited came a single, abrupt word,
peremptory, incisive: "Panhandle!"
Panhandle, about to turn into the lighted doorway, stopped short.
Sneed had called to Panhandle; but it was Posmo the Mexican who rode
forward to meet him. Sneed, close behind Posmo, watched to see that the
Mexican carried out his instructions, which were simply to tell
Panhandle to get his horse and leave town with them. Seeing the group
behind the Mexican, Panhandle's first thought was that Posmo had
betrayed him to the authorities. It _was_ Posmo. Panhandle recognized
the Mexican's pinto horse.
Enraged by what he thought was a trap, and with drunken contempt for the
man he had cheated, Panhandle jerked out his gun and fired at the
Mexican; fired again at the bulky figure behind Posmo, and staggered
back as a slug shattered his shoulder. Cursing, he swung round and
emptied his gun into the blur of riders that separated and spread across
the street, returning his fire from the vantage of the shadows. Flinging
his empty gun at the nearest rider, Panhandle lurched toward the doorway
where Cheyenne and Bartley stood watching. He had almost made the curb
when he lunged and fell. He rose and tried to crawl to the shelter of
the doorway. One of Sneed's men spurred forward and shot Panhandle in
the back. He sank down, his body twitching.
Bartley gasped as he saw the rider deliberately throw another shot into
the dying man. Then Cheyenne's arm jerked up. The rider swerved and
pitched from the saddle. Another of Sneed's men crossed the patch of
light, and a splinter ripped from the door-casing where Cheyenne stood.
Cheyenne's gun came down again and the rider pitched forward and fell.
His horse galloped down the street. Again Cheyenne fired, and again.
Then, in the sudden stillness that followed, Cheyenne stepped out and
dragged Panhandle into the hallway. Some one shouted. A window above the
saloon opposite was raised. Doors opened and men came out, questioning
each other, gathering in a group in front of the Hole-in-the-Wall.
Stunned by the sudden shock of events, the snakelike flash of guns in
the semi-darkness, and the realization that several men had been gravely
wounded, perhaps killed, Bartley heard Cheyenne's voice as though from a
distance.
Cheyenne's hand was on Bartley's arm. "Come on. The game is closed for
the night."
As they stepped from the doorway a man stopped them and asked what had
happened.
"We're goin' for a doctor," said Cheyenne. "Somebody got hurt."
Hastening along the shadowy wall of the building, they turned a corner
and by a roundabout way reached the city marshal's office.
The marshal, who had been summoned in haste, was at his desk. "Sneed and
his bunch got Panhandle," stated Cheyenne quietly. "Mr. Bartley, here,
saw the row. Four of Sneed's men are down. One got away."
"Sure it was Sneed?"
"I reckon your men will fetch him in, right soon. Panhandle got Sneed
and a Mexican, before they stopped him."
Colonel Stevenson glanced at Cheyenne's belt and holster. Cheyenne drew
his gun and handed it to the marshal. "She's fresh loaded," he said.
"Cheyenne emptied his gun trying to fight off the men who killed
Panhandle," said Bartley, stepping forward.
"And you're sure they were Sneed's men?" queried the marshal.
Cheyenne nodded.
"I am obliged to you," said the marshal. "But I'll have to detain you
both until after the inquest."