"Caught 'em? Say, stranger, how far do you think a man could travel out of here, before somebody'd get him? Anyhow, Wishful ain't got nothin' in his place worth stealin'." "Wishful doesn't look very warlike," said Bartley. "Nope. That's right. He looks kind of like he'd been hit on the roof and hadn't come to, yet. But did you ever see him shoot craps?" "No." "Then you've got somethin' comin', besides buyin' me a drink." Bartley laughed as he stepped down to the road. Bartley, a fair-sized man, was surprised to realize that the other was all of a head taller than himself. Cheyenne had not looked it in the saddle. "Are you acquainted with Senator Brown?" queried Bartley as he strode along beside the stiff-gaited outlander. Cheyenne stopped and pushed back his hat. "Senator Steve Brown? Say, pardner, me and Steve put this here country on the map. If kings was in style, Steve would be wearin' a crown. Why, last election I wore out a pair of jeans lopin' around this here country campaignin' for Steve. See this hat? Steve give me this hat--a genuwine J.B., the best they make. Inside he had printed 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.