"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.