Bartley turned slowly toward his companion. "Panhandle?" he queried.
"And these here dice? Looks like it. It's like him to leave them dice for us to play with while he trails south with our stack. I reckon it was that Dobe hoss he was after. But he must 'a' knowed who was campin' around here. You see, when Wishful kind of hinted to Panhandle to leave town, Panhandle figured that meant to stay out of Antelope quite a spell. First off he steals some hosses. Next thing, he'll sell 'em or trade 'em, down south of here. He'll travel nights, mostly."
"I can't see why he should especially pick us out as his victims," said Bartley.
"I don't say he did. But it would make no difference to him. He'd steal any man's stock. Only, I figure some of his friends must 'a' told him about you--that seen you ridin' down this way. He would know our camp would be somewhere near this water-hole. What kind of matches you got with you?"
"Why--this kind." And Bartley produced a few blue-top matches.
"This here is a old-timer sulphur match, cut square. It was right here, by the rock. Somebody lit a match and laid them dice there--sixes up. No reg'lar hoss-thief would take that much trouble to advertise himself. Panhandle done it--and he wanted me to know he done it."
"You've had trouble with him before, haven't you?"
"Yes--and no man can say I ever trailed him. But I never stepped out of his way."
"Then that crap game in Antelope meant more than an ordinary crap game?" said Bartley.
"He had his chance," stated Cheyenne.