"About seventy-five shots like that and I'm broke," laughed Cheyenne. "Anybody's hat need ventilatin'?"
"Not this child's," asserted Lon Pelly. "I sailed my hat for him onct. It was a twenty-dollar J.B., when I sailed it. When it hit it sure wouldn't hold water. Six holes in her--and three shots."
"Six?" exclaimed Bartley.
"The three shots went clean through both sides," said Lon.
Cheyenne reloaded his gun and dropped it into the holster.
Later, Bartley had a talk with Cheyenne about the proposed trailing of the stolen horses. Panhandle's name was mentioned. And the name of another man--Sneed. Cheyenne seemed to know just where he would look, and whom he might expect to meet.
Bartley and Cheyenne were in the living-room that evening talking with the Senator and his wife. Out in the bunk-house those of the boys who had not left for the line shack were discussing horse-thieves in general and Panhandle and Sneed in particular. Bill Smalley, a saturnine member of the outfit, who seldom said anything, and who was a good hand but a surly one, made a remark.
"That there Cheyenne is the fastest gun artist--and the biggest coward that ever come out of Wyoming. Ain't that right, Lon?"
"I never worked in Wyoming," said Long Lon.