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.
"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."
"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?"
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."
"Well, I reckon I'll be steppin' along. Glad I saw you again."
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.