Barker was still dazed with sleep. His ears rang, and the lawyer’s voice sounded strange and far away. The coffee made him feel better. It soothed the cough that had racked him the moment he sat up.
“Now eat some grub,” Westcott said.
He had brought food from the hotel. Barker was still too far off to wonder at this. He had no desire for food, but he ate, obediently.
Westcott, meantime, had gone outside. In front of the hotel stood a big, rangy bay horse, hitched to a light road-wagon. Near the outfit lounged a tall, determined-looking man, who came forward when he saw the attorney.
“I’ve got to be getting a move on soon,” he said. “It’ll be late night, as ’tis, before we get there.”
“He’ll be ready in the shake of a horn,” the other replied.
“Say, Frank,” he continued. “He don’t know who you are. I’ve let on you’re a friend of mine, going to take him down. Let him think that till you get out of town.”
“Must be a dead easy one,” the man addressed as Frank said.
“Well, you see,” Westcott laughed, nervously, “I doped him pretty well last night—the poor devil coughed so,” he added, in explanation, and the deputy sheriff gave a grunt that might mean anything. It brought a flush of embarrassment to Westcott’s face.
“Come on,” he said, shortly, turning toward his office. The deputy climbed into his buggy and drove after him.