“I’ll take care o’ that—” another siege of that racking cough. Barker leaned back in his chair, faint and gasping. Westcott drew a flask and poured some of its contents into a tin cup. The other drained it, eagerly.
“That’ll help,” he murmured, handing back the cup. “I ain’t always so weak as this; but I’ve been hitting the trail for a week, without much grub.”
“Did anyone see you come in?” Westcott asked, with apparent irrelevance.
“No. I kept out of sight.”
“Good!” The other nodded. “That’s what you’ll have to keep doing.”
“I’ve got to go out and see what I can do about that money,” he continued; “and you’ve got to have something to eat. I guess I’ll have to lock you in here while I’m gone, in case anyone should come along. You needn’t be afraid but that I’ll come back,” he added, as the other looked up, in quick suspicion. “It’s safer so, and I want you to have something to eat.”
“I sure need it,” was the reply. “Mighty bad.”
“I know you do; I’ll bring it soon’s I can.” Westcott moved toward the door. “You lay low till I get back.”
“You’re not going back on me?” Barker still studied him.
“Going back on you?” Westcott laughed, shortly.