“I would,” said Carver, “only my delivery boy, the shiftless little wart, is out somewhere spinning his top. Here’s the key to my shack. You saunter past and collect it.”
Carver headed for Lassiter’s room. The door stood ajar and as he entered he observed a stooping figure whose hand was busily exploring the drawer of the dresser.
“We won’t need that twenty,” Carver said. “Let her ride where she is.”
The figure straightened and whirled to face him in the dim light. It was Noll Lassiter, not Bart.
“Where’s Bart?” Carver asked.
“Haven’t seen him,” Noll returned.
“Then where’s Bart’s twenty dollars?” Carver inquired. “I mistrust that you’ve got it—and I want it. S’pose you hand it over.”
“Make it out of here!” Noll ordered. “This is my room and I don’t want you in it.”
“Someway you haven’t inspired me with any ardent fancy,” Carver stated. “Right at present the feeling is mild, but it will grow acute if you keep exploring in that drawer for Bart’s last twenty.”
Lassiter made a swift move behind him but his arms fell back at his sides as Carver’s gun was jammed suddenly against his floating ribs.