The bartender selected a brace of black bottles and shoved them across to Lassiter who moved with them to a rear door that opened on an alley. Several blanketed figures prowled this rear thoroughfare and the copper-hued wards of the Government converged upon the man in the doorway. He exchanged the two quarts for two five-dollar bills, thereby becoming eligible for a protracted stay within the walls of the penitentiary.
“Now we can start even,” he announced, paying Pete for the initial stock and retaining the surplus. “Quick turns and small profits is my rule of life.”
“One day you’ll acquire a new rule—long years and no profits,” predicted the white-aproned philosopher behind the bar. “Unless you learn to transact that sort of business by the dark of the moon.”
“Necessity,” Lassiter advanced in extenuation of his lack of caution. “Suppose you set us out a sample of something a few shades more palatable than what we just peddled to the old chief.”
The two pooled their resources and pursued their casual carefree way, all sense of responsibility discarded for the moment, as one might shed an uncomfortable garment with the idea of donning it again at some future time. The youthful Lassiter, who deplored all things serious while at play, found in Carver a delightful companion who seemed sufficiently light-minded and irresponsible to satisfy the most exacting. The wheel in the Silver Dollar, the faro bank in the Senate and the crap layout in the Gilded Eagle, each contributed modestly to their swelling bank roll in response to a few casual bets. As they left this last-named resort Bart halted suddenly. Carver glanced up to determine the cause of this abrupt halt. Freel, a deputy United States marshal, had just passed, and Carver, recalling the incident of the two black bottles, concluded that Lassiter had decided against meeting the Federal officer at just that moment lest the news of the transaction had reached him. Freel walked with a girl, his hand clasping her arm familiarly as he piloted her through the crowd. Bart frowned after the couple.
“I wouldn’t let the valiant marshal fret you,” Carver counselled. “I don’t know much about him except that he strikes a flat note in me, but I suspect he’s a pussy-footer and real harmless. I’ve heard things about Freel.”
“That’s what I know,” said Lassiter. “So’ve I; and it’s the things I’ve heard which keeps him on my mind. One day I’ll have to slip my twine on him and canter off across a few thousand acres of country with him dangling along behind.”
“Tell me when,” said Carver. “I’ll dab my noose on his off leg and bounce my horse off the opposite direction like we was contending for the biggest piece of a turkey’s wishbone. If half I hear is true he’s got it coming and folks will hail us as public benefactors.”
Twice within the next hour Carver noticed Noll Lassiter conversing with Freel. It was evident, that, whatever Bart’s grievance against the marshal, the feeling was not shared by the elder brother. The mid-afternoon crowd had gathered in the Silver Dollar by the time Carver returned to the starting place. Men banked deep round the roulette layout as it was whispered about that Carver and Bart Lassiter were winning heavily from the bank. The professional chant of lookout and croupier rose above the hum of conversation as the ivory ball purred smoothly round the wheel of chance. Noll Lassiter shouldered his way through the crowd and stationed himself between the two favorites of fortune.
“Luck’s with us,” he genially proclaimed thereby identifying himself with the winnings. “We’ll break this wheel between the three of us. She’s running our way strong.”