Rick was at his side in an instant, examining a can of tomatoes. "Where did you get it?" It was shiny, the label unfaded.
"Down the street. In one of the houses. Someone comes here now and then, I guess. There are blankets, a sleeping bag, and a small supply of food."
Rick's brows knitted. "Shouldn't we have been standing guard?"
"I thought about it," Scotty admitted, "but I figured there wasn't much sense to it. We'd welcome friend or foe at this point. Anyway, I don't think whoever hangs out here is part of the gang."
"Why not?"
"Wouldn't the gang have been at his hide-out instead of here in the hotel? Besides, this looks like a cache for just one man."
Rick had to admit that made sense. "Do you suppose he's here now?"
"I doubt it. I'd have heard a car if one came into town last night. I wasn't sleeping that soundly."
"Well, I'm grateful to him, whoever he is. Let me at that can." Rick searched in his pocket and found his scout knife. He opened the can-opener blade and got to work. In a moment they were taking turns drinking the slightly acid, refreshing juice and pouring whole tomatoes into their mouths.
An amused voice spoke from the doorway. "Looks good."