"It 'us just after I let loose it started smoking," old Jim snarled, "and nobody else was shooting right then! You're gonna get a sore eye, I swear—tobacco in it. I can spit to where you sit, and I can spit faster'n you can move, I bet, unless you're faster'n a fly, and you ain't. You just ask anybody who was there ... it 'us just after I shot it started—"
Tom Pace thumped the table. "I was there, you old ... now, now, Jim, don't spit, for Godsake! Hold on. What I mean, I was there too, and maybe somebody's shot from a second or two before was what done the trick. Maybe even my shot! Takes a plane a while to know it's hurt, don't it? Ever think o' that?"
"Maybe," Ben Bates said. "Maybe, maybe. And maybe. Let it go, you two. It ain't important who done it; we oughta just be grateful we got it."
"Grateful I got it," Jim Liddel grunted.
Tom Pace said, "Now, looky here, Jim—" Ben Bates nudged Tom's leg under the table; and then slowly, fingering his jaw he said, "Well, now, Jim ... I figure maybe you did, at that. Like you say, it smoked and crashed right after you shot, so I always kind o' figured it was you brought it down. But that's a hard thing to prove."
Jim snorted. "Can't prove it! But I got it, all right. A man knows when he sunk a shot."
"In a varmint, maybe," Tom Pace objected, "or a man. But you claiming to know where to hit a plane the worst?"
"We was all shooting at the front, up where they put the motor," Jim said nastily. "Don't know about planes, but I know my aim. I got it square-on."
"Well," Ben said, "why don't you just let it lay, eh, Tom? Jim's got a lot on his side." He looked sidewise at old Jim, and saw that Jim was still scowling at Tom. Old Jim was ninety eight, and some set in his notions.
"Mm. Hell," Tom said reluctantly, after a second, "I ain't saying you didn't, Jim. That ain't my intent. I just get burned when you yell you did, like no man dared say you was wrong. Sure, maybe you're right. But ain't you willing to admit you might be wrong too?"