"No," Jim Liddel yelled, and from the checker table came Windy Harris's encouraging, "You tell 'em who got that plane, Jim!"
Ben Bates scraped an inch of ash off his cigar against the table-edge, sighed and got up. He looked down at the glowering pair and said, "Well, come the next plane, if there is one, we'll shove a rifle in your hand, Jim, and see how good your eye is. You too, Tom. Till that time, reckon this is no place for a reasoning man."
"Sit down, Ben Bates," old Jim snarled. "If you're a reasoning man, sit down. Be glad to talk to one, after Tom here goes away."
"You go to hell. I ain't going no place," Tom said, and he picked up the cards and started shuffling them in his stiff hands.
Ben sat down and stretched out his legs again.
After a second, old Jim said wistfully, "You know, I wish I could still handle a rifle, Ben. Or do anything but sit. No way for a man to live, to have dead legs and dying arms." He shifted in his cushions. "You know, I reckon when I start to really die—die all over—I'm gonna get up out o' this chair. I'll stand up, somehow, even if it kills me faster. A man oughta fall when he dies, like a tree, so they know he stood up in his time. A man oughtn'ta die sitting down."
"Sure, Jim," Ben said. "You're right about that."
"Never had a sick day in my life, until they dropped that bomb. Why, I could outpitch and outchop and outshoot any of you whippersnappers, until they ..." Old Jim walloped the chair arm. "Damn, I made up for it, though! Didn't I? They put me in a chair, I sat in it and I got me an airyplane, and that's more'n they could do to me, by golly, they couldn't kill me!"
"Sure, Jim," Ben said.
"And when my time comes, I'll be up and out o' this chair. Man oughta fall and make a noise when he dies."