He didn't ever look at Menner again. The old man leaned back against the shelf behind the bar, trembling, two trickles of red running down his neck and staining his shirt collar—I could see he wanted to touch the places where he'd been shot, to see how bad they were or just to rub at the pain, but he was afraid to raise a hand. He just stood there, looking sick.
Buck was staring at the little man in town clothes, over by the window. The little man had reared back at the shots, and now he was sitting up in his chair, his eyes straight on Buck. The table in front of him was wet where he'd spilled his drink when he'd jumped.
Buck looked at the little guy's fancy clothes and small mustache and grinned. "Come on," he said to me, and picked up his drink and started across the floor. "Find out who the dude is."
He pulled out a chair and sat down—and I saw he was careful to sit facing the front door, and also where he could see out the window.
I pulled out another chair and sat.
"Good shooting, huh?" Buck asked the little guy.
"Yes," said the little guy. "Very fine shooting. I confess, it quite startled me."
Buck laughed harshly. "Startled the old guy too...." He raised his voice. "Ain't that right, Menner? Wasn't you startled?"
"Yes, sir," came Menner's pain-filled voice from the bar.