“Meanin’ what, Baggs?”
“There still remains the moral aspect of the thing.”
Len’s eyes hardened.
“Meanin’ that I ain’t fit to take him, Baggs?”
“In plain words: no, you are not, Ayres.”
Splat!
Len’s open right palm landed on the lawyer’s left ear, with every ounce of his lithe body behind it, and Mr. Baggs went sideways off the sidewalk, landing on his shoulders in the dusty street.
For a moment Len looked down at him, rubbed the hot palm of his hand on his thigh, and walked on up the sidewalk, as though nothing had happened. Baggs struggled to his feet, mouthing profanity, swearing dire threats, while Breezy fairly hugged Hashknife in the office door, chuckling with unholy glee.
Baggs climbed back on the sidewalk, trying to shake the dust off his clothes, shaking a fist at Len between swipes at his garments. Then he turned and came down toward the sheriff’s office, half trotting in his haste. Breezy shoved Hashknife back from the doorway and locked the door.
“Nobody home,” he grinned at Hashknife, who nodded. Baggs tried the door, knocked loudly, swore disgustedly, and went back to his office.