Ben didn’t finish his advice. Came the crash of a window pane behind the sheriff, showering him with glass; a sharp cry from Baggs, the thud of a bullet smashing into the wall, and from somewhere outside came the whiplike report of a rifle, the echoes clattering back from the buildings.
Ben’s presence of mind caused him to fall over backward against the wall, clawing for his six-shooter. Baggs staggered sidewise, almost fell, recovered and stood there trembling like a leaf.
“Git away from the window, yuh damn’ ignorant fool!” roared the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t understand. His hands were clawing at his chest.
Some one shouted from across the street, men were running on the sidewalk. Ben slid low beneath the window sill, came up against the wall. He wasn’t going to get in line with that window again.
“They hit me,” said Baggs dumbly. “They hit me.”
“Stay right where yuh are, and they’ll hit yuh again,” said the sheriff sarcastically.
But the shooting was over. A man sprang on the sidewalk in front of the office and threw the door open. It was Breezy.
“Where was that shot?” he began, but stopped. Sleepy joined him in the doorway.
“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.
“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”