They crowded around him. Sleepy picked up an object against the opposite wall, a small tangle of metal and smashed wheels.
“Here’s yore watch,” he said, holding it out.
An examination showed that the bullet had cut through Baggs’s left coat sleeve near the shoulder, ripped across his chest, barely scoring the skin, picking up his watch and fountain pen, and had torn his right coat sleeve, but did not tear his shirt.
Baggs’s face was white and he shook weakly. An inch or two to the right, and Amos Baggs’s career would have been closed. He sat down in a chair and covered his face with his hands, while more men crowded in. Harry Cole, one of his dealers, and several cattlemen came over from the Oasis.
Everybody wanted to know what it was all about. Baggs was unable to talk about it. The sheriff told them what had happened, they examined the evidence and departed, taking Baggs with them. He had a keen desire to stay with a crowd.
Breezy and Sleepy stayed with the sheriff, who hung a blanket over the smashed window and sat down to smoke it over.
“The question is: who wants to kill Baggs?” mused Breezy.
“Hang the whole town,” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, he almost grabbed a harp that time.”
“Are yuh sure they didn’t shoot at you, Ben?” asked Breezy.
“Not a chance. No sir, they wanted Amos.”