“Damn yuh! Leave the sheriff out of this. I’ll⸺”
Hashknife closed the door behind him, wondering what in the world was the matter with Baggs, who was still raving. He found Dillon and Breezy at the office, and told them what Baggs had said and how Baggs had looked.
“What do yuh reckon is eatin’ him?” wondered Dillon.
“Capillary fit,” said Breezy.
“You mean cataleptic fit,” corrected Dillon. “Capillary has somethin’ to do with hair, don’t it?”
“If it does, I mean capillary. His hair is so tight it cramps his brain.”
“I guess yo’re right, Breezy,” grinned the sheriff. “Mebbe he ain’t got over his scare of last night. I don’t blame him.”
“Who do yuh reckon tried to kill him?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff shook his head wearily.
“I dunno. The longer I’m in this office the less I savvy about crime. I used to read detective stories, about ’em findin’ clues and all that, and puttin’ the deadwood on a criminal. Them writers lied. Yuh can’t do it. When a shot is fired in the dark, and all yuh see is the flash, how are yuh goin’ to deduct who pulled the trigger? Can’t be done. Who would bushwhack Amos Baggs? Why not kill him openly and get a medal? Who shot Charley Prentice? You answer it, I can’t. I’ve lost all faith in detective stories. I tell yuh, it’s all luck, when yuh catch a criminal. Instead of votin’ a man into this office, they ought to check up and find out who is the luckiest man in the county.”