“Sher’f, you better pray along with Amos Baggs.”
The sheriff stopped; Baggs stopped. There was not much of Baggs projecting outside the bulky outlines of the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t know it. Possibly he felt much larger than the sheriff.
“I—I never done anything to him,” wailed Amos. His voice sounded thin and weak in the smoke-hazy room.
“Sound yore A-string,” said Breezy foolishly.
“Sailor,” the sheriff’s voice was not too confident, “if you start anythin’⸺”
But the sheriff didn’t finish his warning. A man staggered in the front door; a man in his shirt sleeves, blood running down the side of his face, his mouth wide open, as though he had been running a long ways. It was the man who did the cleaning in the Oasis; the swamper, as he was called.
The menace of Sailor Jones was forgotten. The man staggered and would have fallen, except that the sheriff grasped his arm. Every one in the place was on his feet now. Harry Cole came forward, staring at the man.
“What in hell happened to you?” asked Breezy.
The man looked at Cole but did not speak. His face was the colour of ashes, and he seemed about to collapse.
“I’ll take him in my room,” said Cole quickly. “No, I can handle him alone. Jerry, did you get kicked by a horse?”