“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.
“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”
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 o
