"It was the first time Bud ever had a gun throwed in his face that way," another declared with solemn emphasis, to the great entertainment of all.
Burnett stood by grinning. He reached into his trousers pocket with one chubby white hand, drew out something which he began pouring from palm to palm, abstractedly as a dealer shuffling chips at a gaming table between plays. What he poured from palm to palm in that detached way appeared to be small bits of glass, or even counterparts of the gems in his necktie and rings, if one could conceive such a possibility of careless wealth in a town so barren as Damascus.
Whatever it was, Burnett stood there pouring from hand to hand without even following the movement with a glance. He smiled as he shifted the bright fragments, winking at Hall as if to say they were two who understood each other, let the clowns have their laugh as they would.
"What was it all about?" Hall inquired.
"Oh, some of them Simrall fellers out tryin' to throw a little scare," Burnett replied, more annoyed than concerned over such a trivial business. "I guess they'll be holdin' you for the inquest."
"Inquest?" Hall repeated curiously, not getting the drift of it.
"Over Bud. If you're in a hurry—"
"Did somebody kill him?"
"Darn fool made a break to get away," Burnett replied, his annoyance growing into disgust.
"Oh," said Hall, fully enlightened.
He felt that his own poise and dignity had been unduly disturbed in the turmoil of that incident, as well as
