"I'm goin' to keep Bill's tenspot--always," he announced emotionally. "I'll never, never part with that! But this piece of money--" He threw it up again. "Why, stranger, you might just as well have that as not. Bill can be stakeholder and give us the word. There's just six cartridges left in the box for me." Peter Johnson smiled brightly, disclosing a row of small, white, perfect teeth. He got to his feet stiffly and shook his aged legs; he took out his gun, twirled the cylinder, and slipped in an extra cartridge. "I always carry the hammer on an empty chamber--safer that way," he explained. He put the gun back in the holster, dug up a wallet, and produced a gold piece for the stakeholder. "You'd better clean your gun, young man," he said. "It must be pretty foul by now." Jim followed this advice, taking ten minutes for the operation. Meantime the Californian replaced the targets with new ones--old tin dinner plates this time--and voiced a philosophical regret over his recent defeat. The Texas man, ready at last, took his place beside Pete and raised his gun till the butt of it was level with his ear, the barrel pointing up and back. Johnson swung up his heavy gun in the same fashion. "Ready?" bawled Bill. "All right! One--two--three--go!" Johnson's gun leaped forward, blazing; his left hand slapped back along the barrel, once, twice; pivoting, his gun turned to meet Bill, almost upon him, hands outstretched. Bill recoiled; Pete stepped aside a pace--all this at once. The Texan dropped his empty gun and turned. "You win," said Pete gently. Not understanding yet, triumph faded from the Texan's eyes at that gentle tone. He looked at the target; he looked at Bill, who stood open-mouthed and gasping; then he looked at the muzzle of Mr. Johnson's gun. His face flushed red, and then became almost black. Mr. Johnson held the gun easily at his hip, covering both his disarmed companions: Mr. Johnson's eyebrows were flattened and his mouth was twisted. "It's loaded!" croaked Bill in a horrified voice. "The skunk only shot once!" Peter corrected him: "Three times. I fanned the hammer. Look at the target!" Bill looked at the target; his jaw dropped again; his eyes protruded. There were three bullet holes, almost touching each other, grouped round the nail in the center of Pete's tin plate. "Well, I'm just damned!" he said. "I'll swear he didn't shoot but once." "That's fannin' the hammer, Shorty," drawled Pete. "Ever hear of that? Well, now you've seen it. When you practice it, hold your elbow tight against your ribs to steady your gun while you slap the hammer back. For you, Mr. Jim--I see you've landed your six shots; but some of 'em are mighty close to the edge of your little old plate. Poor shootin'! Poor shootin'! You ought to practice more. As for speed, I judge I can do six shots while you're making four. But I thought I'd best not--to-day. Son, pick up your gun, and get your money from Shorty."