"Why, there's all kinds of nerve in this world, Miss Hawes," said Lafe. "When a man knows he's better at a thing than the next man, he's liable to be awful nervy. Take a bronc buster, now. He knows he can clean a horse, and he ain't scared so you could notice it. And a gunman. If the other feller was a mite quicker, I wonder if he'd--What do you think?" Said Moffatt: "I don't know what you're driving at." "Well, look a-here. Supposing I was to put it up to a gunfighter--to Mr. Moffatt here, say--'Let's go into that back room with just our bare hands and lock the door and lay the key on the table.'" "What for?" Miss Hawes asked breathlessly. "The best man to open it--I wonder now what a gunman--what Mr. Moffatt here--would say to that?" "I ain't a fool," was what Moffatt had to say to that. "Or," Lafe resumed, "what if I put it up this way to some of them terrible fighters? What if I said, 'Let's put two guns on a table, draw off to opposite sides of the room, let another feller count three, and the man who gets to 'em first, lives?'" None of the three moved when Johnson had finished. The alarm clock on the flimsy, draped mantel-shelf ticked loudly. Miss Hawes's breathing sounded strained. "Ol' man Haverty wanted to see you down at the Fashion, Moffatt," Lafe said at last. "You coming, too?" "I reckon so." "You're on," said Moffatt. CHAPTER VI DISCOMFITURE OF A GUNFIGHTER Grace accompanied them to the door. "Everybody'll know you're fighting about me," she whispered, twittering with excitement. "Everybody is sure to know the row is over me?" "Yes. I'm afraid so," said Lafe, staring at her. "Oh. All the girls will be wild." There was not an instant's hesitation in Haverty's acceptance of the mastership of ceremonies. He took Moffatt's two guns, examined them thoroughly and removed the cartridges. The weapons were exactly alike. Then he reloaded them and stationed the men. "Both your hosses is ready saddled," he announced. "So one of you kin get over the Border." "That suits me," said Steve. They were stationed in opposite corners of the rear room in the Fashion, a table placed accurately half-way between. On the table were two six-shooters, the butts outward. Johnson had the ball of one foot braced against the wall. "All ready?" Haverty said crisply. "One--two--three!" Johnson gained the middle of the room at a bound, seizing his gun and overturning the table with one movement. It crashed against Moffatt's chest and his hands failed to grasp the weapon. Lafe jammed the .45 close to his ribs and pulled twice. "Help, boys!" Moffatt shrieked, sinking to the floor. "Help! He's murdering me!" He threw an arm upward, as though to ward off the death he had meted out to others. Johnson remained over him, the smoking gun in his hand. "Get up," he said. "Get up and run." "I can't. You got me twice. I'm done for, I reckon." "Pshaw!" said Haverty. "You ain't even hit. Just scorched, Moffatt. Them was blank kattridges."