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."
From the floor, the gunfighter gazed stupidly at the two. He arose slowly and dusted himself.
Outside in the crowded bar, nobody ventured to gibe at him, for Moffatt was always a dangerous man, and most dangerous when beaten or humiliated. He went quickly in search of his horse.
"You'd better go back to Grace," Johnson said, following to see him safely out of town.
"Not me. I'm overdue at the ranch already. She's yours. I wish you joy of her, Lafe."
He rode out of town at a purposely slow dogtrot. Some time afterward he killed a Mexican vaquero in a dispute over a bridle, and fled south.
Johnson was saddling next day, when Grace Hawes swept into the yard of the stable and confronted him.
"What's this I hear?" she shrilled. "What's the meaning of it, Lafe Johnson? Where're you going?"
"I've got to go to the ranch to-day, Grace."
"You mean you're through with me, Lafe Johnson?"
"I wouldn't go to put it that way, Grace. Don't take on so."
"I will—I will! I don't care who hears. You're a villain—that's what you are. You promised last night—you said—"
"A man had ought to be sociable with ladies," said Lafe, busy with the cinch.
"You done run off a man who was worth two of you any day, Lafe Johnson. And then you go to leave me. You leave me here to be laughed at. You ... here, wait. Don't go, Lafe. Lafe, I didn't mean ... please, Lafe ... oh, please ..."
Johnson and Buffalo ambled side by side along a mesa covered with mesquite. Jim had promise of a job from Floyd and assured Johnson of one, also. Both planned to eschew the frivolities of city life henceforth. Buffalo asked suddenly: "What made you draw off so sudden that way, Lafe?"
Johnson grinned at him.
"It's right queer, Jim," he said. "But when she saw us off to go to fighting, some way I begun to think of my li'l' sister. You knew my sister Kitty, back in Texas, didn't you, Buf'lo? She's got yallow hair."
"I shore did," said Jim, in some confusion.
"Well, I sort of begun to wonder what I'd think of Kitty if she served a man like that. It was all off then. If Kitty tried a game like that, Buf'lo, I'd sure take to her right smart with a rope end."
"Me and you both," Jim said heartily.
They rode onward toward the Lazy L headquarters, one whistling, the other smiling over memories.