"Yes, it takes nerve to be a gunfighter," Lafe interrupted.
"Oh, it's grand, I think." Miss Hawes clasped her hands and rolled her eyes.
"Yes, sir; yes, ma'am, it sure takes nerve. A gunfighter always gives the other feller an even break. And he don't care how even it is, does he, Moffatt?"
"I don't take you," Moffatt said doubtfully.
"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.