"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!"