The señora was crying.
"This lady," said I, "was quite right in leaving Lonely Valley."
Saunders hurled curses at me, insulting, defiant, challenging, goading.
"Quite so," said I. "Quite so. As you remark, there are three of us here, with only room for two. Your gun is loaded? You should be sure of that. The light is good, the distance—ten feet—quite ample. If you get up and lean against the rock behind you, it will steady the aim, for your hand is shaking, Red. Brace yourself up, man. For the honor of the force, don't funk now that you're caught."
The señora howled.
"The lady," said I, "was prepared for this, or she would not have brought you here. She will oblige us by dropping her handkerchief as a signal for us to fire."
Now Red was blind and deaf with passion, screaming at me to stand up. But to reply to an evil word with another taunt is to clean off dirt with mud.
"Alas," I said, "I'm timid. I prefer to sit, so I won't tumble down. The señora is requested to stand out of the line of fire." I watched her swaying upon her feet, rocking as though she would fall, as she stared at me, horror-struck.
"As the señora wishes," I said, "to take no part in this little disagreement, you, Mr. Saunders, will count three slowly, firing at the word, 'Three.'"
Red braced straight upright, silent, and as I looked up his gun sights into his eyes, I knew that the kick of the gun would throw the shot clear above me. "One!" he gasped. "Two!" and with a scream, the woman flung herself into his arms, guarding him with her body, destroying his aim.