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.