"Ready?" bawled Bill. "All right! One--two--three--go!"

Johnson's gun leaped forward, blazing; his left hand slapped back
along the barrel, once, twice; pivoting, his gun turned to meet Bill,
almost upon him, hands outstretched. Bill recoiled; Pete stepped aside
a pace--all this at once. The Texan dropped his empty gun and turned.

"You win," said Pete gently.

Not understanding yet, triumph faded from the Texan's eyes at that gentle
tone. He looked at the target; he looked at Bill, who stood open-mouthed
and gasping; then he looked at the muzzle of Mr. Johnson's gun. His face
flushed red, and then became almost black. Mr. Johnson held the gun
easily at his hip, covering both his disarmed companions: Mr. Johnson's
eyebrows were flattened and his mouth was twisted.

"It's loaded!" croaked Bill in a horrified voice. "The skunk only shot
once!"

Peter corrected him:

"Three times. I fanned the hammer. Look at the target!"

Bill looked at the target; his jaw dropped again; his eyes protruded.
There were three bullet holes, almost touching each other, grouped round
the nail in the center of Pete's tin plate.

"Well, I'm just damned!" he said. "I'll swear he didn't shoot but once."

"That's fannin' the hammer, Shorty," drawled Pete. "Ever hear of that?