## The Project Gutenberg eBook of Law-star for an outlaw

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Title: Law-star for an outlaw

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Illustrator: Jim Chambers

Release date: October 6, 2025 [eBook #76995]

Language: English

Original publication: Chicago, IL: Best Publications, Inc, 1948

Credits: Roger Frank

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LAW-STAR FOR AN OUTLAW ***
Irish closed the gate of the white picket fence when suddenly something hit him a tremendous blow to the head.

# Law-Star for an Outlaw

A novelet by W. C. Tuttle

> A criminal trap is set to kill three men at a ranchhouse and Irish Delaney is forced into a six-gun showdown with the evil Night Hawks of Dancing Flats!

The gambling room of the Turquoise Saloon was filled to capacity that night, and the center of interest was the roulette layout, where a tall, slightly gray-haired, well-dressed man was playing the wheel alone. Not another game was in operation at that time, and the place was hushed.

“That totals seven hundred and fifty dollars, my friend,” the tall man said quietly. “Are you satisfied?”

“Slim” Duarte, swarthy, white-toothed gambler, owner of the Turquoise, smiled slowly as he replied:

“Parson, I feel that I have paid well for my seat in your little church yesterday. You publicly announced that I was more than partly responsible for poor attendance at your place of worship, and that if I would attend your church, you would attend my place of business. We are even now, my friend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Duarte. We both kept our word. It is my opinion that you received nothing from my sermon, so this will keep us even.”

The preacher tossed the money on the layout. Slim Duarte looked curiously at the minister.

“You can use money, can’t yuh, Parson?” he said quietly.

“Not that kind of money. The church doesn’t gamble. We both had our fun. You smiled at me in church—I laughed at you here. Thank you for your challenge and your entertainment—and goodnight.”

John Calvin, minister of the Dancing Flats Church, turned away from the roulette layout, and the crowd relaxed.

Standing only a few feet away from the layout was a tall, slender young man, his sombrero pulled low over a pair of hard eyes. He wore a faded, once-blue shirt, moulded to his powerful shoulders, a scarlet handkerchief knotted around his throat. Light from the oil lamps sparkled from the silver rivets on his gun-belt, and a black-handled Colt swayed outward in its short holster along his thigh.

No one had noticed his arrival. Not over ten minutes ago he had tied a weary, long-legged sorrel to the hitchrack beside the saloon. His eyes searched the face of the minister, who stopped, looking straight at him. They had never met before, but the cowboy said quietly:

“Yuh’re the preacher who buried my uncle. I heard about it, and I’d like to thank yuh. I’m Irish Delaney.”

Irish Delaney

Irish Delaney! It was as though thoughts were whispered aloud, although there was not a sound.

“Oh, yes,” the preacher said quietly. “You are the nephew of Henry Farley. I am glad to meet you, sir.”

“Yeah, I’m the nephew of Ol’ Hank Farley, who didn’t have a chance for his white chip. You paid for his funeral and preached it. I’m much obliged to yuh.”

Then Irish Delaney turned and the crowd gave him room to walk out. He paid no attention to them as he walked slowly through the barroom and went outside. After a few moments, the minister followed him. No one mentioned Irish Delaney.

Slim Duarte turned from the roulette layout and his eyes met those of Jim Corwin, the sheriff. Corwin was tall, slightly gray, with a deep-lined face, small eyes and a wide mouth. He had been sheriff of Dancing Flats for twelve years.

Irish Delaney had left Dancing Flats seven years ago, but there were men in the crowd who had been in Dancing Flats the day Irish Delaney rode away. Jim Corwin’s eyes flashed across the faces of the crowd, before he walked away. Duarte spoke to a gambler, and the games were opened.

Almost seven years to the day since Irish Delaney rode away on a long-legged sorrel gelding. Irish was partial to long-legged sorrels. Some said it was the only color that nearly matched his own hair.

Irish had been a wild-riding kid, cold-jawed, but laughing. He had started building up his own herd. He was nineteen then—an orphan—living with his uncle, Hank Farley, who owned the 74 spread east of Dancing Flats. Irish loved Nell Shearer, daughter of Ed Shearer, who owned the Lazy S, but Ed Shearer did not want Irish Delaney as a son-in-law.

Irish Delaney cared little for Ed Shearer’s likes and dislikes, and Ed Shearer knew it, but fate stepped in to help the cause of Ed Shearer. A dance-hall girl, young and rather pretty, went for a horseback ride alone and was thrown in the desert, several miles from Dancing Flats. Fate sent Irish Delaney across that same stretch of country, and Irish found her, injured and trying to find her way home.

An hour later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, with the young lady in his arms. She couldn’t sit down, because of cactus. Nell Shearer happened to be in town—and saw them arrive. Irish was laughing over it, and carried the girl into the Turquoise. This incident was grist for Ed Shearer’s mill, and he made the most of it.

Two days later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, drew out all the money he had in the little bank and went over to the Turquoise Saloon. Slim Duarte had laughingly made the remark that he expected to have to hire a new soprano, intimating that Irish was in love with the dance-hall girl. Irish heard about the remark. He was leaving Dancing Flats today. Old Hank Farley said nothing. Advice was not what Irish Delaney wanted—he’d do as he pleased.

Irish didn’t like Jim Corwin, the sheriff, either. Irish sat into a draw poker game, where Slim Duarte was running the play, and told the suave gambler to kick the roof off the house. It was a five-handed game, but quickly slid to two-handed. Jim Corwin was in the saloon, watching Irish Delaney, while Irish watched Slim Duarte.

Irish had the luck of the Irish. Pot after pot went to his side of the table, and Slim Duarte realized that honesty is not always the best policy. Then the luck changed, and Irish’s winnings began taking wings. Suddenly there was a lull. Duarte was dealing. Irish picked up a card and examined a corner carefully. He laid the card down and looked intently at Duarte.

Jim Corwin moved quietly to a spot behind the young Irishman.

“Look at that card,” said Irish quietly.

He flipped the card with a forefinger and it landed in front of Duarte, who looked down at it. Irish was on his feet in a flash, drawing his gun.

“Marked with a thumb-nail!” he rasped. “You dirty crook, yuh’re dealin’ seconds!”

Jim Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the lithe cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte, who was trying to get out of his chair. They both went down with a crash, when a leg broke off the chair. Spectators dived for cover, the bartender hit the floor behind the bar, as the real fight started.

Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the little cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte.

No shots were fired. Irish ignored his holstered gun, after he had thrown the sheriff’s gun the length of the saloon. They went to it with bare fists, chairs—anything in reach. Duarte went down from a left hook that almost removed his chin.

Jim Corwin was much bigger than Irish, and he knew the game of roughhouse fighting, but this fight-crazy youngster was like a wild-cat. Punches didn’t hurt him. He laughed and tore back, until Jim Corwin went down on his hands and knees, bleeding and too dazed to continue.

Irish backed against the bar, bloody, disheveled, his gun dangling from his right hand.

“Fine people!” he choked. “Crooked gambler, backed by a crooked sheriff, fleecin’ a kid. Get up, Duarte! Walk outside, both of yuh. I want the folks to see what yuh look like. Outside, before I use a gun on yuh. Start walkin’!”

They went. It was difficult, but not far to go. A big crowd had gathered in front of the Turquoise. Slim Duarte was clinging to Jim Corwin, his eyes vacant. They were a well-whipped pair. Behind them came Irish Delaney. Jim Corwin grasped a porch post and tried to shake loose from Duarte, but without any success.

Irish Delaney’s mouth laughed, but his eyes were hard.

“Damon and Pythias, folks!” he said. “Duarte played crooked and Corwin backed his play. I’m pullin’ out of Dancin’ Flats but before I go, I’d like to show yuh some true love. Corwin! Duarte!”

Corwin said, “What?” But Duarte said nothing.

“Put yore arms around Duarte and kiss him, Corwin.”

“Yuh’re—crazy.”

Irish moved in, his bleeding right fist balled tightly. “Kiss him—or we start all over again, Corwin.”

Corwin kissed Duarte. It was not a pretty face to kiss. Duarte still rather vague as to what was going on, kissed Corwin, his foot slipped off the edge of the board sidewalk, and they both fell into the street, locked together.

Irish Delaney went out to the hitchrack, mounted his sorrel and galloped out of Dancing Flats.

They heard rumors of Irish Delaney occasionally. He was leading a bad bunch in New Mexico, had been arrested near the Border by the Texas Rangers, but escaped. Neither Duarte nor Corwin ever forgot the humiliation of that day. Jim Corwin was a good sheriff. After explanations had been made, the people forgave Corwin. There was no evidence of marked cards, because somebody, possibly the bartender, had seen to that detail.

## II

Irish Delaney was back and folks knew that he didn’t merely come back to thank John Calvin, their minister. Shorty Long, the deputy sheriff, with the longest neck in the country, shook his head.

“I shore do pity them Night Hawks,” he remarked in a sepulchral voice.

“You can take that remark out and bury it,” said Jim Corwin.

“Yeah, but I can still think my own thoughts, Jim. If he ever finds out who killed Hank Farley—”

“Even if Hank Farley was the Ghost Rider?”

“Even if Hank Farley was the devil himself, Jim. Blood’s a heap thicker’n water, and Hank Farley loved that hard-eyed kid.”

“Forget it, Shorty. We’ll keep an eye on Irish Delaney.”

Irish Delaney rode out of Dancing Flats, heading for the one friend he used to have in the valley, Johnny McCune, who owned a small ranch south of town. McCune and Hank Farley had been old cronies for years. On the little ranch with McCune was Tucson Thomas, an old ranchhand, badly crippled in body but strong in spirit.

Seven years had aged Johnny McCune. He stood on the little porch of his Flying M ranchhouse and peered from under the brim of his battered sombrero at Irish Delaney. Tucson came to the doorway, his skinny waist encircled with a flour-sack, a skillet in his hand.

“Howdy, Mr. McCune,” Irish said. “Tucson Thomas, how are yuh?”

“I’ll be a pug-nosed pelican!” snorted Tucson. “Irish!”

“Irish Delaney!” gasped Johnny McCune. “You—you darned kid!”

The two of them fairly swarmed into Irish, whose eyes were not hard now. Perhaps the moisture softened them up. He didn’t know what sort of a reception he could expect. This was great.

They led him into the house, seated him in the one rocker, and demanded an explanation of his return.

“You never wrote to anybody,” accused Johnny. “Not anybody.”

“No, I don’t reckon I did. I made a fool of myself before I got out, and maybe nobody wanted a letter from me.”

“Hank did, Irish.”

Irish drew a deep breath, staring at the floor. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I reckon Hank did. I’m sorry, Johnny.”

None of them said anything for a while. Then Irish said:

“How have things been with you two, Johnny McCune?”

“Jist fair, Irish. You heard about Hank.”

“I heard he was killed by night riders, but I didn’t get any details. A cowpuncher down on the Border told me. That is, he didn’t exactly tell me—he was just talkin’. How’d it happen?”

“Irish,” replied McCune, “about two years ago the Ghost Rider showed up in this country. He rode a gray, dressed in gray and wore a gray mask. He was a pretty bad hombre, Irish.”

“Was?” queried Irish.

“Be that as it may,” replied the old cowman, “he held up banks, stages, gamblin’ houses and a couple mines. He never missed. It was a caution the way that hombre stretched his luck. Everybody was lookin’ for him. He worked alone and—”

“Did he?” interrupted Tucson.

“He was always seen alone,” corrected McCune. “He wasn’t doin’ business all the time. Mebbe two, three months would pass, and when everybody thought he was through, he’d pull a job. He must have stole a fortune. Well, one night he stuck up the train at Broken Fork, cut off the express car, and got himself forty thousand. He killed the express messenger and—”

“He didn’t do no such thing,” interrupted Tucson. “The evidence proved that he didn’t, Johnny.”

McCune took a deep breath, looked at Tucson before going on.

“Well, mebbe,” McCune said. “He herded the engine crew back to the express car, and they swear the car was unlocked, the messenger layin’ on the car floor, dead as a mackerel.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Tucson. “He had a pardner. When the messenger opened the door, tryin’ to find out what was the matter, this feller shot him. The Ghost Rider couldn’t have done it, ’cause he was in the engine cab all that time.”

“And then what?” asked Irish.

“Two days later,” said McCune slowly, “the sheriff and deputy rode in at Hank Farley’s ranchhouse, and they found Hank laying on the front porch, shot full of holes. He was dressed in a gray suit, a gray handkerchief mask tied around his neck. Down at the corral was a skinny gray horse, wearin’ one of Hank’s saddles. There was a piece of cardboard tied to Hank’s shirt, and on it was written, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”

Irish sat there staring at the sunlight through the open doorway. He muttered, “The Night Hawks, eh?”

The two old men nodded.

“When the law fails,” said Irish. “Is this the only job done by the Night Hawks?”

“The only job of that kind,” replied Johnny.

Irish looked up quickly. “Other kinds?” he asked.

“Yeah. Only a short time ago I was arrested for brandin’ an unweaned calf, belongin’ to Buck French. The calf disappeared, but they gave me a hearin’, anyway, and the judge excused me, because there wasn’t any evidence.

“A few days later I got a letter from the Night Hawks. They told me they’d give me sixty days to sell my ranch and git out of the country. They also told me to pay Buck fifty dollars damages. The letter said, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”

“And he paid Buck French the fifty,” said Tucson. “I’d have seen ’em all fryin’ in brimstone!”

“You’d have paid—just like I did, Tucson.”

“What did Buck French say?” asked Irish.

“Well, he didn’t want to take the money. Said he didn’t have it comin’, and that his business didn’t concern the Night Hawks, but I told him I’d feel safer if he took it.”

“Had his hand out all the time he was talkin’,” said Tucson.

“Is Buck still as poor as he used to be?” asked Irish.

“No, I think he’s better off than he used to be. Still brags about what he’s goin’ to do next year.”

“We could use that fifty dollars,” declared Tucson.

“I saw that preacher in town,” remarked Irish.

“Reverend John Calvin? Oh, yeah. Fine feller, Irish. I asked him to let me share the expenses of Hank’s funeral, but nope. He’s been here three years. Awful well liked, especially by women.”

“What happened to my uncle’s outfit?” asked Irish.

“That was a queer deal, Irish. It seems that some relatives of Buck French died and left money to Buck. I think it was twelve thousand. Anyway it was more money than Buck ever seen before. He put it in the bank. Long about that time, Hank Farley asked the bank for a loan, but didn’t get it. He was pretty mad about it.

“Well, somebody said to Buck, ‘Why don’t yuh lend Hank the money?’ They explained about interest and all that, and Buck made the loan. It was eight thousand, I believe. Buck was a nuisance. He rode out to the ranch and looked it over, every little while, actin’ like he owned it.

“Well, sir, when Hank was killed and Buck realized that he owned the ranch, he was sore as a boil. He wanted his money, too. Yuh see, Hank didn’t have many cows left. But Buck had to take it. He moved out there, ’cause it was a better house.”

“How about a little chow?” asked Tucson. “You ort to be hongry.”

“I am, Tucson. Thank yuh a lot.”

After Tucson left, Johnny McCune said quietly:

“Yuh’re aimin’ to stay a while ain’t yuh, Irish?”

“Yeah, a while, I reckon, Johnny.”

“Throw yore remains in that back room, son—it’s better ’n stayin’ in town. Now, now, I’m runnin’ this place. Me and Tucson need new blood around here.”

Irish smiled wryly. “With me and the Night Hawks both in the same country, there might be blood, yuh know.”

Johnny nodded grimly. “Step lightly, son. They ain’t no clingin’ vine outfit and yuh’re too young to shed hot bullets.”

“I didn’t come here to set in the shade, Johnny.”

“Yuh didn’t come here to be planted on the side of the hill above Dancin’ Flats, either, didja?”

“Johnny, are you sellin’ out in sixty days?”

“No! Oh, I see what yuh mean. But I’m an old man and when yuh get old, Irish, yuh don’t want to run.”

Irish rolled a cigarette, his eyes somber. After it was lighted, he said casually:

“Johnny, what became of Ed Shearer? Still runnin’ the Lazy S?”

“She got married, Irish.”

“She?” Irish looked up at the old cowman. “I asked—”

“Yeah, I know yuh did. She married Al Briggs.”

“Oh, is that so,” Irish said, and examined a thumb-nail.

“You knowed him, Irish. He owns the general store, and drinks like a fish. ’Member that girl yuh found out in the cactus? After you left here, she found out about you pullin’ out—and why. She went to Nell Shearer and told her just what happened. That little devil was as indignant as a bee-stung bear. She heard what Slim Duarte said, too, and she rode him with hot spurs. Then she quit and pulled out. They said she was followin’ you.”

“Is that so?”

“Shore was. Mighty pretty little thing. Smart, too. Man, she used words that nobody, except mebbe a mule, ever heard. I liked her.”

“Grub-pile!” called Tucson from the kitchen.

## III

Next day Irish rode over to the old 74 spread, where he had lived so long. Seven years had made few changes in the old ranchhouse, except that it was not well-kept. Buck French was there, hunched on the front steps, sewing some rips in an old pair of bat-wing chaps. Buck was a tall, gaunt person, as angular as a Joshua-palm, and just about as rough.

Irish dismounted near the porch, but Buck paid no attention until Irish walked up to him, when he held out a big hand to the cowboy.

“Hyah, Irish,” he said quietly. “I heard yuh was back.”

“How are yuh, Buck?” asked Irish.

“Same’s ever.” Buck laid the chaps aside and began rolling a cigarette. “Heard in Dancin’ Flats that you was back. Place ain’t changed very much, huh?”

“Very little,” agreed Irish. “I heard what happened to my uncle, Buck.”

“Yea-a-ah,” said Buck. “They found him right where we’re settin’. You heard that I got the Seventy-four, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, Shorty McCune told me, Buck.”

“Yuh don’t want to buy it, do yuh, Irish?”

“What with?” asked Irish soberly.

“I didn’t know. I got stuck with it.”

“It’s a good spread, Buck. Better than yours.”

“Mebbe it’s a little better. Better water. What do yuh aim to do down here, Irish?”

“Find the men who killed Hank Farley, Buck.”

“Oh!” grunted Buck quietly. “Might be quite a job, Irish. Nobody knows who the Night Hawks are, and yuh might not get much help at that. Yuh know, they wanted to get rid of the Ghost Rider.”

“If the Night Hawks knew who was the Ghost Rider, why didn’t they tell the law, instead of killin’ him themselves, Buck?”

“Nobody knows why, Irish, and the Night Hawks don’t explain.”

“The law could have handled it,” said Irish grimly.

“Yeah, I reckon they could have—but that’s how it happened. Maybe it’d be better to let sleepin’ dogs lie, Irish.”

“Dogs, yeah,” said Irish quietly. “But they’re not sleepin’.”

“Yuh mean the Night Hawks, Irish? No, I don’t reckon they’re asleep. Did Johnny McCune tell yuh what they done to him?”

“Made him pay you fifty dollars, Buck.”

“Yeah, they did. I didn’t want to take it, Irish, but Johnny said he’d feel safer if I did.” Buck French looked at Irish, a queer twinkle in his eyes, as he said quietly: “If yuh’re able to keep yore word, Irish, maybe I can pay him back some day.”

“Johnny could use the money, Buck. I’d like to clear Hank Farley’s name. And, Buck, you know as well as I do that Hank was not the Ghost Rider.”

Buck French drew a deep breath. “Look at it thisaway, Irish; he was caught with the goods. Before it happened, nobody could make me believe that Hank had a crooked bone in his body. ’Course, I wasn’t here, and I didn’t see him, but others did. Yuh got to take the word of the law for things like that.”

Irish nodded slowly. “Yeah, but the law believes what they see, Buck. I don’t believe what they say. Well, I’ll drift back.”

“You stayin’ over at the Flyin’ M?”

“For a few days, anyway,” replied Irish. “I’ll be seein’ yuh, Buck.”

Irish climbed onto his long-legged sorrel and rode to Dancing Flats, where he tied his horse in front of the general store. Ed Shearer stepped out of the store and came face to face with Irish. They looked curiously at each other.

“I heard you was back, Irish,” Shearer said. “How are yuh?”

“Pretty good, Mr. Shearer. How are you?”

“All right. You aimin’ to stay here now?”

“Until I finish my job.”

“Oh, I see. You have a job here? I didn’t hear about it.”

Irish’s lips smiled, but his eyes were grave.

“I’m lookin’ for the Ghost Rider,” he said.

Ed Shearer studied that reply thoughtfully. Finally he said:

“I reckon I know what yuh mean, Irish, but I’d forget it. Yuh see, I went with the sheriff to the Seventy-Four and helped bring Hank’s body to town. Yuh can’t get away from that evidence.”

“Yuh see,” said Irish quietly, “I lived with Hank Farley. He was sort of a father to me.”

“Yeah, I know he was, Irish. But I’d forget it, if I was you.”

Irish shook his head. “I’m part elephant, Mr. Shearer—I never forget. Thank yuh for the advice. It was well-meant.”

“You’re welcome.”

Irish went into the store to buy some tobacco, and ran face to face with Nell, who worked there at times.

They looked at each other silently for several moments.

“I heard you came back,” she said.

“Yeah, I thought yuh would. How are yuh, Nell?”

“I’m fine, Irish.” She brushed a lock of hair nervously.

Seven years had taken their toll. She was eighteen, when Irish left, and at twenty-five she had streaks of gray in her hair, lines around her eyes. She was still a pretty woman, but too mature at twenty-five. “You haven’t changed, Irish,” she said.

She looked the length of the store, turned back to him and said quietly:

“I wanted to find you, Irish—to tell you that—that girl told me—” Nell hesitated.

“I know,” Irish said. “Johnny McCune told me. It was just a mistake. Life is full of mistakes, Nell. You married Al Briggs, they tell me.”

The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, three years ago, Irish,” she said. “Did you consider that a mistake?”

“I didn’t mean it that way, Nell. I always liked Al, and he’s done well—a lot better than I could have done. I met yore dad out on the street. He looks the same.”

“Yes, Dad is fine, Irish. Where are you staying?”

“Out at the Flyin’ M. Johnny McCune took me in.”

“Are you going to stay here, Irish?”

Irish smiled with his lips. “Not if my luck holds good.”

Nell looked curiously at him. “I don’t understand that,” she said.

“Yuh see, Nell,” he explained quietly, “I came here to get the men who shot Hank Farley.”

“Oh! Be careful, Irish. Don’t let them know.”

Irish laughed quietly. “I don’t know who they are, Nell, so I’ve got to let them know. The only way I can ever find out is to have them try to stop me—force their hand.”

Nell shook her head. “They won’t give you a chance,” she said.

The front door opened and Albert Briggs came in. He was a colorless sort of person, rather slovenly dressed. He scowled at Nell.

“There must be something else you can do,” he said. “How are you, Irish?”

Nell walked away. Al Briggs came closer, and his breath reeked of whisky. Irish said:

“I’m all right, Al. How are you?”

“All right. What were you and Nell talking about?”

“That’s kind of a foolish question, Al. After all, I used to live here and I’ve been away seven years. We just talked, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh. You keep away from her, Irish.”

“I expect to, Al. She’s yore wife.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

“That’s whisky talkin’, Al. Sober up and don’t make a fool of yourself.”

“Yea-a-ah? Why, I’ll tell you somethin’ that—”

“You won’t tell me anythin’,” interrupted Irish, “’Cause I’m goin’ outside. If you have anythin’ to say to me, wait until yuh sober up, so yuh can talk sense.”

Irish turned abruptly and walked outside, leaving Al Briggs impotently swearing at himself. The Reverend John Calvin came in, stopped and listened to Al Briggs’ tirade, and then came on into the store.

“I’m sorry,” Briggs said. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“That’s all right.” The minister smiled. “I thought for a moment you were really quarreling with someone, Briggs.”

“It was that blasted Irish Delaney. He just left.”

“Oh, I see. Irish Delaney. I met him yesterday. Quite a lad.”

“Hard-headed fool, yuh mean! He came here to run down the Night Hawks for shooting Hank Farley.”

“Well, isn’t that to be commended, Briggs?”

“Oh, sure. Let him go ahead and they’ll plant him beside his uncle. Suits me. I never did like him, the hard-headed fool.”

The minister laughed and shook his head.

“I’m afraid you haven’t the Christian attitude, Briggs. And after all, what has he ever done to you?”

“Nothin’—yet, and I’ll see that he don’t. Can I help you?”

“Just a few groceries. Here is my list.”

## IV

Irish walked down to the sheriff’s office, where he found “Shorty” Long, the deputy, enjoying a siesta. Irish and Shorty had always been good friends, and Shorty was glad to see him.

“Doggone, yuh look good, Irish! Hyah, Kid, long time no see.”

“That’s right, Shorty. I didn’t know how I stood with the law, so I thought I’d beard the lion in his den.”

“Jim Corwin is out.” Shorty grinned. “I reckon yuh stand all right with the law, far as I know. At least, the law of Dancin’ Flats, Irish. Set down and rest yore hind feet, boy. Everybody is talkin’ about you. The preacher says yuh’re a crusader for the right, whatever that is.”

“Preachers have never paid much attention to me, Shorty.”

“Me neither. But John Calvin is a little different. You’ll like him.”

“I didn’t come here to go to church, Shorty.”

“I know yuh didn’t, Irish. Everybody is talkin’ about why yuh came here, and they’re even makin’ bets that yuh don’t last a week. I hear that Slim Duarte is takin’ bets on yuh.”

Irish grinned slowly. “Slim Duarte is, eh? He’s bettin’ that I don’t last, eh?”

“I don’t reckon Slim has forgotten what happened the day you left here, Irish. Neither has Jim Corwin, but he ain’t bettin’.”

“What’s yore bet, Shorty?”

“Me? I don’t bet; I just hope yuh win.”

“Yuh do, eh? Shorty, you’ve been here with Corwin for a long time, and you’ve got two good ears, so what about these Night Hawks? Are people scared of ’em?”

“Yeah, I reckon they’re a little scary of talkin’. Nobody knows who they are, nor how many there are. They make the sheriff’s office look awful bad, Irish. They leave notes, yuh know, sayin’ that the law works too slow, and all that. Jim don’t like ’em.”

Irish smiled. “Shorty, if the odds get long enough, maybe I’ll risk a few dollars myself.”

“Yuh mean yuh’re so confident on winnin’ that you’d take a chance on yore own money, Irish?”

“Look at it this way, Shorty. If I come out on top, I can use the money, but if I’m loser—well, I can’t take it with me.”

“Yea-a-a-ah!” breathed Shorty. “That’s right. Shucks, you can afford to bet every cent you’ve got.”

Irish smiled. “I reckon I’ll go out to the ranch and wait for the odds to get bigger. See yuh later, Shorty.”

People on the street looked curiously at Irish as he rode his sorrel down the main street of Dancing Flats. Some of them shook their heads. One man said to another:

“I knowed Irish Delaney when he lived here, and he was a nice boy until he lost his temper, but he’s become a rash fool, talkin’ like he has.”

“Packs his gun low,” observed the other man pointedly.

“Yeah, and he can sling it, too. Hank Farley learned him that. When he was twelve years old he could pull a gun and hit tin cans throwed in the air. But his shootin’ ability won’t save him. He’s buttin’ his sorrel head ag’in a stone wall.”

Irish Delaney realized it, too. One man against an unseen and unknown organization, an organization that would not stop at murder, made his chances very slim indeed. Irish believed that they had murdered Hank Farley, and that the only way to unmask them was to force their hand. All they would have to do would be to shoot him from ambush, pin a note on his shirt-front—and the Night Hawks would be more powerful than ever.

He had a long talk with Johnny and Tucson that evening, hoping that they might remember somebody who hated Hank Farley enough to murder him, but to no avail. Neither of them had ever heard of Hank Farley having a deadly enemy. The time element meant nothing. There was no record of the Night Hawks, until they found the body of Hank Farley. It was their first job. Every sheriff in that part of the state had tried to find the Ghost Rider.

Tucson insisted that the Ghost Rider had an accomplice.

“He had to have, I tell yuh,” insisted the old man. “Evidence proved it.”

“But he pulled every other job alone,” said Johnny McCune.

“Mebbe. Yuh can’t tell—mebbe the other man hung back ready to step in if things got tough. Everybody looks for one man, and all the time there was two.”

“What about descriptions?” asked Irish. “Men must have seen the Ghost Rider and knew what size he was.”

“Well, I dunno about that, Irish,” replied Johnny. “When a man’s got a gun centered on yuh—size don’t mean much.”

“Uncle Hank didn’t have no close friend—nobody he’d pull a job like that with, did he?”

“Uncle Hank never done it!” declared Tucson.

“Yo’re just hard-headed and soft-hearted, Tucson,” said Johnny.

The talk shifted to other things, and Irish mentioned seeing Nell in town.

“She’s aged, don’t yuh think, Irish? Who wouldn’t—livin’ with Briggs. He’s been drinkin’ a lot, and he’s awful jealous of her. Briggs don’t get along with Ed Shearer. Briggs spends most of his evenin’s at the Turquoise, drinkin’ up the profits, and I reckon she sets at home, waitin’ for him to come home and cuss at her. Yuh know, Irish, he hates the preacher.” Johnny grinned widely. “He’s jealous of the preacher. Won’t let Nell go to church.”

“You’re jokin’, ain’t yuh, Johnny?”

“Ask anybody. The preacher knows it.”

“Well, I dunno,” sighed Irish. “Nobody can be as foolish as people.”

It was nearly midnight when they went to bed that night, and none of them had gone to sleep, when fast-traveling hoofs beat up to the front of the house. Johnny McCune slept on a cot in the main room. He lighted a lamp, picked up his gun and went to the door, for someone was knocking.

“This is Jim Corwin, Johnny!” called a voice, and Johnny opened the door.

It was the sheriff and Shorty Long. Tucson came in from one doorway and Irish Delaney from another. Irish had a gun in his hand. The sheriff looked them over, but spoke to Irish.

“How long ago did you come here, Irish?” he asked sharply.

“Before supper,” replied Irish, and the other two men nodded.

“He’s been here all evenin’, talkin’ with us, Jim,” said McCune.

“Has, eh? Well, that’s lucky for him.”

“What’s all this hocus-pocus about, Corwin?” asked Irish.

“No hocus-pocus,” replied the sheriff. “Somebody shot Al Briggs tonight, and somebody stuck up Slim Duarte, and cleaned out his safe.”

None of the three men had any comment to make. Irish placed his gun on the table, picked up a cigarette-paper and tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

“And you thought I done it, eh?” he said coldly. “Thanks.”

“You had trouble with Al Briggs today,” accused the sheriff.

Deliberately Irish lighted his cigarette over the chimney of the lamp, and squinted away from the smoke. “Trouble? I didn’t have trouble with Briggs. He’d been drinkin’—and I walked out on him. What was the evidence against me in the Slim Duarte job?”

“Well, it was a masked man about yore size, Irish,” replied the sheriff.

“I see. Sorry to disappoint yuh, Corwin, but I was here.”

“Is Al Briggs dead?” asked Johnny.

“Dead’s a doorknob,” said Shorty Long. “Slim don’t know how much money he’s lost—somethin’ over four thousand dollars.”

“Was the masked man dressed in gray?” asked Tucson.

“No, he wasn’t,” replied the sheriff testily.

“Looks like another crime wave was startin’,” remarked the deputy. “I figure the killer was also the robber. Everybody was so upset over Al Briggs that the man pried open the window of Slim’s little office, slipped in and waited for Slim to come. Then he made Slim open the safe.”

“Where did he kill Briggs?” asked Johnny.

“Right in front of my office!” snapped the sheriff. “I was at the Turquoise.”

“Made it easy for yuh to find the body, Jim,” said Tucson, dryly.

“In front of yore office,” said Irish. “That’s kind of funny.”

“What’s the difference where he was shot?” asked the sheriff.

“None, I reckon. Was Al Briggs armed?”

“He had a gun in his pocket, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“I could have meant that, I reckon.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “we might as well go back, Shorty.”

“Have yuh tried any of the other ranches?” asked Tucson. “Yuh never can tell what yore luck might be, Jim.”

Jim Corwin told Tucson where he could go, and they walked out. Tucson chuckled quietly. “I like to rub Jim the wrong way,” he said.

“You were pretty lucky, Irish,” remarked Johnny. Irish smiled.

“Corwin wants to count coup on my scalp, I reckon, Johnny.”

“I can’t figure Al Briggs gettin’ killed,” said Tucson.

“Irish,” said Johnny. “What was yore idea in askin’ if Briggs had a gun?”

“I don’t know, Johnny. I just wondered.”

“You didn’t have no trouble with Briggs, did yuh, Irish?”

“No. I was talkin’ with Nell, when Al came in. He sent her away, and tried to start an argument with me about talkin’ to her, but I told him he was drunk and walked out.”

Tucson yawned. “Well, we might as well go back to bed.”

Jim Corwin and Shorty Long went back to Dancing Flats. There was still a crowd in the Turquoise. They found Slim Duarte and told him that Irish Delaney had an iron-clad alibi.

“McCune and Thomas would lie for him,” said Duarte.

“All right, Slim, think what yuh like but when two men swear he was there with them all evenin’, yuh’re stuck. How much did he get away with?”

“About six thousand dollars,” replied Duarte grimly. “I was a fool to keep that much in my safe but it’s too late now.”

## V

When Irish and Johnny arrived at Dancing Flats next morning, the general store was closed. Ed Shearer was in town, talking with the sheriff and the minister, when Irish and Johnny rode in. Both Ed Shearer and the sheriff looked rather bleakly at Irish, but the minister shook hands with him. Johnny said:

“We thought we’d ride in and get more information.”

Irish looked around on the wooden sidewalk. Jim Corwin said:

“Right here’s where the body was found, Irish.”

“Kinda funny—no blood-stains,” remarked Irish.

No one said anything, but all five men looked at the weathered planking. Then the sheriff said:

“That’s right—I didn’t notice. It is kinda—funny, ain’t it?”

“He must have bled,” said Johnny McCune. “Usually do.”

“His shirt was all bloody,” said the sheriff.

“Mrs. Briggs is standing it well,” said the minister. “She is very brave.”

“Al was drinkin’ hard all day,” said Shearer.

“That wasn’t anythin’ new,” remarked Johnny McCune. “He’s been drunk for a year. Anythin’ new on the robbery, Jim?”

The big sheriff shook his head. “Nothin’ new, Johnny. Duarte says the man got six thousand dollars.”

“I think I’ll go down to the house,” said Shearer. “Better go with me, Parson.”

“I shall be very glad to be of any assistance,” replied the minister.

They walked away together. Johnny said:

“Jim, do yuh think the killer was the same one who robbed the saloon?”

“What’s the difference? We don’t know who either one was. It’s kind of funny that Briggs was killed here in front of my office.”

“I don’t believe he was,” said Irish. The sheriff looked quickly at the cowboy.

“Why do yuh say that?” he asked sharply.

“No blood, Corwin. I believe he was shot some place else and placed here.”

“Nonsense! We heard the shot.”

“You heard a shot, Corwin. There was nothin’ to stop a killer from shootin’ in the air, was there?”

“No, I don’t reckon there was. Hm-m-m-m. Could be. But why not let us find him where he was shot?”

“And incriminate the killer?”

“Yeah, I see what yuh mean, Irish. But that don’t do us any good. No matter where he was killed, it’s still murder.”

“Could he have been shot some’ers else and walked here?” asked Johnny. The sheriff shook his head quickly.

“He was shot plumb through the heart, Johnny.”

“Then he didn’t do much walkin’. Well, Irish, I think I’ll walk up to the post office and get the mail.”

“I’ll go with yuh, Johnny. See yuh later, Corwin.”

There was the usual crowd around the little post office, arguing about the murder and robbery. Irish knew many of them, and they knew that Irish had been an immediate suspect. Johnny McCune got the mail, and they walked outside. As they walked over to their horses Johnny said quietly:

“There’s a letter for you, Irish, and the handwritin’ is the same as on the letter I got.”

“Keep it until we get out of the town, Johnny. That gang is watchin’ us now.”

Outside of Dancing Flats, Johnny gave the letter to Irish. It was poorly addressed in pencil to Irish Delaney, care of the Flying M. Inside was a sheet of paper on which was penciled:

> DELANEY, YOU ARE A FOOL AND A BRAGGART. THE LAW CAN’T TOUCH YOU, BUT WE CAN. GET OUT—AND STAY OUT. WE ONLY WARN ONCE.

> THE NIGHT HAWKS.

Irish read it aloud. Johnny McCune whistled softly.

“I kind of figured on this,” said Irish.

“What are yuh doin’—kissin’ it?” asked Johnny.

“No, I’m smellin’ of it, Johnny.”

“Yeah? Does it smell like the skunks they are?”

Irish grinned and sniffed at it again, before handing it over to Johnny, who also sniffed.

“It has the odor of a honkatonk on it,” said Johnny soberly.

Irish folded the letter and put it in his pocket, his eyes very thoughtful. Johnny squinted at the bobbing ears of his horse, as he said quietly:

“Perfume on a death warrant. Hm-m-m-m. Honkatonk perfume. Yuh know, Irish, gamblers use the stuff.”

Irish nodded, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Tucson read the note, his eyes grim. Irish told him to smell of it, and Tucson sniffed audibly.

“Yuh don’t suppose that the Ladies’ Aid Society have turned killers, do yuh?” he said soberly.

“Some men use it, Tucson,” said Irish.

“Some male critters, yuh mean. Such as Slim—well, I’ve smelled other gamblers, too. Most of ’em use it, I reckon. What are yuh goin’ to do about it, Irish?”

“Well, it looks like a showdown might be comin’,” replied Irish seriously. “I reckon I’d better move into town and—”

“Ye do nothin’ of the kind!” snorted Johnny.

“I’ll say yuh won’t!” added Tucson. “Me and Johnny’s got a bone to pick with ’em, too. Let ’em come. We’re here first.”

“They’ve got all the best of it, Tucson.”

“They’ll need it. I better put my bread in the oven and stir up the mulligan. I’ve allus said, ‘A man should never die on an empty stummick.’ Johnny, how are we fixed for shells for that fifty-seventy?”

“You can’t hit anythin’ with that old Sharps.”

“Oh, can’t I? Listen, Johnny—all I need is an address. I’ll boil the spiders out of the barrel tonight and use a little axlegrease on the works. That gun’s pretty old, but she’s a great time and money saver. If that bullet hit yuh—whap! Where you was—you jist exactly ain’t. No burial, no expense a-tall.”

“Yuh’re bloodthirsty, Tucson,” said Irish soberly. “I’ll bet you’ll pour chloroform down that gun-barrel before you boil the spiders....”

They buried Albert Briggs next day. Neither Irish nor Tucson went to the funeral, but Johnny McCune put on his Sunday clothes, combed his hair, put stove-polish on his boots and went in to pay his last respects to a man he had no respect for.

As he brought the blade up about waist level, something knocked the axe from his hands.

Tucson and Irish worked around the ranch, and just before noon Tucson complained about a shortage of wood for his stove. There was a pile of old corral-posts near the kitchen door, so Irish took the ax and proceeded to do a little chopping. The poles were very tough and the ax was very dull. Irish stopped trying to chop, and examined the blade of the ax. As he brought the blade up about waist-level and felt of the scarred edge, something struck the head of the ax a terrific blow, knocking it out of Irish’s hands. A fraction of a moment later, from somewhere back in the hills, came the spiteful crack of a rifle.

Irish Delaney, his fingers numbed from the blow on the ax-head, fell flat in against the pile of old poles. Tucson yelled from the kitchen:

“What’s goin’ on, Irish?”

“Keep down!” yelled Irish. “Somebody dry-gulchin’ us!”

“I’ll fix that pole-cat!” snapped Tucson, and a moment later he came crawling through a kitchen window, swinging his old Sharps .50-70 ahead of him.

Irish started to yell at him, but at that moment another bullet smashed the lifted window above Tucson’s head. The old man promptly fell back into the kitchen, leaving his rifle outside.

“Wrong winder,” he said.

Irish crawled on his stomach over to the old gun, his eyes searching the brush behind the stable. There was no more shooting, nor could he see anybody on that brushy hill.

“How’re yuh comin’, Irish?” asked Tucson from the kitchen.

“I’m all right. Watch the hill back of the stable and see if yuh can see anybody.”

“Yeah, and lose what hair I’ve still got, eh.”

“Oh-oh!” snorted Irish. “I see him!”

Far up on the hill, a good three hundred yards away, a man on a horse was making very good time, going away. Irish, flat on the ground, rested the forearm of that ancient buffalo gun on his palm, his elbow digging into the dirt, as he lifted the muzzle several feet over the fast disappearing rider, and squeezed the trigger. The big hammer clicked. Irish relaxed and got to his hands and knees.

“Yuh know, Irish,” said Tucson, leaning through the window, “I jist remembered.”

“That you forgot to load this cannon, eh?”

“Yeah, I reckon I did. Didn’t take time to pick up some shells. Anyway, it needs cleanin’ awful bad. Prob’ly kicked the tar out of yuh, if there’d been a shell in it.”

“Probably,” said Irish dryly, and handed the gun through the window.

“Yuh know,” mumbled Tucson, “I resent folks actin’ like that.”

“Have yuh got a file or a rasp?” asked Irish. “I can’t cut wood with a blade like that.”

“Yuh mean—yuh ain’t scared they’ll shoot some more?”

“That feller was pullin’ out awful fast,” replied Irish. “Yuh don’t suppose they work in relays, do yuh?”

“I’ll find yuh a file,” said Tucson, “but I think yuh’re crazy to stand out there like a target. They won’t miss all the time.”

## VI

About midafternoon Johnny McCune came back to the ranch and listened to Tucson’s version of what happened. Tucson even showed Johnny the ax-head with the bullet-splatter still on it.

“Pretty fair shootin’, but yuh can’t beat the luck of the Irish,” observed Johnny.

“And,” added Tucson, “that other bullet smashed the winder and sunk Washin’ton’s boat, crossin’ the Delaware. Caught her dead-center on the wall.”

“Well, that old pitcher was gettin’ pretty greasy, anyway. Been up there for twenty years and that boat never moved an inch.”

“How was the funeral?” asked Tucson. “Big crowd?”

“Everybody in the country, except you two. It was jist like goin’ to a funeral for somebody yuh never knew. The preacher said so many nice things about Al Briggs that I had my doubts about him bein’ in that casket, until I got me a look. Women all cried.”

“How’d Ed Shearer stand it?” asked Tucson soberly.

“Well, I thought he was goin’ to break down a couple times, but I reckon it was just a tight boot. I seen him limpin’ a little.”

“Who wasn’t there?” asked Irish.

“You two, Irish.”

“And one more, Johnny—the drygulcher, yuh remember.”

“Oh, yeah!”

“Slim Duarte?” queried Tucson.

“Slim was a pallbearer. The whole gang from the Turquoise was there, even the girls.”

“That’s why Johnny didn’t know who was missin’,” said Tucson. “Johnny’s a ladies’ man, don’t yuh know it, Irish?”

“I never look at a woman twice!” snorted Johnny McCune.

“Yuh can’t. The first look is so long that she’s out of sight, before yuh can look the second time. I suppose Jim Corwin was as prom’nent as a wart on a nose.”

“Well, I seen him pattin’ Nell on the shoulder. She’s a widder now, and I’ll betcha there’s plenty single men who would like to run that store. Jim Corwin is twicet her age, but I’ll betcha he’ll start shavin’ every couple days and greasin’ his boots. Not to mention Slim Duarte.”

Irish smiled slowly, and Johnny said:

“Not to mention Irish Delaney, too.”

“No, I’m afraid I’m too far out of the runnin’, Johnny. Anyway, I’d be an awful risk for a woman. I didn’t know that Corwin and Duarte had connubial aspirations.”

“Whoo-ee-e-e-e!” yelped Tucson. “You better git him a e-metic, Johnny. He’s done swallered a dictionary!”

“If what you said means they’d like to have her—y’betcha,” said Johnny. “Pretty women are scarce around here.”

“Handsome men ain’t no drug on the market,” declared Tucson. “You take Johnny, f’r instance, he’s average.”

Johnny sighed and took off his tight boots. “I dunno what’s to be done,” he said. “It beats me.”

“You mean—about yore looks?” queried Tucson.

“No, you blasted fool—about the Night Hawks!”

“Well,” said Tucson dryly, “they’ll keep monkeyin’ around until somebody gets hurt, and it prob’ly won’t be them.”

“Next time, I hope you load that gun,” said Irish.

“I’m keepin’ her loaded, Irish.”

“Aw, yuh wouldn’t have hit him, anyway,” said Johnny. “Shootin’ that old coal-burner at three hundred yards is almost like shootin’ that distance with a bow and arrow.”

“Don’t make fun of that gun, Johnny. Three hundred yards! Why, that bullet is jist startin’ to go at that distance. Why, I—”

“Stop yore artillery practice and start supper. I’m hongry.”

“Every time I beat yore argument, yuh change the subject.”

Tucson went into the kitchen, but came right out.

“Johnny, what day is this?” he asked.

“It’s Saturday, of course.”

“That’s what I thought, and I don’t cook no supper on Saturday nights. We allus eat in town. That’s the day you allus lose yore shirt tryin’ to make deuces beat a full-house. Remember, Johnny?”

“Yeah. All right, I forgot. Want to go to town, Irish?”

“Might as well, I reckon,” nodded Irish.

“Might save packin’ yore re-mains into town,” said Tucson.

“Worry about yore own remains,” suggested Johnny. “Remember, he didn’t bust that window very far above yore head, Tucson.”

“Aw, he was jist scared of me, that’s all.”

They arrived in Dancing Flats before supper time. The town was always crowded on Saturday, and the games at the Turquoise were running full-blast. Ed Shearer had opened the general store, following the funeral of Al Briggs, and customers were streaming in and out.

Irish was too restless to stay in one place, so he left Johnny and Tucson at the Turquoise and went up the street, stopping at the post office, where he asked for the Flying M mail. The woman clerk gave him a letter, addressed to him, but it was not in the handwriting of the Night Hawks.

Irish went outside to open it. He recognized the writing. It was from Nell, and said:

> Can’t you come down to my house tonight? Better make it about nine o’clock; so the neighbors won’t talk. I must see you.

It was simply signed Nell. Irish shoved the letter into his pocket and leaned against a porch post in front of the post office. He wondered what on earth Nell wanted to see him for. Come late, so the neighbors won’t talk. Irish smiled wryly.

He met Johnny and Tucson later and they all went to a little restaurant for supper. Irish didn’t tell them about the letter, but said there was no mail for the ranch.

“I talked with Slim Duarte a while ago,” said Johnny. “He asked if you was in town.”

“I smelled of him,” added Tucson, “and he was awful sweet.”

“Why was he interested in me?” asked Irish curiously.

“I don’t know.”

“Yuh do, too,” contradicted Tucson. “He said that yore presence in the Turquoise wouldn’t help his business any.”

“I must be kind of poisonous.” Irish smiled as he said this.

“Folks kind of feel uneasy around yuh,” said Johnny soberly. “If them Night Hawks kinda open up on yuh, Irish—”

“Yeah, I know what yuh mean, Johnny. Buckshot scatters.”

It was a warm night in Dancing Flats. Johnny sat in a chair in front of the hotel, his back against the wall, and watched the people on the street. Outside the glow of lights the night was very dark. He could hear the orchestra in the honkatonk, the babel of voices in the barroom and gambling parlor. The streets of Dancing Flats were quite narrow. Irish wondered who, in that crowd, were Night Hawks, seeking his scalp. It could be anybody.

At about half-past eight he wandered over to the Turquoise, went through the barroom and into the gambling parlor, where all the games were going. Johnny and Tucson were sitting in a draw-poker game, and Irish moved over to their table, angling around so his back was against the wall. Several people moved away, and one man left the poker game.

It rather amused Irish. His sharp eyes scanned the faces of the crowd, half of them hazy in tobacco smoke. In a few minutes Slim Duarte came through the crowd, stopped to look at the poker game, but moved over close to Irish, who paid no attention to the dapper gambler, until he said:

“Delaney, I’d be a lot better satisfied if you’d leave here.”

Irish looked sharply at Duarte. “I didn’t get that straight, Duarte,” he said. “It sounded kind of queer to me. Would yuh mind repeatin’ it?”

“You heard what I said, Delaney. I don’t want you in this place.”

The poker game slowed down. The players had heard enough to know that something was wrong. Irish said:

“That’s kind of funny. I thought this was a public place.”

“I said—I don’t want yuh here, Delaney.”

“Just supposin’ that I don’t care what yuh want, Duarte.”

“I’d advise you to listen to reason,” said Duarte coldly.

“I know what yuh mean. If I don’t go, you’ll gang up on me with yore bouncers and the coyotes will have a feed. Of course, Duarte, you couldn’t do it alone. Yuh’re too yellow for that. Yeah, I’ll go out. It’s the first time I’ve ever been bounced from a place like this, and I don’t like it. I’ll be outside, in case you want to carry this any further.”

Irish turned and walked away, shouldering his way through the crowd, until he got outside. He was more amused than irritated. He backed against the wall of the Turquoise and looked at his watch. It was nearly nine o’clock, and he had almost forgotten that he was supposed to see Nell at that time.

He knew where she lived. It was one of the older houses in the town, set back from the street, shaded by huge sycamores. There was a light in the living room. He opened the gate of the white picket fence, turned and closed it, when something hit him a tremendous blow on the head. He tried hard to keep his feet, but blackness enveloped him, and he passed out.

Gradually he became conscious of a terrible pain in his head, and of voices. At first they were merely a jumble of words, but they finally separated into conversation.

“Yuh can’t trust him for a minute, I tell yuh,” he heard a man say.

“You’re not going to do it here,” declared a voice. “We tie him on his horse and you take both of them to the Lost Goose. Do this job just as I planned. They’ll both disappear, and everybody will figure he got yellow and pulled out.”

“But if I do the other job, I won’t have time. It’ll take me a couple hours to finish up at the Lost Goose. I’ve got to do that job before McCune and Thomas go back there.”

“That’s right. Well, you take him out that way, fix up that job, and then go to the mine.”

“Yeah, I can do that—if I hurry.”

The voices died away, as though both men had left him. Irish had no idea what it was all about. His head ached too badly for concentration. He was tied, hand and foot, lying flat in the dirt. Finally he heard a horse walking, and the two men came back. They draped Irish across the saddle and proceeded to tie him on, yanking the ropes tight. Irish wanted to protest, but was unable to talk. Then the horse started away with him, and he blacked out again.

Slim Duarte watched for Irish to come back into the Turquoise, but Irish did not show up again. He finally sent one of his men outside to scout around, but the man came back and reported that Irish Delaney was not in evidence. Johnny and Tucson were still at the poker game, unworried about Irish.

Duarte moved around, until he was near the front doorway, and went outside. He wanted a breath of fresh air. Jim Corwin, the sheriff stopped and exchanged a few words with him, but Duarte did not tell him of his talk with Irish Delaney.

“You’ve got a big crowd tonight, Slim,” remarked the sheriff.

“Biggest in weeks, Jim. I got so full of smoke I had to come out and take a deep breath.”

The sheriff went inside, and Duarte moved on down the sidewalk. Several men were coming into the saloon, when a shot blasted out from near the hitchrack. The sound was audible in the barroom, and the sheriff came out with others.

“I saw the flash of the gun, sheriff,” one man said. “It’s near the hitchrack.”

They found Slim Duarte, lying flat in the dirt, bleeding badly from a bullet wound in the shoulder. They carried him into the saloon, back to his little office and placed him on a cot, while someone went to get a doctor.

The gambler in charge of the draw-poker table drew the sheriff aside and told him of the argument between Slim Duarte and Irish Delaney. He said:

“Delaney dared Slim to come outside.”

“He did, eh? Well, that don’t look good for Irish.”

The sheriff saw Johnny and Tucson, and drew them aside. They had heard some of the argument.

“Jim, you don’t figure Irish did that, do yuh?” Johnny said. “He ain’t that kind of a hair-pin. He’ll turn up around here.”

“What kind of a horse did Irish ride, Johnny?”

“That long-legged sorrel, branded with a Three X Bar. It’s out at the saloon hitchrack, along with our two.”

“Much obliged, Johnny.”

The sheriff found Shorty Long, and they went out to the hitchrack, but the long-legged sorrel was gone. The space was empty. The horse had been taken away.

“Pulled out of the country!” snorted the sheriff. “I have the worst danged luck! Prob’ly took his horse away, staked it out and came back to get Slim.”

“That makes good listenin’, but bad logic,” remarked Shorty. “Irish Delaney don’t need to murder men. He’s fast enough to kill ’em in self-defense.”

“Well, he’ll have a job shakin’ this one off, I’ll tell yuh that. We’re headin’ for the Flyin’ M, me and you, Shorty. No use goin’ any other place. We’ll take a chance that he’ll go there, and I’d like to get there before Johnny and Tucson get back. They’d lie their souls into hell for Irish Delaney.”

“I’d do a little swearin’ of that kind myself, Jim, but we’ve got to find him, that’s a cinch.”

## VII

Johnny McCune and Tucson Thomas went back to their poker game, not knowing that Irish’s horse was also missing. Men were talking about the shooting. It had been noised around that Irish and Slim had words, and that Irish had dared Slim to come outside. Naturally it became worse as the conversation became general.

“It looks like a job for the Night Hawks,” one man said.

The remark made Johnny McCune mad, and he said:

“Yuh mean, it looks like a Night Hawk job, don’t yuh?”

The argument died aborning. Johnny McCune was a tough man in any argument, and no one wanted to start trouble.

Tucson lost his few remaining chips and drew out of the game, but Johnny was playing in luck and didn’t want to quit. Tucson made his way outside and walked to the hitchrack. There was enough illumination to enable him to find out that Irish’s sorrel was missing. That didn’t look good to Tucson. He made his way back to the poker table and whispered the information to Johnny McCune, who cashed in and drew out of the game.

“I don’t like the looks of things,” declared Johnny, as they went out to check up on Tucson’s findings. “Why would Irish take his horse? Why would he pull out without tellin’ us? I’m afraid somethin’ has happened to him.”

“What do yuh think we ort to do?” asked Tucson.

“We’ll wait here a while, and maybe he’ll come back. If he ain’t back in an hour or so, we’ll go home.”

Jim Corwin and Shorty Long saddled their horses and left town. No one saw them leave. They took the road out to the Flying M, but did not hurry.

“We’ll just go poco-poco, Shorty,” the sheriff said. “If Irish should be comin’ in, we’d have a better chance to stop him.”

It was very dark along the road, and there was no conversation. They drew up near the ranchhouse and dismounted. There was a faint light through the window of the main room, but Johnny had insisted on covering the windows so that nobody could take a shot at them from outside.

The two officers went quietly up to the small porch. There was not a sound around the place. They eased up on the porch and listened. A mocking-bird called softly from a tree, but there was no other sound.

Jim Corwin quietly turned the doorknob and discovered that the door was unlocked. That was not unusual, because few folks in the range country ever lock their houses. He eased the door open.

An old oil lamp burned on the rough table near the middle of the room, but there was not a soul in sight. They moved in and looked around.

“Well, that’s that, Jim—empty house,” Shorty said.

“Yeah, I reckon yuh’re right.”

Both men holstered their guns.

“We’d better kinda look around, Shorty,” the sheriff said. “I don’t like the looks of that lamp. Them men came to town early, and they wouldn’t leave a lamp burnin’ at that time. Yuh see—”

“Hold it!” snarled a voice. “Don’t move! This shotgun makes a messy lookin’ job. Let yore hands down and unbuckle them belts.”

Two belts and holstered guns thudded on a worn Navajo rug.

“Back up, gents!”

They backed up a few steps. From inside the kitchen doorway came a masked man, covering them with a double-barreled shotgun, its menacing twin muzzles covering them steadily. Cautiously he picked up the two gun-belts and tossed them into the kitchen.

“What’s the big idea?” asked the sheriff harshly.

“The idea is—you’ve horned into trouble,” replied the masked man huskily.

A blue cloth, which covered his head, had eye-holes cut in it. He wore an old, colorless shirt, dirty overalls, old boots, and wore gloves on his hands. Even his gun-belt and gun were nondescript.

“Night Hawks?” queried Shorty.

“That’s somethin’ you’ll never find out. What are you doin’ out here?”

“Lookin’ for Irish Delaney.”

The man laughed harshly.

“He’s taken care of, my friend,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Do you know who I am?” asked the sheriff.

“I don’t care who yuh are, feller. I’ve got a job to do, and I ain’t interested in names. Here!” He tossed a short length of rope to Shorty Long. “Turn yore pardner’s back this way and tie his hands. And I want yuh to do a good job of it. No cheatin’.”

“That’s ridiculous!” snorted the sheriff.

“So’s a load of buckshot! Turn around.”

The sheriff turned around and Shorty Long proceeded to tie his wrists together. Done under the supervision of the masked man, it was a good job.

“Set him down on the floor and tie his ankles!”

“You can’t get away with stuff like this,” wailed Corwin.

“I’ll do my best,” replied the masked man. “Get down, you poor fool, before I unhook a load of this stuff into yore middle.”

The sheriff got down, with the help of Shorty, and Shorty tied his ankles. Then the man forced Shorty to lie down, while his own ankles were tied, after which he was rolled over on his face, his hands yanked behind him, and the ropes applied to his wrists.

Then the masked man went over to the door, opened it and listened for several moments, before closing the door. He went into the kitchen and came back with a length of very dirty rag, which he used to gag both men very effectively.

“I can’t have yuh yelpin’, yuh know,” he explained. “My scheme might not work, if somebody heard yuh yelpin’. Yuh see, the Night Hawks are makin’ one big cleanup tonight, and you’ll be in it.”

He went back into the kitchen and came out, bringing a coil of thin, copper wire, which he twisted around the doorknob and flung the wire out behind him. The front door opened outward. Both men could see what he was doing, but they had no idea of his intentions. He took the end of the wire into the kitchen, and they saw the wire pull taut.

He was out there quite a while, before they saw him again. He came back, looked at their bonds and gags, and went over to the lamp, picked it up and looked down at them.

“Yuh might be interested in this little deal,” he said. “When anybody pulls that door open, it’ll pull the trigger on an old forty-four, pointed into a box of blastin’ caps. Adios, you poor fools. You stuck yore noses into one too many deals. You’ll be all right, until somebody comes and starts in. Enjoy yourselves.”

The light went out, and they heard him shut the kitchen door. A few moments later they heard him ride away....

Irish Delaney suffered tortures during that enforced ride. The lash-ropes cut into him with every movement of the horse, and his head throbbed like the beat of a huge drum. Finally the man left the two horses in the brush and went away. By this time Irish was beginning to realize his plight. He tried to move on the saddle, but the ropes were too tight.

He was fully conscious when the man came back and untied the two horses. They started on again, climbing the hills in the darkness, while brush whipped against Irish’s unprotected head and caught at his feet. It seemed hours before the horses stopped again.

The man grunted, as he took off the lashings. Then he took Irish in his arms and lowered him to the ground. Irish said nothing, and made himself as limp as possible. He felt better now, with the tight lashings removed. He discovered that his hands were tied in front of him, and the rope twisted around his body down to his tied ankles. Just what he would be able to do under the circumstances was hard to determine.

The man grasped Irish under the arms and began dragging him, cursing about the rough ground and the uphill pull. Finally they came to a building. Irish remembered the conversation about the Lost Goose mine. It was a deserted place, where a mint of money had been expended on a silver vein. Irish had heard that the main shaft was seven hundred feet deep. The old shafthouse was merely a ruin now, only part of the old walls still standing.

The man let Irish sag to the ground, as he stopped to regain his breath, and do a little more whole-hearted cursing. After a while he said, more to himself than to his supposedly-unconscious victim:

“I’ve got to have a light of some kind, or I might fall into that blasted shaft myself. There’s a candle in here, some’rs along this old wall.”

Irish heard him step into the doorway, and go stumbling along over the debris. It was an almost hopeless chance, but Irish took it. He just merely turned over and started rolling down the slope. The slope was sharp, rock-strewn and uneven, but he managed to keep his head up and tried to ignore sharp rocks. Swiftly he rolled off to the left, and it seemed as though he had rolled a mile, before he was brought up against some brush, aching in every muscle and entirely out of breath.

It was so dark that he couldn’t even see the outline of the old shafthouse. He heard the man come to the doorway and saw him light the candle-stub he had found. The next moment he heard the man rip out a curse and the candle went out. He had discovered the prisoner was gone.

He came swiftly down the hill a short distance, stopped short and swore some more. He couldn’t even see the ground he was standing on, so how could he expect to find Irish Delaney? Irish, even in his dilemma and suffering from injuries, grinned to himself. The man went on down the slope, feeling his way, taking the straight line. He never realized that Irish had rolled far off to the left.

Irish could not see the man, but he could hear him. He crashed against a rock, and swore bitterly. Irish tested his ropes again. They were a bit looser now, especially around the ankles, and he drew his right foot out of his boot. After a little pulling and tugging, all the ropes loosened, and he shucked them off.

The man was still searching as well as he could, which was very little, indeed. Irish was not worried now. At least, he could throw a rock, if the man came too close. But the man did not come down toward him. He finally gave up and Irish heard him ride away.

Irish relaxed and sat there for a while, building up some more strength, before going any place. Also he tarried because he feared that the man might be waiting, trying to decoy him into some rash move.

Every muscle in Delaney’s body was sore and his head felt very big. It was quite swollen, and his face was caked with dried blood. His holster was empty, but that was to be expected. He finally got to his feet and limped down the slope, where the man had mounted. He found his sorrel there, tied to an old snag.

## VIII

Back in the saddle, Irish Delaney felt much better. He rode slowly down the hill to a huddle of old buildings. Irish knew that spot very well, and even in the darkness he was not confused. He realized, too, that the note was not from Nell. Someone, with a sample of her writing, had forged the note and decoyed him into a trap.

“I ought to have my head fixed,” he told himself. “Nell wouldn’t send me a note like that. Yeah, I reckon I’ll have to have my head fixed—outside and inside both. But I’m still movin’ under my own power, even if I did almost make hash of myself. All I need now is a gun.”

There was an old road, which wound down the slope, twisting its way to Dancing Flats, and there was an old trail, which led past the 74, and angled out close to the Flying M.

“I better go back to the ranch,” he told the sorrel. “Johnny and Tucson might be worried about me.”

He picked up the old trail and started out across the hills, with the long-legged sorrel making good time. Irish began to get thirsty, but there was no water short of the 74. The action of the horse aggravated his other aches, but water was what he needed most.

He turned off the trail near the 74, hoping to find Buck French out there, but the house was dark. Irish dismounted and limped up on the sagging, old porch, where he knocked heavily on the door. When there was no response he shoved the door open and went inside.

He lighted a match and took the chimney off the lamp. It was still warm. Irish thought things over. Someone had burned that light recently. He went into the old kitchen and found water in a bucket. After he had lowered the bucket a few inches, he looked around. The place was furnished much as Hank Farley had left it. Hank usually had an extra gun around the place, and Irish felt the need of a gun.

There was an old, home-made table in the main room, and there was a crude drawer which Hank Farley had cursed every time he tried to open. Irish yanked it open. There was a Colt .45 in the drawer. Irish picked it up and looked at it, his eyes wide. It was his gun! His face was grim as he looked at the gun he had worn that evening. It was fully loaded.

He snapped the gun into his holster and walked outside, after putting out the light.

“Things are gettin’ better, hoss,” he told the sorrel, as he climbed stiffly into the saddle. “Let’s go home.”

Johnny McCune got back into the poker game again, but Tucson kept watch on the street and around the hitchrack, waiting for Irish Delaney to come back to Dancing Flats. He could not find the sheriff or deputy, and decided that they were looking for Irish. It was considerably over an hour before Johnny McCune cashed in his winnings and told Tucson he was ready to go home. It had been reported that Slim Duarte was painfully, but not dangerously injured, and had no idea who shot him.

“That lets Irish out,” declared Johnny McCune. “He’d never shoot a man and not give him a chance.”

“Explain that to a Dancin’ Flat jury,” said Tucson. “They ain’t interested in what’s inside a man, Johnny.”

“No, that’s right. I sure hope Irish can prove a alibi. I’m jist scared that the Night Hawks got him.”

“Yuh mean they’d take his horse, too, Johnny?”

“Don’t ask me what they’d do. Tucson, you irk me at times.”

“I don’t know what that word means, but if it’s goin’ to shatter our lovely friendship, don’t tell me,” said Tucson.

“All right, I won’t. Let’s go home.”

Irish Delaney finally pulled in at the Flying M. The house was dark, attesting to the fact that either Johnny and Tucson were not home yet, or had gone to bed. Stiff-jointed and limping, Irish stabled his sorrel and went up to the house. He stopped on the porch and called to Johnny McCune. It was the safe thing to do, announce the name and wait for results.

But nothing happened. Irish reached for the doorknob, when he heard a thumping sound inside the house. He drew back. It sounded like someone pounding on the floor. Funny sounds. When it was repeated Irish went around to the kitchen door, where he stood and tried to figure out what it was all about.

He realized the need for caution. Drawing his gun, he carefully opened the kitchen door, listening for any sound. Then it came again, that dull, thumping sound, coming from the main room. Irish eased himself into the dark kitchen, waited a few moments, before moving ahead. His right toe struck solidly against something near the entrance to the main room, but he quickly caught his balance, and moved ahead, his cocked gun braced at his thigh. There was not a sound.

He took a match from his pocket, reached far out and scratched it against the wall. As the match flared up he saw the two men on the floor, well-tied, staring at him. Quickly he lighted the lamp and looked down at them.

“All ready for shipment, eh?” he said. “I’ve heard of the law gettin’ tied up, but I never saw it gagged before.”

Irish dropped on his knees beside Jim Corwin and yanked away the gag. At the same moment he heard voices outside. It was Johnny McCune and Tucson, talking as they came up to the porch. Jim Corwin yelped:

“That door! Don’t let ’em open it! That wire!”

Irish saw the wire, read the desperation in the sheriff’s voice, and, like a flash, he fired a shot through the upper part of the door. From outside came the yelp of surprise, as the two men dived off the porch.

“The wire—get it off the door!” panted the sheriff.

Irish carefully snapped the wire loose. “It’s all right, Johnny!” he yelled. “Come on in, you two. Everythin’ is all right now.”

He opened the door, and the two old-timers came cautiously, wide-eyed, as they saw the sheriff and deputy.

“What’s the idea of shootin’ at us?” demanded Tucson. “That bullet blew splinters all over us.”

“It was the door, Johnny!” gasped the relieved sheriff. “That masked fool had a dynamite trap for you. If you’d opened the door, we’d all be dead!”

Irish cut Shorty Long loose, and Shorty was still too frightened to talk coherently.

“I died seventeen times,” he declared. “It was awful. We heard somebody come up on the porch, and I hammered my heels against the floor. It was all I could do. Then I heard him come in the back door. Man, I could have kissed my worst enemy!”

“Here’s the deal!” called Tucson. “Wait a minute—I’ve got to pull its teeth. There! I’ve gotcha!”

He came in, bringing an old, single-action Colt .44. He laid it on the table and drew a deep breath.

“There’s a whole danged box of high-percentage dynamite in the kitchen,” he said. “There’s a box of caps, too, and this old hog-leg was wired to the box. That wire would have shot the gun.”

The men all looked at each other.

“Irish, what on earth happened to you?” Johnny said. “Yore hair is all stuck up with blood, yore face is scratched, yore clothes torn. Where have you been?”

“Oh,” replied Irish, rather vacantly, “I’ve been pallin’ around with the Night Hawks, I reckon. They play awful rough.”

“Yore horse was gone,” faltered Johnny.

“Yeah, they took that, too. Neither of us ever was supposed to come back, but the luck of the Irish lasted.”

“Did you know that somebody shot Slim Duarte tonight, Irish?” asked Shorty Long.

Irish shook his head.

“No, I didn’t know that, Shorty. Is he dead?”

“Wasn’t when we left. We came out here to ask you. Yore horse was gone, and we kind of thought you pulled out. That masked brute got the drop on us.”

“They got the drop on me, too,” said Irish painfully. “I’m one big ache all over, and I’ve just started. Blow out that lamp, Johnny. We’re all ridin’.”

“Wait’ll we get our guns on,” said the sheriff. “He didn’t bother to take ’em along.”

“I hope there’ll be trigger-pullin’ to be done,” said Shorty.

They all had to ride fast to keep up with Irish Delaney, and they came into Dancing Flats with a rush.

“Scatter out and find Buck French,” said Irish. “I need him.”

“What’s he done?” asked the sheriff.

“Find him,” replied Irish. “Get him, even if yuh have to down him.”

## IX

Quickly the five men separated and made a swift search. Questioning failed to find anyone who had seen Buck that evening. They all met back at the hitchrack. If Irish was disappointed he did not show it.

“Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ve got to find out about somethin’.”

Irish disappeared in the darkness across the street. He went to the corner and looked down the side street. There was a light in the Briggs house. Irish wasn’t afraid now. He limped up to the front door and knocked.

After a few moments Ed Shearer opened the door. He got a good look at Irish and stepped back.

“Irish, what happened to you?” he asked. “Yuh’re all bloody and hurt!”

Nell was sitting in a rocker, staring at Irish.

“I got dry-gulched in yore yard early tonight,” he said. “Nell, did you write me a letter—one I got in the post office tonight?”

“A letter, Irish?” she asked, puzzled completely. “Why, I never wrote you a letter, Irish.”

“Set down, boy, you’ve been hurt,” said Shearer. “I don’t—”

“Who’s been here this evenin’?” asked Irish sharply.

“Here?” queried Shearer. “Why, nobody—much. Some people did drop in some time ago, Irish. What do you mean?”

“Who was here last?” Irish looked from Nell to her father. “I want to know,” he said wearily.

“The minister was here, but he left almost a half-hour ago,” said Shearer.

“Much obliged,” said Irish, and walked out.

Nell and her father looked at each other curiously. There had been little sense to Irish’s conversation.

“Dad, he has been hurt,” Nell said. “He looks terrible!”

“Been hit on the head, Nell. Somebody should take care of him.”

“Irish Delaney can take care of himself, Dad.”

“Yeah, I reckon he can.” Shearer walked over and looked out the window, but it was too dark for him to see anything.

“Why did he ask me about a letter?” she wondered aloud. “I never wrote him any letter.”

Shearer came back to the table and looked at her.

“Nell,” he said quietly, “do you still—well, do you still like Irish Delaney?”

“No, Dad, I’m afraid not.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I hope he won’t be too disappointed.”

“I hope not. I’m afraid he wouldn’t be a dependable husband.”

Irish went back to the main street and stopped at the hitchrack, where the men waited. All he said was:

“We’re ridin’ again.”

No one asked him anything more. He led the way on his sorrel and turned on the road to the 74 spread. They strung out, only a few yards apart, riding fast. There was some starlight now and the road was visible for a short distance. Irish set a fast pace, and the horses were well-blown when they pulled up just short of the ranchhouse. They could see a light there.

“Take it easy now,” Irish said. “We’re goin’ in quiet.”

“Are yuh still lookin’ for Buck?” whispered the sheriff.

“For Buck and whoever is with him, Jim. Take it easy, boys.”

They worked in close to the old porch. The front door was half-open. In the light from within they could see a horse standing close to the porch, its sides still heaving from a fast trip. A man was talking nervously as they stopped near the doorway.

“I did come to town!” he declared. “I tried to find you, but you wasn’t home so I came back.”

The other voice asked a question, but too low for them to get the words.

“I tell yuh, he was here,” Buck answered. “I left his gun in that drawer in the table, and it’s gone. I don’t know how he got loose. I’ve told yuh what happened up there. I hunted all over for him, but it was so blasted dark I couldn’t see a thing. Mebbe he went back to the Flyin’ M.”

“I hope he did, Buck. As for you, you’ve bungled everything. Unless Irish Delaney walks into the house before anybody else gets there, you’ve put a rope around our necks. If he misses—you’re a goner, Buck.”

“I’m headin’ for Mexico tonight.”

“You’re staying right here, my friend, and you won’t talk.”

“No, no!” screamed Buck French. “You can’t—”

A gun thundered in that small room, and the concussion almost closed the door, but Irish jerked ahead and blocked it. Buck was on the floor, his head and shoulders against a table-leg, and over him stood a man, cocking his gun for the next shot.

“Hold it!” yelled Irish.

The man whirled and fired from his waist, but his bullet went wild. Irish shot deliberately through the smoke. The man was sent back on his heels, his gun-hand dropping, but he was game. He braced his feet and tried to swing the gun up again, but Irish shot again, and the man went down, striking a chair and knocking it across the room. His gun went with the chair.

Irish came slowly across the room, followed by the others. Buck French was badly hurt, but he wasn’t unconscious. Irish took Buck’s gun from his holster. The sheriff and Johnny were looking down at the other man.

“I must be dreamin’,” the sheriff said. “This is the minister, Irish!”

“I was afraid of that,” said Irish grimly. “How are yuh, Buck?”

“That yellow coyote tried to kill me,” complained Buck weakly. “Get me a doctor, will yuh, Irish?”

“So you two are the Night Hawks, eh?”

“Yeah. It was John’s idea. Bein’ a preacher, nobody’d suspect him—he thought. He’s murder crazy, I tell yuh.”

“Wasn’t any preacher at all, eh?” said Tucson.

“He studied for it,” said Buck. “His name was Strickland. He done five years for forgery. He was the Ghost Rider, and when he had plenty money he killed Hank Farley and put the clothes on him. I worked with him, but I never killed anybody.”

“You tried hard tonight, Buck,” said Irish. “Nobody pulled on that front door. Did this hombre kill Al Briggs?”

“Yeah,” whispered Buck. “Al was drinkin’. He thought the parson was stuck on his wife, and he came to have it out with him. Walked in on the parson, who had put on his workin’ clothes. I picked Al up, put him in front of Corwin’s office and fired a shot in the air. He shot Slim Duarte tonight, too. He was murder crazy.”

“I never dreamed of anythin’ like this,” said the sheriff. “I’m still weak over it. Irish, how did you find all this out?”

“I found my six-shooter in that table drawer over there tonight. It put the deadwood on Buck, but I had to get the brains of the outfit. Somebody sent me a decoy note today and signed Nell Briggs’ name to it. I got knocked out in front of her house.

“When I left you fellows at the hitchrack, I went down there. I had to be sure she didn’t write it. She didn’t. I asked them who had been there and they said the preacher. Then I knew who I was lookin’ for.”

“How did yuh know, Irish?”

“The Night Hawks sent me a letter and it had perfume on it. When I went into the Briggs house tonight, I smelled that same perfume. It had to be the preacher.”

Sheriff Corwin’s mouth opened in surprise. Then he scowled.

“Shorty,” said the sheriff, “you go get the doctor. No use movin’ ’em now.”

“Yuh won’t have to move the preacher—not for medical attention,” said Tucson.

“Buck,” said Irish. “Can yuh hear me?”

Buck said in a whisper, “Yeah, I can hear, yuh.”

“What did the parson do with all the money he stole?”

“It’s hidden under the church,” whispered Buck. “Anyway, he said it was. He was murder crazy, I tell yuh. We had a cinch, if he’d played the game, or if that blasted Irish Delaney had stayed away. Do I get a doctor pretty soon?”

“I’d like to go back to the ranch and stretch out,” said Irish. “I’m so darned sore I can’t hardly stand up.”

“You boys go home,” said the sheriff. “I’ll wait for Shorty and the doctor. Much obliged, Irish.”

“Yuh’re welcome, Jim. See yuh later.”

They cut across the hills to the Flying M, traveling the trail that Irish used before that night. At the ranchhouse, Tucson put away the three horses, while Irish and Johnny sat down, rolled smokes and relaxed.

“Yuh know, Irish,” remarked Shorty. “It’s kind of funny—you driftin’ in here to clear Hank Farley’s name, and cleanin’ up a killer outfit thataway. I was thinkin’ of Nell, too. I don’t know how yuh feel about her, but—well, the coast is clear, Kid.”

Irish smiled wearily over his cigarette. “Johnny, you remember that girl—the one you said you thought might have followed me from Dancin’ Flats?”

“That pretty little dancer, Irish?”

“Yeah. She caught me a year later in Cheyenne.”

“She did? Well!”

“She’s Mrs. Delaney. We’ve got a boy, two years old now. His name is Henry McCune Delaney, and he’s a dinger, Johnny.”

“I’m a ring-tailed son-of-a-sea-cook! Irish! You named him after me and Hank! You—Irish, yuh’re a blasted fool! Riskin’ yore life to come down here to—takin’ chances like that—and you with a kid—Irish, yuh’re a fool!”

“I know it, Johnny. I’m also a Deputy U. S. Marshal, and I go where I’m sent. It was my job, Johnny.”

Johnny McCune smiled thoughtfully for several moments. Finally he said quietly:

“I’ll betcha Henry McCune Delaney is proud of his dad. I know blamed well, I am.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Fall, 1947 issue of Giant Western magazine.
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