Part 2

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.

[Illustration: 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.”