Part 4

“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.]