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! 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.
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.
