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.”
