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.
“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.
