Back in the saddle, Irish Delaney felt much better. He rode slowly down the hill to a huddle of old buildings. Irish knew that spot very well, and even in the darkness he was not confused. He realized, too, that the note was not from Nell. Someone, with a sample of her writing, had forged the note and decoyed him into a trap.
“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.”
