Part 3

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.”

VII

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.

“Well, that’s that, Jim--empty house,” Shorty said.

“Yeah, I reckon yuh’re right.”

Both men holstered their guns.

“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.

VIII

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.