“Yeah, I see what yuh mean, Irish. But that don’t do us any good. No matter where he was killed, it’s still murder.”

“Could he have been shot some’ers else and walked here?” asked Johnny. The sheriff shook his head quickly.

“He was shot plumb through the heart, Johnny.”

“Then he didn’t do much walkin’. Well, Irish, I think I’ll walk up to the post office and get the mail.”

“I’ll go with yuh, Johnny. See yuh later, Corwin.”

There was the usual crowd around the little post office, arguing about the murder and robbery. Irish knew many of them, and they knew that Irish had been an immediate suspect. Johnny McCune got the mail, and they walked outside. As they walked over to their horses Johnny said quietly:

“There’s a letter for you, Irish, and the handwritin’ is the same as on the letter I got.”

“Keep it until we get out of the town, Johnny. That gang is watchin’ us now.”

* * * * *

Outside of Dancing Flats, Johnny gave the letter to Irish. It was poorly addressed in pencil to Irish Delaney, care of the Flying M. Inside was a sheet of paper on which was penciled:

DELANEY, YOU ARE A FOOL AND A BRAGGART. THE LAW CAN’T TOUCH YOU, BUT WE CAN. GET OUT--AND STAY OUT. WE ONLY WARN ONCE.

THE NIGHT HAWKS.

Irish read it aloud. Johnny McCune whistled softly.

“I kind of figured on this,” said Irish.

“What are yuh doin’--kissin’ it?” asked Johnny.

“No, I’m smellin’ of it, Johnny.”

“Yeah? Does it smell like the skunks they are?”

Irish grinned and sniffed at it again, before handing it over to Johnny, who also sniffed.

“It has the odor of a honkatonk on it,” said Johnny soberly.

Irish folded the letter and put it in his pocket, his eyes very thoughtful. Johnny squinted at the bobbing ears of his horse, as he said quietly:

“Perfume on a death warrant. Hm-m-m-m. Honkatonk perfume. Yuh know, Irish, gamblers use the stuff.”

Irish nodded, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Tucson read the note, his eyes grim. Irish told him to smell of it, and Tucson sniffed audibly.

“Yuh don’t suppose that the Ladies’ Aid Society have turned killers, do yuh?” he said soberly.

“Some men use it, Tucson,” said Irish.

“Some male critters, yuh mean. Such as Slim--well, I’ve smelled other gamblers, too. Most of ’em use it, I reckon. What are yuh goin’ to do about it, Irish?”

“Well, it looks like a showdown might be comin’,” replied Irish seriously. “I reckon I’d better move into town and--”

“Ye do nothin’ of the kind!” snorted Johnny.

“I’ll say yuh won’t!” added Tucson. “Me and Johnny’s got a bone to pick with ’em, too. Let ’em come. We’re here first.”

“They’ve got all the best of it, Tucson.”

“They’ll need it. I better put my bread in the oven and stir up the mulligan. I’ve allus said, ‘A man should never die on an empty stummick.’ Johnny, how are we fixed for shells for that fifty-seventy?”

“You can’t hit anythin’ with that old Sharps.”

“Oh, can’t I? Listen, Johnny--all I need is an address. I’ll boil the spiders out of the barrel tonight and use a little axlegrease on the works. That gun’s pretty old, but she’s a great time and money saver. If that bullet hit yuh--whap! Where you was--you jist exactly ain’t. No burial, no expense a-tall.”

“Yuh’re bloodthirsty, Tucson,” said Irish soberly. “I’ll bet you’ll pour chloroform down that gun-barrel before you boil the spiders....”

They buried Albert Briggs next day. Neither Irish nor Tucson went to the funeral, but Johnny McCune put on his Sunday clothes, combed his hair, put stove-polish on his boots and went in to pay his last respects to a man he had no respect for.

Tucson and Irish worked around the ranch, and just before noon Tucson complained about a shortage of wood for his stove. There was a pile of old corral-posts near the kitchen door, so Irish took the ax and proceeded to do a little chopping. The poles were very tough and the ax was very dull. Irish stopped trying to chop, and examined the blade of the ax. As he brought the blade up about waist-level and felt of the scarred edge, something struck the head of the ax a terrific blow, knocking it out of Irish’s hands. A fraction of a moment later, from somewhere back in the hills, came the spiteful crack of a rifle.

* * * * *

Irish Delaney, his fingers numbed from the blow on the ax-head, fell flat in against the pile of old poles. Tucson yelled from the kitchen:

“What’s goin’ on, Irish?”

“Keep down!” yelled Irish. “Somebody dry-gulchin’ us!”

“I’ll fix that pole-cat!” snapped Tucson, and a moment later he came crawling through a kitchen window, swinging his old Sharps .50-70 ahead of him.

Irish started to yell at him, but at that moment another bullet smashed the lifted window above Tucson’s head. The old man promptly fell back into the kitchen, leaving his rifle outside.

“Wrong winder,” he said.

Irish crawled on his stomach over to the old gun, his eyes searching the brush behind the stable. There was no more shooting, nor could he see anybody on that brushy hill.

“How’re yuh comin’, Irish?” asked Tucson from the kitchen.

“I’m all right. Watch the hill back of the stable and see if yuh can see anybody.”

“Yeah, and lose what hair I’ve still got, eh.”

“Oh-oh!” snorted Irish. “I see him!”

Far up on the hill, a good three hundred yards away, a man on a horse was making very good time, going away. Irish, flat on the ground, rested the forearm of that ancient buffalo gun on his palm, his elbow digging into the dirt, as he lifted the muzzle several feet over the fast disappearing rider, and squeezed the trigger. The big hammer clicked. Irish relaxed and got to his hands and knees.

“Yuh know, Irish,” said Tucson, leaning through the window, “I jist remembered.”

“That you forgot to load this cannon, eh?”

“Yeah, I reckon I did. Didn’t take time to pick up some shells. Anyway, it needs cleanin’ awful bad. Prob’ly kicked the tar out of yuh, if there’d been a shell in it.”

“Probably,” said Irish dryly, and handed the gun through the window.

“Yuh know,” mumbled Tucson, “I resent folks actin’ like that.”

“Have yuh got a file or a rasp?” asked Irish. “I can’t cut wood with a blade like that.”

“Yuh mean--yuh ain’t scared they’ll shoot some more?”

“That feller was pullin’ out awful fast,” replied Irish. “Yuh don’t suppose they work in relays, do yuh?”

“I’ll find yuh a file,” said Tucson, “but I think yuh’re crazy to stand out there like a target. They won’t miss all the time.”

VI

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.”