Law-Star for an Outlaw
A novelet by W. C. Tuttle
A criminal trap is set to kill three men at a ranchhouse
and Irish Delaney is forced into a six-gun showdown with
the evil Night Hawks of Dancing Flats!
The gambling room of the Turquoise Saloon was filled to capacity that
night, and the center of interest was the roulette layout, where a tall,
slightly gray-haired, well-dressed man was playing the wheel alone. Not
another game was in operation at that time, and the place was hushed.
“That totals seven hundred and fifty dollars, my friend,” the tall man
said quietly. “Are you satisfied?”
“Slim” Duarte, swarthy, white-toothed gambler, owner of the Turquoise,
smiled slowly as he replied:
“Parson, I feel that I have paid well for my seat in your little
church yesterday. You publicly announced that I was more than partly
responsible for poor attendance at your place of worship, and that if
I would attend your church, you would attend my place of business. We
are even now, my friend.”
“Thank you, Mr. Duarte. We both kept our word. It is my opinion that you
received nothing from my sermon, so this will keep us even.”
The preacher tossed the money on the layout. Slim Duarte looked
curiously at the minister.
“You can use money, can’t yuh, Parson?” he said quietly.
“Not that kind of money. The church doesn’t gamble. We both had our
fun. You smiled at me in church--I laughed at you here. Thank you for
your challenge and your entertainment--and goodnight.”
John Calvin, minister of the Dancing Flats Church, turned away from the
roulette layout, and the crowd relaxed.
Standing only a few feet away from the layout was a tall, slender
young man, his sombrero pulled low over a pair of hard eyes. He wore a
faded, once-blue shirt, moulded to his powerful shoulders, a scarlet
handkerchief knotted around his throat. Light from the oil lamps
sparkled from the silver rivets on his gun-belt, and a black-handled
Colt swayed outward in its short holster along his thigh.
* * * * *
No one had noticed his arrival. Not over ten minutes ago he had tied a
weary, long-legged sorrel to the hitchrack beside the saloon. His eyes
searched the face of the minister, who stopped, looking straight at
him. They had never met before, but the cowboy said quietly:
“Yuh’re the preacher who buried my uncle. I heard about it, and I’d like
to thank yuh. I’m Irish Delaney.”
Irish Delaney! It was as though thoughts were whispered aloud, although
there was not a sound.
“Oh, yes,” the preacher said quietly. “You are the nephew of Henry
Farley. I am glad to meet you, sir.”
“Yeah, I’m the nephew of Ol’ Hank Farley, who didn’t have a chance for
his white chip. You paid for his funeral and preached it. I’m much
obliged to yuh.”
Then Irish Delaney turned and the crowd gave him room to walk out. He
paid no attention to them as he walked slowly through the barroom and
went outside. After a few moments, the minister followed him. No one
mentioned Irish Delaney.
Slim Duarte turned from the roulette layout and his eyes met those
of Jim Corwin, the sheriff. Corwin was tall, slightly gray, with a
deep-lined face, small eyes and a wide mouth. He had been sheriff of
Dancing Flats for twelve years.
Irish Delaney had left Dancing Flats seven years ago, but there were
men in the crowd who had been in Dancing Flats the day Irish Delaney
rode away. Jim Corwin’s eyes flashed across the faces of the crowd,
before he walked away. Duarte spoke to a gambler, and the games were
opened.
Almost seven years to the day since Irish Delaney rode away on a
long-legged sorrel gelding. Irish was partial to long-legged sorrels.
Some said it was the only color that nearly matched his own hair.
Irish had been a wild-riding kid, cold-jawed, but laughing. He had
started building up his own herd. He was nineteen then--an
orphan--living with his uncle, Hank Farley, who owned the 74 spread
east of Dancing Flats. Irish loved Nell Shearer, daughter of Ed
Shearer, who owned the Lazy S, but Ed Shearer did not want Irish
Delaney as a son-in-law.
Irish Delaney cared little for Ed Shearer’s likes and dislikes, and Ed
Shearer knew it, but fate stepped in to help the cause of Ed Shearer.
A dance-hall girl, young and rather pretty, went for a horseback ride
alone and was thrown in the desert, several miles from Dancing Flats.
Fate sent Irish Delaney across that same stretch of country, and Irish
found her, injured and trying to find her way home.
An hour later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, with the young lady
in his arms. She couldn’t sit down, because of cactus. Nell Shearer
happened to be in town--and saw them arrive. Irish was laughing over it,
and carried the girl into the Turquoise. This incident was grist for Ed
Shearer’s mill, and he made the most of it.
Two days later Irish Delaney rode into Dancing Flats, drew out all the
money he had in the little bank and went over to the Turquoise Saloon.
Slim Duarte had laughingly made the remark that he expected to have to
hire a new soprano, intimating that Irish was in love with the
dance-hall girl. Irish heard about the remark. He was leaving Dancing
Flats today. Old Hank Farley said nothing. Advice was not what Irish
Delaney wanted--he’d do as he pleased.
Irish didn’t like Jim Corwin, the sheriff, either. Irish sat into a draw
poker game, where Slim Duarte was running the play, and told the suave
gambler to kick the roof off the house. It was a five-handed game, but
quickly slid to two-handed. Jim Corwin was in the saloon, watching Irish
Delaney, while Irish watched Slim Duarte.
* * * * *
Irish had the luck of the Irish. Pot after pot went to his side of
the table, and Slim Duarte realized that honesty is not always the
best policy. Then the luck changed, and Irish’s winnings began taking
wings. Suddenly there was a lull. Duarte was dealing. Irish picked up
a card and examined a corner carefully. He laid the card down and
looked intently at Duarte.
Jim Corwin moved quietly to a spot behind the young Irishman.
“Look at that card,” said Irish quietly.
He flipped the card with a forefinger and it landed in front of Duarte,
who looked down at it. Irish was on his feet in a flash, drawing his
gun.
“Marked with a thumb-nail!” he rasped. “You dirty crook, yuh’re dealin’
seconds!”
Jim Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the
lithe cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte, who was
trying to get out of his chair. They both went down with a crash, when
a leg broke off the chair. Spectators dived for cover, the bartender
hit the floor behind the bar, as the real fight started.
No shots were fired. Irish ignored his holstered gun, after he had
thrown the sheriff’s gun the length of the saloon. They went to it
with bare fists, chairs--anything in reach. Duarte went down from a
left hook that almost removed his chin.
Jim Corwin was much bigger than Irish, and he knew the game of
roughhouse fighting, but this fight-crazy youngster was like a wild-cat.
Punches didn’t hurt him. He laughed and tore back, until Jim Corwin went
down on his hands and knees, bleeding and too dazed to continue.
Irish backed against the bar, bloody, disheveled, his gun dangling from
his right hand.
“Fine people!” he choked. “Crooked gambler, backed by a crooked
sheriff, fleecin’ a kid. Get up, Duarte! Walk outside, both of yuh. I
want the folks to see what yuh look like. Outside, before I use a gun
on yuh. Start walkin’!”
They went. It was difficult, but not far to go. A big crowd had gathered
in front of the Turquoise. Slim Duarte was clinging to Jim Corwin, his
eyes vacant. They were a well-whipped pair. Behind them came Irish
Delaney. Jim Corwin grasped a porch post and tried to shake loose from
Duarte, but without any success.
Irish Delaney’s mouth laughed, but his eyes were hard.
“Damon and Pythias, folks!” he said. “Duarte played crooked and Corwin
backed his play. I’m pullin’ out of Dancin’ Flats but before I go, I’d
like to show yuh some true love. Corwin! Duarte!”
Corwin said, “What?” But Duarte said nothing.
“Put yore arms around Duarte and kiss him, Corwin.”
“Yuh’re--crazy.”
Irish moved in, his bleeding right fist balled tightly. “Kiss him--or we
start all over again, Corwin.”
Corwin kissed Duarte. It was not a pretty face to kiss. Duarte still
rather vague as to what was going on, kissed Corwin, his foot slipped
off the edge of the board sidewalk, and they both fell into the street,
locked together.
Irish Delaney went out to the hitchrack, mounted his sorrel and galloped
out of Dancing Flats.
They heard rumors of Irish Delaney occasionally. He was leading a
bad bunch in New Mexico, had been arrested near the Border by the
Texas Rangers, but escaped. Neither Duarte nor Corwin ever forgot
the humiliation of that day. Jim Corwin was a good sheriff. After
explanations had been made, the people forgave Corwin. There was no
evidence of marked cards, because somebody, possibly the bartender,
had seen to that detail.
II
Irish Delaney was back and folks knew that he didn’t merely come back to
thank John Calvin, their minister. Shorty Long, the deputy sheriff, with
the longest neck in the country, shook his head.
“I shore do pity them Night Hawks,” he remarked in a sepulchral voice.
“You can take that remark out and bury it,” said Jim Corwin.
“Yeah, but I can still think my own thoughts, Jim. If he ever finds out
who killed Hank Farley--”
“Even if Hank Farley was the Ghost Rider?”
“Even if Hank Farley was the devil himself, Jim. Blood’s a heap
thicker’n water, and Hank Farley loved that hard-eyed kid.”
“Forget it, Shorty. We’ll keep an eye on Irish Delaney.”
Irish Delaney rode out of Dancing Flats, heading for the one friend
he used to have in the valley, Johnny McCune, who owned a small ranch
south of town. McCune and Hank Farley had been old cronies for years.
On the little ranch with McCune was Tucson Thomas, an old ranchhand,
badly crippled in body but strong in spirit.
Seven years had aged Johnny McCune. He stood on the little porch of his
Flying M ranchhouse and peered from under the brim of his battered
sombrero at Irish Delaney. Tucson came to the doorway, his skinny waist
encircled with a flour-sack, a skillet in his hand.
“Howdy, Mr. McCune,” Irish said. “Tucson Thomas, how are yuh?”
“I’ll be a pug-nosed pelican!” snorted Tucson. “Irish!”
“Irish Delaney!” gasped Johnny McCune. “You--you darned kid!”
The two of them fairly swarmed into Irish, whose eyes were not hard
now. Perhaps the moisture softened them up. He didn’t know what sort
of a reception he could expect. This was great.
They led him into the house, seated him in the one rocker, and demanded
an explanation of his return.
“You never wrote to anybody,” accused Johnny. “Not anybody.”
“No, I don’t reckon I did. I made a fool of myself before I got out, and
maybe nobody wanted a letter from me.”
“Hank did, Irish.”
Irish drew a deep breath, staring at the floor. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
“I reckon Hank did. I’m sorry, Johnny.”
None of them said anything for a while. Then Irish said:
“How have things been with you two, Johnny McCune?”
“Jist fair, Irish. You heard about Hank.”
“I heard he was killed by night riders, but I didn’t get any details. A