Law-star for an outlaw
cowpuncher down on the Border told me. That is, he didn’t exactly tell
_me_--he was just talkin’. How’d it happen?”
“Irish,” replied McCune, “about two years ago the Ghost Rider showed up
in this country. He rode a gray, dressed in gray and wore a gray mask.
He was a pretty bad hombre, Irish.”
“Was?” queried Irish.
“Be that as it may,” replied the old cowman, “he held up banks, stages,
gamblin’ houses and a couple mines. He never missed. It was a caution
the way that hombre stretched his luck. Everybody was lookin’ for him.
He worked alone and--”
“Did he?” interrupted Tucson.
“He was always seen alone,” corrected McCune. “He wasn’t doin’
business all the time. Mebbe two, three months would pass, and when
everybody thought he was through, he’d pull a job. He must have stole
a fortune. Well, one night he stuck up the train at Broken Fork, cut
off the express car, and got himself forty thousand. He killed the
express messenger and--”
“He didn’t do no such thing,” interrupted Tucson. “The evidence proved
that he didn’t, Johnny.”
* * * * *
McCune took a deep breath, looked at Tucson before going on.
“Well, mebbe,” McCune said. “He herded the engine crew back to the
express car, and they swear the car was unlocked, the messenger layin’
on the car floor, dead as a mackerel.”
“That’s what I mean,” said Tucson. “He had a pardner. When the messenger
opened the door, tryin’ to find out what was the matter, this feller
shot him. The Ghost Rider couldn’t have done it, ’cause he was in the
engine cab all that time.”
“And then what?” asked Irish.
“Two days later,” said McCune slowly, “the sheriff and deputy rode in at
Hank Farley’s ranchhouse, and they found Hank laying on the front porch,
shot full of holes. He was dressed in a gray suit, a gray handkerchief
mask tied around his neck. Down at the corral was a skinny gray horse,
wearin’ one of Hank’s saddles. There was a piece of cardboard tied to
Hank’s shirt, and on it was written, ‘When the law fails, the Night
Hawks do the job.’”
* * * * *
Irish sat there staring at the sunlight through the open doorway. He
muttered, “The Night Hawks, eh?”
The two old men nodded.
“When the law fails,” said Irish. “Is this the only job done by the
Night Hawks?”
“The only job of that kind,” replied Johnny.
Irish looked up quickly. “Other kinds?” he asked.
“Yeah. Only a short time ago I was arrested for brandin’ an unweaned
calf, belongin’ to Buck French. The calf disappeared, but they gave
me a hearin’, anyway, and the judge excused me, because there wasn’t
any evidence.
“A few days later I got a letter from the Night Hawks. They told me
they’d give me sixty days to sell my ranch and git out of the country.
They also told me to pay Buck fifty dollars damages. The letter said,
‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”
“And he paid Buck French the fifty,” said Tucson. “I’d have seen ’em all
fryin’ in brimstone!”
“You’d have paid--just like I did, Tucson.”
“What did Buck French say?” asked Irish.
“Well, he didn’t want to take the money. Said he didn’t have it comin’,
and that his business didn’t concern the Night Hawks, but I told him I’d
feel safer if he took it.”
“Had his hand out all the time he was talkin’,” said Tucson.
“Is Buck still as poor as he used to be?” asked Irish.
“No, I think he’s better off than he used to be. Still brags about what
he’s goin’ to do next year.”
“We could use that fifty dollars,” declared Tucson.
“I saw that preacher in town,” remarked Irish.
“Reverend John Calvin? Oh, yeah. Fine feller, Irish. I asked him to let
me share the expenses of Hank’s funeral, but nope. He’s been here three
years. Awful well liked, especially by women.”
“What happened to my uncle’s outfit?” asked Irish.
“That was a queer deal, Irish. It seems that some relatives of Buck
French died and left money to Buck. I think it was twelve thousand.
Anyway it was more money than Buck ever seen before. He put it in the
bank. Long about that time, Hank Farley asked the bank for a loan, but
didn’t get it. He was pretty mad about it.
“Well, somebody said to Buck, ‘Why don’t yuh lend Hank the money?’ They
explained about interest and all that, and Buck made the loan. It was
eight thousand, I believe. Buck was a nuisance. He rode out to the ranch
and looked it over, every little while, actin’ like he owned it.
“Well, sir, when Hank was killed and Buck realized that he owned the
ranch, he was sore as a boil. He wanted his money, too. Yuh see, Hank
didn’t have many cows left. But Buck had to take it. He moved out
there, ’cause it was a better house.”
“How about a little chow?” asked Tucson. “You ort to be hongry.”
“I am, Tucson. Thank yuh a lot.”
* * * * *
After Tucson left, Johnny McCune said quietly:
“Yuh’re aimin’ to stay a while ain’t yuh, Irish?”
“Yeah, a while, I reckon, Johnny.”
“Throw yore remains in that back room, son--it’s better ’n stayin’ in
town. Now, now, I’m runnin’ this place. Me and Tucson need new blood
around here.”
Irish smiled wryly. “With me and the Night Hawks both in the same
country, there might be blood, yuh know.”
Johnny nodded grimly. “Step lightly, son. They ain’t no clingin’ vine
outfit and yuh’re too young to shed hot bullets.”
“I didn’t come here to set in the shade, Johnny.”
“Yuh didn’t come here to be planted on the side of the hill above
Dancin’ Flats, either, didja?”
“Johnny, are you sellin’ out in sixty days?”
“No! Oh, I see what yuh mean. But I’m an old man and when yuh get old,
Irish, yuh don’t want to run.”
Irish rolled a cigarette, his eyes somber. After it was lighted, he said
casually:
“Johnny, what became of Ed Shearer? Still runnin’ the Lazy S?”
“She got married, Irish.”
“She?” Irish looked up at the old cowman. “I asked--”
“Yeah, I know yuh did. She married Al Briggs.”
“Oh, is that so,” Irish said, and examined a thumb-nail.
“You knowed him, Irish. He owns the general store, and drinks like a
fish. ’Member that girl yuh found out in the cactus? After you left
here, she found out about you pullin’ out--and why. She went to Nell
Shearer and told her just what happened. That little devil was as
indignant as a bee-stung bear. She heard what Slim Duarte said, too,
and she rode him with hot spurs. Then she quit and pulled out. They
said she was followin’ you.”
“Is that so?”
“Shore was. Mighty pretty little thing. Smart, too. Man, she used words
that nobody, except mebbe a mule, ever heard. I liked her.”
“Grub-pile!” called Tucson from the kitchen.
III
Next day Irish rode over to the old 74 spread, where he had lived so
long. Seven years had made few changes in the old ranchhouse, except
that it was not well-kept. Buck French was there, hunched on the
front steps, sewing some rips in an old pair of bat-wing chaps. Buck
was a tall, gaunt person, as angular as a Joshua-palm, and just about
as rough.
Irish dismounted near the porch, but Buck paid no attention until Irish
walked up to him, when he held out a big hand to the cowboy.
“Hyah, Irish,” he said quietly. “I heard yuh was back.”
“How are yuh, Buck?” asked Irish.
“Same’s ever.” Buck laid the chaps aside and began rolling a cigarette.
“Heard in Dancin’ Flats that you was back. Place ain’t changed very
much, huh?”
“Very little,” agreed Irish. “I heard what happened to my uncle, Buck.”
“Yea-a-ah,” said Buck. “They found him right where we’re settin’. You
heard that I got the Seventy-four, didn’t yuh?”
“Yeah, Shorty McCune told me, Buck.”
“Yuh don’t want to buy it, do yuh, Irish?”
“What with?” asked Irish soberly.
“I didn’t know. I got stuck with it.”
“It’s a good spread, Buck. Better than yours.”
“Mebbe it’s a little better. Better water. What do yuh aim to do down
here, Irish?”
“Find the men who killed Hank Farley, Buck.”
“Oh!” grunted Buck quietly. “Might be quite a job, Irish. Nobody knows
who the Night Hawks are, and yuh might not get much help at that. Yuh
know, they wanted to get rid of the Ghost Rider.”
“If the Night Hawks knew who was the Ghost Rider, why didn’t they tell
the law, instead of killin’ him themselves, Buck?”
“Nobody knows why, Irish, and the Night Hawks don’t explain.”
“The law could have handled it,” said Irish grimly.
“Yeah, I reckon they could have--but that’s how it happened. Maybe it’d
be better to let sleepin’ dogs lie, Irish.”
“Dogs, yeah,” said Irish quietly. “But they’re not sleepin’.”
“Yuh mean the Night Hawks, Irish? No, I don’t reckon they’re asleep. Did
Johnny McCune tell yuh what they done to him?”
“Made him pay you fifty dollars, Buck.”
“Yeah, they did. I didn’t want to take it, Irish, but Johnny said he’d
feel safer if I did.” Buck French looked at Irish, a queer twinkle in
his eyes, as he said quietly: “If yuh’re able to keep yore word, Irish,
maybe I can pay him back some day.”
“Johnny could use the money, Buck. I’d like to clear Hank Farley’s name.
And, Buck, you know as well as I do that Hank was not the Ghost Rider.”
Buck French drew a deep breath. “Look at it thisaway, Irish; he was
caught with the goods. Before it happened, nobody could make me believe
that Hank had a crooked bone in his body. ’Course, I wasn’t here, and I
didn’t see him, but others did. Yuh got to take the word of the law for
things like that.”
Irish nodded slowly. “Yeah, but the law believes what they see, Buck. I
don’t believe what they say. Well, I’ll drift back.”
“You stayin’ over at the Flyin’ M?”
“For a few days, anyway,” replied Irish. “I’ll be seein’ yuh, Buck.”
* * * * *
Irish climbed onto his long-legged sorrel and rode to Dancing Flats,
where he tied his horse in front of the general store. Ed Shearer
stepped out of the store and came face to face with Irish. They looked
curiously at each other.
“I heard you was back, Irish,” Shearer said. “How are yuh?”
“Pretty good, Mr. Shearer. How are you?”
“All right. You aimin’ to stay here now?”
“Until I finish my job.”
“Oh, I see. You have a job here? I didn’t hear about it.”
Irish’s lips smiled, but his eyes were grave.
“I’m lookin’ for the Ghost Rider,” he said.
Ed Shearer studied that reply thoughtfully. Finally he said:
“I reckon I know what yuh mean, Irish, but I’d forget it. Yuh see, I
went with the sheriff to the Seventy-Four and helped bring Hank’s body
to town. Yuh can’t get away from that evidence.”
“Yuh see,” said Irish quietly, “I lived with Hank Farley. He was sort of
a father to me.”
“Yeah, I know he was, Irish. But I’d forget it, if I was you.”
Irish shook his head. “I’m part elephant, Mr. Shearer--I never forget.
Thank yuh for the advice. It was well-meant.”
“You’re welcome.”
Irish went into the store to buy some tobacco, and ran face to face with
Nell, who worked there at times.
They looked at each other silently for several moments.
“I heard you came back,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought yuh would. How are yuh, Nell?”
“I’m fine, Irish.” She brushed a lock of hair nervously.
Seven years had taken their toll. She was eighteen, when Irish left,
and at twenty-five she had streaks of gray in her hair, lines around
her eyes. She was still a pretty woman, but too mature at twenty-five.
“You haven’t changed, Irish,” she said.
She looked the length of the store, turned back to him and said quietly:
“I wanted to find you, Irish--to tell you that--that girl told me--”
Nell hesitated.
“I know,” Irish said. “Johnny McCune told me. It was just a mistake.
Life is full of mistakes, Nell. You married Al Briggs, they tell me.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, three years ago, Irish,” she said. “Did