Law-star for an outlaw
“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.”
IX
Quickly the five men separated and made a swift search. Questioning
failed to find anyone who had seen Buck that evening. They all met
back at the hitchrack. If Irish was disappointed he did not show it.
“Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ve got to find out about somethin’.”
Irish disappeared in the darkness across the street. He went to the
corner and looked down the side street. There was a light in the
Briggs house. Irish wasn’t afraid now. He limped up to the front door
and knocked.
After a few moments Ed Shearer opened the door. He got a good look at
Irish and stepped back.
“Irish, what happened to you?” he asked. “Yuh’re all bloody and hurt!”
Nell was sitting in a rocker, staring at Irish.
“I got dry-gulched in yore yard early tonight,” he said. “Nell, did you
write me a letter--one I got in the post office tonight?”
“A letter, Irish?” she asked, puzzled completely. “Why, I never wrote
you a letter, Irish.”
“Set down, boy, you’ve been hurt,” said Shearer. “I don’t--”
“Who’s been here this evenin’?” asked Irish sharply.
“Here?” queried Shearer. “Why, nobody--much. Some people did drop in
some time ago, Irish. What do you mean?”
“Who was here last?” Irish looked from Nell to her father. “I want to
know,” he said wearily.
“The minister was here, but he left almost a half-hour ago,” said
Shearer.
“Much obliged,” said Irish, and walked out.
Nell and her father looked at each other curiously. There had been
little sense to Irish’s conversation.
“Dad, he has been hurt,” Nell said. “He looks terrible!”
“Been hit on the head, Nell. Somebody should take care of him.”
“Irish Delaney can take care of himself, Dad.”
“Yeah, I reckon he can.” Shearer walked over and looked out the window,
but it was too dark for him to see anything.
“Why did he ask me about a letter?” she wondered aloud. “I never wrote
him any letter.”
Shearer came back to the table and looked at her.
“Nell,” he said quietly, “do you still--well, do you still like Irish
Delaney?”
“No, Dad, I’m afraid not.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I hope he won’t be too disappointed.”
“I hope not. I’m afraid he wouldn’t be a dependable husband.”
Irish went back to the main street and stopped at the hitchrack, where
the men waited. All he said was:
“We’re ridin’ again.”
No one asked him anything more. He led the way on his sorrel and turned
on the road to the 74 spread. They strung out, only a few yards apart,
riding fast. There was some starlight now and the road was visible for a
short distance. Irish set a fast pace, and the horses were well-blown
when they pulled up just short of the ranchhouse. They could see a light
there.
“Take it easy now,” Irish said. “We’re goin’ in quiet.”
“Are yuh still lookin’ for Buck?” whispered the sheriff.
“For Buck and whoever is with him, Jim. Take it easy, boys.”
They worked in close to the old porch. The front door was half-open.
In the light from within they could see a horse standing close to the
porch, its sides still heaving from a fast trip. A man was talking
nervously as they stopped near the doorway.
“I did come to town!” he declared. “I tried to find you, but you wasn’t
home so I came back.”
* * * * *
The other voice asked a question, but too low for them to get the words.
“I tell yuh, he was here,” Buck answered. “I left his gun in that
drawer in the table, and it’s gone. I don’t know how he got loose.
I’ve told yuh what happened up there. I hunted all over for him, but
it was so blasted dark I couldn’t see a thing. Mebbe he went back to
the Flyin’ M.”
“I hope he did, Buck. As for you, you’ve bungled everything. Unless
Irish Delaney walks into the house before anybody else gets there,
you’ve put a rope around our necks. If he misses--you’re a goner,
Buck.”
“I’m headin’ for Mexico tonight.”
“You’re staying right here, my friend, and you won’t talk.”
“No, no!” screamed Buck French. “You can’t--”
A gun thundered in that small room, and the concussion almost closed
the door, but Irish jerked ahead and blocked it. Buck was on the floor,
his head and shoulders against a table-leg, and over him stood a man,
cocking his gun for the next shot.
“Hold it!” yelled Irish.
The man whirled and fired from his waist, but his bullet went wild.
Irish shot deliberately through the smoke. The man was sent back on
his heels, his gun-hand dropping, but he was game. He braced his
feet and tried to swing the gun up again, but Irish shot again, and
the man went down, striking a chair and knocking it across the room.
His gun went with the chair.
Irish came slowly across the room, followed by the others. Buck French
was badly hurt, but he wasn’t unconscious. Irish took Buck’s gun from
his holster. The sheriff and Johnny were looking down at the other man.
“I must be dreamin’,” the sheriff said. “This is the minister, Irish!”
“I was afraid of that,” said Irish grimly. “How are yuh, Buck?”
“That yellow coyote tried to kill me,” complained Buck weakly. “Get me a
doctor, will yuh, Irish?”
“So you two are the Night Hawks, eh?”
“Yeah. It was John’s idea. Bein’ a preacher, nobody’d suspect him--he
thought. He’s murder crazy, I tell yuh.”
“Wasn’t any preacher at all, eh?” said Tucson.
“He studied for it,” said Buck. “His name was Strickland. He done five
years for forgery. He was the Ghost Rider, and when he had plenty money
he killed Hank Farley and put the clothes on him. I worked with him, but
I never killed anybody.”
“You tried hard tonight, Buck,” said Irish. “Nobody pulled on that front
door. Did this hombre kill Al Briggs?”
“Yeah,” whispered Buck. “Al was drinkin’. He thought the parson was
stuck on his wife, and he came to have it out with him. Walked in on
the parson, who had put on his workin’ clothes. I picked Al up, put
him in front of Corwin’s office and fired a shot in the air. He shot
Slim Duarte tonight, too. He was murder crazy.”
“I never dreamed of anythin’ like this,” said the sheriff. “I’m still
weak over it. Irish, how did you find all this out?”
“I found my six-shooter in that table drawer over there tonight. It
put the deadwood on Buck, but I had to get the brains of the outfit.
Somebody sent me a decoy note today and signed Nell Briggs’ name to
it. I got knocked out in front of her house.
“When I left you fellows at the hitchrack, I went down there. I had to
be sure she didn’t write it. She didn’t. I asked them who had been there
and they said the preacher. Then I knew who I was lookin’ for.”
“How did yuh know, Irish?”
“The Night Hawks sent me a letter and it had perfume on it. When I went
into the Briggs house tonight, I smelled that same perfume. It had to be
the preacher.”
* * * * *
Sheriff Corwin’s mouth opened in surprise. Then he scowled.