Law-star for an outlaw
“Shorty,” said the sheriff, “you go get the doctor. No use movin’ ’em
now.”
“Yuh won’t have to move the preacher--not for medical attention,” said
Tucson.
“Buck,” said Irish. “Can yuh hear me?”
Buck said in a whisper, “Yeah, I can hear, yuh.”
“What did the parson do with all the money he stole?”
“It’s hidden under the church,” whispered Buck. “Anyway, he said it
was. He was murder crazy, I tell yuh. We had a cinch, if he’d played
the game, or if that blasted Irish Delaney had stayed away. Do I get
a doctor pretty soon?”
“I’d like to go back to the ranch and stretch out,” said Irish. “I’m so
darned sore I can’t hardly stand up.”
“You boys go home,” said the sheriff. “I’ll wait for Shorty and the
doctor. Much obliged, Irish.”
“Yuh’re welcome, Jim. See yuh later.”
They cut across the hills to the Flying M, traveling the trail that
Irish used before that night. At the ranchhouse, Tucson put away the
three horses, while Irish and Johnny sat down, rolled smokes and
relaxed.
“Yuh know, Irish,” remarked Shorty. “It’s kind of funny--you driftin’
in here to clear Hank Farley’s name, and cleanin’ up a killer outfit
thataway. I was thinkin’ of Nell, too. I don’t know how yuh feel about
her, but--well, the coast is clear, Kid.”
Irish smiled wearily over his cigarette. “Johnny, you remember that
girl--the one you said you thought might have followed me from Dancin’
Flats?”
“That pretty little dancer, Irish?”
“Yeah. She caught me a year later in Cheyenne.”
“She did? Well!”
“She’s Mrs. Delaney. We’ve got a boy, two years old now. His name is
Henry McCune Delaney, and he’s a dinger, Johnny.”
“I’m a ring-tailed son-of-a-sea-cook! Irish! You named him after me and
Hank! You--Irish, yuh’re a blasted fool! Riskin’ yore life to come down
here to--takin’ chances like that--and you with a kid--Irish, yuh’re a
fool!”
“I know it, Johnny. I’m also a Deputy U. S. Marshal, and I go where I’m
sent. It was my job, Johnny.”
Johnny McCune smiled thoughtfully for several moments. Finally he said
quietly:
“I’ll betcha Henry McCune Delaney is proud of his dad. I know blamed
well, I am.”
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the Fall, 1947 issue
of _Giant Western_ magazine.]