Chapter 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 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.