Chapter IV

Irish walked down to the sheriff’s office, where he found “Shorty” Long, the deputy, enjoying a siesta. Irish and Shorty had always been good friends, and Shorty was glad to see him.

“Doggone, yuh look good, Irish! Hyah, Kid, long time no see.”

“That’s right, Shorty. I didn’t know how I stood with the law, so I thought I’d beard the lion in his den.”

“Jim Corwin is out.” Shorty grinned. “I reckon yuh stand all right with the law, far as I know. At least, the law of Dancin’ Flats, Irish. Set down and rest yore hind feet, boy. Everybody is talkin’ about you. The preacher says yuh’re a crusader for the right, whatever that is.”

“Preachers have never paid much attention to me, Shorty.”

“Me neither. But John Calvin is a little different. You’ll like him.”

“I didn’t come here to go to church, Shorty.”

“I know yuh didn’t, Irish. Everybody is talkin’ about why yuh came here, and they’re even makin’ bets that yuh don’t last a week. I hear that Slim Duarte is takin’ bets on yuh.”

Irish grinned slowly. “Slim Duarte is, eh? He’s bettin’ that I don’t last, eh?”

“I don’t reckon Slim has forgotten what happened the day you left here, Irish. Neither has Jim Corwin, but he ain’t bettin’.”

“What’s yore bet, Shorty?”

“Me? I don’t bet; I just hope yuh win.”

“Yuh do, eh? Shorty, you’ve been here with Corwin for a long time, and you’ve got two good ears, so what about these Night Hawks? Are people scared of ’em?”

“Yeah, I reckon they’re a little scary of talkin’. Nobody knows who they are, nor how many there are. They make the sheriff’s office look awful bad, Irish. They leave notes, yuh know, sayin’ that the law works too slow, and all that. Jim don’t like ’em.”

Irish smiled. “Shorty, if the odds get long enough, maybe I’ll risk a few dollars myself.”

“Yuh mean yuh’re so confident on winnin’ that you’d take a chance on yore own money, Irish?”

“Look at it this way, Shorty. If I come out on top, I can use the money, but if I’m loser--well, I can’t take it with me.”

“Yea-a-a-ah!” breathed Shorty. “That’s right. Shucks, you can afford to bet every cent you’ve got.”

Irish smiled. “I reckon I’ll go out to the ranch and wait for the odds to get bigger. See yuh later, Shorty.”

People on the street looked curiously at Irish as he rode his sorrel down the main street of Dancing Flats. Some of them shook their heads. One man said to another:

“I knowed Irish Delaney when he lived here, and he was a nice boy until he lost his temper, but he’s become a rash fool, talkin’ like he has.”

“Packs his gun low,” observed the other man pointedly.

“Yeah, and he can sling it, too. Hank Farley learned him that. When he was twelve years old he could pull a gun and hit tin cans throwed in the air. But his shootin’ ability won’t save him. He’s buttin’ his sorrel head ag’in a stone wall.”

Irish Delaney realized it, too. One man against an unseen and unknown organization, an organization that would not stop at murder, made his chances very slim indeed. Irish believed that they had murdered Hank Farley, and that the only way to unmask them was to force their hand. All they would have to do would be to shoot him from ambush, pin a note on his shirt-front--and the Night Hawks would be more powerful than ever.

* * * * *

He had a long talk with Johnny and Tucson that evening, hoping that they might remember somebody who hated Hank Farley enough to murder him, but to no avail. Neither of them had ever heard of Hank Farley having a deadly enemy. The time element meant nothing. There was no record of the Night Hawks, until they found the body of Hank Farley. It was their first job. Every sheriff in that part of the state had tried to find the Ghost Rider.

Tucson insisted that the Ghost Rider had an accomplice.

“He had to have, I tell yuh,” insisted the old man. “Evidence proved it.”

“But he pulled every other job alone,” said Johnny McCune.

“Mebbe. Yuh can’t tell--mebbe the other man hung back ready to step in if things got tough. Everybody looks for one man, and all the time there was two.”

“What about descriptions?” asked Irish. “Men must have seen the Ghost Rider and knew what size he was.”

“Well, I dunno about that, Irish,” replied Johnny. “When a man’s got a gun centered on yuh--size don’t mean much.”

“Uncle Hank didn’t have no close friend--nobody he’d pull a job like that with, did he?”

“Uncle Hank never done it!” declared Tucson.

“Yo’re just hard-headed and soft-hearted, Tucson,” said Johnny.

The talk shifted to other things, and Irish mentioned seeing Nell in town.

“She’s aged, don’t yuh think, Irish? Who wouldn’t--livin’ with Briggs. He’s been drinkin’ a lot, and he’s awful jealous of her. Briggs don’t get along with Ed Shearer. Briggs spends most of his evenin’s at the Turquoise, drinkin’ up the profits, and I reckon she sets at home, waitin’ for him to come home and cuss at her. Yuh know, Irish, he hates the preacher.” Johnny grinned widely. “He’s jealous of the preacher. Won’t let Nell go to church.”

“You’re jokin’, ain’t yuh, Johnny?”

“Ask anybody. The preacher knows it.”

“Well, I dunno,” sighed Irish. “Nobody can be as foolish as people.”

It was nearly midnight when they went to bed that night, and none of them had gone to sleep, when fast-traveling hoofs beat up to the front of the house. Johnny McCune slept on a cot in the main room. He lighted a lamp, picked up his gun and went to the door, for someone was knocking.

“This is Jim Corwin, Johnny!” called a voice, and Johnny opened the door.

It was the sheriff and Shorty Long. Tucson came in from one doorway and Irish Delaney from another. Irish had a gun in his hand. The sheriff looked them over, but spoke to Irish.

“How long ago did you come here, Irish?” he asked sharply.

“Before supper,” replied Irish, and the other two men nodded.

“He’s been here all evenin’, talkin’ with us, Jim,” said McCune.

“Has, eh? Well, that’s lucky for him.”

“What’s all this hocus-pocus about, Corwin?” asked Irish.

“No hocus-pocus,” replied the sheriff. “Somebody shot Al Briggs tonight, and somebody stuck up Slim Duarte, and cleaned out his safe.”

None of the three men had any comment to make. Irish placed his gun on the table, picked up a cigarette-paper and tobacco and began rolling a cigarette.

“And you thought I done it, eh?” he said coldly. “Thanks.”

“You had trouble with Al Briggs today,” accused the sheriff.

* * * * *

Deliberately Irish lighted his cigarette over the chimney of the lamp, and squinted away from the smoke. “Trouble? I didn’t have trouble with Briggs. He’d been drinkin’--and I walked out on him. What was the evidence against me in the Slim Duarte job?”

“Well, it was a masked man about yore size, Irish,” replied the sheriff.

“I see. Sorry to disappoint yuh, Corwin, but I was here.”

“Is Al Briggs dead?” asked Johnny.

“Dead’s a doorknob,” said Shorty Long. “Slim don’t know how much money he’s lost--somethin’ over four thousand dollars.”

“Was the masked man dressed in gray?” asked Tucson.

“No, he wasn’t,” replied the sheriff testily.

“Looks like another crime wave was startin’,” remarked the deputy. “I figure the killer was also the robber. Everybody was so upset over Al Briggs that the man pried open the window of Slim’s little office, slipped in and waited for Slim to come. Then he made Slim open the safe.”

“Where did he kill Briggs?” asked Johnny.

“Right in front of my office!” snapped the sheriff. “I was at the Turquoise.”

“Made it easy for yuh to find the body, Jim,” said Tucson, dryly.

“In front of yore office,” said Irish. “That’s kind of funny.”

“What’s the difference where he was shot?” asked the sheriff.

“None, I reckon. Was Al Briggs armed?”

“He had a gun in his pocket, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“I could have meant that, I reckon.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “we might as well go back, Shorty.”

“Have yuh tried any of the other ranches?” asked Tucson. “Yuh never can tell what yore luck might be, Jim.”

Jim Corwin told Tucson where he could go, and they walked out. Tucson chuckled quietly. “I like to rub Jim the wrong way,” he said.

“You were pretty lucky, Irish,” remarked Johnny. Irish smiled.

“Corwin wants to count coup on my scalp, I reckon, Johnny.”

“I can’t figure Al Briggs gettin’ killed,” said Tucson.

“Irish,” said Johnny. “What was yore idea in askin’ if Briggs had a gun?”

“I don’t know, Johnny. I just wondered.”

“You didn’t have no trouble with Briggs, did yuh, Irish?”

“No. I was talkin’ with Nell, when Al came in. He sent her away, and tried to start an argument with me about talkin’ to her, but I told him he was drunk and walked out.”

Tucson yawned. “Well, we might as well go back to bed.”

Jim Corwin and Shorty Long went back to Dancing Flats. There was still a crowd in the Turquoise. They found Slim Duarte and told him that Irish Delaney had an iron-clad alibi.

“McCune and Thomas would lie for him,” said Duarte.

“All right, Slim, think what yuh like but when two men swear he was there with them all evenin’, yuh’re stuck. How much did he get away with?”

“About six thousand dollars,” replied Duarte grimly. “I was a fool to keep that much in my safe but it’s too late now.”