[Illustration: Irish closed the gate of the white picket fence when suddenly something hit him a tremendous blow to the head.] Law-Star for an Outlaw A novelet by W. C. Tuttle A criminal trap is set to kill three men at a ranchhouse and Irish Delaney is forced into a six-gun showdown with the evil Night Hawks of Dancing Flats! The gambling room of the Turquoise Saloon was filled to capacity that night, and the center of interest was the roulette layout, where a tall, slightly gray-haired, well-dressed man was playing the wheel alone. Not another game was in operation at that time, and the place was hushed. “That totals seven hundred and fifty dollars, my friend,” the tall man said quietly. “Are you satisfied?” “Slim” Duarte, swarthy, white-toothed gambler, owner of the Turquoise, smiled slowly as he replied: “Parson, I feel that I have paid well for my seat in your little church yesterday. You publicly announced that I was more than partly responsible for poor attendance at your place of worship, and that if I would attend your church, you would attend my place of business. We are even now, my friend.” “Thank you, Mr. Duarte. We both kept our word. It is my opinion that you received nothing from my sermon, so this will keep us even.” The preacher tossed the money on the layout. Slim Duarte looked curiously at the minister. “You can use money, can’t yuh, Parson?” he said quietly. “Not that kind of money. The church doesn’t gamble. We both had our fun. You smiled at me in church--I laughed at you here. Thank you for your challenge and your entertainment--and goodnight.” John Calvin, minister of the Dancing Flats Church, turned away from the roulette layout, and the crowd relaxed. Standing only a few feet away from the layout was a tall, slender young man, his sombrero pulled low over a pair of hard eyes. He wore a faded, once-blue shirt, moulded to his powerful shoulders, a scarlet handkerchief knotted around his throat. Light from the oil lamps sparkled from the silver rivets on his gun-belt, and a black-handled Colt swayed outward in its short holster along his thigh. * * * * * No one had noticed his arrival. Not over ten minutes ago he had tied a weary, long-legged sorrel to the hitchrack beside the saloon. His eyes searched the face of the minister, who stopped, looking straight at him. They had never met before, but the cowboy said quietly: “Yuh’re the preacher who buried my uncle. I heard about it, and I’d like to thank yuh. I’m Irish Delaney.” [Illustration: Irish Delaney] Irish Delaney! It was as though thoughts were whispered aloud, although there was not a sound. “Oh, yes,” the preacher said quietly. “You are the nephew of Henry Farley. I am glad to meet you, sir.”