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.”