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.