“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.”