There was the usual crowd around the little post office, arguing about the murder and robbery. Irish knew many of them, and they knew that Irish had been an immediate suspect. Johnny McCune got the mail, and they walked outside. As they walked over to their horses Johnny said quietly: “There’s a letter for you, Irish, and the handwritin’ is the same as on the letter I got.” “Keep it until we get out of the town, Johnny. That gang is watchin’ us now.” * * * * * Outside of Dancing Flats, Johnny gave the letter to Irish. It was poorly addressed in pencil to Irish Delaney, care of the Flying M. Inside was a sheet of paper on which was penciled: DELANEY, YOU ARE A FOOL AND A BRAGGART. THE LAW CAN’T TOUCH YOU, BUT WE CAN. GET OUT--AND STAY OUT. WE ONLY WARN ONCE. THE NIGHT HAWKS. Irish read it aloud. Johnny McCune whistled softly. “I kind of figured on this,” said Irish. “What are yuh doin’--kissin’ it?” asked Johnny. “No, I’m smellin’ of it, Johnny.” “Yeah? Does it smell like the skunks they are?” Irish grinned and sniffed at it again, before handing it over to Johnny, who also sniffed. “It has the odor of a honkatonk on it,” said Johnny soberly. Irish folded the letter and put it in his pocket, his eyes very thoughtful. Johnny squinted at the bobbing ears of his horse, as he said quietly: “Perfume on a death warrant. Hm-m-m-m. Honkatonk perfume. Yuh know, Irish, gamblers use the stuff.” Irish nodded, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Tucson read the note, his eyes grim. Irish told him to smell of it, and Tucson sniffed audibly. “Yuh don’t suppose that the Ladies’ Aid Society have turned killers, do yuh?” he said soberly. “Some men use it, Tucson,” said Irish. “Some male critters, yuh mean. Such as Slim--well, I’ve smelled other gamblers, too. Most of ’em use it, I reckon. What are yuh goin’ to do about it, Irish?” “Well, it looks like a showdown might be comin’,” replied Irish seriously. “I reckon I’d better move into town and--” “Ye do nothin’ of the kind!” snorted Johnny. “I’ll say yuh won’t!” added Tucson. “Me and Johnny’s got a bone to pick with ’em, too. Let ’em come. We’re here first.” “They’ve got all the best of it, Tucson.” “They’ll need it. I better put my bread in the oven and stir up the mulligan. I’ve allus said, ‘A man should never die on an empty stummick.’ Johnny, how are we fixed for shells for that fifty-seventy?” “You can’t hit anythin’ with that old Sharps.” “Oh, can’t I? Listen, Johnny--all I need is an address. I’ll boil the spiders out of the barrel tonight and use a little axlegrease on the works. That gun’s pretty old, but she’s a great time and money saver. If that bullet hit yuh--whap! Where you was--you jist exactly ain’t. No burial, no expense a-tall.”