“Yuh’re bloodthirsty, Tucson,” said Irish soberly. “I’ll bet you’ll pour chloroform down that gun-barrel before you boil the spiders....” They buried Albert Briggs next day. Neither Irish nor Tucson went to the funeral, but Johnny McCune put on his Sunday clothes, combed his hair, put stove-polish on his boots and went in to pay his last respects to a man he had no respect for. [Illustration: As he brought the blade up about waist level, something knocked the axe from his hands.] Tucson and Irish worked around the ranch, and just before noon Tucson complained about a shortage of wood for his stove. There was a pile of old corral-posts near the kitchen door, so Irish took the ax and proceeded to do a little chopping. The poles were very tough and the ax was very dull. Irish stopped trying to chop, and examined the blade of the ax. As he brought the blade up about waist-level and felt of the scarred edge, something struck the head of the ax a terrific blow, knocking it out of Irish’s hands. A fraction of a moment later, from somewhere back in the hills, came the spiteful crack of a rifle. * * * * * Irish Delaney, his fingers numbed from the blow on the ax-head, fell flat in against the pile of old poles. Tucson yelled from the kitchen: “What’s goin’ on, Irish?” “Keep down!” yelled Irish. “Somebody dry-gulchin’ us!” “I’ll fix that pole-cat!” snapped Tucson, and a moment later he came crawling through a kitchen window, swinging his old Sharps .50-70 ahead of him. Irish started to yell at him, but at that moment another bullet smashed the lifted window above Tucson’s head. The old man promptly fell back into the kitchen, leaving his rifle outside. “Wrong winder,” he said. Irish crawled on his stomach over to the old gun, his eyes searching the brush behind the stable. There was no more shooting, nor could he see anybody on that brushy hill. “How’re yuh comin’, Irish?” asked Tucson from the kitchen. “I’m all right. Watch the hill back of the stable and see if yuh can see anybody.” “Yeah, and lose what hair I’ve still got, eh.” “Oh-oh!” snorted Irish. “I see him!” Far up on the hill, a good three hundred yards away, a man on a horse was making very good time, going away. Irish, flat on the ground, rested the forearm of that ancient buffalo gun on his palm, his elbow digging into the dirt, as he lifted the muzzle several feet over the fast disappearing rider, and squeezed the trigger. The big hammer clicked. Irish relaxed and got to his hands and knees. “Yuh know, Irish,” said Tucson, leaning through the window, “I jist remembered.” “That you forgot to load this cannon, eh?” “Yeah, I reckon I did. Didn’t take time to pick up some shells. Anyway, it needs cleanin’ awful bad. Prob’ly kicked the tar out of yuh, if there’d been a shell in it.” “Probably,” said Irish dryly, and handed the gun through the window. “Yuh know,” mumbled Tucson, “I resent folks actin’ like that.”