“No, you blasted fool--about the Night Hawks!” “Well,” said Tucson dryly, “they’ll keep monkeyin’ around until somebody gets hurt, and it prob’ly won’t be them.” “Next time, I hope you load that gun,” said Irish. “I’m keepin’ her loaded, Irish.” “Aw, yuh wouldn’t have hit him, anyway,” said Johnny. “Shootin’ that old coal-burner at three hundred yards is almost like shootin’ that distance with a bow and arrow.” “Don’t make fun of that gun, Johnny. Three hundred yards! Why, that bullet is jist startin’ to go at that distance. Why, I--” “Stop yore artillery practice and start supper. I’m hongry.” “Every time I beat yore argument, yuh change the subject.” * * * * * Tucson went into the kitchen, but came right out. “Johnny, what day is this?” he asked. “It’s Saturday, of course.” “That’s what I thought, and I don’t cook no supper on Saturday nights. We allus eat in town. That’s the day you allus lose yore shirt tryin’ to make deuces beat a full-house. Remember, Johnny?” “Yeah. All right, I forgot. Want to go to town, Irish?” “Might as well, I reckon,” nodded Irish. “Might save packin’ yore re-mains into town,” said Tucson. “Worry about yore own remains,” suggested Johnny. “Remember, he didn’t bust that window very far above yore head, Tucson.” “Aw, he was jist scared of me, that’s all.” They arrived in Dancing Flats before supper time. The town was always crowded on Saturday, and the games at the Turquoise were running full-blast. Ed Shearer had opened the general store, following the funeral of Al Briggs, and customers were streaming in and out. Irish was too restless to stay in one place, so he left Johnny and Tucson at the Turquoise and went up the street, stopping at the post office, where he asked for the Flying M mail. The woman clerk gave him a letter, addressed to him, but it was not in the handwriting of the Night Hawks. Irish went outside to open it. He recognized the writing. It was from Nell, and said: Can’t you come down to my house tonight? Better make it about nine o’clock; so the neighbors won’t talk. I must see you. It was simply signed Nell. Irish shoved the letter into his pocket and leaned against a porch post in front of the post office. He wondered what on earth Nell wanted to see him for. Come late, so the neighbors won’t talk. Irish smiled wryly. He met Johnny and Tucson later and they all went to a little restaurant for supper. Irish didn’t tell them about the letter, but said there was no mail for the ranch. “I talked with Slim Duarte a while ago,” said Johnny. “He asked if you was in town.” “I smelled of him,” added Tucson, “and he was awful sweet.” “Why was he interested in me?” asked Irish curiously. “I don’t know.” “Yuh do, too,” contradicted Tucson. “He said that yore presence in the Turquoise wouldn’t help his business any.” “I must be kind of poisonous.” Irish smiled as he said this.