Gradually he became conscious of a terrible pain in his head, and of voices. At first they were merely a jumble of words, but they finally separated into conversation. “Yuh can’t trust him for a minute, I tell yuh,” he heard a man say. “You’re not going to do it here,” declared a voice. “We tie him on his horse and you take both of them to the Lost Goose. Do this job just as I planned. They’ll both disappear, and everybody will figure he got yellow and pulled out.” “But if I do the other job, I won’t have time. It’ll take me a couple hours to finish up at the Lost Goose. I’ve got to do that job before McCune and Thomas go back there.” “That’s right. Well, you take him out that way, fix up that job, and then go to the mine.” “Yeah, I can do that--if I hurry.” The voices died away, as though both men had left him. Irish had no idea what it was all about. His head ached too badly for concentration. He was tied, hand and foot, lying flat in the dirt. Finally he heard a horse walking, and the two men came back. They draped Irish across the saddle and proceeded to tie him on, yanking the ropes tight. Irish wanted to protest, but was unable to talk. Then the horse started away with him, and he blacked out again. Slim Duarte watched for Irish to come back into the Turquoise, but Irish did not show up again. He finally sent one of his men outside to scout around, but the man came back and reported that Irish Delaney was not in evidence. Johnny and Tucson were still at the poker game, unworried about Irish. Duarte moved around, until he was near the front doorway, and went outside. He wanted a breath of fresh air. Jim Corwin, the sheriff stopped and exchanged a few words with him, but Duarte did not tell him of his talk with Irish Delaney. “You’ve got a big crowd tonight, Slim,” remarked the sheriff. “Biggest in weeks, Jim. I got so full of smoke I had to come out and take a deep breath.” The sheriff went inside, and Duarte moved on down the sidewalk. Several men were coming into the saloon, when a shot blasted out from near the hitchrack. The sound was audible in the barroom, and the sheriff came out with others. “I saw the flash of the gun, sheriff,” one man said. “It’s near the hitchrack.” They found Slim Duarte, lying flat in the dirt, bleeding badly from a bullet wound in the shoulder. They carried him into the saloon, back to his little office and placed him on a cot, while someone went to get a doctor. The gambler in charge of the draw-poker table drew the sheriff aside and told him of the argument between Slim Duarte and Irish Delaney. He said: “Delaney dared Slim to come outside.” “He did, eh? Well, that don’t look good for Irish.” The sheriff saw Johnny and Tucson, and drew them aside. They had heard some of the argument. “Jim, you don’t figure Irish did that, do yuh?” Johnny said. “He ain’t that kind of a hair-pin. He’ll turn up around here.” “What kind of a horse did Irish ride, Johnny?”