“That long-legged sorrel, branded with a Three X Bar. It’s out at the saloon hitchrack, along with our two.” “Much obliged, Johnny.” The sheriff found Shorty Long, and they went out to the hitchrack, but the long-legged sorrel was gone. The space was empty. The horse had been taken away. “Pulled out of the country!” snorted the sheriff. “I have the worst danged luck! Prob’ly took his horse away, staked it out and came back to get Slim.” “That makes good listenin’, but bad logic,” remarked Shorty. “Irish Delaney don’t need to murder men. He’s fast enough to kill ’em in self-defense.” “Well, he’ll have a job shakin’ this one off, I’ll tell yuh that. We’re headin’ for the Flyin’ M, me and you, Shorty. No use goin’ any other place. We’ll take a chance that he’ll go there, and I’d like to get there before Johnny and Tucson get back. They’d lie their souls into hell for Irish Delaney.” “I’d do a little swearin’ of that kind myself, Jim, but we’ve got to find him, that’s a cinch.” VII Johnny McCune and Tucson Thomas went back to their poker game, not knowing that Irish’s horse was also missing. Men were talking about the shooting. It had been noised around that Irish and Slim had words, and that Irish had dared Slim to come outside. Naturally it became worse as the conversation became general. “It looks like a job for the Night Hawks,” one man said. The remark made Johnny McCune mad, and he said: “Yuh mean, it looks like a Night Hawk job, don’t yuh?” The argument died aborning. Johnny McCune was a tough man in any argument, and no one wanted to start trouble. Tucson lost his few remaining chips and drew out of the game, but Johnny was playing in luck and didn’t want to quit. Tucson made his way outside and walked to the hitchrack. There was enough illumination to enable him to find out that Irish’s sorrel was missing. That didn’t look good to Tucson. He made his way back to the poker table and whispered the information to Johnny McCune, who cashed in and drew out of the game. “I don’t like the looks of things,” declared Johnny, as they went out to check up on Tucson’s findings. “Why would Irish take his horse? Why would he pull out without tellin’ us? I’m afraid somethin’ has happened to him.” “What do yuh think we ort to do?” asked Tucson. “We’ll wait here a while, and maybe he’ll come back. If he ain’t back in an hour or so, we’ll go home.” Jim Corwin and Shorty Long saddled their horses and left town. No one saw them leave. They took the road out to the Flying M, but did not hurry. “We’ll just go _poco-poco_, Shorty,” the sheriff said. “If Irish should be comin’ in, we’d have a better chance to stop him.” It was very dark along the road, and there was no conversation. They drew up near the ranchhouse and dismounted. There was a faint light through the window of the main room, but Johnny had insisted on covering the windows so that nobody could take a shot at them from outside.