The two officers went quietly up to the small porch. There was not a sound around the place. They eased up on the porch and listened. A mocking-bird called softly from a tree, but there was no other sound. Jim Corwin quietly turned the doorknob and discovered that the door was unlocked. That was not unusual, because few folks in the range country ever lock their houses. He eased the door open. An old oil lamp burned on the rough table near the middle of the room, but there was not a soul in sight. They moved in and looked around. “Well, that’s that, Jim--empty house,” Shorty said. “Yeah, I reckon yuh’re right.” Both men holstered their guns. “We’d better kinda look around, Shorty,” the sheriff said. “I don’t like the looks of that lamp. Them men came to town early, and they wouldn’t leave a lamp burnin’ at that time. Yuh see--” “Hold it!” snarled a voice. “Don’t move! This shotgun makes a messy lookin’ job. Let yore hands down and unbuckle them belts.” Two belts and holstered guns thudded on a worn Navajo rug. “Back up, gents!” * * * * * They backed up a few steps. From inside the kitchen doorway came a masked man, covering them with a double-barreled shotgun, its menacing twin muzzles covering them steadily. Cautiously he picked up the two gun-belts and tossed them into the kitchen. “What’s the big idea?” asked the sheriff harshly. “The idea is--you’ve horned into trouble,” replied the masked man huskily. A blue cloth, which covered his head, had eye-holes cut in it. He wore an old, colorless shirt, dirty overalls, old boots, and wore gloves on his hands. Even his gun-belt and gun were nondescript. “Night Hawks?” queried Shorty. “That’s somethin’ you’ll never find out. What are you doin’ out here?” “Lookin’ for Irish Delaney.” The man laughed harshly. “He’s taken care of, my friend,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.” “Do you know who I am?” asked the sheriff. “I don’t care who yuh are, feller. I’ve got a job to do, and I ain’t interested in names. Here!” He tossed a short length of rope to Shorty Long. “Turn yore pardner’s back this way and tie his hands. And I want yuh to do a good job of it. No cheatin’.” “That’s ridiculous!” snorted the sheriff. “So’s a load of buckshot! Turn around.” The sheriff turned around and Shorty Long proceeded to tie his wrists together. Done under the supervision of the masked man, it was a good job. “Set him down on the floor and tie his ankles!” “You can’t get away with stuff like this,” wailed Corwin. “I’ll do my best,” replied the masked man. “Get down, you poor fool, before I unhook a load of this stuff into yore middle.” The sheriff got down, with the help of Shorty, and Shorty tied his ankles. Then the man forced Shorty to lie down, while his own ankles were tied, after which he was rolled over on his face, his hands yanked behind him, and the ropes applied to his wrists.