“I don’t know what that word means, but if it’s goin’ to shatter our lovely friendship, don’t tell me,” said Tucson. “All right, I won’t. Let’s go home.” * * * * * Irish Delaney finally pulled in at the Flying M. The house was dark, attesting to the fact that either Johnny and Tucson were not home yet, or had gone to bed. Stiff-jointed and limping, Irish stabled his sorrel and went up to the house. He stopped on the porch and called to Johnny McCune. It was the safe thing to do, announce the name and wait for results. But nothing happened. Irish reached for the doorknob, when he heard a thumping sound inside the house. He drew back. It sounded like someone pounding on the floor. Funny sounds. When it was repeated Irish went around to the kitchen door, where he stood and tried to figure out what it was all about. He realized the need for caution. Drawing his gun, he carefully opened the kitchen door, listening for any sound. Then it came again, that dull, thumping sound, coming from the main room. Irish eased himself into the dark kitchen, waited a few moments, before moving ahead. His right toe struck solidly against something near the entrance to the main room, but he quickly caught his balance, and moved ahead, his cocked gun braced at his thigh. There was not a sound. He took a match from his pocket, reached far out and scratched it against the wall. As the match flared up he saw the two men on the floor, well-tied, staring at him. Quickly he lighted the lamp and looked down at them. “All ready for shipment, eh?” he said. “I’ve heard of the law gettin’ tied up, but I never saw it gagged before.” Irish dropped on his knees beside Jim Corwin and yanked away the gag. At the same moment he heard voices outside. It was Johnny McCune and Tucson, talking as they came up to the porch. Jim Corwin yelped: “That door! Don’t let ’em open it! That wire!” Irish saw the wire, read the desperation in the sheriff’s voice, and, like a flash, he fired a shot through the upper part of the door. From outside came the yelp of surprise, as the two men dived off the porch. “The wire--get it off the door!” panted the sheriff. Irish carefully snapped the wire loose. “It’s all right, Johnny!” he yelled. “Come on in, you two. Everythin’ is all right now.” He opened the door, and the two old-timers came cautiously, wide-eyed, as they saw the sheriff and deputy. “What’s the idea of shootin’ at us?” demanded Tucson. “That bullet blew splinters all over us.” “It was the door, Johnny!” gasped the relieved sheriff. “That masked fool had a dynamite trap for you. If you’d opened the door, we’d all be dead!” Irish cut Shorty Long loose, and Shorty was still too frightened to talk coherently.