“I died seventeen times,” he declared. “It was awful. We heard somebody come up on the porch, and I hammered my heels against the floor. It was all I could do. Then I heard him come in the back door. Man, I could have kissed my worst enemy!” “Here’s the deal!” called Tucson. “Wait a minute--I’ve got to pull its teeth. There! I’ve gotcha!” He came in, bringing an old, single-action Colt .44. He laid it on the table and drew a deep breath. “There’s a whole danged box of high-percentage dynamite in the kitchen,” he said. “There’s a box of caps, too, and this old hog-leg was wired to the box. That wire would have shot the gun.” * * * * * The men all looked at each other. “Irish, what on earth happened to you?” Johnny said. “Yore hair is all stuck up with blood, yore face is scratched, yore clothes torn. Where have you been?” “Oh,” replied Irish, rather vacantly, “I’ve been pallin’ around with the Night Hawks, I reckon. They play awful rough.” “Yore horse was gone,” faltered Johnny. “Yeah, they took that, too. Neither of us ever was supposed to come back, but the luck of the Irish lasted.” “Did you know that somebody shot Slim Duarte tonight, Irish?” asked Shorty Long. Irish shook his head. “No, I didn’t know that, Shorty. Is he dead?” “Wasn’t when we left. We came out here to ask you. Yore horse was gone, and we kind of thought you pulled out. That masked brute got the drop on us.” “They got the drop on me, too,” said Irish painfully. “I’m one big ache all over, and I’ve just started. Blow out that lamp, Johnny. We’re all ridin’.” “Wait’ll we get our guns on,” said the sheriff. “He didn’t bother to take ’em along.” “I hope there’ll be trigger-pullin’ to be done,” said Shorty. They all had to ride fast to keep up with Irish Delaney, and they came into Dancing Flats with a rush. “Scatter out and find Buck French,” said Irish. “I need him.” “What’s he done?” asked the sheriff. “Find him,” replied Irish. “Get him, even if yuh have to down him.” IX Quickly the five men separated and made a swift search. Questioning failed to find anyone who had seen Buck that evening. They all met back at the hitchrack. If Irish was disappointed he did not show it. “Wait here for me,” he said. “I’ve got to find out about somethin’.” Irish disappeared in the darkness across the street. He went to the corner and looked down the side street. There was a light in the Briggs house. Irish wasn’t afraid now. He limped up to the front door and knocked. After a few moments Ed Shearer opened the door. He got a good look at Irish and stepped back. “Irish, what happened to you?” he asked. “Yuh’re all bloody and hurt!” Nell was sitting in a rocker, staring at Irish. “I got dry-gulched in yore yard early tonight,” he said. “Nell, did you write me a letter--one I got in the post office tonight?” “A letter, Irish?” she asked, puzzled completely. “Why, I never wrote you a letter, Irish.”