* * * * * Irish had the luck of the Irish. Pot after pot went to his side of the table, and Slim Duarte realized that honesty is not always the best policy. Then the luck changed, and Irish’s winnings began taking wings. Suddenly there was a lull. Duarte was dealing. Irish picked up a card and examined a corner carefully. He laid the card down and looked intently at Duarte. Jim Corwin moved quietly to a spot behind the young Irishman. “Look at that card,” said Irish quietly. He flipped the card with a forefinger and it landed in front of Duarte, who looked down at it. Irish was on his feet in a flash, drawing his gun. “Marked with a thumb-nail!” he rasped. “You dirty crook, yuh’re dealin’ seconds!” Jim Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the lithe cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte, who was trying to get out of his chair. They both went down with a crash, when a leg broke off the chair. Spectators dived for cover, the bartender hit the floor behind the bar, as the real fight started. [Illustration: Corwin landed on Irish’s back, trying to block his gun, but the little cowboy threw the sheriff over his head and into Duarte.] No shots were fired. Irish ignored his holstered gun, after he had thrown the sheriff’s gun the length of the saloon. They went to it with bare fists, chairs--anything in reach. Duarte went down from a left hook that almost removed his chin. Jim Corwin was much bigger than Irish, and he knew the game of roughhouse fighting, but this fight-crazy youngster was like a wild-cat. Punches didn’t hurt him. He laughed and tore back, until Jim Corwin went down on his hands and knees, bleeding and too dazed to continue. Irish backed against the bar, bloody, disheveled, his gun dangling from his right hand. “Fine people!” he choked. “Crooked gambler, backed by a crooked sheriff, fleecin’ a kid. Get up, Duarte! Walk outside, both of yuh. I want the folks to see what yuh look like. Outside, before I use a gun on yuh. Start walkin’!” They went. It was difficult, but not far to go. A big crowd had gathered in front of the Turquoise. Slim Duarte was clinging to Jim Corwin, his eyes vacant. They were a well-whipped pair. Behind them came Irish Delaney. Jim Corwin grasped a porch post and tried to shake loose from Duarte, but without any success. Irish Delaney’s mouth laughed, but his eyes were hard. “Damon and Pythias, folks!” he said. “Duarte played crooked and Corwin backed his play. I’m pullin’ out of Dancin’ Flats but before I go, I’d like to show yuh some true love. Corwin! Duarte!” Corwin said, “What?” But Duarte said nothing. “Put yore arms around Duarte and kiss him, Corwin.” “Yuh’re--crazy.” Irish moved in, his bleeding right fist balled tightly. “Kiss him--or we start all over again, Corwin.”