“I heard he was killed by night riders, but I didn’t get any details. A cowpuncher down on the Border told me. That is, he didn’t exactly tell _me_--he was just talkin’. How’d it happen?” “Irish,” replied McCune, “about two years ago the Ghost Rider showed up in this country. He rode a gray, dressed in gray and wore a gray mask. He was a pretty bad hombre, Irish.” “Was?” queried Irish. “Be that as it may,” replied the old cowman, “he held up banks, stages, gamblin’ houses and a couple mines. He never missed. It was a caution the way that hombre stretched his luck. Everybody was lookin’ for him. He worked alone and--” “Did he?” interrupted Tucson. “He was always seen alone,” corrected McCune. “He wasn’t doin’ business all the time. Mebbe two, three months would pass, and when everybody thought he was through, he’d pull a job. He must have stole a fortune. Well, one night he stuck up the train at Broken Fork, cut off the express car, and got himself forty thousand. He killed the express messenger and--” “He didn’t do no such thing,” interrupted Tucson. “The evidence proved that he didn’t, Johnny.” * * * * * McCune took a deep breath, looked at Tucson before going on. “Well, mebbe,” McCune said. “He herded the engine crew back to the express car, and they swear the car was unlocked, the messenger layin’ on the car floor, dead as a mackerel.” “That’s what I mean,” said Tucson. “He had a pardner. When the messenger opened the door, tryin’ to find out what was the matter, this feller shot him. The Ghost Rider couldn’t have done it, ’cause he was in the engine cab all that time.” “And then what?” asked Irish. “Two days later,” said McCune slowly, “the sheriff and deputy rode in at Hank Farley’s ranchhouse, and they found Hank laying on the front porch, shot full of holes. He was dressed in a gray suit, a gray handkerchief mask tied around his neck. Down at the corral was a skinny gray horse, wearin’ one of Hank’s saddles. There was a piece of cardboard tied to Hank’s shirt, and on it was written, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’” * * * * * Irish sat there staring at the sunlight through the open doorway. He muttered, “The Night Hawks, eh?” The two old men nodded. “When the law fails,” said Irish. “Is this the only job done by the Night Hawks?” “The only job of that kind,” replied Johnny. Irish looked up quickly. “Other kinds?” he asked. “Yeah. Only a short time ago I was arrested for brandin’ an unweaned calf, belongin’ to Buck French. The calf disappeared, but they gave me a hearin’, anyway, and the judge excused me, because there wasn’t any evidence. “A few days later I got a letter from the Night Hawks. They told me they’d give me sixty days to sell my ranch and git out of the country. They also told me to pay Buck fifty dollars damages. The letter said, ‘When the law fails, the Night Hawks do the job.’”