Irish read it aloud. Johnny McCune whistled softly.
“I kind of figured on this,” said Irish.
“What are yuh doin’--kissin’ it?” asked Johnny.
“No, I’m smellin’ of it, Johnny.”
“Yeah? Does it smell like the skunks they are?”
Irish grinned and sniffed at it again, before handing it over to Johnny,
who also sniffed.
“It has the odor of a honkatonk on it,” said Johnny soberly.
Irish folded the letter and put it in his pocket, his eyes very
thoughtful. Johnny squinted at the bobbing ears of his horse, as he
said quietly:
“Perfume on a death warrant. Hm-m-m-m. Honkatonk perfume. Yuh know,
Irish, gamblers use the stuff.”
Irish nodded, and they rode the rest of the way in silence. Tucson read
the note, his eyes grim. Irish told him to smell of it, and Tucson
sniffed audibly.
“Yuh don’t suppose that the Ladies’ Aid Society have turned killers, do
yuh?” he said soberly.
“Some men use it, Tucson,” said Irish.
“Some male critters, yuh mean. Such as Slim--well, I’ve smelled other
gamblers, too. Most of ’em use it, I reckon. What are yuh goin’ to do
about it, Irish?”
“Well, it looks like a showdown might be comin’,” replied Irish
seriously. “I reckon I’d better move into town and--”
“Ye do nothin’ of the kind!” snorted Johnny.
“I’ll say yuh won’t!” added Tucson. “Me and Johnny’s got a bone to pick
with ’em, too. Let ’em come. We’re here first.”
“They’ve got all the best of it, Tucson.”
“They’ll need it. I better put my bread in the oven and stir up the
mulligan. I’ve allus said, ‘A man should never die on an empty
stummick.’ Johnny, how are we fixed for shells for that fifty-seventy?”
“You can’t hit anythin’ with that old Sharps.”
“Oh, can’t I? Listen, Johnny--all I need is an address. I’ll boil the
spiders out of the barrel tonight and use a little axlegrease on the
works. That gun’s pretty old, but she’s a great time and money saver.
If that bullet hit yuh--whap! Where you was--you jist exactly ain’t.
No burial, no expense a-tall.”
“Yuh’re bloodthirsty, Tucson,” said Irish soberly. “I’ll bet you’ll pour
chloroform down that gun-barrel before you boil the spiders....”
They buried Albert Briggs next day. Neither Irish nor Tucson went to the
funeral, but Johnny McCune put on his Sunday clothes, combed his hair,
put stove-polish on his boots and went in to pay his last respects to a
man he had no respect for.
[Illustration: As he brought the blade up about waist level, something
knocked the axe from his hands.]
Tucson and Irish worked around the ranch, and just before noon Tucson
complained about a shortage of wood for his stove. There was a pile of
old corral-posts near the kitchen door, so Irish took the ax and
proceeded to do a little chopping. The poles were very tough and the
ax was very dull. Irish stopped trying to chop, and examined the blade
of the ax. As he brought the blade up about waist-level and felt of
the scarred edge, something struck the head of the ax a terrific blow,
knocking it out of Irish’s hands. A fraction of a moment later, from
somewhere back in the hills, came the spiteful crack of a rifle.
* * * * *
Irish Delaney, his fingers numbed from the blow on the ax-head, fell
flat in against the pile of old poles. Tucson yelled from the kitchen:
“What’s goin’ on, Irish?”
“Keep down!” yelled Irish. “Somebody dry-gulchin’ us!”
“I’ll fix that pole-cat!” snapped Tucson, and a moment later he came
crawling through a kitchen window, swinging his old Sharps .50-70 ahead
of him.
Irish started to yell at him, but at that moment another bullet smashed
the lifted window above Tucson’s head. The old man promptly fell back
into the kitchen, leaving his rifle outside.
“Wrong winder,” he said.
Irish crawled on his stomach over to the old gun, his eyes searching
the brush behind the stable. There was no more shooting, nor could he
see anybody on that brushy hill.
“How’re yuh comin’, Irish?” asked Tucson from the kitchen.
“I’m all right. Watch the hill back of the stable and see if yuh can see
anybody.”
“Yeah, and lose what hair I’ve still got, eh.”
“Oh-oh!” snorted Irish. “I see him!”
Far up on the hill, a good three hundred yards away, a man on a horse
was making very good time, going away. Irish, flat on the ground,
rested the forearm of that ancient buffalo gun on his palm, his elbow
digging into the dirt, as he lifted the muzzle several feet over the
fast disappearing rider, and squeezed the trigger. The big hammer
clicked. Irish relaxed and got to his hands and knees.
“Yuh know, Irish,” said Tucson, leaning through the window, “I jist
remembered.”
“That you forgot to load this cannon, eh?”
“Yeah, I reckon I did. Didn’t take time to pick up some shells. Anyway,
it needs cleanin’ awful bad. Prob’ly kicked the tar out of yuh, if
there’d been a shell in it.”
“Probably,” said Irish dryly, and handed the gun through the window.
“Yuh know,” mumbled Tucson, “I resent folks actin’ like that.”
“Have yuh got a file or a rasp?” asked Irish. “I can’t cut wood with a
blade like that.”
“Yuh mean--yuh ain’t scared they’ll shoot some more?”
“That feller was pullin’ out awful fast,” replied Irish. “Yuh don’t
suppose they work in relays, do yuh?”
“I’ll find yuh a file,” said Tucson, “but I think yuh’re crazy to stand
out there like a target. They won’t miss all the time.”