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Updated: May 21, 2025
You made a good grab when you took that feller's gun away from him, but you can't grab eight guns." "You're right," Morgan agreed. "If you're a reasonable man, you'll hit the grit out of this burg," Conboy urged. "You said they were at Peden's?" "First dance house you come to, the biggest one in town. You don't need to tip it off that I said anything. No niggers in Ireland, you know."
He sat smiling at Johnny. "We-ll," he drawled. "How about it, Johnny? Goin'?" Johnny had been studying, his eyes on the floor. "I'll go with you," he said. Then again for a half minute nobody spoke. Captain Hammar glared, letting us see what was in his dark mind. Old Conboy shrunk into himself and Deolda sat with her wild eyes going from one to the other, but not moving.
Conboy asked, hand stayed hesitantly to take the purse. "I've got an appointment with Judge Thayer to look at a piece of land in the morning," Morgan returned. "Well, keep out enough to buy a gun, two of 'em if you're a double-handed man," Conboy counseled. "I've got what I need," said Morgan, putting the purse in Conboy's hand.
"I'd say for you to take a walk out to Judge Thayer's and stay all night with him, but them fellers will be around here a couple of weeks, I expect till the rest of the outfit comes back for their horses. Just one night away wouldn't do you any good." "I couldn't think of it," said Morgan, coldly. "You know your business, I guess," Conboy yielded, doubtfully, "but don't play your luck too far.
"From what I hear goin' around," Conboy continued, dropping his voice to a cautious, confidential pitch, "there'll be a bunch of bad men along in a day or two to help Craddock hold things down. It looks to me like it's goin' to be more than any one man can handle." "It may be that way," Morgan said, lingering in the door, Conboy doing his talking from the rear.
Conboy was left on middle ground, not certain whether Morgan would flee before the arrival of the man whose powers he had usurped, or stand his ground and shoot it out. It was an uncomfortable moment; a man must be on one side or the other to be safe.
He was wondering how the townspeople who had honest business in life managed to sleep through that rioting, with the added chance of some fool cowboy sending a bullet through their thin walls as he galloped away to his distant camp, when Tom Conboy came through the sidewalk stream to sit beside him in a gutter chair.
"Don't you know?" he asked, with significant shrewdness, smiling a little as if to show his friendly appreciation of the joke. "What in the hell do you mean?" Morgan demanded. "No niggers in Ireland, now," Conboy said soothingly, his face growing white. "One of them was killed down by the railroad track the night you left. They said you shot him and hopped a freight."
"No niggers in Ireland, now no-o-o niggers in Ireland!" Conboy warned her, coming forward with no less interest than his daughter's to peer into Morgan's bruised and marred face. "Well, well!" with much surprise altogether genuine, "you're back again, Mr. Morgan?" "Wherever have you been?" Dora persisted, no more interested in niggers in Ireland than elsewhere.
A little lead from the bullet still clung in the grooves of letters, unmistakable evidence of what had marred its nickled front. Conboy had regarded Morgan's warning to keep that matter under his hat, for he had learned the value of silence at the right time in his long experience in that town. Nobody else knew of the city marshal's close escape the night of his great fight.
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