Next day Irish rode over to the old 74 spread, where he had lived so
long. Seven years had made few changes in the old ranchhouse, except
that it was not well-kept. Buck French was there, hunched on the
front steps, sewing some rips in an old pair of bat-wing chaps. Buck
was a tall, gaunt person, as angular as a Joshua-palm, and just about
as rough.
Irish dismounted near the porch, but Buck paid no attention until Irish
walked up to him, when he held out a big hand to the cowboy.
“Hyah, Irish,” he said quietly. “I heard yuh was back.”
“How are yuh, Buck?” asked Irish.
“Same’s ever.” Buck laid the chaps aside and began rolling a cigarette.
“Heard in Dancin’ Flats that you was back. Place ain’t changed very
much, huh?”
“Very little,” agreed Irish. “I heard what happened to my uncle, Buck.”
“Yea-a-ah,” said Buck. “They found him right where we’re settin’. You
heard that I got the Seventy-four, didn’t yuh?”
“Yeah, Shorty McCune told me, Buck.”
“Yuh don’t want to buy it, do yuh, Irish?”
“What with?” asked Irish soberly.
“I didn’t know. I got stuck with it.”
“It’s a good spread, Buck. Better than yours.”
“Mebbe it’s a little better. Better water. What do yuh aim to do down
here, Irish?”
“Find the men who killed Hank Farley, Buck.”
“Oh!” grunted Buck quietly. “Might be quite a job, Irish. Nobody knows
who the Night Hawks are, and yuh might not get much help at that. Yuh
know, they wanted to get rid of the Ghost Rider.”
“If the Night Hawks knew who was the Ghost Rider, why didn’t they tell
the law, instead of killin’ him themselves, Buck?”
“Nobody knows why, Irish, and the Night Hawks don’t explain.”
“The law could have handled it,” said Irish grimly.
“Yeah, I reckon they could have--but that’s how it happened. Maybe it’d
be better to let sleepin’ dogs lie, Irish.”
“Dogs, yeah,” said Irish quietly. “But they’re not sleepin’.”
“Yuh mean the Night Hawks, Irish? No, I don’t reckon they’re asleep. Did
Johnny McCune tell yuh what they done to him?”
“Made him pay you fifty dollars, Buck.”
“Yeah, they did. I didn’t want to take it, Irish, but Johnny said he’d
feel safer if I did.” Buck French looked at Irish, a queer twinkle in
his eyes, as he said quietly: “If yuh’re able to keep yore word, Irish,
maybe I can pay him back some day.”
“Johnny could use the money, Buck. I’d like to clear Hank Farley’s name.
And, Buck, you know as well as I do that Hank was not the Ghost Rider.”
Buck French drew a deep breath. “Look at it thisaway, Irish; he was
caught with the goods. Before it happened, nobody could make me believe
that Hank had a crooked bone in his body. ’Course, I wasn’t here, and I
didn’t see him, but others did. Yuh got to take the word of the law for
things like that.”
Irish nodded slowly. “Yeah, but the law believes what they see, Buck. I
don’t believe what they say. Well, I’ll drift back.”
“You stayin’ over at the Flyin’ M?”
“For a few days, anyway,” replied Irish. “I’ll be seein’ yuh, Buck.”
* * * * *
Irish climbed onto his long-legged sorrel and rode to Dancing Flats,
where he tied his horse in front of the general store. Ed Shearer
stepped out of the store and came face to face with Irish. They looked
curiously at each other.
“I heard you was back, Irish,” Shearer said. “How are yuh?”
“Pretty good, Mr. Shearer. How are you?”
“All right. You aimin’ to stay here now?”
“Until I finish my job.”
“Oh, I see. You have a job here? I didn’t hear about it.”
Irish’s lips smiled, but his eyes were grave.
“I’m lookin’ for the Ghost Rider,” he said.
Ed Shearer studied that reply thoughtfully. Finally he said:
“I reckon I know what yuh mean, Irish, but I’d forget it. Yuh see, I
went with the sheriff to the Seventy-Four and helped bring Hank’s body
to town. Yuh can’t get away from that evidence.”
“Yuh see,” said Irish quietly, “I lived with Hank Farley. He was sort of
a father to me.”
“Yeah, I know he was, Irish. But I’d forget it, if I was you.”
Irish shook his head. “I’m part elephant, Mr. Shearer--I never forget.
Thank yuh for the advice. It was well-meant.”
“You’re welcome.”
Irish went into the store to buy some tobacco, and ran face to face with
Nell, who worked there at times.
They looked at each other silently for several moments.
“I heard you came back,” she said.
“Yeah, I thought yuh would. How are yuh, Nell?”
“I’m fine, Irish.” She brushed a lock of hair nervously.
Seven years had taken their toll. She was eighteen, when Irish left,
and at twenty-five she had streaks of gray in her hair, lines around
her eyes. She was still a pretty woman, but too mature at twenty-five.
“You haven’t changed, Irish,” she said.
She looked the length of the store, turned back to him and said quietly:
“I wanted to find you, Irish--to tell you that--that girl told me--”
Nell hesitated.
“I know,” Irish said. “Johnny McCune told me. It was just a mistake.
Life is full of mistakes, Nell. You married Al Briggs, they tell me.”
The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, three years ago, Irish,” she said. “Did
you consider that a mistake?”
“I didn’t mean it that way, Nell. I always liked Al, and he’s done
well--a lot better than I could have done. I met yore dad out on the
street. He looks the same.”
“Yes, Dad is fine, Irish. Where are you staying?”
“Out at the Flyin’ M. Johnny McCune took me in.”
“Are you going to stay here, Irish?”
Irish smiled with his lips. “Not if my luck holds good.”
Nell looked curiously at him. “I don’t understand that,” she said.
“Yuh see, Nell,” he explained quietly, “I came here to get the men who
shot Hank Farley.”
“Oh! Be careful, Irish. Don’t let them know.”
Irish laughed quietly. “I don’t know who they are, Nell, so I’ve got to
let them know. The only way I can ever find out is to have them try to
stop me--force their hand.”
Nell shook her head. “They won’t give you a chance,” she said.
The front door opened and Albert Briggs came in. He was a colorless sort
of person, rather slovenly dressed. He scowled at Nell.
“There must be something else you can do,” he said. “How are you,
Irish?”
* * * * *
Nell walked away. Al Briggs came closer, and his breath reeked of
whisky. Irish said:
“I’m all right, Al. How are you?”
“All right. What were you and Nell talking about?”
“That’s kind of a foolish question, Al. After all, I used to live here
and I’ve been away seven years. We just talked, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. You keep away from her, Irish.”
“I expect to, Al. She’s yore wife.”
“And don’t you forget it.”
“That’s whisky talkin’, Al. Sober up and don’t make a fool of yourself.”
“Yea-a-ah? Why, I’ll tell you somethin’ that--”
“You won’t tell me anythin’,” interrupted Irish, “’Cause I’m goin’
outside. If you have anythin’ to say to me, wait until yuh sober up,
so yuh can talk sense.”
Irish turned abruptly and walked outside, leaving Al Briggs impotently
swearing at himself. The Reverend John Calvin came in, stopped and
listened to Al Briggs’ tirade, and then came on into the store.
“I’m sorry,” Briggs said. “I didn’t see you come in.”
“That’s all right.” The minister smiled. “I thought for a moment you
were really quarreling with someone, Briggs.”
“It was that blasted Irish Delaney. He just left.”
“Oh, I see. Irish Delaney. I met him yesterday. Quite a lad.”
“Hard-headed fool, yuh mean! He came here to run down the Night Hawks
for shooting Hank Farley.”
“Well, isn’t that to be commended, Briggs?”
“Oh, sure. Let him go ahead and they’ll plant him beside his uncle.
Suits me. I never did like him, the hard-headed fool.”
The minister laughed and shook his head.
“I’m afraid you haven’t the Christian attitude, Briggs. And after all,
what has he ever done to you?”
“Nothin’--yet, and I’ll see that he don’t. Can I help you?”
“Just a few groceries. Here is my list.”