“I ought to have my head fixed,” he told himself. “Nell wouldn’t send me a note like that. Yeah, I reckon I’ll have to have my head fixed--outside and inside both. But I’m still movin’ under my own power, even if I did almost make hash of myself. All I need now is a gun.” There was an old road, which wound down the slope, twisting its way to Dancing Flats, and there was an old trail, which led past the 74, and angled out close to the Flying M. “I better go back to the ranch,” he told the sorrel. “Johnny and Tucson might be worried about me.” He picked up the old trail and started out across the hills, with the long-legged sorrel making good time. Irish began to get thirsty, but there was no water short of the 74. The action of the horse aggravated his other aches, but water was what he needed most. He turned off the trail near the 74, hoping to find Buck French out there, but the house was dark. Irish dismounted and limped up on the sagging, old porch, where he knocked heavily on the door. When there was no response he shoved the door open and went inside. He lighted a match and took the chimney off the lamp. It was still warm. Irish thought things over. Someone had burned that light recently. He went into the old kitchen and found water in a bucket. After he had lowered the bucket a few inches, he looked around. The place was furnished much as Hank Farley had left it. Hank usually had an extra gun around the place, and Irish felt the need of a gun. There was an old, home-made table in the main room, and there was a crude drawer which Hank Farley had cursed every time he tried to open. Irish yanked it open. There was a Colt .45 in the drawer. Irish picked it up and looked at it, his eyes wide. It was his gun! His face was grim as he looked at the gun he had worn that evening. It was fully loaded. He snapped the gun into his holster and walked outside, after putting out the light. “Things are gettin’ better, hoss,” he told the sorrel, as he climbed stiffly into the saddle. “Let’s go home.” Johnny McCune got back into the poker game again, but Tucson kept watch on the street and around the hitchrack, waiting for Irish Delaney to come back to Dancing Flats. He could not find the sheriff or deputy, and decided that they were looking for Irish. It was considerably over an hour before Johnny McCune cashed in his winnings and told Tucson he was ready to go home. It had been reported that Slim Duarte was painfully, but not dangerously injured, and had no idea who shot him. “That lets Irish out,” declared Johnny McCune. “He’d never shoot a man and not give him a chance.” “Explain that to a Dancin’ Flat jury,” said Tucson. “They ain’t interested in what’s _inside_ a man, Johnny.” “No, that’s right. I sure hope Irish can prove a alibi. I’m jist scared that the Night Hawks got him.” “Yuh mean they’d take his horse, too, Johnny?” “Don’t ask me what they’d do. Tucson, you irk me at times.”