Corwin kissed Duarte. It was not a pretty face to kiss. Duarte still rather vague as to what was going on, kissed Corwin, his foot slipped off the edge of the board sidewalk, and they both fell into the street, locked together. Irish Delaney went out to the hitchrack, mounted his sorrel and galloped out of Dancing Flats. They heard rumors of Irish Delaney occasionally. He was leading a bad bunch in New Mexico, had been arrested near the Border by the Texas Rangers, but escaped. Neither Duarte nor Corwin ever forgot the humiliation of that day. Jim Corwin was a good sheriff. After explanations had been made, the people forgave Corwin. There was no evidence of marked cards, because somebody, possibly the bartender, had seen to that detail. II Irish Delaney was back and folks knew that he didn’t merely come back to thank John Calvin, their minister. Shorty Long, the deputy sheriff, with the longest neck in the country, shook his head. “I shore do pity them Night Hawks,” he remarked in a sepulchral voice. “You can take that remark out and bury it,” said Jim Corwin. “Yeah, but I can still think my own thoughts, Jim. If he ever finds out who killed Hank Farley--” “Even if Hank Farley was the Ghost Rider?” “Even if Hank Farley was the devil himself, Jim. Blood’s a heap thicker’n water, and Hank Farley loved that hard-eyed kid.” “Forget it, Shorty. We’ll keep an eye on Irish Delaney.” Irish Delaney rode out of Dancing Flats, heading for the one friend he used to have in the valley, Johnny McCune, who owned a small ranch south of town. McCune and Hank Farley had been old cronies for years. On the little ranch with McCune was Tucson Thomas, an old ranchhand, badly crippled in body but strong in spirit. Seven years had aged Johnny McCune. He stood on the little porch of his Flying M ranchhouse and peered from under the brim of his battered sombrero at Irish Delaney. Tucson came to the doorway, his skinny waist encircled with a flour-sack, a skillet in his hand. “Howdy, Mr. McCune,” Irish said. “Tucson Thomas, how are yuh?” “I’ll be a pug-nosed pelican!” snorted Tucson. “Irish!” “Irish Delaney!” gasped Johnny McCune. “You--you darned kid!” The two of them fairly swarmed into Irish, whose eyes were not hard now. Perhaps the moisture softened them up. He didn’t know what sort of a reception he could expect. This was great. They led him into the house, seated him in the one rocker, and demanded an explanation of his return. “You never wrote to anybody,” accused Johnny. “Not anybody.” “No, I don’t reckon I did. I made a fool of myself before I got out, and maybe nobody wanted a letter from me.” “Hank did, Irish.” Irish drew a deep breath, staring at the floor. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I reckon Hank did. I’m sorry, Johnny.” None of them said anything for a while. Then Irish said: “How have things been with you two, Johnny McCune?” “Jist fair, Irish. You heard about Hank.”