“And he paid Buck French the fifty,” said Tucson. “I’d have seen ’em all fryin’ in brimstone!” “You’d have paid--just like I did, Tucson.” “What did Buck French say?” asked Irish. “Well, he didn’t want to take the money. Said he didn’t have it comin’, and that his business didn’t concern the Night Hawks, but I told him I’d feel safer if he took it.” “Had his hand out all the time he was talkin’,” said Tucson. “Is Buck still as poor as he used to be?” asked Irish. “No, I think he’s better off than he used to be. Still brags about what he’s goin’ to do next year.” “We could use that fifty dollars,” declared Tucson. “I saw that preacher in town,” remarked Irish. “Reverend John Calvin? Oh, yeah. Fine feller, Irish. I asked him to let me share the expenses of Hank’s funeral, but nope. He’s been here three years. Awful well liked, especially by women.” “What happened to my uncle’s outfit?” asked Irish. “That was a queer deal, Irish. It seems that some relatives of Buck French died and left money to Buck. I think it was twelve thousand. Anyway it was more money than Buck ever seen before. He put it in the bank. Long about that time, Hank Farley asked the bank for a loan, but didn’t get it. He was pretty mad about it. “Well, somebody said to Buck, ‘Why don’t yuh lend Hank the money?’ They explained about interest and all that, and Buck made the loan. It was eight thousand, I believe. Buck was a nuisance. He rode out to the ranch and looked it over, every little while, actin’ like he owned it. “Well, sir, when Hank was killed and Buck realized that he owned the ranch, he was sore as a boil. He wanted his money, too. Yuh see, Hank didn’t have many cows left. But Buck had to take it. He moved out there, ’cause it was a better house.” “How about a little chow?” asked Tucson. “You ort to be hongry.” “I am, Tucson. Thank yuh a lot.” * * * * * After Tucson left, Johnny McCune said quietly: “Yuh’re aimin’ to stay a while ain’t yuh, Irish?” “Yeah, a while, I reckon, Johnny.” “Throw yore remains in that back room, son--it’s better ’n stayin’ in town. Now, now, I’m runnin’ this place. Me and Tucson need new blood around here.” Irish smiled wryly. “With me and the Night Hawks both in the same country, there might be blood, yuh know.” Johnny nodded grimly. “Step lightly, son. They ain’t no clingin’ vine outfit and yuh’re too young to shed hot bullets.” “I didn’t come here to set in the shade, Johnny.” “Yuh didn’t come here to be planted on the side of the hill above Dancin’ Flats, either, didja?” “Johnny, are you sellin’ out in sixty days?” “No! Oh, I see what yuh mean. But I’m an old man and when yuh get old, Irish, yuh don’t want to run.” Irish rolled a cigarette, his eyes somber. After it was lighted, he said casually: “Johnny, what became of Ed Shearer? Still runnin’ the Lazy S?” “She got married, Irish.” “She?” Irish looked up at the old cowman. “I asked--”