“Yeah, I know yuh did. She married Al Briggs.” “Oh, is that so,” Irish said, and examined a thumb-nail. “You knowed him, Irish. He owns the general store, and drinks like a fish. ’Member that girl yuh found out in the cactus? After you left here, she found out about you pullin’ out--and why. She went to Nell Shearer and told her just what happened. That little devil was as indignant as a bee-stung bear. She heard what Slim Duarte said, too, and she rode him with hot spurs. Then she quit and pulled out. They said she was followin’ you.” “Is that so?” “Shore was. Mighty pretty little thing. Smart, too. Man, she used words that nobody, except mebbe a mule, ever heard. I liked her.” “Grub-pile!” called Tucson from the kitchen. III 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.”