“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.”