The woman nodded slowly. “Yes, three years ago, Irish,” she said. “Did you consider that a mistake?” “I didn’t mean it that way, Nell. I always liked Al, and he’s done well--a lot better than I could have done. I met yore dad out on the street. He looks the same.” “Yes, Dad is fine, Irish. Where are you staying?” “Out at the Flyin’ M. Johnny McCune took me in.” “Are you going to stay here, Irish?” Irish smiled with his lips. “Not if my luck holds good.” Nell looked curiously at him. “I don’t understand that,” she said. “Yuh see, Nell,” he explained quietly, “I came here to get the men who shot Hank Farley.” “Oh! Be careful, Irish. Don’t let them know.” Irish laughed quietly. “I don’t know who they are, Nell, so I’ve got to let them know. The only way I can ever find out is to have them try to stop me--force their hand.” Nell shook her head. “They won’t give you a chance,” she said. The front door opened and Albert Briggs came in. He was a colorless sort of person, rather slovenly dressed. He scowled at Nell. “There must be something else you can do,” he said. “How are you, Irish?” * * * * * Nell walked away. Al Briggs came closer, and his breath reeked of whisky. Irish said: “I’m all right, Al. How are you?” “All right. What were you and Nell talking about?” “That’s kind of a foolish question, Al. After all, I used to live here and I’ve been away seven years. We just talked, that’s all.” “Uh-huh. You keep away from her, Irish.” “I expect to, Al. She’s yore wife.” “And don’t you forget it.” “That’s whisky talkin’, Al. Sober up and don’t make a fool of yourself.” “Yea-a-ah? Why, I’ll tell you somethin’ that--” “You won’t tell me anythin’,” interrupted Irish, “’Cause I’m goin’ outside. If you have anythin’ to say to me, wait until yuh sober up, so yuh can talk sense.” Irish turned abruptly and walked outside, leaving Al Briggs impotently swearing at himself. The Reverend John Calvin came in, stopped and listened to Al Briggs’ tirade, and then came on into the store. “I’m sorry,” Briggs said. “I didn’t see you come in.” “That’s all right.” The minister smiled. “I thought for a moment you were really quarreling with someone, Briggs.” “It was that blasted Irish Delaney. He just left.” “Oh, I see. Irish Delaney. I met him yesterday. Quite a lad.” “Hard-headed fool, yuh mean! He came here to run down the Night Hawks for shooting Hank Farley.” “Well, isn’t that to be commended, Briggs?” “Oh, sure. Let him go ahead and they’ll plant him beside his uncle. Suits me. I never did like him, the hard-headed fool.” The minister laughed and shook his head. “I’m afraid you haven’t the Christian attitude, Briggs. And after all, what has he ever done to you?” “Nothin’--yet, and I’ll see that he don’t. Can I help you?” “Just a few groceries. Here is my list.” IV