ON the evening of the day that followed the big round-up of cattle, Dick
Willoughby and Chester Munson rode over to the store. As they cantered
along, both men were pre-occupied with their thoughts.
Dick was not worrying over his sharp passage of words with his
employer’s son, for he knew that his services at the present time were
quite indispensable, more especially if the rancho was to be sold to the
best advantage. The owner had spoken lightly of the negotiations, and
had chuckled in a sinister way about the money he had frequently made
over unexercised options. But this time it was a Los Angeles syndicate
that was seeking the property, composed of men whose financial
reputation and keen business ability Willoughby knew well. For he had
learned their names after his interview with Ben Thurston, and he felt
certain that this particular group of capitalists would have entered
into no serious negotiations without having both the cash and the
intention to put the deal through. Therefore he scented a change of
ownership in the rancho, and consequently, perhaps, the necessity for
his looking around to find employment elsewhere. He hated to think of
leaving a place that he had come to look on as home and parting from
all the friends he had made throughout the countryside. Unconsciously to
himself, the greatest tie of all was proximity to La Siesta and to Merle
Farnsworth. But Dick was not thinking of Merle just then—he was merely
turning things over generally in his mind as he rode across the valley.
Munson also was cogitating the change in his own outlook that had
been brought about by the mailing of the letter of resignation to army
headquarters. He was recalling the many years he had striven to reach
the lieutenancy now voluntarily surrendered—of his youthful zeal and
ambition for an army career which had been powerless to withstand
the witching call of the West. And although Grace Darlington’s act of
putting the letter in the post had been only the last feather to tip an
evenly balanced scale, he could not but feel that thereby this beautiful
girl of the West had entered into his life and into all his future
plans, hopes, and aspirations. The thought gave him joy; he was more
pleased than ever that the decisive step had at last been taken.
Arriving at the store, they found old Tom Baker seated on a dry goods
box, while Buck Ashley leaned against the counter, waiting for the
stage coach and the mails. Already two or three others were beginning to
congregate under the trees, in readiness for the distribution of letters
and newspapers.
“Hello, Dick,” called out the sheriff, “I heard of your scrap yesterday
morning with that young ne’er-do-well, Marshall Thurston. My God, I’m
glad you gave him hell.”
“Please don’t speak about it,” replied Willoughby quietly. “That was my
affair and mine alone. I guess we can find some more agreeable topic.”
“Wal,” drawled Buck Ashley, “Tom here was just a-tellin’ me a yarn
that’ll interest both you boys a heap, or the lieutenant at all events,
for he’s new to these parts and don’t know the local hist’ry yet. Of
course I’ve heard the story before, but not all the pertic’lars the way
Tom can tell ‘em. And its a dangnation good story. So start from the
beginnin’ again, Tom.”
Thus addressed, the sheriff, after taking a bite from his tobacco plug,
began:
“The yarn has to do with the old-time bandit Joaquin Murietta, about
whom we were speakin’ the other morn in’. Well, the way it all happened
was this: On a neighboring ranch, over Ventura way, beyond the Lagunita
Rancho, owned at that time by Senor Olivas, a rich cattle dealer comes
down from ‘Frisco to buy a bunch of beeves. The stock had all been
driven up on a mesa near the Olivas ranch house, and for several days
the herders had been cuttin’ out the cows and the young calves from the
steers, ‘cause this feller was only goin’ to buy the steers.
“The great herd was bellerin’ and pawin’ in a big cloud of dust, through
which the vaqueros—cowboys, you know, lieutenant—could be seen ridin’
round and round. Of course roundin’ up cattle is always more or less
excitin’ work, but this rich chap had come down from ‘Frisco with his
saddle bags bulgin’ out with gold, and this sorta added a mighty sight
to the interest of the doin’s. Part of the bargain was that the deal
was to be for spot cash, all in gold, too, mind you, and it was arranged
that the buyer and Senor Olivas were to take their stations at one side
of the narrow gate, and every time a steer was driven through that gate
a twenty-dollar gold piece was to be tossed into a big bag which Senor
Olivas was holdin’.
“They do say as how the work continued all day, from early mornin’ until
dark, afore the last blamed steer passed that ‘ere gate, and they claim
that there was eighty thousand dollars in the Senor’s bag as pay for the
day’s drive. They say, too, that Joaquin Murietta, disguised, was one
of the vaqueros doin’ the drivin’. Anyway that very night old Olivas was
waked up mighty abruptly by feelin’ the cold nose of a revolver shoved
against his own nose.
“Well, the long and short of it all was that Senor Olivas and his wife
were both gagged and bound hand and foot, while Murietta ransacked the
house, found the strong box and carried away every blamed gold coin that
Olivas had received for the sale of his steers. The outlaw succeeded in
makin’ his escape into the Tehachapi mountains with his cut-throat gang,
and they found a hidin’ place in the robbers’ cave that is somewhere
hereabouts on the San Antonio Rancho. It sure was as slick a piece of
rascality as was ever pulled off in the old lawless days.”
“Well,” observed Buck Ashley, as he shook his head reflectively, “I’m
assoomin’ some of the cowboy fellers around here will find that cave one
of these days. I’ve put in a good many Sundays huntin’ for it myself.”
Just then there was the sound of horses’ hoofs outside, and a moment
later Jack Rover strolled into the store. Over his shoulder was slung
the big leather bag for the rancho mails.
“Hallo, everybody,” was his greeting. “I’m ahead of time Buck, but the
stage will be here in five minutes. I saw its dust above the ridge. I
hear, lieutenant,” he went on, “you’re going to stick to the West and be
one of us.”
“Quit the army?” exclaimed Tom Baker in surprise.
“That is so,” replied Munson. “California has fairly got hold of me, and
I intend to make my home in the West.”
“Then you just stick here, young man,” said the sheriff, rising to his
feet and extending his hand. “California is the pick of the States, and
our valley the pick of California. Don’t you forget it. We’re proud to
welcome you as a new resident.”
“That’s what I say, too,” concurred Buck Ashley, cordially.
Munson smiled. “Well, I don’t know if you can put me in the resident
class all at once,” he observed, diffidently. “Guess I’ve got to join
the cowboy brigade first, if Dick and Jack here will break me in.”
“Sure thing,” assented Jack Hover. “You’re a good rider now—for an army
man.”
“An ex-army man,” corrected Willoughby, laughing.
“It strikes me we should put you in as postmaster, Munson,” suggested
the sheriff, a sly gleam of mischief in his eye. “Buck Ashley here is
growin’ old.”
“Yes, but not too old to hold down his job till your tombstone’s in the
cemetery, Tom Baker,” retorted the storekeeper, with a grin. “No man
takes the Tejon postmastership while I’m alive,” he added defiantly.
“I’m forewarned and won’t apply for your job, Buck,” laughed Munson.
“But here comes the stage, so show your spryness, old fellow, by getting
us our mail.”