DICK WILLOUGHBY’S sensational escape from La Siesta had added another
thrill to the mystery surrounding the murder of Marshall Thurston. But
as week succeeded week without further incident, the affair gradually
faded away as a topic of conversation. All the talk now was about the
coming of the new town. The fever of speculation was in the air.
“Say, boys,” remarked Jack Rover one evening to his two cronies at the
store, “I’m sure getting crazy about the new town. I’ve got a thousand
bones of my own savings besides the money from old Pierre Luzon, and I’m
going to invest every dangnation cent of it in town lots on opening day.
You bet I’ll be there mighty early in the morning when the sale starts.”
“I’m sorta locoed myself,” said Baker, “about them lots in the new
town. Guess I’ll grab off a few good corners. I look for an early
rise—prices’ll go up like blazes,’ I’m ‘lowin’.”
Buck Ashley snorted contemptuously. “Say, you fellers are two dippy
ones. That new town talk is a lot o’ hot air, d’you hear? Jest the
agitatin’ work of them pesky town boomers. Won’t ‘mount to nothin’.”
Jack Rover started a defence, but was quickly motioned to silence by
old Tom Baker, who, after clearing his throat, pushed his hat back and
glared at Buck Ashley.
“Buck,” said he, “you’re a thick-headed fool. The openin’ of that town
will amount to one hell of a sight, don’t you fergit it. Why, that Los
Angeles syndicate cuss who’s a-runnin’ the machine is sharper than a
razor blade. Just think for one little puny moment,” Tom Baker went
on, enthusiastically, “of that printed notice being in every blamed
newspaper in the whole country—yes, and on the other side of the
Atlantic pond—offerin’ ten thousand dollars for the best plans for an
ideal city. Gosh all hemlock, they do say as how the mails were just
chuck full of answers—architect fellers as well as them as ain’t
architects, a-tryin’ to get their hooks on that ten-thousand-dollar
prize. It was a mighty smart business notion, I’m a-tellin’ you, and has
boomed the town to beat the band.”
“But,” inquired Buck Ashley, in a sarcastic way, “who is confounded fool
enough to buy lots in such a wild-cat scheme, no matter how much they
advertise it? That’s what I’m askin’.”
“I will, for one,” said Jack Rover. “As I said before, I’m going to put
in my last dollar.”
“As for me,” chimed in Tom Baker, “I will lay my money on this ‘ere
proposed new town bein’ the biggest town in the whole dangnation State
of California outside of sea-board towns.”
Just then through the gathering darkness a lone horseman rode up to the
store, dismounted and came hurriedly in. It was none other than Chester
Munson, flushed and excited, as he sang out a good-natured salute:
“Hallo, boys. I have news for you.”
As he spoke he pulled a Bakersfield daily paper from his pocket. “The
new town!” he fairly shouted. “All about it, right on the front
page, pictures and all. And it is Dick Willoughby who wins the
ten-thousand-dollar prize!”
“That’s great news, sure,” cried Jack.
“It’s a mighty pity Dick ain’t here to celebrate,” growled the sheriff.
“What’s to be the name of the town?” asked Buck Ashley, in a
disbelieving tone.
“Tejon, after the old fort here,” replied Munson, as he pointed to the
featured article with its big-type headlines and started to cull a few
sentences.
“It says that the new city of Tejon, right here in the heart of a rich
horticultural valley, is bound to be one of the top-notch towns of
California. And the opening day is going to be immense. Next Tuesday
is the date fixed. Maps and plans of the new town will be ready for
distribution from the land company’s office, corner Main Street and
Broadway, at nine o’clock Monday morning. Let me see,” he went on,
looking up from the paper, “this is Wednesday. Mighty few days to wait,
boys. You just ought to see the excitement in Bakersfield.”
“Well, I say there ain’t no such town,” snapped Buck Ashley, “nor no
such a company’s office buildin’, ‘cause I was down there day before
yesterday myself, right where them surveyin’ fellers have been foolin’
‘round for weeks, peekin’ through spy-glasses at each other and
measurin’ off so many feet this way and so many feet that way, like a
bunch o’ kids playin’ some game. No, siree, there’s nothin’ but long
rows of white stakes driv in the ground. Looks to me as if they was
a-gettin’ ready to build a lot of henhouses. Of course the railroad’s
there, and the only thing changed that I could see was a lot of
side-tracks they’ve put in.”
“Well, things have been humming the last two days,” laughed Munson.
“This afternoon I found all the side-tracks filled with trains of
lumber, carload after carload, and not less than two or three hundred
workmen, all as busy as nailers. Looked to me as if a three-ring circus
were getting ready for a big show. They are already running up electric
light poles and stringing the wires. Some of the men are unloading cars,
some stacking up lumber, others are putting up tents, and the entire
business reminded me of a hive of extremely busy bees. Go down and look
for yourself, Buck, and you’ll be convinced at last that the new town
has arrived.”
The old storekeeper had come from behind the counter, and stood leaning
against a stack of boxes.
“I’ve been here for more’n a quarter of a century, boys,” he said, in
a tone of seriousness that approached to sadness, “and this old store
seems like home to me. I’m some fighter and I’m some stayer. But, hell,
I reckon I know when I’m licked. I guess this new town puts a crimp in
me and my business, and—”
“Honk-honk; honk-honk”—it was the distant warning of an automobile that
interrupted Buck’s speech, and drew all four present to the doorway.
There was the glare of twin headlights on the southern road.
“Some of the Los Angeles buyers, most likely,” suggested the sheriff.
And so the travellers proved to be. The automobile halted at the
store, but only one of the party of four or five descended.. He was a
bright-faced, clean-shaven man, of dapper build and faultlessly attired.
In his hand was a bunch of papers.
“Mr. Buck Ashley?” he inquired.
“I’m your man,” replied Buck, stepping from the doorway.
“Well, we can’t stop tonight. But we wanted to say ‘how-do.’ I represent
the Los Angeles Trust Syndicate, and these documents just arrived
yesterday from Washington, D. C.”
“Can’t be for me, then,” replied Buck, hesitating to take the proffered
papers.
“But they are,” replied the stranger with a laugh. “Oh, we haven’t
forgotten the interests of the old identities. We’ve had your name in
mind all the time, and this is a removal order from the Government to
change your postoffice over to the new town of Tejon.”
Buck was speechless as his fingers closed on the documents.
“We’ll hope to see you over on Tuesday morning, Mr. Ashley, so that you
can secure a good site for your new store. Now I must be going. We have
got to be in Bakersfield by eleven o’clock.”
“Honk-honk,” and the automobile was gone.
“Hell, Buck, have you lost your tongue?” cried Tom Baker, slipping the
storekeeper on the shoulder. “Don’t you see what it all means? You’re
goin’ to shift camp, old man; you’re goin’ into the new town.”
“Gosh ‘lmighty!” murmured Buck, at last recovering the power of
articulation. “I think the first thing to do is to lubricate.”
“A taste from the mystery keg,” suggested the sheriff, as they all
crowded back into the store.
“The mystery keg? What’s that?” asked Munson.
Buck laid his hand on a small barrel at the end of the counter.
“We call it the mystery keg,” he replied, “because we just found it
yesterday mornin’ settin’ at my back door. It has come to us sorta like
manna from heaven.”
“And tastes like manna, too,” interjected Baker.
“It means free drinks for all this pertic’lar bunch,” continued Buck,
“for there is no question as to where the keg came from. Look at the
date on the top—1853. This ‘ere barrel came out of Joaquin Murietta’s
wine cellar.”
“You don’t say?” exclaimed Munson, pressing forward eagerly to examine
the little brass-hooped keg, looking bright and sound despite its
antiquity.
“This whisky is sixty years old at least,” Buck went on, turning the tap
and filling a small pitcher.
“Tastes like it might be a hundred years older,” remarked the sheriff.
“Mellow as fresh drawn milk.”
Buck handed Munson a pony glass of the rare old beverage.
“By jove, it is fine,” said the lieutenant, judicially smacking his
lips.
“Just makes my internals feel as soft and roly-poly as a ripe
pomegranate,” murmured Tom, as he set down his empty glass and rubbed
his belt-line in a complacent way.
“Well, we’ll fill up again, boys,” cried Buck. “Here’s to dear old
Pierre Luzon, for it was sure him who sent us the mystery keg.”
“And to Dick Willoughby who won the prize,” cried Jack Rover.
“And to our host,” added Munson in a courtly way. “To Buck Ashley, boys,
the postmaster of the new city of Tejon.”
“Hip, hip, hurrah!”—all four voices shouted the triple toast as the
upraised glasses clinked merrily.
Buck resumed his former position, with his back against the cracker
boxes.
“As I was sayin’, boys, when that automobile interrupted us, I know when
I’m licked. But I know, too, that the fightin’ blood is still left in
me, and I was a-goin’ to remark that this new town sure ‘nuff looks a
winner. I’ve got plenty of lumber right in my back yard, and tomorrer
mornin’ I begin to have the scantlin’s cut, for, by jingoes, I’ll be the
chap who will build the first buildin’ in the new town.”
“Bully for you,” cried Munson.
“I say what I mean,” continued Buck, his face aglow with enthusiasm,
“and on Tuesday mornin’ I’ll buy the first town lot if I have to stand
in line for forty-eight hours to get it.”
“Life in the old dog yet,” laughed Jack Rover. “It’s wonderful the
effect of Pierre Luzon’s brew,” smiled the sheriff. “I think we’ll just
have four more spoonfuls, Buck, of that distilled nectar of sunshine.
Success to the new store, old man!”