"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."
|BUCK ASHLEY had retired into the partitioned-off section of the store that formed the postoffice, and was busy stamping and sorting out the mail. The scattered loiterers outside crowded into the building expectantly, and the local parliament was in session. Amid the buzz of conversation Willoughby could not but hear his own name mentioned, coupled with that of Marshall Thurston. He understood quite well that all manner of gossip was flying around in regard to the quarrel at the round-up. But he remained stoically indifferent, shut his ears, and leaning against the counter busied himself with an old _Saturday Evening Post_ that had been lying there.
At last the wicket was shoved up with a bang, and those present began to move toward the little aperture through which Buck Ashley proceeded to hand out correspondence and newspapers. One by one the throng melted away. Jack Rover was examining the big bunch of mail for San Antonio Rancho as he stowed it into the letter bag. Munson was opening and gleaning the contents of two or three letters that had come to him from New York. Dick Willoughby continued his reading, unconcerned; Jack would pass over any correspondence for him. Old Tom Baker had not risen from his accustomed seat on an empty box; he had few correspondents, and the mail did not worry him, although he invariably assisted with his presence at its distribution.