“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.”