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. These four were now the only ones in the store besides Buck Ashley, who still remained behind the partition. At last the postmaster appeared, holding in his hand an open letter. His face showed great agitation as he glanced around to take stock of those who might be present. “Say, boys,” he whispered in a mysterious manner, as he held up the letter, “this is the most dangnation extr’ornery thing that has ever happened to me. You’re just the bunch of fellers I’d like to consult. Close the door, Tom.” “What’s up, Buck?” asked the sheriff as he rose to comply. “You look as if you had the ague shakes.” “No ague in this here land of California,” laughed Jack Rover. “Is it a proposal of marriage you’ve been getting, Buck?” “A derned heap better’n that. God ‘lmighty, boys, this may mean millions for all of us. Shoot the bolt, Tom; I’ll hand out no more groceries tonight. Come close together, all of you. You read the letter aloud, Dick. My hand’s a-tremb-lin’, and I can’t get the Frenchie’s lingo just right.” “The Frenchie?” echoed Tom Baker in puzzled surprise. “It’s a letter from Pierre Luzon,” explained Buck. “Good God!” The sheriff was now as deeply stirred as his old crony. “The bandit scout you were telling us about the other morning?” exclaimed Jack Rover, also fired with excitement. “I thought that fellow was in San Quentin for life.” remarked Munson, composedly. “Wal, and ain’t this letter from San Quentin?” retorted Buck. “See the headin’. But Dick’ll read it aloud. I feel clean knocked out.” And the old man sank back on his chair behind the counter. The four others were now clustered around Dick Willoughby. The latter, deputized to do the reading, had nonchalantly taken the epistle from Buck Ashley’s trembling hand. While the others were speaking he had bestowed a preliminary glance, and from his lips there escaped a murmur of surprise. “Great Caesar!” As he uttered the ejaculation Dick sat up, keenly alert. “Well, what’s it all about?” inquired Munson, by this time the only cool man in the bunch. “Read, read!” cried the storekeeper hoarsely. Dick Willoughby began: “Mr. Buck Ashley, Storekeeper, Tejon, California.