“That seems quite impossible,” commented Jack. “Not impossible by a derned sight. My brother was at Liberal, Kansas, down there on the Rock Island, near No Man’s Land, you know. The new town had been talked of and talked of for mebbe three or four months, just as this new town is bein’ talked about today. Then finally the mornin’ came when the new town of Liberal was to be opened up. There was to be a regular town openin’, so to speak, and a sale of lots. Why, great guns, when the management of that town company rode into the station, on the early train, they found more’n ten thousand people right there campin’ in covered wagons, tents and all that sorta business, just awaitin’ for the auctioneerin’ to start.” Tom paused to take a fresh chew of tobacco and then rambled on: “I tell you, boys, that within thirty days there was twenty thousand people livin’ in that ‘ere town. Two banks were established, and one of them had one hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars in deposits, too. Oh, there’s lots of people who remember the rush to Liberal, and the boomin’ of Oklahomy City also. And history’s fixin’ to repeat itself right here on this ‘ere ranch. Things will be sizzlin’ when the town site is finally located and the rush starts pourin’ in from Portland, Oregon, on the north, to San Diego on the south, with a few thousands from Texas and other states this side o’ the Rocky Mountains. They’ll sure be great doin’s when the Los Angeles syndicate announce they’ve awarded to some feller that ten-thousand-dollar prize for the best plans for their ideal city, as they keep on callin’ it.” “Munson and I were speaking about the contest and the prize,” remarked Jack, “and were saying that if Dick Willoughby were only here, he’d about win, hands down. You know he was an architect once, before he came West.” “Dick Willoughby,” snorted Ashley, “How can he compete when he don’t know anything about the blamed business? He’s hid away, right enough.” “Munson knows a thing or two,” remarked Tom Baker. “If he’d only apeak, he could tell us where Dick is. That’s my opinion.” “And there once again you’re dead wrong,” retorted Jack, warmly. “If Munson only knew where Dick is hiding, he would have got that very prize competition advertisement into his hands long before now. He’s sore because he can’t send Dick the word. Where is Dick Willoughby? By gad, it’s a mystery.” “I guess you’re right,” said the sheriff. “That sort o’ exonerates Munson from keepin’ things from his partners. I think I owe it to Chester Munson to drink his health—just for ever doubtin’ him. What shall it be, boys?” And the open-air meeting adjourned.