Buck needed no candle, and was soon back with another bottle of the Kentucky bourbon. Glasses were filled and clinked and pledges of brotherhood renewed.
“It’s champagne we’ll be drinkin’ tomorrow night, Buck, old sport,” exclaimed Tom, slapping his old crony on the shoulder.
“I’ll long-distance Bakersfield for a case in the morning,” responded Buck, genially. “By gosh, we’ll be swimmin’ in wine afore long, boys. First thing I’ve got to do is to sell out this ‘ere store.”
“Sell it!” cried the sheriff, contemptuously. “You can afford to give it away, Buck. We ain’t a-goin’ to be pikers in our old age, are we now?”
“I ain’t old by a danged sight,” snapped back the storekeeper, for Tom had touched a sore spot once again. “Besides, when I’ve got a barrel of Joaquin Murietta’s gold safe in the bank, you’ll see me friskin’ around like a two-year-old colt,” he added, his momentary surliness changing to a smile.
“And it ain’t only gold, boys,” said Tom Baker. “That ‘ere story old Pierre told me about the grotto cavern havin’ a lake of oil in it as big as a city block, sure ‘nuff got me goin’. Why, we’ll be able to blossom out into oil kings.”
“What’s that?” asked Munson.
“Why, the Frenchie told me, you know, confidential like, comin’ along on our motor car that since fifty years back those bandit fellers skimmed oil from the surface of that lake and burned it in lamps down in that cavern.”
“By Jove, that’s interesting,” replied Munson.
“We know there is oil to the west, oil to the north, and oil to the south, and it stands to reason there must be oil here as well.”