“Yes,” interposed Buck, “but old Ben Thurston would never allow any drillin’ on his place.”
“Who the hell wants oil anyhow?” exclaimed Jack Rover. “We’ll have all the money we need with the buried gold and Guadalupe’s placer mine.”
“Yes, but oil is oil,” replied the storekeeper, with a shrewd nod of his head. “They say Rockefeller has only to raise the price a quarter of a cent a gallon whenever he wants to give away another million or so to a university or a hospital.”
“Well, we ain’t interested in universities or hospitals,” said Tom Baker. “But I agree with Buck that oil’s oil, and I, for one, intend to take everything that’s comin’ to me. My God, we can afford to buy Ben Thurston out and do some drillin’ for ourselves on San Antonio Rancho. It’ll help to pass the time anyways.” As he finished, he began to pour out another round of drinks.
“Help to keep you from the booze,” muttered Buck, in an inaudible aside. But he drained his own glass and smacked his lips with satisfaction. “Guess I’ll be gettin’ another bottle, boys,” he said aloud, genially.
“Oh, we’ve had enough,” mildly protested Munson.
“Not by a jugful,” replied Buck. “You and Jack ain’t goin’ to ride home till mornin’, and there’s lots of things to be talked over yet.”
“Great Scott, it’s already two o’clock,” remarked Munson, consulting his watch.
“Then the night’s still young, boys,” exclaimed Tom Baker, hilariously. “Get the brew, Buck. The empty bottles will keep the tally. Come on, lieutenant, drain your glass. No heel taps in this crowd.”
They had started their conversation in low tones so as not to disturb the slumbers of Pierre Luzon. But this precaution, or act of delicate consideration, had been long since forgotten. They were talking loud now, and often all together, and when Buck Ashley had returned from yet another pilgrimage to the store, none heard or noticed the door of the bedroom being cautiously pushed open by just the fraction of an inch.