“He goes, too. You see, Mr. Robles needs a crackerjack cook, now I’ll be boarding with him,” Munson laughed, gaily. “You don’t happen to have a porterhouse steak about the place, Buck?”
“I can heat you up a can of pork and beans.”
“Nothing doing! Jack and I wouldn’t spoil our appetites with such truck as that. We’re going to set up a chicken dinner in Bakersfield.”
“Chicken and champagne,” chimed in Jack, as he swung the sack over his shoulder.
“You’re beginning to get big bugs these days,” called out the storekeeper as the young men left the room. “Guess, Tom,” he went on, turning to the sheriff, “we could do with a jolt of Kentucky.”
“Make it a bottle of bourbon,” gurgled Tom, “to remind us of our absent friend.”
“Dear old Pierre,” murmured Buck, as he fumbled in his pocket for the key of the safe, his eyes glued all the time on the two little heaps of gold.