The old storekeeper had come from behind the counter, and stood leaning against a stack of boxes.
“I’ve been here for more’n a quarter of a century, boys,” he said, in a tone of seriousness that approached to sadness, “and this old store seems like home to me. I’m some fighter and I’m some stayer. But, hell, I reckon I know when I’m licked. I guess this new town puts a crimp in me and my business, and—”
“Honk-honk; honk-honk”—it was the distant warning of an automobile that interrupted Buck’s speech, and drew all four present to the doorway. There was the glare of twin headlights on the southern road.
“Some of the Los Angeles buyers, most likely,” suggested the sheriff.
And so the travellers proved to be. The automobile halted at the store, but only one of the party of four or five descended.. He was a bright-faced, clean-shaven man, of dapper build and faultlessly attired. In his hand was a bunch of papers.
“Mr. Buck Ashley?” he inquired.
“I’m your man,” replied Buck, stepping from the doorway.
“Well, we can’t stop tonight. But we wanted to say ‘how-do.’ I represent the Los Angeles Trust Syndicate, and these documents just arrived yesterday from Washington, D. C.”
“Can’t be for me, then,” replied Buck, hesitating to take the proffered papers.
“But they are,” replied the stranger with a laugh. “Oh, we haven’t forgotten the interests of the old identities. We’ve had your name in mind all the time, and this is a removal order from the Government to change your postoffice over to the new town of Tejon.”