“Say, boys,” he whispered in a mysterious manner, as he held up the letter, “this is the most dangnation extr’ornery thing that has ever happened to me. You’re just the bunch of fellers I’d like to consult. Close the door, Tom.”
“What’s up, Buck?” asked the sheriff as he rose to comply. “You look as if you had the ague shakes.”
“No ague in this here land of California,” laughed Jack Rover. “Is it a proposal of marriage you’ve been getting, Buck?”
“A derned heap better’n that. God ‘lmighty, boys, this may mean millions for all of us. Shoot the bolt, Tom; I’ll hand out no more groceries tonight. Come close together, all of you. You read the letter aloud, Dick. My hand’s a-tremb-lin’, and I can’t get the Frenchie’s lingo just right.”
“The Frenchie?” echoed Tom Baker in puzzled surprise.
“It’s a letter from Pierre Luzon,” explained Buck.
“Good God!” The sheriff was now as deeply stirred as his old crony.
“The bandit scout you were telling us about the other morning?” exclaimed Jack Rover, also fired with excitement.
“I thought that fellow was in San Quentin for life.” remarked Munson, composedly.
“Wal, and ain’t this letter from San Quentin?” retorted Buck. “See the headin’. But Dick’ll read it aloud. I feel clean knocked out.” And the old man sank back on his chair behind the counter.