A Vendetta of the Hills. Willis George Emerson

make my home in the West.”

      “Then you just stick here, young man,” said the sheriff, rising to his feet and extending his hand. “California is the pick of the States, and our valley the pick of California. Don’t you forget it. We’re proud to welcome you as a new resident.”

      “That’s what I say, too,” concurred Buck Ashley, cordially.

      Munson smiled. “Well, I don’t know if you can put me in the resident class all at once,” he observed, diffidently. “Guess I’ve got to join the cowboy brigade first, if Dick and Jack here will break me in.”

      “Sure thing,” assented Jack Hover. “You’re a good rider now—for an army man.”

      “An ex-army man,” corrected Willoughby, laughing.

      “It strikes me we should put you in as postmaster, Munson,” suggested the sheriff, a sly gleam of mischief in his eye. “Buck Ashley here is growin’ old.”

      “Yes, but not too old to hold down his job till your tombstone’s in the cemetery, Tom Baker,” retorted the storekeeper, with a grin. “No man takes the Tejon postmastership while I’m alive,” he added defiantly.

      “I’m forewarned and won’t apply for your job, Buck,” laughed Munson. “But here comes the stage, so show your spryness, old fellow, by getting us our mail.”