HOW he came by his name, no one could tell. In the early days of the gold fever there came to California a great many men who did not volunteer their names, and as those about them had been equally reticent on their own advent, they asked few questions of newcomers.
The hotels of the mining regions never kept registers for the accommodation of guests—they were considered well-appointed hotels if they kept water-tight roofs and well-stocked bars.
Newcomers were usually designated at first by some peculiarity of physiognomy or dress, and were known by such names as “Broken Nose,” “Pink Shirt,” “Cross Bars,” “Gone Ears,” etc.; if, afterward, any man developed some peculiarity of character, an observing and original miner would coin and apply a new name, which would afterward be accepted as irrevocably as a name conferred by the holy rite of baptism.
No one wondered that Buffle never divulged his real name, or talked of his past life; for in the mines he had such an unhappy faculty of winning at cards, getting new horses without visible bills of sale, taking drinks beyond ordinary power of computation, stabbing and shooting, that it was only reasonable to suppose that he had acquired these abilities at the sacrifice of the peace of some other community.
He was not vicious—even a strict theologian could hardly have accused him of malice; yet, wherever he went, he was promptly acknowledged chief of that peculiar class which renders law and sheriffs necessary evils.
He was not exactly a beauty—miners seldom were—yet a connoisseur in manliness could have justly wished there were a dash of the Buffle blood in the well-regulated veins of many irreproachable characters in quieter neighborhoods than Fat Pocket Gulch, where the scene of this story was located.
He was tall, active, prompt and generous, and only those who have these qualities superadded to their own virtues are worthy to throw stones at his memory.
He was brave, too. His bravery had been frequently recorded in lead in the mining regions, and such records were transmitted from place to place with an alacrity which put official zeal to the deepest blush.
At the fashionable hour of two o’clock at night, Mr. Buffle was entertaining some friends at his residence; or, to use the language of the mines, “there was a game up to Buffle’s.” In a shanty of the composite order of architecture—it having a foundation of stone, succeeded by logs, a gable of coffin misfits and cracker-boxes, and a roof of bark and canvas—Buffle and three other miners were playing “old sledge.”
The table was an empty pork-barrel; the seats were respectively, a block of wood, a stone, and a raisin-box, with a well-stuffed knapsack for the tallest man.
On one side of the shanty was a low platform of hewn logs, which constituted the proprietor’s couch when he slept; on another was the door, on the third were confusedly piled Buffle’s culinary utensils, and on the fourth was a fireplace, whose defective draft had been the agent of the fine frescoing of soot perceptible on the ceiling. A single candle hung on a wire over the barrel, and afforded light auxiliary to that thrown out by the fireplace.
“COME IN,” ROARED BUFFLE’S PARTNER. “COME IN, HANG YER,
IF YER LIFE’S INSURED!” THE DOOR OPENED SLOWLY, AND A WOMAN ENTERED.
The game had been going largely in Buffle’s favor, as was usually the case, when one of the opposition injudiciously played an ace which was clearly from another pack of cards,
inasmuch as Buffle, who had dealt, had the rightful ace in his own hand. As it was the ace of trumps, Buffle’s indignation arose, and so did his person and pistol.
“Hang yer,” said he, savagely; “yer don’t come that game on me. I’ve got that ace myself.”
An ordinary man would have drawn pistol also, but Buffle’s antagonist knew his only safety lay in keeping quiet, so he only stared vacantly at the muzzle of the revolver, that was so precisely aimed at his own head.
The two other players had risen to their feet, and were mentally composing epitaphs for the victim, when there was heard a decided knock on the door.
“Come in!” roared Buffle’s partner, who was naturally the least excited of the four. “Come in, hang yer, if yer life’s insured.”
The door opened slowly, and a woman entered.
Now, while there were but few women in the camp, the sight of a single woman was not at all unusual. Yet, as she raised her vail, Buffle’s revolver fell from his hands, and the other players laid down their cards; the partner of the guilty man being so overcome as to lay down his hand face upward.
Then they all stared, but not one of them spoke; they wanted to, but none knew how to do it. It was not usually difficult for any of them to address such specimens of the gentler sex as found their way to Fat Pocket Gulch, but they all understood at once that this was a different sort of woman. They looked reprovingly and beseechingly at each other, but the woman, at last, broke the silence by saying:
“I am sorry to disturb you, gentlemen, but I was told I could probably find Mr. Buffle here.”
“Here he is, ma’am, and yours truly,” said Buffle, removing his hat.
He could afford to. She was not beautiful, but she seemed to be in trouble, and a troubled woman can command, to the death, even worse men than free-and-easy miners. She had a refined, pure face, out of which two great brown eyes looked so tenderly and anxiously, that these men forgot themselves at once. She seemed young, not more than twenty-three or four; she was slightly built, and dressed in a suit of plain black.
“Mr. Buffle,” said she, “I was going through by stage to San Francisco, when I overheard the driver say to a man seated by him that you knew more miners than any man in California—that you had been through the whole mining country.”
“Well, mum,” said Buffle, with a delighted but sheepish look, which would have become a missionary complimented on the number of converts he had made, “I hev been around a good deal, that’s a fact. I reckon I’ve staked a claim purty much ev’rywhar in the diggins.”
“So I inferred from what the driver said,” she replied, “and I came down here to ask you a question.”
Here she looked uneasily at the other players. The man who stole the ace translated it at once, and said:
“We’ll git out ef yer say so, mum; but yer needn’t be afraid to say ennything before us. We know a lady when we see her, an’ mebbe some on us ken give yer a lift; if we can’t, I’ve only got to say thet ef yer let out enny secrets, grizzlies couldn’t tear ’em out uv enny man in this crowd. Hey, fellers?”
“You bet,” was the firm response of the remaining two, and Buffle quickly passed a demijohn to the ace-thief, as a sign of forgiveness and approbation.
“Thank you, gentlemen—God bless you,” said the woman, earnestly. “My story is soon told. I am looking for my husband, and I must find him. His name is Allan Berryn.”
Buffle gazed thoughtfully in the fire, and remarked:
“Names ain’t much good in this country, mum—no man kerries visitin’-cards, an’ mighty few gits letters. Besides, lots comes here ’cos they’re wanted elsewhere, an’ they take names that ain’t much like what their mothers giv ’em. Mebbe you could tell us somethin’ else to put us on the trail of him?”
“Hez he got both of his eyes an’ ears, mum?” inquired one of the men.
“Uv course he hez, you fool!” replied Buffle, savagely. “The lady’s husband’s a gentleman, an’ ’tain’t likely he’s been chawed or gouged.”
“I ax parding, mum,” said the offender, in the most abject manner.
“He is of medium height, slightly built, has brown hair and eyes, and wears a plain gold ring on the third finger of his left hand,” continued Mrs. Berryn.
“Got all his front teeth, mum?” asked the man Buffle had rebuked; then he turned quickly to Buffle, who was frowning suspiciously, and said, appeasingly, “Yer know, Buffle, that bein’ a gentleman don’t keep a feller from losin’ his teeth in the nateral course of things.”
“He had all his front teeth a few months ago,” replied Mrs. Berryn. “I do not know how to describe him further—he had no scars, moles, or other peculiarities which might identify him, except,” she continued, with a faint blush—a wife’s blush, which strongly tempted Buffle to kneel and kiss the ground she stood on—“except a locket I once gave him, with my portrait, and which he always wore over his heart. I can’t believe he would take it off,” said she, with a sob that was followed by a flood of tears.
The men twisted on their seats, and showed every sign of uneasiness; one stepped outside to cough, another suddenly attacked the fire and poked it savagely, Buffle impolitely turned his back to the company, while the fourth man lost himself in the contemplation of the king of spades, which card ever afterward showed in its centre a blotch which seemed the result of a drop of water. Finally Buffle broke the silence by saying:
“I’d give my last ounce, and my shootin’-iron besides, mum, ef I could put yer on his trail; but I can’t remember no such man; ken you, fellers?”
Three melancholy nods replied in the negative.
“I am very much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Berryn. “I will go back to the crossing and take the next stage. Perhaps, Mr. Buffle, if I send you my address when I reach San Francisco, you will let me know if you ever find any traces of him?”
“Depend upon all of us for that, mum,” replied Buffle.
“Thank you,” said she, and departed as suddenly as she had entered, leaving the men staring stupidly at each other.
“Wonder how she got here from the crossin’?” finally remarked one.
“Ef she came alone, she’s got a black ride back,” said another. “It’s nigh onto fourteen miles to that crossin’.”
“An’ she orten’t to be travelin’ at all,” said little Muggy, the smallest man of the party. “I’m a family man—or I wuz once—an’ I tell yer she ort to be where she ken keep quiet, an’ wait for what’s comin’ soon.”
The men glanced at each other significantly, but without any of the levity which usually follows such an announcement in more cultured circles.
“This game’s up, boys,” said Buffle, rising suddenly. “The stage don’t reach the crossin’ till noon, an’ she is goin’ to hev this shanty to stay in till daylight, anyhow. You fellers had better git, right away.”
Saying which, Buffle hurried out to look for Mrs. Berryn. He soon overtook her, and awkwardly said:
“Mum!”
She stopped.
“Yer don’t need to start till after daylight to reach that stage, mum, an’ you’d better come back and rest yerself in my shanty till mornin’.”
“I am very much obliged, sir,” she replied, “but——”
“Don’t be afeard, mum,” said Buffle, hastily. “We’re rough, but a lady’s as safe here as she’d be among her family. Ye’ll have the cabin all to yerself, an’ I’ll leave a revolver with yer to make yer feel better.”
“You are very kind, sir, but—it will take me some time to get back.”
“Horse lame, p’r’aps?”
“No, sir; the truth is, I walked.”
“Good God!” ejaculated Buffle; “I’ll kill any scoundrel of a station-agent that’ll let a woman take such a walk as this. I’ll take you back on a good horse before noon to-morrow, and I’ll put a hole through that rascal right before your eyes, mum.”
Mrs. Berryn shuddered, at sight of which Buffle mentally consigned his eyes to a locality boasting a superheated atmosphere, for talking so roughly to a lady.
“Don’t harm him, Mr. Buffle,” said she. “He knew nothing about it. I asked him the road to Fat Pocket Gulch, and he pointed it out. He did not know but what I had a horse or a carriage. Unfortunately, the stage was robbed the day before yesterday, and all my money was taken, or I should not have walked here, I assure you. My passage is paid to San Francisco, and the driver told me that if I wished to come down here, the next stage would take me through to San Francisco. When I get there, I can soon obtain money from the East.”
“Madame,” said Buffle, unconsciously taking off his hat, “any lady that’ll make that walk by dark is clear gold all the way down to bed-rock. Ef yer husband’s in California, I’ll find him fur yer, in spite of man or devil—I will, an’ I’ll be on the trail in half an hour. An’ you’d better stay here till I come back, or send yer word. I don’t want to brag, but thar ain’t a man in the Gulch that’ll dare molest anythin’ aroun’ my shanty, an’ as thar’s plenty of pervisions thar—plain, but good—yer can’t suffer. The spring is close by, an’ you’ll allers find firewood by the door. An’ ef yer want help about anythin’, ask the fust man yer see, and say I told yer to.”
Mrs. Berryn looked earnestly into his face for a moment, and then trusted him.
“Mr. Buffle,” she said, “he is the best man that ever lived. But we were both proud, and we quarrelled, and he left me in anger. I accidentally heard he was in California, through an acquaintance who saw him leave New York on the California steamer. If you see him, tell him I was wrong, and that I will die if he does not come back. Tell him—tell him—that.”
“Never mind, mum,” said Buffle, leading her hastily toward the shanty, and talking with unusual rapidity. “I’ll bring him back all right ef I find him; an’ find him I will, ef he’s on top of the ground.”
They entered the cabin, and Buffle was rather astonished at the appearance of his own home. The men were gone, but on the bare logs, where Buffle usually reposed, they had spread their coats neatly, and covered them with a blanket which little Muggy usually wore.
The cards had disappeared, and in their place lay a very small fragment of looking-glass; the demijohn stood in its accustomed place, but against it leaned a large chip, on which was scrawled, in charcoal, the word Worter.
“Good,” said Buffle, approvingly. “Now, mum, keep up yer heart. I tell yer I’ll fetch him, an’ any man at the Gulch ken tell yer thet lyin’ ain’t my gait.”
Buffle slammed the door, called at two or three other shanties, and gave orders in a style befitting a feudal lord, and in ten minutes was on horseback, galloping furiously out on the trail to Green Flat.
The Green Flatites wondered at finding the great man among them, and treated him with the most painful civility. As he neither hung about the saloon, “got up” a game, nor provoked a horse-trade, it was immediately surmised that he was looking for some one, and each man searchingly questioned his trembling memory whether he had ever done Buffle an injury.
All preserved a respectful silence as Buffle walked from claim to claim, carefully scrutinizing many, and all breathed freer as they saw him and his horse disappear over the hill on the Sonora trail.
At Sonora he considered it wise to stay over Sunday—not to enjoy religious privileges, but because on Sunday sinners from all parts of the country round flocked into Sonora, to commune with the spirits, infernal rather than celestial, gathered there.
He made the tour of all the saloons, dashed eagerly at two or three men, with plain gold rings on left fore-fingers, disgustedly found them the wrong men beyond doubt, cursed them, and invited them to drink. Then he closely catechised all the barkeepers, who were the only reliable directories in that country; they were anxious to oblige him, but none could remember such a man. So Buffle took his horse, and sought his man elsewhere.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Berryn remained in camp, where she was cared for in a manner which called out her astonishment equally with her gratitude. Buffle was hardly well out of the Gulch when Mrs. Berryn heard a knock at the door; she opened it, and a man handed her a frying-pan, with the remark, “Buffle is cracked,” and hastily disappeared.
In the morning she was awakened by a crash outside the door, and, on looking out, discovered a quantity of firewood ready cut; each morning thereafter found in the same place a fresh supply, which was usually decorated with offerings of different degrees of appropriateness—pieces of fresh meat, strings of dried ditto, blankets enough for a large hotel, little packages of gold-dust, case knives and forks, cans of salt butter, and all sorts of provisions, in quantity.
Each man in camp fondly believed his own particular revolver was better than any other, and, as a natural consequence, the camp became almost peaceful, by reason of the number of pistols that were left in front of Mrs. Berryn’s door. But she carefully left them alone, and when this was discovered the boys sorrowfully removed them.
Then old Griff, living up the Gulch, with a horrible bulldog for companion, brought his darling animal down late one dark night, and tied him near the lady’s residence, where he discoursed sweet sounds for two hours, until, to Mrs. Berryn’s delight, he broke his chain, and returned to his old home.
Then Sandytop, the ace-thief, suddenly left camp. Many were the surmises and bets on the subject; and on the third day, when two men, one of whom believed he had gone to steal a mule, and the other believed he had rolled into the creek while drunk, were about to refer the whole matter to pistols, they were surprised at seeing Sandytop stagger into camp, under a large, unsightly bundle. The next day Mrs. Berryn ate from crockery instead of tin, and had a china wash-bowl and pitcher.
Little Muggy, who sold out his claim the day after Buffle left, went to San Francisco, but reappeared in camp in a few days, with a large bundle, a handsaw and a plane. Some light was thrown on the contents of the bundle by sundry scraps of linen, cotton, and very soft flannel, that the wind occasionally blew from the direction of Mrs. Berryn’s abode; but why Muggy suddenly needed a very large window in the only boarded side of his house; why he never staked another claim and went to “washing;” why his door always had to be unlocked from the inside before any one could get in, instead of being ajar, as was the usual custom with doors at Fat Pocket Gulch; why visitors always found the floor strewn with shavings and blocks, but were told to mind their business if they asked what he was making; and why Uppercrust, an aristocratic young reprobate, who had been a doctor in the States, had suddenly taken up his abode with Muggy, were mysteries unsolvable by the united intellects of Fat Pocket Gulch.
It was finally suggested by some one, that, as Muggy had often and fluently cursed the “rockers” used to wash out dirt along the Gulch, it was likely enough he was inventing a new one, and the ex-doctor, who, of course, knew something about chemistry, was helping him to work an amalgamator into it; a careful comparison of bets showed this to be a fairly accepted opinion, and so the matter rested.
Meanwhile, Buffle had been untiring in his search, as his horse, could he have spoken, would have testified. Men wondered what Berryn had done to Buffle, and odds of ten to one that some undertaker would soon have reason to bless Buffle were freely offered, but seldom taken. One night Buffle’s horse galloped into Deadlock Ridge, and the rider, hailing the first man he met, inquired the way to the saloon.
“I don’t know,” replied the man.
“Come, no foolin’ thar,” said Buffle, indignantly.
“I don’t know, I tell you—I don’t drink.”
“Hang yer!” roared Buffle, in honest fury at what seemed to him the most stupendous lie ever told by a miner, “I’ll teach yer to lie to me.” And out came Buffle’s pistol.
The man saw his danger, and, springing at Buffle with the agility of a cat, snatched the pistol and threw it on the ground; in an instant Buffle’s hand had firmly grasped the man by his shirt-collar, and, the horse taking fright, Buffle, a second later, found in his hand a torn piece of red flannel, a chain, and a locket, while the man lay on the ground.
“At last!” exclaimed Buffle, convinced that he had found his man; but his emotions were quickly cooled by the man in the road, who, jumping from the ground, picked up Buffle’s pistol, cocked and aimed it, and spoke in a grating voice, as if through set teeth:
“Give back that locket this second, or, as God lives, I’ll take it out of a dead man’s hand.”
The rapidity of human thought is never so beautifully illustrated as when the owner of a human mind is serving involuntarily as a target.
“My friend,” said Buffle, “ef I’ve got anything uv yourn, yer ken hev it on provin’ property. We’ll go to whar that fust light is up above—I’ll walk the hoss slow, an’ yer ken keep me covered with the pistol; ain’t that fair?”
“Be quick, then,” said the man, excitedly; “start!”
The trip was not more than two minutes in length, but it seemed a good hour to Buffle, whose acquaintanceship with the delicacy of the trigger of his beloved pistol caused his past life to pass in retrospect before him several times before they reached the light. The light proved to be in the saloon whose locality had provoked the quarrel. The saloon was full, the door was open, and there was a buzz of astonishment, which culminated in a volley of ejaculations, in which strength predominated over elegance, as a large man, followed closely by a small man with a cocked pistol, marched up to the bar.
“Gentlemen,” said Buffle, “this feller sez I’ve got some uv his property, an’ he’s come here to prove it. Now, feller, wot’s yer claim?”
“A chain and locket,” said the man; “hang you, I see them in your hand now.”
“Ennybody ken see a chain an’ locket in my hand,” said Buffle, “but that don’t make it yourn.”
“The locket contains the portrait of a lady, and the inscription ‘Frances to Allan’—look quick, or I’ll shoot!” said the little man, savagely.
Buffle opened it, and saw Mrs. Berryn’s portrait.
“Mister, yer right,” said he; “here’s yer property, an’ I’ll apologize, er drink, er fight—er apologize, an’ drink, an’ fight, whichever is yer style. Fust, however, ef ye’ll drop that pistol, I’ll drink myself, considerin’—never mind. Denominate yer pizen, gentlemen,” said he, as the audience crowded to the bar.
“Buffle,” whispered the barkeeper, who knew the great man by sight, “he’s a littler man than you.”
“I know it, boss,” replied Buffle, most brazenly. “He sez he don’t drink.”
“Never saw him here before—there, he’s goin’ out now,” said the barkeeper.
Buffle turned and dashed through the crowd; all who held glasses quickly laid them down and followed.
“Stand back, the hull crowd uv yer,” said Buffle; “this ain’t no fight—me an’ the gentleman got private bizness.” And, laying his hand on Berryn’s shoulder, he said, “What are yer doin’ here, when yer know a lady like that?”
“Suffering hell for abusing heaven,” replied Berryn, passionately.
“Then why don’t yer go back?” inquired Buffle.
“Because I’ve got no money; all luck has failed me ever since I left home—shipwreck, hunger, poverty——”
“Come back a minute,” interrupted Buffle. I forgot to come down with the dust for the drinks. Now I tell yer what—I want yer to go back to my camp—I’ve got plenty uv gold, an’ it’s no good to me, only fur gamblin’ an’ drinkin’; yer welcome to enough uv it to git yerself home, an’ git on yer feet when yer get thar.”
Berryn looked doubtingly at him as they entered the saloon.
“P’r’aps somebody here ken tell this gentleman my name?” said Buffle.
“Buffle!” said several voices in chorus.
“Bully! Now, p’r’aps you same fellers ken tell him ef I’m a man uv my word?”
“You bet,” responded the same chorus.
“An’ now, p’r’aps some uv yer’ll sell me a good hoss, pervidin’ yer don’t want him stole mighty sudden?”
Several men invited attention to their respective animals, tied near the door. Promptly selecting one, paying for it, and settling with the barkeeper, and mounting his own horse while Berryn mounted the new one, the two men galloped away, leaving the bystanders lost in astonishment, from which they only recovered after almost superhuman industry on the part of the barkeeper.
One evening, when the daily labors and household cares of the Fat Pocket Gulchites had ended, the residents of that quiet village were congregated, as usual, at the saloon. It was too early for gambling and fighting, and the boys chatted peacefully, pausing only a few times to drink “Here’s her,” which had become the standard toast of the Gulch. Conversation turned on Muggy’s invention, and a few bets were exchanged, which showed the boys were not quite sure it was a rocker, after all. Suddenly Sandytop, who had been leaning against the door-frame, and, looking in the direction of Buffle’s old cabin, ejaculated:
“’Tis a rocker, boys—it’s a rocker, but—but not that kind.”
The boys poured out the door, and saw an unusual procession approaching Mrs. Berryn’s cabin; first came Uppercrust, the young ex-doctor, then an Irishwoman from a neighboring settlement, and then Muggy, bearing a baby’s cradle, neatly made of pine boards. The doctor and woman went in, and Muggy, dropping the cradle, ran at full speed to the saloon, and up to the bar, the crowd following.
Muggy looked along the line, saw all the glasses were filled and in hand, and then, raising his own, exclaimed, “Here’s her, boys!” and then went into a fully-developed boo-hoo. And he was not alone; for once the boys watered their liquor, and purer water God never made.
It was some moments before shirt-sleeves ceased to officiate as handkerchiefs; but just as the boys commenced to look savagely at each other, as if threatening cold lead if any one suspected undue tenderness, Sandytop, who had returned to his post at the door to give ease to the stream which his sleeve could not staunch, again startled the crowd by staring earnestly toward the hill over which led the trail, and exclaiming, “Good God!”
There was another rush to the door, and there, galloping down the trail, was Buffle and another man. The boys stared at each other, but said nothing—their gift of swearing was not equal to the occasion.
Steadily they stared at the two men, until Buffle, reining back a little, pointed his pistol threateningly. They took the hint, and after they were all inside, Sandytop closed the door and the shutters of the unglazed windows.
“Thar’s my shanty,” said Buffle, as they neared it from one side; “that one with two bar’ls fur a chimley. You jest go right in. I’ll be thar ez soon ez I put up the hosses.”
As they reached the front, both men started at the sight of the cradle.
“Why, I didn’t know you were a married man, Buffle?” said his companion.
“I—well—I—I—don’t tell everythin’,” stammered Buffle; and, catching the bridle of Berryn’s horse the moment his rider had dismounted, Buffle dashed off to the saloon, and took numerous solitary drinks, at which no one took offense. Then he turned, nodded significantly toward the old shanty, and asked:
“How long since?”
“Not quite yit—yer got him here in time, Buffle,” said Muggy.
“Thank the Lord!” said Buffle. His lips were very familiar with the name of the Lord, but they had never before used it in this sense.
Then, while several men were getting ready to ask Buffle where he found his man—Californians never ask questions in a hurry—there came from the direction of Buffle’s shanty the sound of a subdued cry.
“Gentlemen,” said the barkeeper, “there’s no more drinking at this bar to-night until—until I say so.”
No one murmured. No one swore. No one suggested a game. An old enemy of Buffle’s happened in, but that worthy, instead of feeling for his pistol, quietly left the leaning-post, and bowed his enemy into it.
The boys stood and sat about, studied the cracks in the floor, the pattern of the shutters, contemplated the insides of their hats, and chewed tobacco as if their lives depended on it.
Buffle made frequent trips to the door, and looked out. Suddenly he closed the door, and had barely time to whisper, “No noise, now, or I’ll shoot,” when the doctor walked in. The crowd arose.
“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the doctor—“as fine a boy as I ever saw.”
“My treat for the rest of the evening, boys,” said the barkeeper, hurriedly crowding glasses and bottles on the bar. “Her,” “Him,” “Him, Junior,” “Buffle,” “Doc.,” and “Old Rockershop,” as some happily inspired miner dubbed little Muggy, were drunk successively.
The door opened again, and in walked Allan Berryn. Glancing quickly about, he soon distinguished Buffle. He grasped his hand, looked him steadily in the eye, and exclaimed:
“Buffle, you——”
He was a Harvard graduate, and a fine talker, was Allan Berryn, but, when he had spoken two words, he somehow forgot the remainder of the speech he had made up on his way over; his silence for two or three seconds seemed of hours to every man who looked on his face, so that it was a relief to all when he gave Buffle a mighty hug, and then precipitately retreated.
Buffle looked sheepish, and shook himself.
“That feller can outhug a grizzly,” said he. “Boys,” he continued, “that chap’s been buckin’ agin luck sence he’s been in the diggin’s, an’ is clean busted. But his luck begun to turn this evening, an’ here’s what goes for keepin’ the ball a-rollin’. Here’s my ante;” saying which, he laid his old hat on the bar, took out his buckskin bag of gold-dust, and emptied it into the hat.
Bags came out of pockets all around, and were either entirely emptied, or had their contents largely diminished by knife-blades, which scooped out the precious dust, and dropped it into the hat.
“There,” said Buffle, looking into the hat, “I reckon that’ll kerry ’em back to their folks.”
For a fortnight the saloon was as quiet as a well-ordered prayer-meeting, and it was solemnly decided that no fight with pistols should take place nearer than The Bend, which was, at least, a mile from where the new resident’s cradle was located.
One pleasant, quiet evening, Buffle, who frequently passed an hour with Berryn on the latter’s woodpile, was seen approaching the saloon with a very small bundle, which, nevertheless, occupied both his arms and all his attention.
“It, by thunder,” said one. So it was; a wee, pink-faced, blue-eyed, fuzzy-topped little thing, with one hand frantically clutching three hairs of Buffle’s beard.
“See the little thing pull,” said one.
“Is that all the nose they hev at fust?” asked another, seriously.
“Can’t yer take them pipes out uv yer mouths when the baby’s aroun’?” indignantly demanded another.
Little Muggy edged his way through the crowd, threw away his quid of tobacco, took the baby from Buffle, and kissed it a dozen times.
“I’m goin’ home, fellers,” said Muggy, finally. “I’m wanted by the lawyers for cuttin’ a man that sassed me while I was shoe-makin’. But I’m a-goin’ to see my young uns, even if all creation wants me.”
“An’ I’m a-goin’, too,” said Buffle. “I’m wanted pretty bad by some that’s East, but I reckon I’m well enough hid by the har that’s grow’d sence I wuz a boy, an’ dug out from old Varmont. I’ve had a new taste uv decency lately, an’ I’m goin’ to see ef I can’t stan’ it for a stiddy diet. The chap over to the shanty sez he ken git me somethin’ to do, an’ ennythin’s better’n gamblin’, drinkin’, and fightin’”.
“It’s agin the law to kerry shootin’-irons there, Buffle,” suggested one.
“Yes, an’ they got a new kind uv a law there, to keep a man from takin’ his bitters,” said another.
“Yes,” said Buffle, “all that’s mighty tough, but ef a feller’s bound fur bed-rock, he might ez well git that all uv a sudden, ef he ken.”
Buffle started toward the door, stopped as if he had something else to say, started again, hesitated, feigned indignation at the baby, flushed the least bit, opened the door, partly closed it again, squeezed himself out and displaying only the tip of his nose, roared:
“This baby’s name is Allan Buffle Berryn—Allen Buffle Berryn!” and then rushed at full speed to leave the baby at home, while the boys clinked glasses melodiously.
At the end of another fortnight there was a procession formed at Fat Pocket Gulch; two horses, one wearing a side-saddle, were brought to the door of Buffle’s old house, and Mrs. Berryn and her husband mounted them; they were soon joined by Buffle and Muggy.
“THIS BABY’S NAME IS ALLAN BUFFLE BERRYN.”
For months after there was mourning far and wide among owners of mules and horses, for each Gulchite had been out stealing, that he might ride with the escort which was to see the Berryns safely to the crossing. An advance-guard was sent ahead, and the party were about to start, when Buffle suddenly dismounted and entered his old cabin; when he reappeared, a cloud of smoke followed him.
“Thar,” said he, a moment later, as flames were seen bursting through the roof, “no galoot uv a miner don’t live in that shanty after that. Git.”
Away galloped the party, the baby in the arms of its father. The crossing was safely reached, and the stage had room for the whole party, and, after a hearty hand-shaking all around, the stage started. Sandytop threw one of his only two shoes after it for luck.
As the stage was disappearing around a bend, a little way from the crossing, the back curtain was suddenly thrown up, a baby, backed by a white hat and yellow beard, was seen, and a familiar voice was heard to roar, “Allan Buffle Berryn.”
