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.

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.

The rough greeting.
"Come in," roared Buffle\'s partner. "Come in, hang
yer, if yer life\'s insured!" The door opened slowly,
and a woman entered.


"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............