Chapter V: “WHY, Miss Peekin!” (3)

The saddler postmaster noticed that the major—usually a most accomplished smoker—now consumed a great many matches in relighting each pipe that he filled. Only once during the week did he chance to meet Mrs. Wittleday, and then the look which accompanied his bow and raised hat was so solemn, that his fair neighbor was unusually sober herself for a few moments, while she wondered whether she could in any way have given the major offense.

As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major’s desk for many sorrowful hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket. Then coatless, collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a flute.

The major complained—rather frequently for a man who had spent years on the Plains—of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest but unskilled amateur.

For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the only happy moments that were his during the week.

The week drew very near its close. The major had, with a heavy but desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points for discussion—he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern remained faithful and obdurate.

Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the major’s surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned air.

“Major,” said he, “I wouldn’t mention it under any other circumstances, but—I saved your life once?”

“You did, my boy. God bless you!” responded the major, promptly.

“Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I’ll never ask another. It’s no use for me to try to write to her—the harder I try the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this: _you_ write me a rough draft of what’s fit to send to such an incomparable being, and I’ll copy it and send it over. I don’t expect any answer—all I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it handsomely, and—hang it, I don’t know how. Write just as if you were doing it for yourself. Will you do it?”

The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him his self-command, and he replied:

“I’ll do it, Fred, right away.”

“Don’t spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do,” said the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather abruptly stepped upon the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.

“Write just as if you were doing it for yourself.”

The young man’s words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked to do.

This silly performance of the lieutenant’s would, of course, put an end to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over the subaltern’s name, all that he had for years been hoping for an opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the real author of the letter—it would still be an unspeakable comfort to write the words and know that her eyes would read them—that her heart would perhaps—probably, in fact—pity the writer.

The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which nearly a page was covered with the major’s very characteristic chirography.

“By gracious, major!” exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, “that’s magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it’s plaguy like marching under some one else’s colors.”

“Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don’t hope too much.”

The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then dispatched the missive by the major’s servant, laying the rough draft away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.

The morning hours lagged dreadfully. Both warriors smoked innumerable cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.

The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow. Dinner was set at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to consider it advisable to produce.

The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o’clock; newspapers by the noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an attempted game of cribbage was speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual consent.

Suddenly the garden gate creaked. The lieutenant sprang to his feet, looked out of the window, and exclaimed:

“It’s her darkey—he’s got an answer—oh, major!”

“Steady, boy, steady!” said the major, arising hastily and laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, as that excited person was hastening to the door. “‘Officer and gentleman,’ you know. Let Sam open the door.”

The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two servants, and Mrs. Wittleday’s coachman appeared in the dining-room, holding the letter. The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable carrier grinned politely, said:

“It’s for de major, sar—wuz told to give it right into his han’s, and nobody else,” fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.

“Hurry up, major—do, please,” whispered the lieutenant. But the veteran seemed an interminably long time in opening the dainty envelope in his hand. Official communications he opened with a dexterity suggesting sleight-of-hand, but now he took a penknife from his pocket, opened its smallest, brightest blade, and carefully cut Mrs. Wittleday’s envelope. As he opened the letter his lower jaw fell, and his eyes opened wide. He read the letter through, and re-read it, his countenance indicating considerable satisfaction, which presently was lost in an expression of puzzled wonder.

“Fred,” said he to the miserable lieutenant, who started to his feet as a prisoner expecting a severe sentence might do, “what in creation did you write Mrs. Wittleday?”

“Just what you gave me to write,” replied the young man, evidently astonished.

“Let me see my draft of it,” said the major.

The lieutenant opened a drawer in the major’s desk, took out a sheet of paper, looked at it, and cried:

“I sent her your draft! _This_ is my letter!”

“And she imagined _I_ wrote it, and has accepted _me_!” gasped the major.

The wretched Frederick turned pale, and tottered toward a chair. The major went over to him and spoke to him sympathizingly, but despite his genial sorrow for the poor boy, the major’s heart was so full that he did not dare to show his face for a moment; so he stood behind the lieutenant, and looked across his own shoulder out of the window.

“Oh, major,” exclaimed Fred, “isn’t it possible that you’re mistaken?”

“Here’s her letter, my boy,” said the major; “judge for yourself.”

The young man took the letter in a mechanical sort of way, and read as follows:

“_July_ 23d, 185—.

“DEAR MAJOR—I duly received your note of this morning, and you
may thank womanly curiosity for my knowing from whom the missive
(which you omitted to sign) came. I was accidentally looking out
of my window, and recognized the messenger.

“I have made it an inflexible rule to laugh at declarations of
‘love at first sight,’ but when I remembered how long ago it was
when first we met, the steadfastness of your regard, proved to
me by a new fancy (which I pray you not to crush) that your
astonishing fondness for East Patten was partly on my account,
forbade my indulging in any lighter sentiment than that of
honest gratitude.

“You may call this evening for your answer, which I suppose you,
with the ready conceit of your sex and profession, will have
already anticipated.

“Yours, very truly, HELEN WITTLEDAY.”

The lieutenant groaned.

“It’s all up, major! you’ll _have_ to marry her. ’Twould be awfully ungentlemanly to let her know there was any mistake.”

“Do you think so, Fred?” asked the major, with a perceptible twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“Certainly, I do,” replied the sorrowful lover; “and I’m sure you can learn to love her; she is simply an angel—a goddess. Confound it! you can’t help loving her.”

“You really believe so, do you, my boy?” asked the major, with fatherly gravity. “But how would _you_ feel about it?”

“As if no one else on earth was good enough for her—as if she was the luckiest woman alive,” quickly answered the young man, with a great deal of his natural spirit. “’Twould heal _my_ wound entirely.”

“Very well, my boy,” said the major; “I’ll put you out of your misery as soon as possible.”

* * * * *

Never had the major known an evening whose twilight was of such interminable duration. When, however, the darkness was sufficient to conceal his face, he walked quickly across the street, and to the door of the Wittleday mansion.

That his answer was what he supposed it would be is evinced by the fact that, a few months later, his resignation was accepted by the Department, and Mrs. Wittleday became Mrs. Martt.

In so strategic a manner that she never suspected the truth, the major told his _fiancee_ the story of the lieutenant’s unfortunate love, and so great was the fair widow’s sympathy, that she set herself the task of seeing the young man happily engaged. This done, she offered him the position of engineer of some mining work on her husband’s estate, and the major promised him Rose Cottage for a permanent residence as soon as he would find a mistress for it.

Naturally, the young man succumbed to the influences exerted against him, and, after Mr. and Mrs. Doyson were fairly settled, the major told his own wife, to her intense amusement, the history of the letter which induced her to change her name.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

BUFFLE.

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.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

MATALETTE’S SECTION.

“NICE place? I guess it is; ther hain’t no such farm in _this_ part of Illinoy, nor anywhere else that _I_ knows on. Two-story house, and painted instead of being white-washed; blinds on the winders; no thirty-dollar horses in the barn, an’ no old, unpainted wagons around; no deadened trees standin’ aroun’ in the corn-lot or the wheat-field—not a one. Good cribs to hold his corn, instead of leaving it on the stalk, or tuckin’ it away in holler sycamore logs, good pump to h’ist his drinkin’-water with, good help to keep up with the work—why, ther hain’t a man on Matalette’s whole place that don’t look smart enough to run a farm all alone by himself. And money—well, he don’t ask no credit of no man: he just hauls out his money and pays up, as if he enjoyed gettin’ rid of it. There’s nobody like him in these parts, you can just bet your life.”

The speaker was a Southern Illinoisan of twenty-five years ago, and his only auditor was a brother farmer.

Both worked hard and shook often (with ague) between the seed time and harvest, but neither had succeeded in amassing such comfortable results as had seemed to reward the efforts of their neighbor Matalette. For the listener had not heard half the story of Matalette’s advantages. He was as good-natured, smart and hospitable as he was lucky. He indulged in the unusual extravagance of a hired cook; and the neighbors, though they, on principle, disapproved of such expenditure, never failed to appreciate the results of the said cook’s labors.

Matalette had a sideboard, too, and the contents smelled and tasted very unlike the liquor which was sold at the only store in Bonpas Bottoms.

When young Lauquer, who was making a gallant fight against a stumpy quarter section, had his only horse lie down and die just as the second corn-plowing season came on, it was Matalette who supplied the money which bought the new horse.

When the inhabitants of the Bottoms wondered and talked and argued about the advisability of trying some new seed-wheat, which had the reputation of being very heavy, Matalette settled the whole question by ordering a large lot, and distributing it with his compliments.

Lastly—though the statement has not, strictly speaking, any agricultural bearing—Matalette had a daughter. There were plenty of daughters among the families in Bonpas Bottoms, and many of them were very estimable girls; but Helen Matalette was very different from any of them.

“Always knows just what to say and do,” remarked Syle Conover, one day, at the store, where the male gossips of the neighborhood met to exchange views. “A fellow goes up to see Matalette—goes in his shirt-sleeves, not expectin’ to see any women around—when who comes to the door but _her_. For a minute a fellow wishes he could fly, or sink; next minute he feels as if he’d been acquainted with her for a year. Hanged if I understand it, but she’s the kind of gal I go in fur!”

The latter clause of Syle’s speech fitly expressed the sentiments of all the young men in Bonpas Bottoms, as well as of many gentlemen not so young.

Old men—farmers with daughters of their own—would cheerfully forego the delights of either a prayer-meeting or a circus, and suddenly find some business to transact with Matalette, whenever there seemed a reasonable chance of seeing Helen; and such of them as had sons of a marriageable age would express to those young men their entire willingness to be promoted to the rank of fathers-in-law.

There was just one unpleasant thing about the Matalettes, both father and daughter, and that was, the ease with which one could startle them.

It was rather chilling, until one knew Matalette well, to see him tremble and start violently on being merely slapped on the shoulder by some one whose approach he had not noticed; it was equally unpleasant for a newcomer, on suddenly confronting Helen, to see her turn pale, and look quickly and furtively about, as if preparing to run.

The editor of the _Bonpas Cornblade_, in a sonnet addressed to “H. M.,” compared this action to that of a startled fawn; but the public wondered whether Helen’s father could possibly be excused in like manner, and whether the comparison could, with propriety, be extended so as to include the three hired men, who, curiously enough, were equally timorous at first acquaintance.

But this single fault of the Matalettes and their adherents was soon forgotten, for it did not require a long residence in Bonpas Bottoms to make the acquaintance of every person living in that favored section, and strangers—except such passengers as occasionally strolled ashore while the steamboat landed supplies for the store, or shipped the grain which Matalette was continually buying and sending to New Orleans—seldom found their way to Bonpas Bottoms.

The Matalettes sat at supper one evening, when there was heard a knock at the door. There was in an instant an unusual commotion about the table, at which sat the three hired men, with the host and his daughter—a commotion most extraordinary for a land in which neither Indians nor burglars were known.

Each of the hired men hastily clicked something under the table, while Helen turned pale, but quickly drew a small stiletto from a fold of her dress.

“Ready?” asked Matalette, in a low tone, as he took a candle from the table, and placed his unoccupied hand in his pocket.

“Yes,” whispered each of the men, while Helen nodded.

“Who’s there?” shouted Matalette, approaching the outer door.

“I—Asbury Crewne—the new circuit preacher,” replied a voice. “I’m wet, cold and hungry—can you give me shelter, in the name of my Master?”

“Certainly!” cried Matalette, hastening to open the door, while the three hired men rapidly repocketed their pistols, and Helen gave vent to a sigh of relief.

They heard a heavy pack thrown on the floor, a hearty greeting from Matalette, and then they saw in the doorway a tall, straight young man, whose blue eyes, heavy, closely curling yellow hair and finely cut features made him extremely handsome, despite a solemn, puritanical look which not even a driving rain and a cold wind had been able to banish from his face.

There were many worthy young men in the Bonpas Bottoms, but none of them were at all so fine-looking as Asbury Crewne; so, at least, Helen seemed to think, for she looked at him steadily, except when he was looking at her. Of course, Crewne, being a preacher, took none but a spiritual interest in young ladies; but where a person’s face seems to show forth the owner’s whole soul, as was the case with Helen Matalette’s, a minister of the Gospel is certainly justifiable in looking oft and long at it—nay, is even grossly culpable if he does not regard it with a lively and tender interest.

Such seemed to be the young divine’s train of reasoning, and his consequent conclusion, for, from the time he exchanged his dripping clothing for a suit of Matalette’s own, he addressed his conversation almost entirely to Helen. And Helen, who very seldom met, in the Bonpas Bottoms, gentlemen of taste and intelligence, seemed to be spending an unusually agreeable evening, if her radiant and expressive countenance might be trusted to tell the truth.