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,