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