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,