The stranger threw down a gold piece on the counter and said:  “Fork out your whisky, then,” waited until his glass was filled, took it in his hand, and then, drawing an empty chair to the stove, sat down beside Briggs.  “Seein’ as you’re that kind,” he said, placing his heavy hand on Briggs’s knee, “mebbe ye kin tell me ef thar’s a shanty or a cabin at Rattlesnake that I kin get for a couple o’ weeks.  I saw an empty one at the head o’ the hill.  You see, gennelmen,” he added confidentially as he swept the drops of whisky from his long mustache with his fingers and glanced around our group, “I’ve got some business over at Bigwood,” our nearest town, “but ez a place to stay at it ain’t my style.”

“What’s the matter with Bigwood?” said Briggs, abruptly.

“It’s too howlin’, too festive, too rough; thar’s too much yellin’ and shootin’ goin’ day and night.  Thar’s too many card sharps and gay gamboliers cavortin’ about the town to please me.  Too much permiskus soakin’ at the bar and free jimjams.  What I want is a quiet place what a man kin give his mind and elbow a rest from betwixt grippin’ his shootin’ irons and crookin’ in his whisky.  A sort o’ slow, quiet, easy place like this.”

We all stared at him, Percy Briggs as fixedly as any.  But there was not the slightest trace of irony, sarcasm, or peculiar significance in his manner.  He went on slowly: 

“When I struck this yer camp a minit ago; when I seed that thar ditch meanderin’ peaceful like through the street, without a hotel or free saloon or express office on either side; with the smoke just a curlin’ over the chimbley of that log shanty, and the bresh just set fire to and a smolderin’ in that potato patch with a kind o’ old-time stingin’ in your eyes and nose, and a few women’s duds just a flutterin’ on a line by the fence, I says to myself:  ’Bulger—­this is peace!  This is wot you’re lookin’ for, Bulger—­this is wot you’re wantin’—­this is wot you’ll hev!’”

“You say you’ve business over at Bigwood.  What business?” said Briggs.

“It’s a peculiar business, young fellow,” returned the stranger, gravely.  “Thar’s different men ez has different opinions about it.  Some allows it’s an easy business, some allows it’s a rough business; some says it’s a sad business, others says it’s gay and festive.  Some wonders ez how I’ve got into it, and others wonder how I’ll ever get out of it.  It’s a payin’ business—­it’s a peaceful sort o’ business when left to itself.  It’s a peculiar business—­a business that sort o’ b’longs to me, though I ain’t got no patent from Washington for it.  It’s my own business.”  He paused, rose, and saying, “Let’s meander over and take a look at that empty cabin, and ef she suits me, why, I’ll plank down a slug for her on the spot, and move in tomorrow,” walked towards the door.  “I’ll pick up suthin’ in the way o’ boxes and blankets from the grocery,” he added, looking at Mosby, “and ef thar’s a corner whar I kin stand my gun and a nail to hang up my revolver—­why, I’m all thar!”