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.

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.

[Illustration:  “COME IN,” ROARED BUFFLES’S PARTNER.  “COME IN, HANG YER, IF YER LIFE’S INSURED!’ THE DOOR OPENED SLOWLY, AND A WOMAN ENTERED.]

“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.”