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 trouble, and a troubled woman can command, to the death, even worse men than free-and-easy miners.  She had a refined, pure face, out of which two great brown eyes looked so tenderly and anxiously, that these men forgot themselves at once.  She seemed young, not more than twenty-three or four; she was slightly built, and dressed in a suit of plain black.

“Mr. Buffle,” said she, “I was going through by stage to San Francisco, when I overheard the driver say to a man seated by him that you knew more miners than any man in California—­that you had been through the whole mining country.”

“Well, mum,” said Buffle, with a delighted but sheepish look, which would have become a missionary complimented on the number of converts he had made, “I hev been around a good deal, that’s a fact.  I reckon I’ve staked a claim purty much ev’rywhar in the diggins.”

“So I inferred from what the driver said,” she replied, “and I came down here to ask you a question.”

Here she looked uneasily at the other players.  The man who stole the ace translated it at once, and said: 

“We’ll git out ef yer say so, mum; but yer needn’t be afraid to say ennything before us.  We know a lady when we see her, an’ mebbe some on us ken give yer a lift; if we can’t, I’ve only got to say thet ef yer let out enny secrets, grizzlies couldn’t tear ’em out uv enny man in this crowd.  Hey, fellers?”

“You bet,” was the firm response of the remaining two, and Buffle quickly passed a demijohn, to the ace-thief, as a sign of forgiveness and approbation.

“Thank you, gentlemen—­God bless you,” said the woman, earnestly.  “My story is soon told.  I am looking for my husband, and I must find him.  His name is Allan Berryn.”

Buffle gazed thoughtfully in the fire, and remarked: 

“Names ain’t much good in this country, mum—­no man kerries visitin’-cards, an’ mighty few gits letters.  Besides, lots comes here ‘cos they’re wanted elsewhere, an’ they take names that ain’t much like what their mothers giv ’em.  Mebbe you could tell us somethin’ else to put us on the trail of him?”