“I don’t know,” replied the man.

“Come, no foolin’ thar,” said Buffle, indignantly.

“I don’t know, I tell you—­I don’t drink.”

“Hang yer!” roared Buffle, in honest fury at what seemed to him the most stupendous lie ever told by a miner, “I’ll teach yer to lie to me.”  And out came Buffle’s pistol.

The man saw his danger, and, springing at Buffle with the agility of a cat, snatched the pistol and threw it on the ground; in an instant Buffle’s hand had firmly grasped the man by his shirt-collar, and, the horse taking fright, Buffle, a second later, found in his hand a torn piece of red flannel, a chain, and a locket, while the man lay on the ground.

“At last!” exclaimed Buffle, convinced that he had found his man; but his emotions were quickly cooled by the man in the road, who, jumping from the ground, picked up Buffle’s pistol, cocked and aimed it, and spoke in a grating voice, as if through set teeth: 

“Give back that locket this second, or, as God lives, I’ll take it out of a dead man’s hand.”

The rapidity of human thought is never so beautifully illustrated as when the owner of a human mind is serving involuntarily as a target.

“My friend,” said Buffle, “ef I’ve got anything uv yourn, yer ken hev it on provin’ property.  We’ll go to whar that fust light is up above—­I’ll walk the hoss slow an’ yer ken keep me covered with the pistol; ain’t that fair?”

“Be quick, then,” said the man, excitedly; “start!”

The trip was not more than two minutes in length, but it seemed a good hour to Buffle, whose acquaintanceship the delicacy of the trigger of his beloved pistol caused his past life to pass in retrospect before him several times before they reached the light.  The light proved to be in the saloon whose locality had provoked the quarrel.  The saloon was full, the door was open, and there was a buzz of astonishment, which culminated in a volley of ejaculations, in which strength predominated over elegance, as a large man, followed closely by a small man with a cocked pistol, marched up to the bar.

“Gentlemen,” said Buffle, “this feller sez I’ve got some uv his property, an’ he’s come here to prove it.  Now, feller, wot’s yer claim?”

“A chain and locket,” said the man; “hang you, I see them in your hand now.”

“Ennybody ken see a chain an’ locket in my hand,” said Buffle, “but that don’t make it yourn.”

“The locket contains the portrait of a lady, and the inscription ’Frances to Allan’—­look quick, or I’ll shoot!” said the little man, savagely.

Buffle opened it, and saw Mrs. Berryn’s portrait.

“Mister, yer right,” said he; “here’s yer property, an’ I’ll apologize, er drink, er fight—­er apologize, an’ drink, an’ fight, whichever is yer style.  Fust, however, ef ye’ll drop that pistol, I’ll drink myself, considerin’—­never mind.  Denominate yer pizen, gentlemen,” said he, as the audience crowded to the bar.