Muggy looked along the line, saw all the glasses were filled and in hand, and then, raising his own, exclaimed, “Here’s her, boys!” and then went into a fully developed boo-hoo.  And he was not alone; for once the boys watered their liquor, and purer water God never made.

It was some moments before shirt-sleeves ceased to officiate as handkerchiefs; but just as the boys commenced to look savagely at each other, as if threatening cold lead if any one suspected undue tenderness, Sandytop, who had returned to his post at the door to give ease to the stream which his sleeve could not staunch, again startled the crowd by staring earnestly toward the hill over which led the trail, and exclaiming, “Good God!”

There was another rush to the door, and there, galloping down the trail, was Buffle and another man.  The boys stared at each other, but said nothing—­their gift of swearing was not equal to the occasion.

Steadily they stared at the two men, until Buffle, reining back a little, pointed his pistol threateningly.  They took the hint, and after they were all inside, Sandytop closed the door and the shutters of the unglazed windows.

“Thar’s my shanty,” said Buffle, as they neared it from one side; “that one with two bar’ls fur a chimley.  You jest go right in.  I’ll be thar ez soon ez I put up the hosses.”

As they reached the front, both men started at the sight of the cradle.

“Why, I didn’t know you were a married man, Buffle?” said his companion.

“I—­well—­I—­I—­don’t tell everything” stammered Buffle; and, catching the bridle of Berryn’s horse the moment his rider had dismounted, Buffle dashed off to the saloon, and took numerous solitary drinks, at which no one took offense.  Then he turned, nodded significantly toward the old shanty, and asked: 

“How long since?”

“Not quite yit—­yer got him here in time, Buffle,” said Muggy.

“Thank the Lord!” said Buffle.  His lips were very familiar with the name of the Lord, but they had never before used it in this sense.

Then, while several men were getting ready to ask Buffle where he found his man—­Californians never ask questions in a hurry—­there came from the direction of Buffle’s shanty the sound of a subdued cry.

“Gentlemen,” said the barkeeper, “there’s no more drinking at this bar to-night until—­until I say so.”

No one murmured.  No one swore.  No one suggested a game.  An old enemy of Buffle’s happened in, but that worthy, instead of feeling for his pistol, quietly left the leaning-post, and bowed his enemy into it.

The boys stood and sat about, studied the cracks in the floor, the pattern of the shutters, contemplated the insides of their hats, and chewed tobacco as if their lives depended on it.

Buffle made frequent trips to the door, and looked out.  Suddenly he closed the door, and had barely time to whisper, “No noise, now, or I’ll shoot,” when the doctor walked in.  The crowd arose.