And upon the very night of Bonnie Belle’s return poor Shuffles shuffled off this mortal coil, murdered for doing a kind act in preventing Pistols from getting drunk, unmindful of the terrible fate of a man who waters another man’s whisky. There was no contract between Bonnie Belle and her dead clerk, but the morning after his death she arose, and her first duty was to write a long letter to his mother, stating that he had been shot by a desperado, whom he had once saved from being killed. She also stated that he should be buried with proper decency, and that his effects should be sent to her at once, along with twelve hundred dollars salary in her hands, due him, while a purse contributed by the miners she begged her acceptance of, as it would show in what esteem her dead son was held by those among whom he associated. There was not a word as to his calling, or a word to cast a shadow upon the mother’s love for her son. Bonnie Belle had just finished her letter when Surgeon Powell and Buffalo Bill were ushered into her pleasant sitting-room, by Sly Cheek, the Chinaman, who deserved his name most certainly. She welcomed them pleasantly, told them of her letter to Shuffles’ mother, and added: “Pocket City was up all night, so is resting now, for it is arranged to give poor Shuffles a grand funeral this afternoon. An itinerant organ-grinder was shot here some months ago, and his instrument has been pressed into service as a brass band, while a quartet of really fine voices are rehearsing a hymn which some clever fellow has discovered can be sung to the air of “Tramp, Tramp, the Boys are Marching,” the chorus being an original one written by a poor poet here who gave up the pen for the pick and has made a failure with both. You surely will remain to the funeral, gentlemen, of poor Shuffles, for it would be a mark of respect the miners would never forget you for showing?” “Outside of that inducement, Bonnie Bell, I would not miss it for the world,” said the Surgeon Scout, with enthusiasm. “Yes, I know we should enjoy it,” Buffalo Bill added absent-mindedly, his eyes upon a venison steak which Sly Cheek had just helped him to. “Enjoy it, Buffalo Bill?” said Bonnie Belle reproachfully. “No, I mean we should be delighted to attend, for if there is anything that will keep me away from church on a Sabbath day it is to attend a first-class border funeral, when the chief mourner is generally the man who turned up the toes of the lamented corpse. We will see Shuffles laid to rest, Bonnie Belle, and, as you spoke of raising a purse for his mother, let me offer you now a hundred dollars.” “Wait, please, until I call for the subscription, and then I will accept your very generous offer,” was Bonnie Belle’s response. It was when the bugle sounded at noon, calling the miners to dinner at the Frying Pan, the Pocket City really awoke to the situation.