Scott Kindon, the Vigilante captain, set the example of respect by closing his store and hanging in front of it a piece of black calico. The Devil’s Den had not been opened after its night closing, and the door had been tastefully draped by Bonnie Belle with crape. The body of Shuffles was laid out upon the piazza of the Frying Pan, in a coffin. A United States flag, brought into requisition on all occasions, was spread over it, and two miners stood guard over the remains, rifles in hand. It is safe to predict that had Pistols put in an appearance then he would have been at once placed in the same position of the lamented Shuffles. The crowd began to gather from one end of the valley to the other, and miners came up with the hand-organ of the dead grinder in a wheelbarrow. Placing the organ at the foot of the coffin one of the miners began to play, and all during dinner such airs were ground out as: “Johnny Comes Marching Home,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “A Life On the Ocean Wave,” “John Brown’s Body,” and others more or less suited to the occasion. There were many extras who took dinner at the Frying Pan that day, so that the Chinese servants were kept busy; but there was enough for all, for Bonnie Belle kept a generously supplied table, and there was never heard the slightest murmur of discontent. At last Bonnie Belle appeared upon the piazza, and, as the bars had all been closed, she looked upon a sober crowd, though not a few were still unsteady from the effects of drinking the night before. At her appearance all head-gear was raised. She was dressed in black, slouch-hat, sable plume and all, as a mark of respect, and carried in her hand a small basket. “Comrades,” she said with one of her sweetest smiles, and placing her hand gently upon the head of the dead man lying in the coffin, “I thank you all for coming here, for we are burying to-day a friend, one whom we can all call by that sacred name, a name so often abused. You knew poor Shuffles as he was yesterday, the day before, and always, true as steel, generous to a fault, and a good man as far as he understood right and wrong. “You know that he was murdered while he sought to do a kindness. But you do not all know that he has a poor mother in the far-away State of Connecticut living upon a farm which she and her three sons were trying to free from debt. The oldest son lies here, dead, and no help will she ever get from him now. “So it is that I ask you, in your generosity to contribute as you can and will to the purse I wish to raise and send to her. One of our guests here, Buffalo Bill, was the first to volunteer, and most liberally, and he was followed by his comrade in arms, Surgeon Frank Powell, and now I ask all to come forward and contribute their mite, be it ever so little.”