But not even in an out-of-the-way, malarious Missouri village, could a model sheriff be for ever the topic of conversation. Civilization moved forward in that part of the world in very queer conveyances sometimes, and with considerable friction. Gamblers, murderers, horse-thieves, counterfeiters, and all sorts of swindlers, were numerous in lands so near the border, and Bunkerville was not neglected by them. Neither greenbacks nor national bank-notes were known at that time, and home productions, in the financial direction, being very unpopular, there was a decided preference exhibited for the notes of Eastern banks. And no sooner would the issues of any particular bank grow very popular in the neighborhood of Bunkerville than merchants began to carefully examine every note bearing the name of said bank, lest haply some counterfeiter had endeavored to assist in supplying the demand. At one particular time the suspicions had numerous and well-founded grounds; where they came from nobody knew, but the county was full of them, and full, too, of wretched people who held the doubtful notes. It was the usual habit of the Bunkerville merchants to put the occasional counterfeits which they received into the drawer with their good notes, and pass them when unconscious of the fact; but at the time referred to the bad notes were all on the same bank, and it was not easy work to persuade the natives to accept even the genuine issues. The merchants sent for the sheriff, and the sheriff questioned hostlers, liquor-sellers, ferry-owners, tollgate-keepers, and other people in the habit of receiving money; but the questions were to no effect. These people had all suffered, but at the hands of respectable citizens, and no worse by one than by another. Suddenly the sheriff seemed to get some trace of the counterfeiters. An old negro, who saw money so seldom that he accurately remembered the history of all the currency in his possession, had received a bad note from an emigrant in payment for some hams. A fortnight later, he sold some feathers to a different emigrant, and got a note which neither the storekeeper or liquor-seller would accept; the negro was sure the wagon and horses of the second emigrant were the same as those of the first. Then the sheriff mounted his horse and gave chase. He needed only to ask the natives along the road leading out of Bunkerville to show him any money they had received of late, to learn what route the wagon had taken on its second trip.