Little Muggy, who sold out his claim the day after Buffle left, went to San Francisco, but reappeared in camp in a few days, with a large bundle, a handsaw and a plane. Some light was thrown on the contents of the bundle by sundry scraps of linen, cotton, and very soft flannel, that the wind occasionally blew from the direction of Mrs. Berryn’s abode; but why Muggy suddenly needed a very large window in the only boarded side of his house; why he never staked another claim and went to “washing;” why his door always had to be unlocked from the inside before any one could get in, instead of being ajar, as was the usual custom with doors at Fat Pocket Gulch; why visitors always found the floor strewn with shavings and blocks, but were told to mind their business if they asked what he was making; and why Uppercrust, an aristocratic young reprobate, who had been a doctor in the States, had suddenly taken up his abode with Muggy, were mysteries unsolvable by the united intellects of Fat Pocket Gulch. It was finally suggested by some one, that, as Muggy had often and fluently cursed the “rockers” used to wash out dirt along the Gulch, it was likely enough he was inventing a new one, and the ex-doctor, who, of course, knew something about chemistry, was helping him to work an amalgamator into it; a careful comparison of bets showed this to be a fairly accepted opinion, and so the matter rested. Meanwhile, Buffle had been untiring in his search, as his horse, could he have spoken, would have testified. Men wondered what Berryn had done to Buffle, and odds of ten to one that some undertaker would soon have reason to bless Buffle were freely offered, but seldom taken. One night Buffle’s horse galloped into Deadlock Ridge, and the rider, hailing the first man he met, inquired the way to the saloon. “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.