“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 everythin’,” 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.