Other things claimed my attention.

I had quite forgotten him, until one night, five years afterwards, I blundered into a deserted mining-camp, by falling asleep on my mule, who carried me across a broken flume, but--I think I told you that story already." "You never finished it," said Cousin Jane sharply.
"Let me do so now, then.

I was really saved by some Indians, who took me for a spirit up aloft there in the moonlight and spread the alarm.

The first white man they brought me was a wretched drunkard known to the boys as 'Old Fusil,' or 'Fusel Oil,' who went into delirium tremens at the sight of me.

Well, who do you suppose he turned out to be?
Flint! Flint played out and ruined! Cast off and discarded by his relations in New York--the foundation of whose fortunes he had laid by the villainy they had accepted and condoned.