Part 32 (2/2)
”It is,” responded Houston, ”this is one of the mornings when it is a joy just simply to live and breathe.”
Houston was fired with new ambition that morning; he would no longer have to work alone, keeping his anxieties and doubts, his plans and discoveries alike to himself; from henceforth he would have companions.h.i.+p, counsel and a.s.sistance, and he felt a new interest and enthusiasm.
Immediately after breakfast, the two set forth upon their first day's work. Going first to the mills, Houston secured the services of two or three men who could be spared from the ordinary work, to a.s.sist Van Dorn in making preparations for the erection of the machinery; then he left for his early visit to the mines.
It was nearly ten o'clock when, having finished his round of duties at the mines, and coming up to the surface from the cool, underground workings, he found the heat almost unendurable, and strolled over to the mills, to see how Van Dorn was progressing. The latter did not seem averse to stopping for a few moments, and for a while, the two chatted and laughed with the old, careless abandon of their college days, without a thought of the more serious side of life, until, something being needed for the work, which Houston thought was in the tool-house, they proceeded together to look for it.
Houston was still searching for the needed implements, when Van Dorn, who was near the door, called out:
”I say, Everard, here's a small specimen of humanity who seems to be looking for you in a desperate hurry,” and an instant later, he heard a familiar voice say:
”Is the boss in there, mister? Le'me in quick, I wan'ter see 'im!”
Turning quickly, he saw Bull-dog, breathless, pale and quivering with excitement.
”Say, boss,” he gasped, before Houston could speak, ”they want yer--down ter the Y,--Morgan has shot hisself!”
”What is that, boy?” exclaimed Houston hoa.r.s.ely, clearing the s.p.a.ce between them at a bound.
”Morgan's shot hisself, 'n they sent us fer yer,--me'n Hank,--he's out there,” with a backward jerk of his thumb over his shoulder toward the open door.
Houston sprang to the door; another boy was talking excitedly with Van Dorn, while his horse stood, panting heavily and covered with dust and foam.
”Here's the man you want,” said Van Dorn, turning a white face toward Houston, ”Great G.o.d, Everard!” he exclaimed, ”Morgan has killed himself!”
”He is not dead!” exclaimed Houston, turning towards the boy.
The latter nodded; ”They found 'im shot through the head, 'n this was in his hand, 'n the cops won't let n.o.body in till you come,” and he handed Houston a bit of paper.
It was a sc.r.a.p of newspaper, crumpled and spattered with blood, and, as Houston smoothed it out, he read on the margin, in characters wavering and almost illegible, written with a trembling hand, but still Morgan's writing, ”Send to the camp for Houston, he's the only friend I've got.”
For an instant, it seemed to Houston as though the glorious sunlight had suddenly turned to blackness, a blackness in which the sc.r.a.p of paper gleamed white before him, its red spots glowing like spots of flame. He seemed again to see Morgan as he looked when parting from him the previous evening; the haggard face, with its hollow eyes and faint, pathetic smile, and as he recalled his words in reply to his own repeated offers of money, there seemed a new meaning in them; ”Maybe I'll call on you for it to-morrow if I don't have luck to-night.”
But Houston realized there was no time to waste, and in a few moments he was mounted on a powerful gray horse, on his way to the Y, notwithstanding Van Dorn's protests on account of the intense heat, having requested the latter to explain his absence at the house. Just as he was about to start, Bull-dog begged to be allowed to ride with him, to which Houston consented, and lifting the little fellow up, seated him in front of himself. Very little was said, for the horse seemed to understand what was expected of him, and sped like the wind down the narrow canyon road, but Houston's hand rested kindly on Bull-dog's shoulder, steadying the slender frame, and, at the same time, warming the heart of the forlorn little waif, to whom even the touch of kindness was something exceedingly rare.
Houston's mind was occupied with thoughts of the terrible scene he was rapidly approaching, as well as with memories of his last interview with Morgan on the preceding night. At last, having crossed a ravine, the horse slackened his pace, as he climbed the steep ascent on the other side, and Houston, almost unconsciously, spoke his thoughts aloud.
”Poor Morgan!” he said, with a heavy sigh, ”poor fellow! If I could only have saved him from this! G.o.d knows I would have given him any amount of money to have prevented this.”
”'Twouldn't ha' been no use, sir,” Bull-dog broke in quickly, eager to console Houston, ”'twouldn't ha' been no use to have give 'im money, 'cause, ye see, them fellers that he played with would ha' got it all.”
”Who were they?” inquired Houston.
”Oh, there was Faro d.i.c.k and Slicky Sam, and a lot of 'em; Morgan wasn't no match for fellers like them, they was all too swift fer him.”
”How do you know?”
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