Part 33 (1/2)

”Oh, I seen 'em playin' lots o' times, and they're all reg'lar sharpers, 'n Morgan, he'd got reckless, 'n he didn't stan' no show against 'em.”

Houston looked down wonderingly and pityingly upon the little fellow, young in years, but who knew so much of the dark side of life, but nothing more was said, as, having reached the top of the hill, the station was close at hand.

Having left his horse in charge of one of the company's men, Houston, accompanied by Bull-dog as guide, proceeded across the street, to the group of dirty, disreputable-looking buildings containing the saloons, gambling houses and dance halls. He had little need of a guide, for, before the shabbiest and most disreputable of the entire lot, was gathered a motley crowd, gazing with awestruck curiosity at the building in which had been enacted the tragedy of the night before. It was a saloon with gambling rooms in the rear. Here Morgan had played his last game,--just to see what luck he would have,--as he had said to Houston, and from which he had come forth ruined, despairing, desperate.

Pa.s.sing through the crowd of jabbering Chinamen and ”dagoes,” of miners off s.h.i.+ft, drawn hither by curiosity, and of gamblers of all grades from the professional expert to the ”tin-horn,” Houston found his way around the corner of the building, down into an alley, dark, dismal and reeking with filth. Here were groups of slatternly, unkempt women, some of whom stared at him with brazen faces, while others slunk away, not quite lost to shame.

At last they came to a rickety stair-way, and as they neared the top, Bull-dog whispered:

”There's some of 'em now; that tall feller is Faro d.i.c.k, he deals down stairs, and the little, black feller is Slicky, and that short, fat one, that's Brocky Joe.”

The group gathered about the door-way at the head of the stairs eyed Houston curiously as he approached. He gave them only a quick, keen glance, but in that glance he had detected the trio named by Bull-dog, and they cowered visibly beneath the scorn and contempt which flashed from his eye, while the entire group of loungers made way, impelled partly by an unconscious respect for the broad, powerful shoulders, and splendid, athletic frame.

Down a dark, narrow hall, Bull-dog led the way to a door guarded by two men, who touched their caps respectfully to Houston. They were two of the mining company's watchmen, who were kept at the station to guard their property, and to preserve order generally, and hence were designated by the gamins of the place as police and ”cops.”

Silently they unlocked and opened the door for Houston, and one of them entered with him. It was a small room, evidently a woman's, and its general squalor and dilapidation were made more apparent by tawdry, shabby bits of finery strewn here and there. Curtains of red damask, faded and ragged, hung at the window, excluding the daylight, and on a small table a kerosene lamp had burned itself out. But Houston took little notice of the room; as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he saw but one object.

Across the bed in one corner of the room, lay Morgan, his left arm thrown out across the pillows, the other dropped at his side, and a revolver clenched in his right hand. His head was turned slightly to one side, exposing the ghastly wound near the temple, his face was blackened and mutilated, but still bore traces of the terrible strain of those last few hours of life.

Houston stepped back, even his firm nerves quivering, and his heart throbbing with a great sorrow for the life so suddenly quenched in the darkness of despair.

On a chair were Morgan's hat and coat, where he had thrown them, and as Houston turned toward the little table, he saw there a newspaper from which a sc.r.a.p had been torn. Taking the bit of paper, containing Morgan's last message, from his pocket, he compared them; it fitted exactly, and beside the paper lay a bit of pencil with which those last words had been written, and to Houston, with his keen perception and vivid imagination, the whole scene of the previous night with its minute and pathetic details, seemed pa.s.sing before his vision. He turned to the watchman:

”Open the window,” he said, and his voice sounded strange even to himself, ”draw back those curtains, this place is stifling.”

Upon inquiry, Houston found the watchman could give him very little information. In pa.s.sing down the alley at about eight o'clock that morning, his attention had been arrested by screams issuing from the building. On rus.h.i.+ng up-stairs, he saw a crowd gathering about the door of this room, and, on entering, was shocked at the sight revealed. Mollie, the girl who usually occupied the room, was screaming hysterically, but when able to talk explained that she had been out all night and had but just returned. Morgan was in the habit of coming to the room, and had a key, but he had not been there of late, having gambled every night till daylight.

Her screams had attracted nearly the whole neighborhood, some of whom corroborated her statements, and one or two testified to having heard a shot sometime about midnight, but nothing had been thought of it, as it was supposed to be some row in the gambling rooms below. The watchman had ordered the crowd out of the room, and sent the messenger for Houston, and also a telegram to Silver City for the coroner, who was expected on the noon train.

As it was nearly noon, Houston decided to step over to the depot, leaving the room in charge of the watchman. On his way, he heard various comments from groups gathered here and there. Pa.s.sing a half-dozen miners, he heard one of them say:

”If he'd 'a been a union man, we'd 'a taken care of 'im, but he worked for the bosses, and helped 'em to make big money, and now, let the bosses take care of 'im and bury 'im.”

A bitter smile crossed Houston's face, and stepping into the little telegraph office, he sent a message, first, in his own name, to one of the undertaking firms of Silver City, for everything that was needed to be sent up by the special freight that afternoon; and then a brief dispatch to Mr. Blaisdell, stating what had occurred, but that the affairs of the company were all right, and there was no necessity for his coming to the camp immediately.

A few moments later, the train arrived, bringing the coroner, and as quickly as possible the inquest was held. Very few facts were developed beyond those already learned by Houston, excepting the extent of Morgan's losses. These included not only everything which he had possessed, even to his watch and a few pieces of jewelry, but in addition, a large sum of money advanced him by Brocky Joe. Those with whom he was playing testified that he had quit shortly before midnight, and left the hall rather hastily. At the time, they thought he had gone to borrow more money, and perhaps try his luck at some other place, but nothing more was seen of him, and they soon forgot the occurrence.

When all was over and the crowd was slowly dispersing, Houston saw several members of the gambling fraternity approaching him, headed by the two designated by Bull-dog as Slicky Sam and Brocky Joe. The latter, a stout, red-faced individual, with flaming necktie and blazing diamonds, was evidently speaker for the entire party.

”We would like,” he began, in a high-pitched, falsetto voice, ”to express our regrets for what has occurred, and I wish to state on behalf of my a.s.sociates here, and also personally, that there was no ill feeling toward your friend, and I am perfectly willing to overlook the small amount of indebtedness; and if there is anything we can do, in the way of sharing the burial expenses, or anything of the kind, we shall be glad to do so.”

”Your a.s.sistance is not needed,” replied Houston, in a cold, cutting tone, ”you have already done your work; you and your ilk have brought him where he is, and that is enough,” and he turned abruptly from them.

As he re-entered the room, he met Mollie, who cast an appealing glance at him. She could not have been over twenty years of age, but she looked worn and haggard. Her hair was disheveled, large, dark rings encircled her heavy, l.u.s.terless eyes, now swollen with weeping, and there was a look of helpless and hopeless despair in her glance that aroused Houston's pity. It was a new experience for him to be brought into contact with these wrecked and ruined lives, and sorrow for the one life which had gone out so suddenly and needlessly, made him pitiful toward all.

A look of pity, a word of pure, disinterested kindness, was something new in the life of the poor creature before him, and she began sobbing afresh:

”He's gone,” she moaned, ”and I don't want to live no longer.”

”Did you care so much for him?” asked Houston, wonderingly.