The next morning dawned fair and cloudless, giving promise of one of
those royal days, so frequent in the almost perfect climate of the
higher altitudes.
Long before noon the heat would be intense, but in the early morning
there was wafted down from the mountain side, where the pines were
nodding and whispering so mysteriously, a cool, exhilarating breeze,
which kissed the surface of the azure lake, sleeping so peacefully,
and, awakening immediately into smiles, it lay rippling and dimpling
with laughter in the sunlight.
The vines, transplanted by Miss Gladden and Lyle, under their
fostering care, had transformed the little porch into a bower of
beauty. Here stood Van Dorn, his fair, almost feminine face flushed
with pleasure, and his blue eyes sparkling, as the light breeze played
with the auburn curls clustering about his forehead, and he looked
forth on the beauty of the scene.
"Ah--h!" he exclaimed, drawing a long breath, "isn't this refreshing
after the stifling heat and dust of the journey out here? Isn't it
glorious?"
"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
companionship, counsel and assistance, 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 assist 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 hoarsely, clearing the space
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 God, 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 nobody in till you come," and he
handed Houston a bit of paper.
It was a scrap 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 scrap 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! God 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 Dick 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?"
"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.
Passing through the crowd of jabbering Chinamen and "dagoes," of
miners off shift, 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 Dick, 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 scrap 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 passing 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 passing down the alley at about eight o'clock that
morning, his attention had been arrested by screams issuing from the
building. On rushing 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. Passing 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 associates 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 assistance 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, lusterless 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.
"Yes," she sobbed, "I never cared for nobody but him. I thought once
he cared for me, but after a while I found he didn't, and then I went
to the bad as fast as I could, but still I cared for him. I never was
very good, for I never had no chance to be, but I'd 'a been different
from what I am, if he'd only 'a cared for me."
Houston went back into the wretched room, and looked long and sadly at
the one who, in his last moments of despair, had called him his
friend. He recalled the story told him that night among the rocks; he
thought of the life ruined by a mother's neglect and sin, and now of
another life shut out in hopeless misery because of his indifference
and neglect, and Houston realized at that moment, as never before, the
influences, for good or for evil, extending from one human life to
another, spreading onward and onward,
"As wave follows wave across the sea,"
till the widening circles at last touch the shores of eternity.
An hour or two later, when Houston stepped over to the depot to meet
the incoming special freight, he was somewhat surprised to see Mr.
Blaisdell step from the train, and in his white face, his firmly set
mouth with its hard lines, and his pale blue eyes, it could readily be
seen that he knew nothing of pity or mercy for the man who had served
him so faithfully.
"I did not expect you so early, Mr. Blaisdell," said Houston, as they
exchanged greetings, "I thought after receiving my dispatch you would
feel no anxiety, and would probably not come out till the evening
train."
"Your telegram was a great relief," Mr. Blaisdell answered in an
excited tone, "but I was all ready to come, as, from the tenor of
Haight's message this morning, I feared the worst. You are sure the
affairs of the company are all right?"
"Perfectly sure," replied Houston, calmly, "so far as money is
concerned, poor Morgan has wronged no one but himself."
"Well," said Mr. Blaisdell, with a sigh of relief, "I am glad to hear
that, but this is an outrageous affair,--simply outrageous,--a man in
his responsible position, trusted as he has been, coming to such an
end as this, under such circumstances and amid such surroundings! It
is a disgrace to himself, and to those associated with him in
business,--to the entire company!"
The thought flashed through Houston's mind that a deeper disgrace than
this awaited the company, but he only replied:
"I had not looked at it in that light, Mr. Blaisdell; I, as one of his
associates, certainly feel no disgrace attached to myself. I had
thought only of the terrible pity for a life so needlessly ruined and
lost."
"Pity!" said Mr. Blaisdell, contemptuously, "If a man willfully
degrades himself and disgraces his friends, I have no pity for him, he
deserves none for such dishonorable, dishonest conduct."
"His dishonesty, as you term it, must have been of rather an unusual
type," said Houston, "since I offered him money only last night, and
he refused to take it."
"So you knew of his habits and offered him money? It was your duty to
have reported him to me."
"I do not need you, Mr. Blaisdell, or any one else, to tell me what my
duty is here," replied Houston, with dignity, "I did not know until
recently to what extent Morgan was gambling, and when a man is in
trouble, I will never give him a push downward."
One of the workmen just then came to Houston for instructions
regarding the shipment which he had ordered from Silver City, thus
attracting Mr. Blaisdell's attention in that direction.
"What is this, Houston?" he exclaimed angrily, "what does this mean?
You certainly had no right, no authority to order these things; the
company will not pay one cent toward the burial of a man who has
proven himself so unworthy of the confidence reposed in him."
"Mr. Blaisdell," said Houston, calmly, but in a tone his employer had
never heard before, "there is not the least necessity for the company
to pay one cent, or for you to feel any concern in this matter. I have
ordered these things myself, personally, upon my own responsibility."
For the first time Mr. Blaisdell had found an employe who evidently
did not stand in fear of him, and surprise held him silent for a
moment.
"Very well," he answered, in an altered tone, "but I must say I can
see no reason for such a quixotic proceeding on your part; I never
supposed you and Morgan were particular friends."
"Here is my reason," Houston replied, handing him the bit of paper
bearing Morgan's last words; "When a despairing man, in his last
moments, appeals to me as his friend, and his only friend, even though
that man were my worst enemy, I would feel in duty bound to do for him
everything that a friend could do."
Mr. Blaisdell returned the slip, and there was a new respect indicated
in tone and manner, as he replied:
"I don't know but you are right, do as you think best. I am going up
to the camp, you can come whenever you are ready."
"I shall be there in a few hours," said Houston, and they separated.
A little later, everything that he could do had been done, and as
Houston looked for the last time upon the pale face, where the angel
of death was already smoothing out the lines traced by the last few
days of suffering, and softening the features into a look of
contentment and peace, he was glad that in the last moments of that
life, there had come faith, even in one human being.
Early the next morning, a little group was gathered in a beautiful,
secluded spot, on the mountain side, overlooking the station. Houston
and Van Dorn were there, and a clergyman from a little parish in a
small town a few miles distant, to whom the sad story had been told,
read the simple but impressive words of the burial service and offered
a brief prayer. And, as the weary body was lowered to its final
resting place, at the foot of the murmuring pines, there came to the
minds of Houston and Van Dorn the memory of the burial of a class-mate
in the old college days, and simultaneously their voices rose on the
clear, morning air, blending in the words chanted on that former
occasion:----
"Rest, brother, rest in thy last, long sleep."
Slowly the little company dispersed, each going his own way. Upon
Houston's mind the events of those last twenty-four hours had left an
impression never to be effaced, but to most in that community one
human life, more or less, was of slight significance. To them, life
was but one great game, in which fortune, reputation, character,
everything which they possessed, whether much or little, was staked on
the high card. No wonder that little thought was given to the losers,
dropping out, one by one!