ed, 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