“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.”