The men crowding about Houston congratulated him with a hearty hand-clasp, unaccompanied by words, except for an occasional inquiry as to his own condition.
“I am all right,” he said in reply to the latter, “my arm is nothing, the merest trifle; my only thought is for the two lives which I fear have been sacrificed for mine.”
Anxiously he bent above the prostrate forms. Jack’s head was frightfully gashed, and his heavy, labored breathing indicated that his brain was already affected. Houston spoke a word to Morton Rutherford, who quickly withdrew, and taking the swiftest horse in camp, was soon speeding down the road to the Y, in a second race against death.
Houston next knelt beside Bull-dog; a faint fluttering about the heart was the only sign of life. The little waif was well known among the mining camps of that vicinity, and there were few dry eyes in the crowd as Houston told the story of his heroism.
Houston saw the end was very near, and gently slipped his right arm under Bull-dog’s head. Slowly the little fellow opened his eyes, looking, with a happy smile, into the face bending so tenderly over him. At that instant, the sun, bursting through the clouds, threw a ray of golden light in shining benediction across the little white face. His eyes brightened still more; “We’re safe!” he whispered joyously. There was a slight quiver, and the little form was still.
The sun, shining as brightly and serenely as though storms were unknown, looked down into that beautiful canyon upon a strange scene of ruin, desolation and death. Amid the wreck and debris of the explosions, lay the little hero who had saved so many lives that day, upon his face a child-like smile which it had never worn in life; while farther on down the canyon, beside the smoking embers of the milling plant, lay the one whose signal had wrought all this destruction. The men, rushing into the burning mills, had found the electrical apparatus in ruins, as though torn to pieces by giant hands, and beside it upon the floor lay Haight, a ghastly sight, his face blackened and distorted, his right arm and side seared and shriveled, by the mighty servant who had suddenly burst its fetters.
Slowly and tenderly Jack was borne to the house, and laid in the room which had been Houston’s, which Lyle had made ready for him with loving care, her tears falling fast as she recalled his farewell of the preceding night. To the house came also his two faithful friends, Mike and Rex, for the little cabin was no more, Jack had indeed spent his last night beneath its roof, though the succeeding night, to which he had looked forward, was far different from his anticipations.
Days afterward, his gripsack, packed with such care on that last night in the cabin, was found by Houston concealed among the rocks, where Jack had hidden it on the morning of that eventful day, intending, when his work was done, to set forth upon his wandering life once more.
Morton Rutherford, on arriving at the Y, had sent the following cipher dispatch to Van Dorn:
“Come out on special at once. The mines have been fired by telegraphic orders from Silver City office. Everard badly cut and arm broken, but not seriously injured. Jack but just alive. Bring surgeons and nurse as quickly as possible.”