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."