n 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