“I hate to let him off so easy,” said Jack, but he did as Melville wished.  But the colonel had a short reprieve.  On his way to jail, a bullet from some unknown assailant pierced his temple, and Jerry Lane, the notorious road agent, died, as he had lived, by violence.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Conclusion.

It had been the intention of George Melville to remain in Colorado all winter, but his improved health, and the tragic event which I have just narrated, conspired to change his determination.

“Herbert,” he said, when the business connected with the sale of the mine had been completed, “how would you like to go home?”

“With you?”

“Yes, you don’t suppose I would remain here alone?”

“If you feel well enough, Mr. Melville, there is nothing I should like better.”

“I do feel well enough.  If I find any unfavorable symptoms coming back, I can travel again, but I am anxious to get away from this place, where I have come so near losing my life at the hands of the outlaws.”

There was little need of delay.  Their preparations were soon made.  There was an embarrassment about the cottage, but that was soon removed.

“I’ll buy it of you, Mr. Melville,” said Jack Holden.

“I can’t sell it to you, Mr. Holden.”

“I will give you a fair price.”

“You don’t understand me,” said George Melville, smiling.  “I will not sell it, because I prefer to give it.”

“Thank you, Mr Melville, but you know I am not exactly a poor man.  The sale of the mine—–­”

“Jack,” said Melville, with emotion, “would you have me forget that it is to you and Herbert that I owe my rescue from a violent and ignominious death?”

“I want no pay for that, Mr. Melville.”

“No, I am sure you don’t.  But you will accept the cabin, not as pay, but as a mark of my esteem.”

Upon that ground Jack accepted the cottage with pleasure.  Herbert tried to tempt him to make a visit to the East, but he was already in treaty for another mine, and would not go.

The two stayed a day in Chicago on their way to Boston.

“I wonder if Eben is still here?” thought Herbert.

He soon had his question answered.  In passing through a suburban portion of the great city, he saw a young man sawing wood in front of a mean dwelling, while a stout negro was standing near, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the job.  He was the proprietor of a colored restaurant, and Eben was working for him.

Alas, for Eben!  The once spruce dry-goods clerk was now a miserable-looking tramp, so far as outward appearances went.  His clothes were not only ragged, but soiled, and the spruce city acquaintances whom he once knew would have passed him without recognition.

“Eben!”

Eben turned swiftly as he heard his name called, and a flush of shame overspread his face.