“Is—this—straight goods?” he enquired thickly, without altering his gaze.
“Sure! Y’ see, she nursed him through his sickness, Bud—kind of did the piller-smoothin’ an’ brow-strokin’ act. Oh, I guess she comforted him quite some.”
M’Ginnis stared before him, worrying his nails with sharp white teeth.
“Ravenslee’s a well man again, I hear, an’ they’re honeymoonin’ at his place on the Hudson—devotion ain’t the word, Bud! ‘S funny,” said Soapy, “but th’ bullet as downed this guy drove Hermy into his arms. ‘S funny, ain’t it, Bud?”
With a hoarse, inarticulate cry that was scarcely human, M’Ginnis sprang from his chair, his quivering fists up- flung. For a moment he stood thus, striving vainly for utterance, then wrenched loose his neckerchief, while Soapy methodically lighted a new cigarette from the butt of its predecessor.
“Easy, Bud, easy!” he remonstrated gently, when M’Ginnis’s torrent of frenzied threats and curses had died down somewhat. “If you go on that way, you’ll go off—in a fit or something an’ I shouldn’t like t’ see ye die—that way!”
“Up the river, is he?” panted M’Ginnis.
“‘S right, Bud, up the river in his big house—with her. I—”
“Is he, by—”
“A dandy place f’ honeymoonin’, Bud!”
“Loan me your gun, Soapy. I’ll get him, by God! if I have t’ shoot him in her arms—loan me y’r gun!”
“I guess not, Bud, no, I guess not. I’d feel kind o’ lonesome without th’ feel of it. Ask Heine; he’ll loan you his; it’s gettin’ t’ be quite a habit with him, ain’t it, Heine?”
M’Ginnis sat awhile glaring down at his clutching right hand, then he rose, opened his desk, and took thence a heavy revolver, and slipped it inside his coat.
“You’re comin’ with me, Heine,” said he, “I’ll want you.”
“Sure thing, Bud,” nodded Heine, chewing his cigar. “But what about lettin’ Soapy tag along too.”
“Soapy,” said M’Ginnis, striding to the door, “Soapy can go t’ hell right now.”
“Why then, Bud,” drawled Soapy, “I’ll sure meet you—later. S’long.”
Left alone, Soapy’s languor gave place to swift action. In two strides, it seemed, he was in the saloon, had beckoned the quick-eyed bartender aside and put the question: “Where’s the Kid, Jake?”
The bartender lifted an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upward.
“Shut-eye,” he nodded, and turned back to his multifarious duties.
Up a narrow stair sped Soapy and, opening one of the numerous doors, crossed to a truckle bed wherefrom a tousled head upreared itself.
“Who th’—”
“Say, Kid, are ye drunk or only asleep?”
“What yer want, Soapy? You lemme be—what yer want?” began Spike drowsily.
“Nothin’ much, Kid, only Bud an’ Heine’s gone t’ shoot up y’r sister’s husband.”
“Husband!” cried Spike, drowsy no longer. “Husband—say, d’ ye mean Geoff?”
“That’s who, Kid. You was crackin’ on t’ me about wantin’ t’ make good; well, here’s y’r chance. Bud aims t’ get there ‘bout midnight—up th’ river, you know—so you got two hours. You’ll have t’ go some t’ get in first, but I guess you can do it.”
“I will if it kills me!” cried Spike, springing toward the door.
“Hold on, Kid, you’ll need some mazuma, maybe. Here’s a ten-spot. It’ll be more useful t’ you than me after t’night, I reckon. So get your hooks on to it, an’ now—beat it!”
Without more words Spike snatched the money, crammed it into his pocket and, running down the stairs, was gone.
Then, after having lighted another cigarette, Soapy descended to M’Ginnis’s dingy office, where having dragged away the desk, he brought a chair and sat with his ear against the safe, turning the combination lock with long, delicate fingers. To and fro he turned it, very patiently hearkening to the soft clicks the mechanism gave forth while the cigarette smouldered between his pallid lips. Soapy, among other accomplishments, was a yeggman renowned in the profession, and very soon the heavy door swung softly back, and Soapy became lost in study. Money there was and valuables of many kinds, and these he didn’t trouble with, but to the papers he gave a scrupulous attention; sometimes as he read his white eyelids fluttered somewhat, and sometimes the dangling cigarette quivered. Presently he arose and bore these many papers to the sheet iron upon which stood the rusty stove; here he piled them and set them alight and stood watching until they were reduced to a heap of charred ash. Then, returning to the safe, he took out a bundle of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon, and seating himself at M’Ginnis’s desk, he slipped off the ribbon and very methodically began to read these letters one after the other.
But as he read the humble entreaties, the passionate pleading of those written words, blotted and smeared with the bitter tears of a woman’s poignant shame and anguish, Soapy’s pendent cigarette fell to the floor and lay there smouldering and forgotten, and his lips were drawn back from sharp, white teeth—pallid lips contorted in a grin the more awful because of the great drops that welled from the fierce, half-closed eyes. Every letter he read and every word, then very methodically set them back within the faded blue ribbon and sat staring down at them with eyes wider open than usual—eyes that saw back into the past. And as he sat thus, staring at what had been, he repeated a sentence to himself over and over again at regular intervals, speaking with a soft inflection none had ever heard from him before:
“Poor little Maggie—poor little kid!”
