RETRIBUTION
Half-stunned by a blow from Joe’s mighty fist, M’Ginnis saw Heine felled by Spider, who, having promptly and scientifically kicked him unconscious, snatched the revolver from his lax fingers and turned to pursue. As he came M’Ginnis fired rapidly but, dazed by the blow, his aim was wild, so he turned and ran, with the Spider in hot pursuit. The moon was down, and it was very dark, and soon M’Ginnis found himself in the denser gloom of trees. On he ran, twisting and doubling, on and on, until spent and breathless, he paused to hearken. Far away, voices shouted to each other, voices that gradually grew more distant; so, finally having caught his breath, M’Ginnis went on again. But the wood was full of noises—strange rustling and sudden, soft night sounds—and at every sound the fugitive paused to listen, finger on trigger. And ever as he went the wild blood throbbed and pulsed within his brain, sounding now like the pad-pad of pursuing feet that would not be shaken off, and again like a voice that mumbled and muttered querulous words in the air about him, and at such times he glanced around upon the dark, but the words would not be stilled:
“She’s married—married—married! You drove her into his arms—you did—you did—you did! And he’s alive still and with her, alive—alive—alive!”
And sometimes as he stumbled along through that place of gloom, he cursed bitterly beneath his breath, and sometimes he ground sweating jaws since needs must he hearken to that taunting devil-voice:
“Alive and with his wife beside him—alive! And yours the fault—yours—yours! Your shot at Spike so near the house lost you the game—lost—lost! Your shot at Spike was a call for help—saved the life of the man you came to kill! Your shot at Spike lost you the game—lost—lost!”
So, followed by the pad-pad of running feet, haunted by the querulous demon-voice, M’Ginnis stumbled out upon the road—a lonely road at most times but quite desolate at this hour. The fugitive hastened along, dogged by sounds that none but he might hear, yet to him these sounds were dreadfully real, so real that once, goaded to a paroxysm of blind fury, he whirled about and fired wildly—a shot that seemed to split asunder the deep night silence, filling it with a thousand echoes. Once more he turned and ran, ran until his breath laboured painfully and the sweat ran from him, but ever the sounds were close about him.
At last he beheld lights that moved, and reaching a way-side halt, clambered aboard a late trolley and crouched as far from the light as possible. But even so, his disordered dress, his pallor, and the wild glare of his eyes drew the idle glances of the few passengers.
“Looks like you’d been through th’ mill, bo!” said one, a great, rough fellow; but meeting M’Ginnis’s answering glare, he quailed and shrank away.
Dawn was at hand when at last he reached O’Rourke’s saloon and, letting himself in, strode into the bar. The place was deserted at this hour, but from a room hard by came the sound of voices, hoarse laughter, and the rattle of chips that told a poker game was still in progress.
Scowling, M’Ginnis stood awhile to listen. Then, lifting the flap of the bar, he passed through the narrow door beyond, along the passage and so to that dingy office, from the open door of which a light streamed.
Scowling still, M’Ginnis strode in, then stood suddenly still, lifted his right hand toward his breast, then paused as Soapy, turning about in the swing chair, took a heavy, ivory-handled revolver from where it had lain on the desk beside a packet of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon.
“Lock th’ door, Bud, lock th’ door!” said he softly. “So!” he nodded, as M’Ginnis obeyed. “‘N’ say, Bud, take that hand away from y’r gun an’—keep it away—see?” And the lamplight glittered on the long barrel that rested on Soapy’s knee.
“So—this is th’ game—hey?” demanded M’Ginnis hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Soapy unwinkingly.
“‘S right, Bud. Y’ see, I been takin’ a peek int’ that little tin safe o’ yours—say, it looks like you’d had a bit of a rough house, Bud!”
Soapy’s cigarette quivered and was still again, while M’Ginnis watched him, breathing thickly but speaking no word, and Soapy went on again:
“I been takin’ a peek into that little tin safe o’ yours, an’ I found some papers you’d been kind o’ treasurin’ up about me, so I burnt ‘em, Bud—not as they mattered very much, there ain’t nobody t’ worry when I snuff it—but I found as you’d got other papers about other guys as would matter some t’ them, I guess—so I burnt ‘em too, Bud.”
“Burnt ‘em!” cried M’Ginnis in a strangled voice, “burnt ‘em—you—”
“It ain’t no use t’ get riled, Bud; I burnt ‘em—there’s th’ ashes!”
M’Ginnis glanced at the heap of ash by the stove and burst into a frenzy of curses and fierce invective, while Soapy, lounging back in the chair, watched him unmoved until he had done, then he spoke again:
“Also I found—letters, Bud, a packet tied up in blue ribbon—an’, Bud, they matter a whole lot. Here they are— look at ‘em!”
For a moment Soapy’s baleful eye turned aside to the desk as he reached for the letters, and in that moment M’Ginnis’s pistol spoke, and Soapy, lurching sideways, sagged to his knees, his back against the desk. Again and again M’Ginnis’s weapon clicked, but no report followed, and Soapy slowly dragged himself to his feet. His cigarette fell and lay smouldering, and for a moment he stared at it; then he laughed softly and glanced at M’Ginnis.
“You fool, Bud, you dog-gone fool! Forgot t’ load up y’r gun, eh? But I guess you got me all right, anyway— you’re shootin’ better t’night than you did in the wood that time—eh, Bud? Now I want t’ tell you—” He was choked suddenly with a ghastly coughing, and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, and he held a smartly-bordered handkerchief to his mouth.
“They say God made this world, Bud—if He did, I guess He was asleep when you was made, Bud—anyway, remembering little Maggie, you ain’t got no right to breathe any longer—so that’s for me—an’ that’s for her!”
Lounging still, he fired twice from the hip and M’Ginnis, twisting upon his heels, fell and lay with his face at his slayer’s feet. Then, spying the packet of letters that lay upon the grimy floor, Soapy stooped painfully and fired rapidly four times; when the smoke cleared, of those tear-blotted pages with their secret of a woman’s anguish, there remained nothing but a charred piece of ribbon and a few smouldering fragments of paper. And now Soapy was seized with another fit of coughing, above which he heard hoarse shouts and hands that thundered at the door. Lazily he stood upon his feet, turned to glance from that scorched ribbon to the still form upon the floor and, lifting a lazy foot, ground his heel into that still face, then, crossing unsteadily to the door, unlocked it. Beyond was a crowd, very silent now, who drew back to give him way, but Soapy paused in the doorway and leaned there a moment.
