“No, ye don’t, Bud—not this time, by God!” and sprang upon the form that towered between the curtains; came the sound of fierce scuffling, a deafening report, and running forward, Ravenslee caught Spike as he staggered back; heard a rush and trample of feet along the terrace, the sound of blows and fierce curses behind the swaying curtains, heard the Spider’s fierce shout and Joe’s deep roar, two more shots in rapid succession, and the swift patter of feet in flight and pursuit.

“How is it, Spike? Are you hurt, old chap?”

But Spike just then was beyond words, so Ravenslee bore the swooning boy to a settee, and laying him there, began to search hastily for the wound.

But now the door was flung wide and Hermione was beside him.

“Geoffrey—oh, my love! Have they hurt you?”

“No, dear—thanks to Spike, here!”

“Arthur! Oh, thank God—did he—?”

“Took the bullet meant for me, Hermione. I owe your brother my life!”

She was down on her knees and very soon her skilful fingers had laid bare the ugly wound in the lad’s white arm. But now came Mrs. Trapes, looking taller and bonier than ever in a long, very woolly garment, and while she aided Hermione to bandage the wound, Ravenslee brought water and brandy, and very soon Spike sighed and opened his eyes.

“Hello, Hermy!” he said faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m all O. K. Bud shot me an’ I’m glad, because now I can ask you t’ forgive me. Y’ see, he’d have got old Geoff sure if it hadn’t been for me, so you—you will forgive me, won’t you?”

For answer Hermione bent and kissed his pallid cheek.

“I’ll go and ‘phone for the doctor,” said Ravenslee.

“Which,” said Mrs. Trapes, “I done ten minutes ago, Mr. Geoffrey. Doctor’ll be right along.”

Ravenslee turned to Spike.

“How are you now, old fellow?”

“Only a bit sick, like. But say, Geoff—I know I played it low down on you, but—will you—shake an’ try t’ forget?”

Ravenslee took and held the boy’s outstretched hand.

“I think we’re going to be better friends than ever, Spike!”

“Good!” said Spike, smiling wearily, “but say, Geoff—dear old Geoff—if I got t’ die I don’t mind—because I guess this makes us quits at last—don’t it, Geoff?”

CHAPTER XLIV

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.

“What’s doin’?” cried a voice.

“Say, run f’r a doctor, somebody—quick—Soapy’s hurt bad, I reckon—”

“Hurt?” said Soapy, in soft, lazy tones. “‘S right! But—say—fellers, there’s a son of a dog in there—waitin’ f’r a spade—t’ bury him!” Then Soapy laughed, choked, and groping before him blindly, staggered forward, and pitching sideways, fell with his head beneath a table and died there.

CHAPTER XLV

OF THE OLD UN AND FATE

Spike leaned back among his cushions and, glancing away across close-cropped lawns and shady walks, sighed luxuriously.

“Say, Ann,” he remarked. “Gee whiz, Trapesy, there sure ain’t no flies on this place of old Geoff’s!”

“Flies,” said Mrs. Trapes, glancing up from her household accounts, “you go into the kitchen an’ look around.”

“I mean it’s aces up.”

“Up where?” queried Mrs. Trapes.

“Well, it’s a regular Jim-dandy cracker-jack—some swell clump, eh?”

“Arthur, that low, tough talk don’t go with me,” said Mrs. Trapes, and resumed her intricate calculations again.

“Say, when’ll Geoff an’ Hermy be back?”

“Well, considerin’ she’s gone to N’ York t’ buy more clo’es as she don’t need, an’ considerin’ Mr. Ravenslee’s gone with her, I don’t know.”

“An’ what you do know don’t cut no ice. Anyway, I’m gettin’ lonesome.”

“What, ain’t I here?” demanded Mrs. Trapes sharply.

“Sure. I can’t lose you!”

“Oh! Now I’ll tell you what it is, my good b’y—”

“Cheese it, Trapes, you make me tired, that’s what.”

“If you sass me, I’ll box your young ears—an’ that’s what!”

“I don’t think!” added Spike. “Nobody ain’t goin’ t’ box me. I’m a sure enough invalid, and don’t you forget it.”

“My land!” exclaimed Mrs. Trapes, “a bit of a hole in his arm, that’s all.”

“Well, I wish you got it, ‘stead o’ me—it smarts like sixty!”

“Shows it’s healin’. Doctor said as it’ll be well in a week.”

“Doctor!” sniffed Spike, “he don’t know what I suffer. I may be dyin’ for all he knows.”

“You are!” sighed Mrs. Trapes, with a gloomy nod.

“Eh—what?” exclaimed Spike, sitting up.

“So am I—we all are—by the minute. Every night we’re a day’s march nearer home! So now jest set right there an’ go on dyin’, my b’y!”

“Say, now, cut it out,” said Spike, wriggling. “That ain’t no kind o’ way t’ cheer an invalid.”

“It’s th’ truth.”

“Well, it don’t cheer me more, so let’s have a lie for a change.”

Mrs. Trapes snorted and fell to adding and subtracting busily.

“Say, Ann,” said he after awhile, “if you got any more o’ that punkin pie I could do some right now. I’m hungry.”

“It ain’t eatin’ time yet.”

“But—Gee! ain’t I a invalid?”

“Sure! Consequently you must be fed slow an’ cautious.”

“Oh, fudge! What’s th’ good of a guy bein’ a invalid if a guy can’t feed when he wants to?”

“What’s a hundred an’ ninety-one from twenty-three?” enquired Mrs. Trapes.

“Skidoo!” murmured Spike sulkily. But after Mrs. Trapes had subtracted and added busily he spoke again.

“You ain’t such a bad old gink—sometimes,” he conceded.

“Gink?” said Mrs. Trapes, glaring.

“I mean you can be a real daisy when you want to.”

“Can I?”

“Sure! Sometimes you can be so kind an’ nice I like you a whole lot!”

“Is that so?”

“You bet it is—honest Injun.”

“Arthur, if it’s that pie you want—”