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.