Part 81 (1/2)
Soapy was alone, which in itself was no new thing, for Soapy was a solitary soul at all times; but just now he sat close against the rotting fence which skirted that desolation behind O'Rourke's saloon.
Moreover, it was night, and solitude profound was his. He sat on a battered and disused pail that chanced to be handy, a smouldering cigarette dangling from his thin-lipped mouth, his long hands pendulous between his knees, his pallid eyelids sleepily a-droop; but his eyes, quick and watchful, scanned the deeper gloom of fence and dismal outbuilding, and he sat there very patient and very still. At last he stirred slightly, the cigarette quivered and was motionless again, for, amid the shadows, he had seen a dim shape that flitted swiftly toward him; on it came, creeping swift and silent beside the fence, nearer and nearer until it resolved itself into a slender form. Then Soapy spoke.
”h.e.l.lo, Kid!”
Ensued a moment of tense silence, then Spike answered, his voice unnaturally thin and high-pitched.
”That--that you, Soapy?”
”'S right, Kid!”
”What you--doin' around--here?”
”Who, me? Y' see, I'm kind o' yearnin' for that gun you got there--”
”Gun? I--I ain't got--no gun--”
”Well, Kid, I know Heine's all kinds of a liar, but he tells me he's loaned you one of his, an' so--” Soapy's long arm shot out in the gloom and seizing Spike's right arm he drew it near. ”Why, Kid,” said he, ”it kind o' looks like Heine told the truth for once by accident, don't it?”
”You leggo my wrist!”
”Right-o, Kid, right-o! Don't get peeved--”
”Well, leggo then!”
”Sure! Only this artillery ain't goin' t' be no good t' you t'night--ye see, Bud--ain't here! 'S rough on ye, Kid, 's rough, but he ain't!”
”W--what--d' ye mean?” stammered the boy.
”I mean as you comin' here t' plug holes in Bud's carcase it's kind o'
rough on you as there ain't goin' t' be no carcase here to plug. Y' see, Bud's took his carcase up-town with him t'night--”
”You're a liar, Soapy, a liar! Bud's inside, I know he is. Leggo my arm, you can't con me!”
”'S right, Kid, I ain't tryin'. Only I'm tellin' you Bud's left me an'
Lefty t' run things here t'night. Bud's up-town at his old man's place.
I know because--I sent him, see?”
”You sent him--you? Ah, come off! You couldn't!”
”'S right, Kid; I got him away by a fake telegram.”
The boy ventured a long, quivering sigh, his whole frame relaxed, and in that instant Soapy wrenched the weapon from his loosened hold and rose.
Choking with pa.s.sion, Spike sprang at him, but Soapy fended him off with a long arm.
”Gimme that gun!”
”Behave, Kid, behave, else I'll have t' dot ye one! Be good an' chase off home; this ain't no place for you t'night--nor no other time.”