"Gimme that gun!"
"No!"
Spike ceased the useless struggle and leaned against the fence, panting, while Soapy reseated himself upon the battered pail.
"What you got t' come buttin' in for?" demanded the boy, "this ain't your show, an' I guess you ain't so mighty fond o' Bud either—"
"'S right, too," nodded Soapy, "no, I ain't exactly fond of him, Kid; leastways I don't run t' help him if he falls nor kiss th' place t' make it well—no, Kid! But I kind o' feel that Bud's too good t' snuff it this way, or snuff it—yet!"
"Good?" said the lad bitterly, "good—hell! He's ruined me, Soapy, he's done me in! He's come between me an'—an' Hermy. He tried t' make me think dirt of her, an' now—now I—I'm all alone; I ain't got nobody left—oh, my God!" and huddling to the fence, Spike broke out into a fierce and anguished sobbing, while Soapy, spinning the revolver dexterously on his finger, watched him under drooping lids.
"She was mighty good t' ye, Hermy was!" said he thoughtfully.
"Don't—ah, don't!" gasped Spike.
"An' when he spoke dirt of her, you—believed him, Kid!"
"I didn't."