"'S right, Kid, I was there! An' I'm kind o' glad y' couldn't do it, glad for your sister's sake. But what I'm thinkin' is that maybe she thinks it was you—eh, Kid?"
Spike writhed and groaned.
"Eh, Kid?"
"Yes!"
"Why, then, if I was you, I'd skin off right now an' put her wise; it may mean a whole lot t' her. Y' know where she is—go an' tell her, Kid."
"I can't! I can't—she don't want me no more, she's done wi' me, I guess. I'm—oh, I'm too low-down an' rotten!"
"Sure!" nodded Soapy. "But she's good, an' she's a woman; an' good women are only made t' forgive, I reckon."
"But there's Geoff! I—I couldn't face Geoff."
"That's because you think a heap too much about a low-down rotten guy called Spike. I guess it's about time you began t' think about your sister f' a change. Well, s' long, Kid, I guess I'll be movin'; this pail comes a bit sharp after an hour of it."
So saying, Soapy rose, nodded, and strolled away, still twirling the revolver upon that long and dexterous finger. For a moment Spike stood looking after him, then, chin on breast, turned and went his solitary way across the desolate waste. But now it was Soapy who, pausing, turned to watch him safe out of sight. Scarcely had the sound of Spike's departure died away than a door opened and closed hard by, and heavy steps approached, halted suddenly, and a hoarse voice demanded: