"Why then, Bud," drawled Soapy, "I'll sure meet you—later. S'long."
Left alone, Soapy's languor gave place to swift action. In two strides, it seemed, he was in the saloon, had beckoned the quick-eyed bartender aside and put the question: "Where's the Kid, Jake?"
The bartender lifted an eyebrow and jerked a thumb upward.
"Shut-eye," he nodded, and turned back to his multifarious duties.
Up a narrow stair sped Soapy and, opening one of the numerous doors, crossed to a truckle bed wherefrom a tousled head upreared itself.
"Who th'—"
"Say, Kid, are ye drunk or only asleep?"
"What yer want, Soapy? You lemme be—what yer want?" began Spike drowsily.
"Nothin' much, Kid, only Bud an' Heine's gone t' shoot up y'r sister's husband."
"Husband!" cried Spike, drowsy no longer. "Husband—say, d' ye mean Geoff?"