“Dead?” said Soapy.  “Well, I guess not—­look at him!”

And, sure enough, M’Ginnis stirred, groaned, opened swollen eyelids and, aided by some ready arm, sat up feebly.  Then he glanced up at the ring of peering faces and down upon his rent and dusty person, and fell to a sudden, fierce torrent of curses; cursing thus, his strength seemed to return all at once, for he sprang to his feet and with clenched fists drove through the crowd, and lifting a flap in the bar, opened a door beyond and was gone.

“No,” said Soapy, shaking his head, “I guess Bud ain’t dead—­yet, fellers.  I wonder who gave him that eye, Kid?  An’ his mouth too!  Did ye pipe them split lips!  Kind o’ painful, I guess.  An’ a couple o’ teeth knocked out too!  Some punchin’, Kid!  An’ Bud kind o’ fancied them nice, white teeth of his a whole heap!”

Here the bartender glanced toward the corner where they stood, and, lifting an eyebrow, jerked his thumb at the door behind him with the words:  “Kid, I reckon Bud wants ye.”

For a moment Spike hesitated then, lifting the mahogany flap, crossed the bar, and opened the door.

“Guess I’ll come along, Kid,” and, hands in pockets, Soapy followed.

They found M’Ginnis sprawling at a table and scowling at the knuckles of his bruised right hand while at his elbow were a bottle and two glasses.  He had washed the blood and dirt from him, had brushed and straightened his dusty garments, but he couldn’t hide the cuts and bruises that disfigured his face, nor his scratched and swollen throat.

“What you here for?” he demanded, as Soapy closed the door, “didn’t send for you, did I?”

“No, that’s why I come, Bud.”

“But, say, Bud, what—­what’s been th’ matter?” stammered Spike, his gaze upon M’Ginnis’s battered face, “who’s been—­”

“Matter?  Nothin’!  I had a bit of a rough-house as I come along—­”

“’S right,” nodded Soapy, “you sure look it!  Never seen a fatter eye—­”

“Well, what you got t’ beef about?”

“Nothin’, Bud, only—­”

“Only what?”

“It’s kind o’ tough you losin’ them couple o’ teeth—­or is it three?”

M’Ginnis turned on him with a snarl.  “A-r-r-, you—!  Some day I’m goin’ t’ kick the insides out o’ ye!”

“Some day, Bud, sure.  I’ll be waitin’!  Meantime why not get some doctor-guy t’ put ye face back in shape—­gee, I hate t’ see ye—­you look like a butcher’s shop!  An’ them split lips pains some, I guess!”

Here, while M’Ginnis choked in impotent rage, Soapy lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last and held out the packet.

“Try a coffin-nail, Bud?  No?  Well, I guess y’ couldn’t smoke good with a mouth on ye like that.”

“Who did it, Bud?” questioned Spike eagerly.  “Who was it?”

“Hush up, Kid, hush up!” said Soapy, viewing M’Ginnis’s cuts and bruises with glistening eyes.  “I guess that guy’s layin’ around somewheres waitin’ f’r th’ coroner—­Bud wouldn’t let him make such a holy mess of his face an’ get away with it—­not much!  Bud’s a killer, I know that—­don’t I, Bud?”