King Blood

Jim Thompson

King Blood

*Chapter One*

Just before first-light, just before dawn began its streaky buttering of the Territorial Oklahoma prairie, Critch stepped out to the open vestibule of the train and stood waiting there for the soldier's bride. She had to stop by the toilet (small wonder!) before she could join him, so there was time to brace himself for what he would do if her attitude demanded it; to visualize the ultimate scene in a drama of robbery and rape.

Let the little lady get troublesome, and he'd knock her off the platform. Send her down between the two cars, and the grinding wheels of the train. There were seven cars behind this one. By the time they were done with her, the little lady would be mincemeat. A nothingness which would be less than nothing when daybreak brought coyotes and buzzards.

Chuckling softly, Critch lighted a cheroot, thinking how praiseful Ray would have been had he been alive to praise. Oh, Ray would have approved handsomely. With, perhaps, one minor reservation.

_Your eye on the target, dear boy. The vital spot. Which, I may add, is never found in the uterus. Unless – ha, ha – you're much better equipped than I._

Ah, Ray, Ray! But there were exceptions to all rules; and sometimes a pupil outstrips his teacher. The money was under her clothes, so how else could he get at it, except through the guise of love? And getting the money where he had gotten it had been his insurance. Unless she were a fool, she couldn't talk now. Unless a fool, she wouldn't try to retaliate. Otherwise, and regardless of her innocence in her despoiling, she would have to explain what could never be explained. Not to a husband. Not to any man who would be her husband. Not in this day and age.

Critch puffed at his cheroot, meditating with unaccustomed wistfulness on Ray, the man who had been his guide and guardian for so many years. It was hard to think of Ray as having gotten old, of losing any of the craftiness which had pulled him out of so many tight places. Yet, despite the youthfully dapper body and the incredibly young face, he had aged. Ray had gotten old, and his age showed in his tendency to waver when decisiveness was imperative, his quibbling and pettiness, and an incipiently fatal furtiveness of eye and manner.

As Critch saw it, there was only one thing to be done. That which Ray would have done had their situations been reversed. Having done it, survival required that he put distance between himself and the victim of his betrayal. He put it there, brushing out his tracks as he fled.

Ray remained in Texas. Critch wound up in the distant Dakotas. So, happily, he had not been present at the end, and could only witness it vicariously via a newspaper artist's eyes.

Critch sincerely hoped that either the eyes or the artist had been bad. It would have pained him – for a little while at least – to believe that Ray's handsome neck had been stretched the length of his body.

_(Critch tossed away his cheroot, impatiently. What the hell was keeping her? Had the damned fool fallen in the toilet?)_ *b*

_Tulsa lochopocas._ A clanning place of the Osages.

It stood at the twin-forks of the Arkansas, near the confluence of the Verdigris; a center of commerce (in so far as there was any) and a conference site long before white man ever set foot on the American continent.

_Tulsa lochopocas._ Tulsey town. Tulsa.

Critch had liked the looks of it from the moment he stepped off the train from Kansas City. It was a higgledy-piggledy kind of place, with streets running casually whatever way they damned pleased, and buildings sprawling and crawling all over hell and back in the ages-old pattern of quick money.

It was his kind of town, he had thought. An easy-money town. A railroad and river town, a cotton and cattle town. Furs, lumber, foodstuffs. All flowed into and through Tulsa, an endless stream of increment. And now there was even oil, for prospectors with a spring-pole rig had drilled through the red-clay soil to a respectable gusher. In these surroundings, and without refining facilities, it had little commercial value as yet, being almost as worthless as some of those minerals you heard about only in books; uranium, for example. But never mind. There was plenty of money without oil, and the place virtually shouted the news that here one could do whatever he was big enough to do.

Thus, Critch saw Tulsa. Correctly, he saw it so. What he did not see was something indefinable, something that far wiser and better men had failed to see at first glimpse of Tulsa (Tulsey Town, _tulsa lochopocas)._ Men who nominally _were_ big enough to do whatever they attempted.

Approximately two centuries before, a man named Auguste Choteau led a small army of his countrymen up the Arkansas, professional hunters and trappers who had followed him profitably and safely all the way from France; and they had tied up their long-boats here at the twin-forks of the river – so patently perfect it was for their ends – and they had gone about their business of getting rich quickly.

They were not hoggish about it. Not for a moment would they have enriched themselves while impoverishing the Indians. It had always been French policy to make friends with the Indians, and Choteau, a good man and a gentleman, would have done so anyway. He and his men intended to found a permanent settlement here; had even gone so far as to pick a name for it, the name of their patron saint. They would build a city here, one in which French and Osage would be equal. And how, why, being reasonable men, and to make these great events possible, could the Osages object to the sharing of a fraction of their furry wealth when they had such an unusable abundance of it?

The Osages confessed to being reasonable men. Being reasonable, they suggested that there was no valid reason for sharing what they already owned, and that it was their prerogative, not the Frenchmen's, to decide whether or not they needed it all.

The Choteau party became irritated. They got very firm with the denizens of _tulsa lochopocas._ Nor were they the last to do so. For Tulsey Town's bland independence, her notion that she should deal with the world strictly on _her_ terms, grew stronger each day of her rambunctious history.

More than two hundred years after her off-handed brushing-off of the French trappers and hunters, Tulsa was telling Wall Street to take its underwriting and financing and get hence (or words to that effect). The House of Morgan, _et al.,_ were amused rather than annoyed. The notion that an upstart Oklahoma town could itself raise the billions necessary for the proper exploitation of its oil resources was simply laughable. And yet… the upstart town _did_ raise those billions. Not only for itself but for others. And in the end, Wall Street was forced to admit that it had a rival. It remained first, in the big money capitals of the world, as a financier of the oil industry. But little Tulsa – or, rather, not-so-little Tulsa – ranked second to it.

So there you were, then. There Tulsa was. A friendly town, an amiable live-and-let live town. A proud town, which liked doing things its own way and knew just what to do with those who would have it otherwise.

As late as the early years of the Twentieth Century, there was riverboat traffic as far north as the Dakotas. So relatively much, compared with railroad commerce, that the Midwest was visualized as the future population center of the country, and there was agitation to move the nation's capital from its eastern site to some more suitable spot in Nebraska Territory.

Because of her location, Tulsa was host to no small number of riverboat travelers, and she provided for them characteristically. Graves, for some. Tar and feathers for others. For others – those whose notions coincided with her own – homes and happiness, and often wealth.

Similarly, when the Cherokee Strip was thrown open to settlement and the great ranches broken up into quarter-section homesteads, Tulsa provided for the now-jobless cowboys, the adventurers and desperadoes who had formerly roamed the Strip; taking care of them – in one way or another. And when the homesteaders, often underfinanced, were drouthed out or otherwise brought to disaster in their first season, Tulsa was again a provider – in her own fashion.

Tulsa knew just what to do about the Crazy Snake rebellion, the last of the Indian uprisings. She knew just what to do – and she did it – when race riots threatened to destroy the city. She…

But that is getting ahead of the story. Moving back a couple of hundred years to Auguste Choteau and his men:

Their 'firmness' with the residents of _tulsa lochopocas_ was repaid with interest. The Frenchmen were, in fact, forced to flee for their lives; heading their long boats on up the Arkansas, and thence into and up the Mississippi, along whose shores, in an uninviting stretch of mudflats, they at last established their permanent settlement, duly naming it after their patron saint.

It became a large and prosperous city, even as they had predicted. A city which Critch had often visited to his advantage. Now, at the end of his second day in Tulsa, with his wallet empty and the place where he carried it sore from a Tulsan's kicking, Critch cursed the foolish fate that had guided him here instead of to the friendly metropolis of Auguste Choteau's founding, the city of St. Louis.

In fact, Tulsa had so unnerved him that he was even fearful of responding to the small box-notice in the local newspaper. A boldface-type announcement that Critchfield King, youngest son of Isaac Joshua King, should immediately present himself at the offices of Judge Washington Dying Horse, attorney-at-law. *c*

It took a night of hunger and sleeplessness, a very long night without money for food or room, to change his fearfulness to fatalism and the conclusion that life could dip him in no sourer pickle than he was already in. In the morning, then, after shaving and tidying up at the railroad station, he at last presented himself at Judge Dying Horse's office.

They faced each other across the attorney's deal desk. Critch smiling equably, his manicured hands resting on the fake-gold head of his cane; the lawyer studying him out of dark and deep-set eyes, his bronzed face expressionless. Critch knew this waiting technique. The simple trick of it was to wait, forcing one's opponent – and the world was made up of opponents – to tip his hand.

At last the deep-set eyes surrendered to a blink, and their owner spoke. 'So you're Critchfield King, and you're twenty-three years old.'

'I am and I am,' Critch smiled, 'and you're Judge Washington, uh – I don't believe I've encountered the name before, sir? Cherokee, isn't it?'

It was gross flattery; the Cherokees were highly cultured, the most advanced of the Five Civilized Tribes. The attorney flatly rejected the compliment.

'The judge is honorary, Mr. King, and the name is Osage. One of the un-civilized tribes. Uncivilizable in the opinion of the United States government. That's why we were allocated this particular area of Oklahoma, one that ostensibly was only good for fishing and hunting rather than farming.'

'So?' Critch made subtle alterations in his smile. 'So you're plain Mr. Dying Horse, Osage lawyer, and you wanted to see me, Critchfield King, youngest son of Isaac Joshua King. Why?'

'I want you,' frowned the Osage, 'to tell me about yourself from the time you fled your father's bed and board with your mother and her lover – '

'I didn't flee it,' Critch lied. 'They abducted me.'

'That's likely; you were only ten. Now tell me all about yourself – what you've done, what you've become – from the age of ten to the present.'

'Why?'

'Why not?'

'Because there isn't much good to tell. Suppose you had been dominated by a professional criminal and a mother who was a whore and worse for the better part of your life. How much would you have to be proud of?'

'Well…' Attorney Dying Horse nodded grudgingly. 'But your mother herself ran away from this man. Chance – Raymond Chance – after a few years.'

'She did. Which left me completely under his control.'

'Didn't it occur to you to run away also?'

'It did, and I did.' Another lie, but it had all the earmarks of truth. 'Unfortunately, I didn't have my mother's, uh, resources for survival. It wasn't until a few years ago that I was finally able to make it.'

'Mmm. And since then?'

'A number of things. Bartender. Steamboat steward. Hotel clerk. Salesman…' The truth here; half the truth. He had had all those occupations, and many more, but only as springboards, entrees, to devious enterprise. 'I've spent most of my time lately in speculation.'

'Cotton?'

'What else?'

Dying Horse gave him a slow totting up: the expensive suit and hat; the handmade boots and spotless linen. A fine-looking, well-spoken young man. One who was almost too handsome; too plausible. Indian instinct whispered that here was a man neither to be liked nor trusted, yet he did like him and he did trust him.

'You seem to have done well at speculating, Mr. King.'

'I've made a living.'

'Such transactions are hard to trace.'

'Impossible, I'd say.'

'In fact,' the attorney persisted doggedly, 'I doubt that any part of your story could be checked on for truth and veracity.'

'I doubt it, too. And?'

The Osage sighed; laughed a little irritably. Instinct gave way to the compelling charm and personality of Critch King's (when he cared to use it), and abruptly he slammed his desk with an emphatic bronzed hand.

'And, Mr. King,' he said, coming to his feet, 'I think we should continue this discussion over drinks.'

In the private room of one of Tulsa's fancier saloons, an establishment with carpeted floors and crystal chandeliers, the lawyer poured whiskey for them and held a match to Critch King's cigar. He took a delicate taste of the liquor, studying his young guest over the brim of his glass. Critch was interestedly examining a framed document which hung on the wall – a handwritten testimonial to the saloon, signed by Washington Irving.

'You know _A Tour of the Prairies,_ Mr. King?'

'I thought I did until I saw this.' Critch nodded at the document. 'I didn't know Mr. Irving was ever in the Tulsa area.'

Dying Horse chuckled approvingly; agreed that the point was certainly moot. 'But we've had the printing arts, and the arts and craftsmen associated with them, in Eastern Oklahoma for a very long time. George Creekmore's newspaper was possibly the first major periodical west of the Mississippi.'

'A Cherokee language newspaper,' Critch nodded. 'Then this testimonial is probably a forgery?'

'Mmm. Done by a tramp journeyman with a small talent and a large thirst. Like the etching over there, for example.'

Critch arose and walked over to the far wall. He took a long look at the drawing which hung there, a picture of an Indian mounted on a pony, their heads bowed dispiritedly as they stared down the face of a cliff.

'No – ' with a shake of his head, Critch sat back down at their table. 'I'd have to disagree with you there, sir. That's a genuine Remington if I ever saw one.'

'You're a good judge of art, Mr. King!'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You're a remarkable young man, all around. How anyone could have overcome the handicaps you must have suffered to become a gentleman and a scholar…!'

Critch murmured appreciation for the lawyer's good opinion, modestly pointing out that hardship often brought out the best in a man. 'When a man's got no one to help him, he simply has to try harder. At least, that's the way I've always seen it. If a man truly wants to make something of himself, he can do it, regardless of birth and background!'

Dying Horse looked into his guest's innocently earnest young face, his heart warming as it seldom did to a white man. _Regardless of birth._ Now here was understanding for you! Here was a man who knew what it was to suffer and struggle against unbearable odds.

_God damn Ike King! he thought. Practically on his death-bed, and he treats his own son like this!_

He took a quick drink, then another. Critch smiled at him gently, gave one of the bronzed hands a comforting pat.

'Don't let it upset you, Judge. I haven't seen my father since I was a child, but I don't imagine he's changed any.'

'No.'

'I've often thought that if he'd treated my mother a little differently…' Critch shook his head regretfully. 'She was part Creek, you know, and she had rather crisp, curly hair. Dad used to accuse her of being part Negro.'

'He did, eh?' Dying Horse laughed angrily. 'Sounds about like him!'

'Of course, there was some intermarriage among the Creeks,' Critch shrugged. 'But what of it, anyway? At any rate, why taunt a woman publicly with something she couldn't help?'

The Osage gulped another large drink, a red flush spreading under the lighter hue of his face. He brought the heavy glass down on the table with a bang.

_Getting a little drunk, Critch thought shrewdly. When will these stinking Indians learn that they can't drink?_

'Mr. King – _hic, hup – _your father is, as you may know, my client in this area. It was my duty, if you could be found, to look you over and to decide whether you were fit to be claimed as his son and heir. I have decided, in the affirmative. The only question in my mind is whether he is fit to be claimed as your father!'

Critch smiled a soft demurral. After all, they shouldn't be too hard on the old man.

'I'll welcome the chance to see him before he dies. I would have gone back before this, but I wasn't sure of my reception.'

'You'll find it satisfactory,' Dying Horse assured him, 'under the circumstances. Now, if you were down on your luck, if you'd been a failure in life and really needed help…'

'I'd certainly never go near Dad,' Critch laughed, ruefully. 'A strange man, my father, but fair – absolutely fair – in his own way. He never excused his own failures, so why should he excuse them in others?'

'But his own son,' the lawyer protested. 'His own flesh and blood!'

'Only if he chose to claim me as a son,' Critch pointed out. 'Which he wouldn't do unless I met his standards.'

They talked a while longer. Then, the lawyer glanced at the clock and remembered an appointment. As he reached for his wallet and beckoned to a waiter, Critch laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.

'My treat, Counsellor. I insist.'

'Nonsense. Business, Mr. King, so we're both the guests of your father. I – ' he broke off scowling, slapping his hip. 'God damn it!' he said. 'I've lost my wallet!'

'Why, that's too bad,' Critch frowned sympathetically. 'Was there very much in it?'

'Well, not a great deal. Fifty dollars or so.'

_God damn! thought Critch._

He lingered over his drink while the attorney hastened away to his appointment. Then, after a leisurely free lunch provided by the establishment, he visited the backyard privvy where he emptied the wallet of money and dropped it down the hole.

Out on the street again, he sauntered through the mid-day throngs, his expression suave and smiling, his eyes alert for yet another wink from fortune. For certainly it would not be smart to present himself to Ike King with such picayune pickings as he had now. There was his ticket to buy, and his meals and incidental expenses. He would be virtually broke on arrival, a very dangerous way to be with a sire like old Ike. Isaac Joshua King might well haul out a fatted calf for the returning prodigal, a figuratively golden calf, but only if the returnee was herding a few steers in front of him as proof of his merit.

The relatively few dollars stolen from Attorney Dying Horse represented nothing more than another chance. It was something to build on, something to be used in trimming a truly well-heeled sucker.

____________________

*Chapter Two*

Raymond Chance had come to King's Junction in the guise of a capitalist, a man seeking likely land in which to invest his money. He was a very plausible and personable man, needless to say, and he was equipped with a number of impressive letters of introduction, all fakes, of course, like his handsomely engraved sheaf of cashier checks. As a guest of the Junction Hotel, which was also the King ranchhouse, he had ready access to Isaac Joshua, who was not unagreeable to selling some of his own land, providing the price was right.

Ike had better things to do, by his own admission, than to drive prospective purchasers over his holdings. Nor was it necessary for him to do so, since his woman could do it just as well, and, like all women, never did nothin' much useful anyways that he could see. Neither could he see (he joked jovially) that he was doing anything chancy in having his wife traipse around all day with such a good-lookin' young feller, because anyone that wanted a half-nigger Creek was sure as hell welcome to her! Still, as a gesture to the proprieties, his son Critchfield could accompany them, the son being good for little else (that he could see) except to be planted in the barn as a pissing-post.

Critch found the daily excursions happy ones. His mother always packed generous lunches – food that was far tastier than any she ever prepared at the hotel. She was also almost consistently good-humored, rarely giving way to the sudden flashes of temper which sent her blinding-quick hands out to slap and pinch and shake him. True, she was always sorry after these tantrums, as quick with pampering as she was with punishment. But while he forgave he could not completely forget, nor relax completely while she was within striking distance. He had never been able to, that is, until the advent of Ray Chance.

Critch was to marvel in later years that such a thorough-going scoundrel as Ray found it so easy to bring out all that was good and generous in people. But under analysis the trait seemed to be largely a matter of ignoring the grossest faults while praising the smallest virtues. Of turning negatives into affirmatives. Under Ray's magic, the ugliest dross became pure gold.

Ray never criticized his sniffling, but praised the manly manner in which he blew his nose. _(Almost had me blowing the damned thing off, Critch remembered wryly.)_ Ray never remarked on his clumsiness, a tendency to trip over his own feet, but praised the fortitude which kept him tearless and unwhimpering. Ray had no jeers nor sneers for his thumb sucking, his nervousness-inspired nail-biting. Merely remarking that it would be a shame to do anything which might mar the finest-looking hands he'd ever seen on a boy.

To demonstrate the strength and grace and other virtues which Ray and no other had ever observed in him, Critch took long runs across the prairie when they stopped during the noon hour. Leaping creeks and puddles. Jumping high in the Johnson grass and weeds tirelessly until he was only a speck in the distance. Winded, he came back much more slowly than he had gone, but that was all right, too. For Ray found much to admire in the way he conserved his strength when wisdom so dictated. Ray had many compliments for his ability to creep through the grass unseen (like a skilful hunter), then suddenly to spring up as if out of nowhere.

He was a lot better at creeping and sneaking than even Ray realized, several times approaching them so closely without their being aware of him that he saw things unintended for his eyes, and he knew he had better creep right back the way he had come from. But being a child and curious, his retreats were unhurried to say the least.

Ray and his mother were the first human beings he had seen at sexual intercourse. But he had witnessed it many times among the so-called lower animals, and none of life's innocent myths or intimate mysteries had survived the onslaught of Elizabethan nouns and verbs, which comprised much of Old Ike's vocabulary. So Critch well knew what he was seeing, even though the mechanics of it were new to him.

Ray was pounding his mother's meat. Ray was diddling his mother's pussy.

But why couldn't she accept it reasonably, as cattle and chickens did, instead of with such disgusting and annoying antics? Throwing her legs around Ray! Pitching and tossing with her butt until Ray was almost dislodged! Stretching and straining her big persimmon-tipped titties as she tried to force them to Ray's mouth! And laughing and crying at the same time, like nine kinds of a damn' fool! _Maybe she was part nigger, after all. Maybe?_

Old Ike had drifted through the Nations at a time when the Five Tribes were still slave-holders. And he had seen certain fleshly exhibitions which he still talked about with amusement and wonder. God damn! he would say. God damn, it was a pure marvel how one of them wenches could carry on when she got the bone in her!

A lady, now, she didn't like to do it. A lady just put up with it, because it was part of bein' a wife and mother, an' to keep it out of another hole. But them God damn nigger wenches! They could bust the balls on a dozen big bucks and still be hankerin' for more! It was the way they was built, y'know. All sap and rubber, and the more they used it the better it got (instead of gettin' loose as a goose like a lady's did).

Why, God damn, there was this one plenty-old wench. All of forty, if she was a day; practically toothless, with dugs as flat as a beetle's ass. But, by Christ, you just hold a cotton boll up to her crotch and see what happened! By Christ, she couldn't have plucked that boll any cleaner if she'd used her hands. Looked like a bush bunny had jumped up inside of her an' left his tail stickin' out.

A fact, by Christ! That's the way them wenches was. Built different, y'know. Not like ladies.

_But like his mother? thought Critch._

_That was the way niggers acted, wasn't it?_

There came a day when Old Ike left King Junction before daylight for the long horseback ride to another village. Hardly was he out of sight before Critch, his mother and Ray also left – considerably earlier than they usually did – and with them went the contents of Ike King's strong box, stolen by his wife and secreted in the lunch hamper.

They traveled very fast, with none of the happy nonsense concomitant to their daily excursions. As the buggy sped over the rutted trail, the wheels rocking and dipping and jouncing, Critch was several times nearly thrown from his perch behind the lattice-backed seat. But his tentative protests and inquiries went unanswered by the two adults. And their unusual silence, the strained expressions on their faces, were more effective with Critch than any flattery or admonition could have been.

Something strange was going on. Something that was undoubtedly an extension of Ray's pounding of his mother's meat. Which was all right, by gosh, but if there was any fun in it they needn't think he was going to be left out of it!

It was early afternoon before they stopped. Not at one of the pleasant places they usually chose, but at a dismal line shack near the approximate eastern boundary of Old Ike's domain. Ray ate a sandwich while he fed and watered the horse. Critch pumped a drink for himself, warily accepted the parcel of food which his mother handed him and allowed her to lead him inside the shack.

There she stooped and put her arms around him. She hugged and kissed him many times, wept a little, and falteringly then firmly told him what he was to do.

Critch stared at her angrily. 'No!' he shouted, so suddenly and loudly that she was almost rocked over backwards on her heels.

She started to strike him. 'Brat! Snotnose!' Then, bringing herself up with an effort, she became loving and pleading. But her son remained obdurate.

_No, no, no!_ He _wasn't_ going to stay there! Never mind the fact that she had left a note for his father, who would come and take him home. Never mind about his being a big brave boy. She wasn't foolin' him, by gosh!, and she was just a big old liar when she said that she and Ray would be back in Junction City in no time at all and the three of them would have endless good times together.

'I'm goin' with you, because you ain't comin' back, never ever! You can't come back!'

'Now, Critch. Of course, we can, honey. Why do you – '

'Because! You an' Ray are married, so Papa can't be your husband no more!'

'Mar – Of course, we're not married!'

'You are so! You an' Ray been fuckin' so that makes you married!'

Ray appeared in the doorway at that moment, thus undoubtedly preventing Mrs. King from snatching her son baldheaded as she had often threatened to do. Ray said Critch was absolutely right; he and Critch's mother were married, and there was no reason in the world why Critch shouldn't go along with them and be their son.

'But, Ray -!' Mrs. King stared flabbergasted at her lover. 'We can't!'

'No? Think about it a moment. Think how much protection a big, brave boy like Critch will be for us.' He winked at her. 'Well? Do you see it?'

'Well…'

'Ike is going to be pretty annoyed. If only we were involved, he just might arrange some unpleasantness. But as long as we have Critch with us…'

Critch went with them. Ray insisted on it. Nor did he apparently ever regret his decision, unless it was at the end of his career when he may have suspected Critch of his betrayal.

The boy was bright, malleable and anxious to please. One who was readily molded into the tasteful and personable pattern which he had arduously created for himself. There was little if any immediate monetary reward for his careful tutelage of Critch. But Ray glimpsed a truly amazing potential in the youth, who would meanwhile fill his need for kindred companionship. He needed someone to talk to, someone who shared his likes and dislikes and his carefully acquired taste for the aesthetic. Ray's mother could satisfy none of those needs. The one she did fill was actually the least important to him.

Critch was pleasure and promise for Ray Chance. Critch enhanced his life. The woman, on the other hand, detracted from it, giving nothing but her tireless and increasingly tiresome loins.

Ray fancied himself as a master swindler, a man who achieved his ends by out-thinking his victims. He was not squeamish about the fatal employment of poisons and guns and knives, when they were necessary. But he felt a little demeaned in doing so, his great-thinker's image tarnished by the act of violence. And now, as a self-appointed model for the boy – a lad who literally worshipped him – he was unable to suffer the slightest smudge on his intrinsically tawdry escutcheon.

Alone, a swindler may 'work' single or double, temporarily acquiring a 'wife' or 'sister' if he chooses to do the latter. But a team, a man with a real or pseudo-encumbrance, must work double. Necessity – her mere presence – will force the woman into at least a minor role. She must be privy to her 'husband's' or 'brother's' affairs. Ignorance of them will spell disaster for them both.

So Ray launched one of the simplest confidence games. The supposed past-posting of a winning horse, on a race already run. He rehearsed his 'wife' in her tiny role until she appeared letter-perfect. And, indeed, there was very little to rehearse. She had no more than a dozen words to say, before bursting into tears.

A few words, then the tears. What, for God's sake, could have been easier? A child could have done it, if the role had called for a child. Yet _she – she,_ the stupid slut – blew it! She tipped the 'fool' she had roped, and the fool hollered copper.

Ray got them out of it, but not without an 'icing-off' of the law (the payment of bribes) which completely absorbed the remaining contents of Ike King's strongbox. Afterwards, she sulkily suggested that it wasn't her fault. He had made her nervous, and – brightly – she was sure she would do much better 'next time'. Ray was too furious to reply to this. But when they were alone that night, he beat her within an inch of her life.

He would have left her cold, except for his fear of losing Critch by doing so. He had to be surer of the boy than he was now; to weaken her hold on him while strengthening his own. And, dammit, she must be good for something besides screwing!

Bluntly speaking, however, she was good for little else. There was little else that she had been used for since her marriage to Ike at age thirteen. And, now, in her early thirties, such other talents as may have lain within her had become atrophied.

Ray was forced to accept her for what she was, and to make the best of it. It did not work out too badly for a time.

She was sweet bait for the badger game. An over-the-shoulder look at a fool, then a sensuous twist of her hips, and she had him in her bedroom. Into which, of course, her outraged 'husband' would burst at a crucial moment.

Money-wise, they began to 'get well,' as the saying was. But, gradually, repetition brought boredom to her, making her into a preposterous facsimile of the errant and frightened wife she was supposed to be. Instead of cowering, she was apt to yawn. Once she had even squatted on the pot, mumbling her pleas for forgiveness to the tinkle of urine.

Ray lectured her, pointing out their terrible physical danger, the certain fiscal disaster, which must derive from her attitude. He beat her, frustration adding to his fury as he sensed her gratification at the punishment. But neither scoldings nor beatings could change her. Just as boredom, too much of a sameness, had driven her from old Ike, it was now taking her off on another tangent. And at the worst possible time. They needed to hit big, or at least steady, yet in the sorry sum of her moments, there was no jackpot.

Descent is easy. One must rest before the long climb upward, and the best place is always on the next step down. There is no hurry, no cause for alarm. After all, what goes down must come up, mustn't it?

Well?

She made a good whore, the runaway wife of Old Ike King. Her reputation for giving satisfaction spread so rapidly that Ray had to do no pimping once he had started her. For here, in sameness, she found variety. In sameness, she found a challenge. Something which lent itself to delightful testing and experimentation, with unfailing reward to her senses.

She made a good whore… as a practitioner. One who was more and more pleased and pleasing with each transaction. And that was the trouble with her. Here, as in everything else, she defeated herself.

It was enough for her, the act itself. She meant to demand money; usually she did demand it. But often, in the excitement and anticipation of the moment, she forgot to. And when she did not, well, a little toying with her by a patron, a pretense of being broke or disinterested, would make her drop her demands. Some men even boasted that they had got her to _pay them._ The only complaint ever made against her was that she plumb wore a fella out.

At fourteen, Critch had known for some time that his mother was getting it pounded for money, and he unemotionally accepted the fact as a necessary fact of life. She did it with Ray? Why not with others? He was dependent on her for support; without her earnings his ever-fascinating association with Ray would be impossible. And, so he was grateful to her. Perhaps, in the deepest recesses of his mind, there was buried a sickish shame. Perhaps, also, there was anger and hatred for Ray for bringing her to this. But these feelings were well-buried. Things so deeply sunk in the subconscious that they must twist tortuously to the surface, distorted (and distorting) and manifesting themselves in attitudes unidentifiable with their source.

He was still fourteen when his mother was lost to him. Lost twice. The second time was when she fled him and Ray with a pimp, never to be seen or heard of again. The first time…

Well, that was the only time that counted. For she had ceased to exist for him after that. After that, he blotted her out of his mind, for he could not think of her without vomiting.

He had gone to sleep late on the night in question. Ray and his mother were arguing violently in the adjoining room, making sleep impossible. Finally, their voices died and he dozed off, but not for long. He came awake with a sudden start, a sick chill creeping up his spine at the strange sounds from the other room.

He had never heard anything like them before. Which was natural enough. It was only during the last year or so, during the restless dawning of puberty, that he could stay awake after ten at night. Only during the last year or so, whereas his mother had been whoring for more than two years. And a whore may not be bruised and battered without lessening her income. Ray had managed to restrain himself. Tonight, however, Ray had been pushed too far. He had nothing to lose by beating her, that he could see. The silly bitch had been busy all day. One customer after another. Yet she'd wound up the day with less than she'd had at the outset. Her money given away along with her body. Free ass and money to go with it!

She lay sprawled on the bed on her stomach, scanty gown drawn up over the flaring buttocks which Ray, teeth gritted in his white face, was promising to beat off of her.

He raised his belt high; brought it down with a slashing craack! upon the rounded hummocks of naked flesh. They quivered and squirmed, delicate shivers running through them like things with an existence of their own and distinct from the rest of her body. Ray paused, panting for breath. There was silence, motionlessness for a moment, while the dimmed coal-oil lamp flickeringly limned the scene: a lewd nightmare by a drunken Dore. Then, there was a slight twitching of the undulant sand-colored torso; a small impatient movement. And from the pillows came a muffled sob: querulous, questioning. Prompting.

Ray's eyes blazed. The belt whipped up and down, up and down, furiously raining blows upon the ever-hungering flesh. And, silently, the door to the adjoining room opened, and Critch looked in on them.

He moved instinctively, without a split-second's thought. A simple reaction to Ray's action. Hurling himself between this man and his mother; automatically stopping what had to be stopped, as the blink of an eyelid stops a probing. Because it must. Because there is great loss if it is not.

And then, looking up at Ray, a little frightened by what he had done. Frightened and apologetic. Yet still driven by an inbred urge, he struck feebly at his idol, causing the man to fall back a step.

'Y-you can't do that,' he quavered. 'You don't… y-you can't – mustn't hit a woman.'

The voice was his, but the words, the age-long injunction, at least, were his father's. A she, girl or woman, could not be hit. It might make her titties rot or screw-up her innards (which were plenty screwed-up to begin with, and not like the good guts of a man). _I ever catch you hittin' another gal, boy, I'll yank off your pecker an' flog you t' death with it._ The Apache, Tehapa, Old Ike's oldest and dearest friend, had endorsed the tabu against the hitting of shes, although he had privately added a qualification. It was bad medicine to beat woman (just as it was bad to beat young children, when their peters and pussies were still inside them and might be injured thereby). But there _were_ occasions when it was not only well but necessary to _kill_ a woman. This was so, and all wise men knew it.

And now, Critch looked up at Ray fearfully and apologetically. But stubbornly, with a sense of righteousness. 'You can't, Ray,' he stammered. 'I'm s-sorry, but you mustn't.'

'No?' Ray smiled, cocking a quizzical brow. 'Now, why is that, hmmm?'

'Because!'

'Yes? Why because?'

'You know. Because it's – it's – '

Critch couldn't find the words to explain. Given time, he might have conjured them from the shadows of the past, but he was not given time.

His mother was suddenly behind him, knotting furious fingers in his hair. Giving him a twirling yank that sent him staggering across the room to come up solidly against the wall.

He slid down the wall, sat down on the floor with a small thud. A little dizzily he stared at the hate-filled face of his mother. And words came to him from the mouth of that face, a torrent of filth from the whore's vocabulary.

Mothersuckin' turd, grannygobbler, jismeater, screwing little shit. 'What d'ya mean, huh? Hah? What d'ya mean hittin' Ray? I'll learn you, yuh bastard! Beat the fuckin' piss out of yuh!'

She started toward him, hesitated; sidled an approval-seeking glance at Ray. His face was expressionless, and she humbly lifted his hand and tried to kiss it.

He pulled it away from her. Crossing the room to Critch, he held the hand down to him. Hesitantly, Critch took it and was helped to his feet, his eyes shifting between his mother and Ray. Between woman and man. Scowling whore and smiling gentleman.

'You see how it is, Critch? You try to help her, and you see what happens? You see? You see what happens?'

Critch stared at the woman. She stared back at him stolidly, scornfully. And then her expression changed, and then it changed again. And again and again and again, as its owner sought to adjust and sort out, and find some verity that could be lived with. And at last finding only what there was to be found, all that there ever is for anyone, be it gold or base-metal or merely dross. But inevitably acceptable, in any case, because that is all there is and there is no more.

She accepted it as she had at the beginning. A worst that was still the best. Eyes narrowed sensuously, painted mouth parted with promise, she lay back down on the bed and rolled over on her stomach.

'Critch?' Ray held out the belt, smiling. 'It's all right, Critch.'

Critch looked at the belt. He looked at the woman on the bed, and back again. Numbly; frozen. His emotions locked on dead-center in this endless moment in time. They caught there, caught between the irresistible force of heredity and the immovable object of circumstance. How can one move, when there is no place to move to?

As if from a great distance, a sound came to his ears. A faint creak, a fainter slithering. Terrified, fighting with everything that was in him, Critch struggled to hold his gaze steady, to keep it from moving to the bed. Yet little by little, that something that was at the very core of his being crumbled and gave way, and silently screaming he went over the precipice.

The sleazily revealing nightgown was slowly sliding upward. Slowly, so slowly, like the faulty curtain on a play.

First, there was only the hint of a shadowy cleft. Then, with a small jerk, a definite glimpse of it; the beginning of a cleavage which widened gradually as the gown slid higher and higher. Now, twin hillocks of softness; sand-colored, swelling and flaring, and curving in to the tiny waist. Now, the shadowy canyon shallowing between those hillocks; tapering, as they curved, into the faintest of indentations, and disappearing entirely at the dimpled base of her spine…

No more then.

Never any more for Critch. After this, there would never be anything. Nothing that would make him draw back, or prod tellingly at his conscience.

_'You see how it is, Critch? You see?'_

I see.

_'Beat that yellow ass, boy! Pound that pretty tail!'_

Critch took the belt. *b*

Mr. Isaac Joshua King,

King Junction,

Oklahoma Territory.

Dear Sir:

This is to urge you to ignore the highly complimentary letter anent your son, Critchfield, which I wrote you earlier today, as I have since found that my endorsement of him was wholly unwarranted. These are the circumstances:

_While having refreshments with your son, I suddenly discovered that my wallet was missing. With apparent generosity he paid our bill with a ten-dollar banknote, and I thought no more of the incident until several hours later – after I had written my first letter to you – when I was called upon by the proprietor of the establishment we had visited. He had the ten-dollar banknote, a worthless wildcat, with him. Since it had been spent by a companion of mine, though a stranger to him, he wished me to make good on it (which, of course, I did)._

Now, sir, I remember this particular banknote well. I had carried it in my wallet for a long time, more or less as a souvenir, and I had marked it in a distinctive fashion as a reminder that I was not to spend it. There could not possibly be two such bills with two such markings. Under the circumstances, there cannot be the slightest doubt that your son, Critchfield, stole my wallet.

I don't know how or when he did it. Nor do I know why such a prepossessing young man, who is obviously not in the slightest need of money, would stoop to thievery. Yet the damning truth is clear, and there can be no denying it.

With sincere regrets,

Washington Dying Horse

Attorney-at-law *c*

It was almost noon, of the fourth day after the theft, and Critch was still in Tulsa. A deadly inertia had gripped him, one born of funk and the fear of failure, and he could not move himself to do what he must do.

He paced the floor of his cheap hotel room, the cheapest which the smallest claim to fastidiousness had allowed him to take. Desperately, he slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. Taking out his billfold, he again recounted its contents.

Not enough, he thought ruefully, returning the wallet to his pocket. Rather, there was barely enough for the basics of his plan. By the time he paid his modest hotel bill and bought his ticket to King's Junction, he would be just about broke. Maybe a few dollars left over for food and a few drinks along the way, but no more than that. He'd be broke when he reached the junction. Which simply meant that the trip would be wasted. For he'd won only half the battle in his acceptance by Attorney Dying Horse.

Old Ike King was the one who had to be convinced. Old Ike, with his thousands upon thousands of valuable acres and the untold wealth that went with them.

Ike King would accept no one as his heir who was not completely worthy – worthy by his standards. And those standards would be extremely rigid where Critch was concerned. He was under a very big cloud, was Critch. The old man would have him identified with his wife's faithlessness and treachery. Only success, money – concrete proof that he had risen far above this evil disadvantage – would satisfy Ike.

_Or maybe not, Critch thought hopefully. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. After all, I haven't seen him in thirteen years. So maybe_…

Maybe nothing. The fact that he'd been away for thirteen years was the trouble. Old Ike hadn't been able to keep tabs on him, as he had with his sons Arlington and Bosworth. Arlie, who was a year older than Critch, and Boz, who was a year older than Arlie, had remained with their father all these years. Working on his vast holdings, unquestioningly doing his bidding. And they'd damned well managed to please him – to prove their right to be his heirs – or Old Ike would have kicked them out. He, Critch, on the other hand…

Critch grinned wryly, his mind sliding off on a tangent as he thought of the high-sounding names.

_Critchfield, Arlington and Bosworth._ His mother had copied them from the hotel register. As stupid as she was, it was a damned good thing that there'd been no travelers named Screwingwell or Fartsinajug!

His moth – he jerked his thoughts away from her. Brought them back to his two brothers.

Arlie and Boz. They'd have to be killed, of course. All of something was infinitely better than a third. And he could never be sure of even a third as long as his brothers lived. The old man might draw unflattering comparisons between them and him. He just might decide to disinherit the youngest son. On the other hand, if only that youngest son were alive, with no one else to inherit…

Yes, Arlie and Boz would have to go. He would have to kill them. And murdering Boz, at least, would be a positive pleasure. A mean bastard, that Boz. Senselessly mean. Always twisting your arms or bending back your fingers or jabbing you with a stick. Any damned thing to hear you holler. Old Ike had caught him skinning a live kitten one day, and he'd had the kitten cooked for Boz's supper. And he'd made him eat it, too. Old Ike would give him a crack with a horsewhip every time he'd stopped eating; never letting up on his son until he'd begun vomiting blood. But that still didn't let Boz off the hook. He was allowed to stop eating, but only for that night. He got cat for breakfast the next morning and every meal after that – no other food, by God – until he'd eaten every damned bit of it.

And even that didn't change Boz a bit. He'd gotten sneakier, harder to catch in his nastiness, but he was meaner than ever.

Critch had acquired the learning and maturity of mind to understand why Boz was as he was. He'd never forgiven his brother, but he did understand him. As the oldest son, he'd caught the full force of his father's sternness, excruciatingly dulling it with his hide and making it bearable for his younger brothers. As the oldest, more had been demanded of him. When he couldn't deliver, promptly and perfectly, Old Ike had landed on him. So, inevitably, Boz had turned mean. Helpless against his father's wrath, Boz had turned his own rage against other helpless things.

As for Arlington – Arlie – well, his demise would genuinely trouble Critch (though not enough to keep him from bringing it off). Most middle-children get relatively little attention, as compared with a family's youngest and oldest, suffering neither spoiling nor strictness. Thus, they develop as a benign nature dictates they should – giving happiness to get it, being pleasing to be pleased – and they usually turn out well.

Arlie was hard and tough, as any son of Old Ike would have to be. But along with it he was good-natured and helpful. A nice guy. Or so Critch thought of him…

Now, Critch jumped up from the bed with a curse. Angrily telling himself that it was time to get moving.

He had to do something – something, by God! – and he had to do it now. Lifting his two expensive bags to the bed, he impatiently sorted through them, inventorying the expensive suits and shirts, and all the other accoutrements of a well-heeled gentleman.

He finished his assay; stood frowning, his eyes narrowed in thought. A lot of valuable stuff, but it wouldn't bring much at a second-hand store. Wouldn't do to sell it, anyway, since, as much as money, he needed the appearance. Once a man lost his front, he couldn't operate.

There was one thing, now. The watch. The impressively embossed watch, with its studding of sparkling stones, which bore a famous and honored name.

Critch lifted it from his Gladstone and held it up for examination. A watch like that was worth five hundred dollars – as any fool could see. Rather, it would have been worth five hundred, if it had been the gold that it appeared to be, and if the apparent diamonds had been real, and if the brand name had been genuine instead of counterfeit.

The trouble with selling a thing like this was that (1) you had to claim ownership, and (2) a professional estimate of its value was invariably called for. Oh, of course, you could probably unload it on someone for a quick double sawbuck. But expert fakery like this was costly, and turning it for a twenty would be little more than a matter of swapping dollars.

The watch couldn't be sold, then. It was his one bet, but he could attempt no scheme with it which might bring trouble. Too much was at stake, and he was simply too funky to face trouble.

What he needed was a fool, a prize Grade-A chump. One who could be cashed in fast and heavily. And in a way which could not possibly bring a kickback.

Where was one most likely to find such a fool? What was the way whereby said fool could be safely cashed in?

Critch's scowl of concentration suddenly disappeared, and a slow smile spread over his handsome face. *d*

She had come in on the train from the north some thirty minutes ago. A young woman, judging by what he could glimpse through her filmy half veil. He couldn't see much of her face; and her clothes, odds and ends of ill-fitting stuff, pretty well concealed her body. But whether she was attractive or well-shaped didn't matter. In all the things that did matter, she seemed to fit the bill.

A fool traveling alone. A fool with a couple of pretty nice bags. Getting off the train from the north, she'd come into the station with timidity-slumped shoulders, and glanced around with quick shyness. Then she'd retired to a bench well away from everyone else, and she'd been sitting there ever since. Head ducked, hands clenched in her lap. So frightened and nervous by these strange surroundings that she'd probably jump if you said boo to her.

She hadn't traveled far: wasn't sufficiently rumpled and smoke-smeared to have come from any great distance. But her manner and the two heavy bags indicated that she had some distance to go. Critch felt the train-ticket nestled in an inner pocket of his tailored coat, wondering if he could possibly be as lucky as the signs seemed to indicate.

He'd bought the ticket, intending to cash it in if he had to, to the army-base town of Lawton. Buying it at an excursion rate and getting it much cheaper than the fare to King's Junction, which was a shorter distance away. Now, if this scared-to-death little skirt was also going to Lawton –

Well, it didn't matter too much either way. She was obviously a fool who could be cashed in for something.

Critch straightened his shoulders. He came briskly out of the shadowed recess from which he had been studying her, looked sharply around the waiting room in the manner of a man seeking someone, then allowed himself to see her. She seemed to make herself smaller under his stare. Frowning, keeping his eyes fixed on her shrinking figure, Critch strode across the waiting room and sat down next to her.

'May I see your ticket?' he said firmly.

'W-wha – ' A frightened gasp from behind the veil. 'W-why – what -?'

'Your ticket please! Let me see it.'

He held out his hand. She fumbled open her purse, allowing him a quick look at the comfortable roll of bills inside, and almost snatched out the ticket.

Critch took it, and examined it at length. His pulse quickening a little as he saw its destination.

Lawton – Fort Sill. A soldier's wife or prospective bride, or kin. And she'd never been there before, obviously, or she wouldn't be so nervous about it.

'Going to Fort Sill, eh?' He handed back the ticket. 'Is that your home?'

'N-no, sir. It's Kan – I mean, Missouri.'

'Yes?' – very sharply.

'M-Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri.'

She gave him the street address; then, with a frightened little rush, told him her name. Anderson, Anne Anderson. And she was the wife of Private John Anderson, and they'd been married when he was home on furlough, and now she was going to join him, and – and –

'Now, now, dear…' Smiling warmly, he cut her off. 'I'm Captain Crittenden, base legal officer at the post. Perhaps you've heard your husband speak of me? Well, at any rate, I had to establish who you were and be sure you were an honest person, because…'

Because of this valuable watch he'd found at the entrance to the depot. (A beauty, wasn't it? Solid gold, with diamonds.) The station agent didn't look very reliable to him. Probably say he was going to turn the watch over to the rightful owner, and never do it – and how could he, the Captain, be sure it was done after he'd gone on his way? He'd made a few inquiries on his own without any luck, and now he had business up in town for a few minutes. So as long as she was going to be here, anyway, would she mind keeping the watch in case the owner showed up?

'Oh, no! I mean, oh, yes, of course, I'll do it!' She was almost tearful with relief at the abrupt warming of his attitude. 'I'll stay right here! That's a promise, Captain, and you can depend on it! I – I mean, you don't need to worry – '

'Of course, I don't, dear.' He gave her hand a paternal squeeze. 'I'm a lawyer, remember? I know a fine young woman when I see her.' He started to rise; hesitated. 'By the way, I'm afraid I was pretty brusque when I first spoke to you. I – well, my wife passed away a couple of weeks ago, and…'

'Oh, how terrible! I'm so sorry, Captain.'

'Thank you,' he said, with simple sincerity, adding that he was even now returning from his wife's funeral in the east. 'As I was about to say, however, I've noticed that I sometimes do become a little curt with people since her death, and if I did, in your case – '

But he hadn't been! Not in the least teensiest bit, Captain!

'Thank you, my dear,' he said. 'You're a dear, sweet girl.'

He left her, with a tip of his fine Fedora hat. Some twenty minutes later, after a time-killing stroll, he returned to the station.

True to her promise, she had remained exactly where he had left her. He resumed his seat at her side, smilingly pointing out that she had proved his merits as a judge of honest people. She squirmed pleasurably at the compliment, ducking her head with a little giggle. She started to return the watch, but he affably declined it. After all, there was more room in her purse than there was in his pockets, and women were much better at taking care of things than men were.

'Just don't see how you do it,' he declared in assumed amazement. 'Why, my wife can – ' He broke off; turned his head for a moment as though to dispel a tear. Then, softly, 'Isn't it strange? She was so much a part of me that I just can't believe she's gone.'

'Why, you poor thing!' she said; then abashed at her daring, 'Oh, excuse me, Captain! I – I – '

'Now, now, dear Anne. There's no rank between friends. Sorrow makes equals of us all.'

'Sorrow makes – I think that's the most beautiful thing I ever heard, Captain! So, uh, poetic kind of. D-do you like poetry, Captain?'

Critch confessed that it was a weakness of his, and that he sometimes wrote it. 'Perhaps you've heard one of my little efforts, _Roses Are Red And Violets Are Blue.'_

'Oh, my goodness, yes! My goodness! Have you written any others, Captain?'

Critch nodded indulgently, and gave her a couple of verses of burlesque-house pathos. She was so impressed, so awed, that only with an effort did he suppress the lurking imp within him and its insistent demand that he tell her about the old hermit named Dave, who had kept a dead whore in his cave.

'Well, now…' He stretched his legs, glancing at the octagon-faced station clock. 'A long wait until train time, isn't it? Well, over an hour yet. I think you and I shall just get us a good bite of dinner.'

She demurred. She really wasn't a bit hungry, and, uh, really she'd just rather stay where she was. Oh, no. It wasn't because of the money, but –

'Of course, it isn't. You'll be my guest, naturally. Now, you just go over there' – nodding toward the ladies room – 'and give yourself a good freshing up. You'll want to do that, I assume' – a kindly but critical look. 'Travel does so smear up a person.'

She arose reluctantly, started to reach for her two heavy bags. Critch grandly waved her away from them.

'I'll just check them through to your destination while you're gone. Did you know you could do that? Much safer than they would be with you, and you're saved a lot of trouble.'

'Well, uh, but – '

'Yes? Like to get something out of them first?'

'No, but – '

But nothing. She had the watch, didn't she? That solid, gold, diamond-studded watch.

'F-fine, Captain. Thanks very much. I'll hurry right back.'

'Oh, take your time, dear,' Critch smilingly urged her. 'Take your time. We'll be dining in a very nice place, and I want you to look your prettiest.'

She bobbed her head, moved away from him with her shyly stooped shoulders and timidly lowered face. Critch waited until she disappeared through the swinging doors of the restroom. Then, he carried her baggage out a side entrance, and down the street a few doors to a combination pawnshop-secondhand store.

Critch had learned of the place from other professionals on the criminal circuit. Between the right people, there was a ready exchange of such information. He had had no occasion to do business with the establishment's proprietor heretofore, but he had stopped by for a chat. And today the latter gestured Critch toward the back room, then joined him behind its curtained portals after a quick look up and down the street.

'No one following you, huh? Well, let's take a look at it.'

The contents of the two bags were of a type with the oddly-assorted stuff which the girl had been wearing. The kind of things which only ignorant unworldliness would allow. Or perhaps they had been wished on her by well-meaning relatives. They weren't intrinsically shoddy; someone, if not her, had laid out some bucks for them. They just weren't suitable; a lot of everything, but not one good everyday outfit. Why, hell, there were even a couple of party gowns! Did she think Fort Sill was West Point?

'Well…' The proprietor measured a gown against his own squatty body; shook his head dubiously. 'I dunno about the rags, but the luggage ain't bad. Call it thirty?'

'Call it forty.'

'Call me Santy Claus,' said the proprietor, and he counted out the forty.

And, meanwhile, in a stall of the women's restroom, Emma Allerton, alias Anne Anderson, stood naked from the waist up. Her shoulders thrown back, her abundant bosom rising and falling with the unaccustomed pleasure of deep breathing.

Christ, what a relief! What a relief to get out of that harness for a while and straighten up!

She stretched luxuriously, sucking her stomach in and out, pulling her chin in for a critical glance at her nakedness. _Bet I know what you'd like to have, she told it. And her groin prickled at the thought._ Then, her gaze fell on her right breast, at the rough furrow of teeth marks where once had been the nipple. And she cursed in silent fury.

The horny old bastard! Every time she saw that bub she got mad all over. Goddamn him! Goddamn her sister!

It was really Sis's fault, the overbearing slut! Sis should have given the guy the hatchet long before. But she'd been having too much fun in the next room, so Emma-Annie had got her tit chomped.

A hell of a sister, Sis was. But she'd paid for it, by Jesus. Oh, but she'd paid for it! Rather, Little Sis had paid herself, and just in time, too, from what she'd heard. The news hadn't hit the papers yet, but the grapevine had it that the law had either grabbed Sis or was just about to do it.

Anne patted the thick money belt which cinched her waist, eyes bright with malice as she thought of her sister. Absently, she allowed a hand to stray over the mutilated breast, and in her mind it became another's hand, and her expression softened dreamily.

Damn, it would be nice after all these weeks. Six weeks of running, crossing and crisscrossing the Midwest and Southwest, leaving a trail that was no trail, and then finally swinging down into the Territory. Six weeks of going around with her head ducked and her chest caved in, and looking like something the cat dug up.

No sport in all that time. And none that was really worth having before then. Sis had always taken on the good-looking guys, and forced the clodhoppers on her. Not once had she ever gotten a crack at a guy even half as cute and handsome as Captain Crittenden.

He remained in her mind as she reluctantly regarbed herself. Thinking what a damned shame it was that things were as bad as they were.

If she hadn't claimed to be married, practically a new bride –

If he hadn't just lost his wife –

With a regretful little shake of her head, she finished dressing. She started to leave the stall, then sat down on the stool and crossed one leg over the other. Her shoes were high-topped and laced, in the style of the day. With a sharp twist of her hand, she removed the heel of one of them.

It was hollow, and a tiny Derringer nestled within it. Reassured, she replaced the heel, smoothed out her skirt and left the stall. And once again her mind moved from business to pleasure.

Captain Crittenden.

Was it really as unthinkable as it seemed?

He was kind of dumb, in a cute way, and he would be vain like all men. So why shouldn't he suddenly find himself in the saddle, and why shouldn't she suddenly find herself playing horsie, without either of them – heaven forbid! – ever, ever meaning for it to happen?

Smiling, he came swiftly toward her as she emerged from the restroom. Guiding her out of the station, he complimented her on her appearance, giving her various little pats and squeezes – amiably innocent actions which unerringly detected the money belt. With the same ostensible inadvertence, she nudged him with a breast and rubbed a buttock against his thigh.

Arm in arm, Anne-Emma, professional murderess, and Critch-Captain Crittenden, arch scoundrel, moved companionably toward their date with destiny.

____________________

*Chapter Three*

In their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Old Ike's oldest son, Boz, grabbed the firm round breast of his Apache wife, Joshie – old Tepaha's grand-daughter – and twisted it cruelly. Twisting it harder and harder, gritting threats to rip it off of her. And the girl still remained coldly stoical. Silent, motionless; refusing to recognize the torture of her husband's presence by even the smallest moan or movement.

At last, he desisted, shifting from brutality to a kind of argumentative pleading. Making a feeble attempt at caressing her in the pre-dawn darkness.

'Aah, c'm on now, Joshie. Why'nt you admit it, huh? You warned him, didn't you? You told ol' Arlie that I was trying to get him.'

'Hah!' the girl spat out the word. 'I your squaw. You think I tell on sonabitch husband?'

'Well, how did he find out then, huh? How'd he figger it out if you didn't tell him?'

'How he figger out skunk make bad stink?'

'Why, you God damn -!'

'Arlie smarter'n you, old Boz. Old Arlie plenty man.'

'Shit! You sayin' I ain't a man?'

'I say it. You got no balls.'

Boz cursed, started to reach out for her again. Then knowing the uselessness of it, he angrily flopped over on his back.

And in their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Arlie grasped his wife, Kay – for King – who was also Tepaha's grand-daughter and Joshie's sister, and gave her naked bottom an admiring slap.

'Now, that's an ass,' he declared. 'Gets any bigger you'll be shittin' in a washtub.'

'Ho!' Kay giggled happily. 'I shit in your hand, old husband.'

'Now, God damn if you ain't a snotty ol' squaw!'

'You like snotty ol' squaw?' She snuggled close to him, sneaking a small hand across his hard, flat belly. 'You like ol' squaw's stuff?'

'Well, now, I ain't so sure that I do. Maybe I just better take me a little sample…'

After they had again separated their bodies, and lay contentedly side by side, Kay whispered in her husband's ear, nudging him with playful impatience when he did not immediately answer.

'You do it, huh, ol' Arlie? You kill sonabitch Boz today?'

'We-el' Arlie paused, teasing her. 'Well, I reckon so. Figger I'll have me a plenty good chance today.'

'How you do it?'

Arlie shrugged lazily, murmuring that he'd kind of have to wait and see. 'But if I know that son-of-a-bitch, he's practically gonna do it for me.'

'Just you do it,' Kay insisted; then, wifelike, 'You too good-natured. Let people put things over on you.'

Arlie said he was going to put something over on her in about a moment. Kay persisted in her nagging.

'You get Critch, too. He come, you kill him.'

'Critch? What the hell for?'

'Hah! Same reason kill sonabitch, Boz.'

'Now, God damn,' drawled Arlie, in admiring wonderment. 'Ain't you the bloodthirsty ol' squaw! Don't even know whether Critch is comin', an' already you're after me to kill him.'

'Must make plans,' Kay said smugly. 'Must be ready.'

'Keep it up,' Arlie warned her. 'You just keep on talkin', an' I'll show you some plans. Danged good ones, too.'

'Ho! You not ready, old husband. Too soon.'

Arlie faced around to her, gave her bottom another smack. 'Real sure of that, are you? Real, real sure?'

'Well… Maybe you show me?' *b*

Behind the closed double-doors of the hotel ranchhouse bar room, Tepaha, the Apache, and Isaac Joshua King blustered and snarled at one another. Old Ike called Tepaha a woman with a peter. Old Tepaha declared that Ike had done treachery to a friend and brother.

'Even a boast you have made of it!' the old Indian shouted. 'You were warmed at Geronimo's fire. You smoked with him, and he called you friend and brother, and you smiled and called him like-wise. And then – ' Tepaha raised his arm dramatically. 'Then you – '

'Silence!' Old Ike cut him off with an infuriated howl. 'You twist truth into lies! I told you how it was! A hundred times, I told you! Why the hell don't you get the straight of it?'

'Shit!' said Tepaha loudly. 'Old Ike is old shit!'

It was a favorite word of his; one that he found extremely useful (as did Ike). Depending on how, where and when it was used, it could be virtually a vocabulary by itself.

'Goin' to tell you one more time,' Old Ike said. 'Ain't gonna tell it again, so by God you better listen…'

'Shit!'

'Will you hear me, old fool! The bluecoats had Geronimo in a cage there at Fort Sill. In a cage, by God, like a chongo in a zoo. An' all the God damn' saddle-tramps an' nesters an' their God damn' families for miles around had come in to gawk an' poke fun at him. Well, by Christ, I didn't like it a damn bit, an' I let 'em know it. I pushed my way through 'em, knockin' a few of 'em down, by God, an' I called Geronimo my friend and brother, like he was, o' course, an' I put my hand through the bars to shake with him. An' you know what that dirty chongo Apache done?'

'Chongo,' taunted Old Tepaha. 'Apache monkey, you monkey, too. You Apache brother.'

'That God damn' – _shut up!_ – that God damn' Geronimo grabbed my hand and bit it! So, by Christ, I just got me a-hold of the bastard's nose, an' I damn' near twisted if off'n him before the bluecoats butted in. An' – an' I ain't a damn' bit sorry, neither!'

But he was sorry. He had acted instinctively, without stopping to think that Geronimo's eyes and ears were probably failing him, and he had judged Old Ike yet another enemy instead of his friend and brother.

He was sorry as hell, Old Ike was. And Tepaha was sorry that he had raised the subject. He had done so out of friendship and pride – the same motives which had moved Old Ike to taunt and abuse him. For great shame had come to the families of Tepaha and King; a particularly degrading shame, since a member of each family had offended against a member of the other family. Boz was known to have abused his wife, Joshie. I.K. – Tepaha's grandson – had been caught stealing from his 'Uncle,' Old Ike.

It is unforgivable to steal from family. From others, it is all right, even commendable. Though Old Ike's thinking, as regards the latter, was not quite so liberal as it once had been.

At any rate, they had been shamed – and even now they waited to mete out stern punishment to the guilty ones – and out of their deep hurt they acted as they did. To divert one another. To boldly prove that they were above hurt. For it is insulting to offer pity to a man, and disgraceful to appear to be in need of it.

Tepaha stirred the fire in the potbellied stove. Old Ike poured drinks for them and lit a cigar, and held the match for his friend.

Though their brotherhood was by choice, rather than the accident of birth, a stranger might have thought otherwise despite their differences in coloring. For they had been together for so many years and in so many places, sharing the same thoughts and deeds, that, in their necessary adjustment to one another, each had borrowed of the other's mannerisms and expressions, and now they had come to look quite a little alike.

Much of the time, even their talk was strikingly similar, Ike's alleged English even becoming a trifle broken. He was almost as fluent in Apache as Tepaha; also in idiomatic Spanish. And they spoke in both languages frequently – often sounding so much alike that it was hard to tell when one finished and the other began.

Old Ike shaved his head regularly, while Tepaha's hair grew to the lobes of his ears; and he wore a beaded band around his forehead whereas Old Ike wore a sombrero. But both men were clothed in calf-hide jackets, and levis. And both were shod in blockheeled Spanish boots; and protruding from the right boot of each was the worn haft of a gleaming knife.

As Old Ike sighed, unconsciously, Tepaha demanded another reading of the letters from crazy Osage lawyer. Brightening, Old Ike hauled the letters from his pocket, and both chuckled over them as they were read yet another time.

'Damn' crazy Osage,' Ike concluded. 'Says right here that Critch is plenty fine fella, got plenty o' money. Then he tries to claim Critch stole a stinkin' fifty dollars from him! What kind of God damn' sense does that make?'

'All Osage crazy,' Tepaha nodded wisely. 'Critch do right to steal money.'

'Well, I don't know as I'd say that, but…'

He shook his head, lapsed back into silence, his mouth sagging. Tepaha requested another reading of the letters. Old Ike ignored him. Nor could he be baited into another quarrel.

And, then, at last, when Tepaha was at his wits' end to help his friend, inspiration came to him. From far back in the all-but-forgotten past it came, and it proved highly effective in rousing Old Ike from his reverie.

'Huh! What the hell did you say?' He glared beetle-browed at Tepaha. 'What d'ya mean, I et him?'

'I mean,' said Tepaha, with simulated spitefulness. 'I mean what I say. You eat Osage.'

'That's a God damn' lie! I never et no one, Indian or white! I don't hold with eatin' people!'

'Eat 'em, anyway. You eat – Wait!' He held up a hand, chopping off the incipient outburst from his friend. 'Take yourself back many, many years. So many years, until that good time when we were young. Remember it, Old Ike – the night we saw Geronimo for the first time? The night we were brought into his lodge at lance-point? We had come up from Tejas to _okla homa,_ the Land of the Red Man…' *c*

They had crossed Red River, the boundary between Oklahoma and Texas, that morning; losing their pack-horses and supplies to the river's quicksands, almost losing their lives as they fruitlessly tried to free the screaming animals. By luck and by God, as the saying was, they had somehow managed to get their mounts into deep water and swim them to the north shore. But their powder was a muddy mess, useless for their long Sharps rifles. And it was snowing; and the frozen short-grassed prairie was barren of game.

Tepaha dug into the dry center of an ancient buffalo turd, and got it lighted with his steel and flint. They fed the flame with more dung, and dried their clothes enough to keep them from freezing. Then, they headed north again, unarmed save for their knives, their heads ducked against the blowing snow.

By night the storm had become a blizzard. But there was the faint smell of smoke ahead of them, the scent of cooking food; and rocking in their high-pommeled saddles, they urged their trembling horses onward. An hour passed. The smell of food and smoke was still ahead of them. And around them, all-but-inaudible in the howling wind, were sounds. Sounds that were felt rather than heard. Shallow breaks in silence which Ike and Tepaha had trained themselves to become aware of and to interpret for what they were, as requisite to life.

Silently, they drew their knives. At virtually the same instant their horses reared upward, startled as their bridles were suddenly grabbed by unseen hands. Then – Well, nothing, then. Nothing more than a couple of butted lances, which connected solidly with the skulls of Tepaha and Ike King and knocked them senseless from their saddles.

They were prodded and kicked to their feet.

The lance-points pricking incessantly at their rumps, they were run into the village of the Apache leader, Geronimo, and on to the great lodge of Geronimo himself.

The Indian chief at that time was probably in his middle forties, or approximately twice the age of Ike and Tepaha. He was thus, by the standards of the time, an old man, just as Ike and Tepaha were regarded as standing on the verge of middle-age. Yet Geronimo carried the years of his hard life well, being lean and wiry of body, and his expression was not so much savage as sardonically amused. He chose to ignore Ike, addressing himself instead to Tepaha in a tone of musing wonderment.

'And what have we here?' he inquired. 'What is this strange creature who appears to be Indian, an Apache, no less, yet who is obviously a white man's dog, licking at his master's ass and balls lest he be struck with a small stick?'

'You smell your own breath, old man,' Tepaha told him haughtily. 'To one who feeds on dog shit, all others are dogs.'

A lance-point jabbed him reprovingly. Tepaha's darting hand caught it at the haft, snapping it off with one seemingly effortless movement of his wrist. It was a tremendous feat of strength. Geronimo rewarded it by shaking his head at the brave who was about to club Tepaha.

'So,' Geronimo said, 'perhaps you are not a dog. Perhaps. So you will explain your presence with this white man, and you will tell us who he is and what he is if not your master.'

Tepaha said proudly that Ike was his friend and brother. They had been so almost before manhood, since the time when they were both prisoners in a Mexican jail under sentence of death as bandidos. They had broken jail together, Tepaha becoming seriously wounded as they escaped. And Ike had gotten him to a ranchero across the Rio Grande. The owner of the ranch, a Spanish grandee, had offered them sanctuary, then treacherously sent one of his Aztec peons to summon the carbineros. The man had reported to Ike instead, so Ike had slain the Spaniard, and as soon as Tepaha was well enough to travel, they had burned the ranchero buildings, and driven off the livestock; and those peons who cared to do so were allowed to come with them.

'We settled well back from the Rio,' Tepaha continued, 'in a valley some two hundred miles distant. We built a lodge there, and outbuildings. But there were many Apache in the area, and the peons soon left us in fear, having been slaves so long they had lost the will to fight. I would have fought, of course, Old Ike being my friend and brother. But Ike said it was not necessary. Instead, he went unarmed amongst the Apaches, and he called them brother, and he told them that they were to come to his lodge as guests and take whatever they needed. And – '

'And – ' Geronimo's eyes gleamed with ironic appreciation. 'And so they came, eh? As guests. And being such, they did not rob him of his all and kill him as they otherwise would have.'

'Why should they?' Tepaha frowned. 'Do Apaches abuse friendship? Do they mistreat a brother? Or perhaps,' he added insinuatingly, 'such is the custom of the Oklahoma Apache.'

'You,' Geronimo advised him, 'are very close to death, O, Tepaha. You will be wise to offer no insults, and to answer questions, not ask them. Even now there is an Osage prisoner in this camp whose big mouth and small brain will cost him his life in the morning.'

Tepaha drew himself erect, and emitted a scornful, 'Ho! Heed me, O, Geronimo,' he continued. 'This is Old Ike King! When he shits, great mountain ranges are formed of his turds, and fearful floods are caused by his pissing, and when he farts whole deserts are blown into the sky. This I have seen. I, his chief vaquero. And following us come three hundred more Apache braves, vaqueros like myself, and their families. All are sworn brothers of Old Ike, all enemies of his enemies. So do not threaten us with the fate of your miserable Osage, for you are tempting fate even to speak of Osages and my brother, Old Ike, in the same breath!'

The other old men in the lodge exchanged secretively approving glances; for this was good talk. But Geronimo was not easily impressed.

'You talk great shit, Apache dog,' he said. 'Nothing follows you but your shriveled asses, unless it is the carbineros who have chased you out of Tejas.'_

Tepaha promised that he would soon see for himself. 'No one runs Old Ike anywhere. Neither the carbineros nor the soldados of Maximilian, nor anyone else. Old Ike has a friend, Sam Houston. Our presence in Tejas is an embarrassment to him, so we leave at his request.'

'And you think to establish a ranchero here? The bluecoats will never allow it!'

'You do not know Old Ike,' Tepaha said. 'He has a way with soldados. He will smile and burden them with gifts. He will agree to do as they say; and even make motions of so doing. When he does not do so, and the soldados return, he will again smile and give them gifts and agree to their will. Yet still he will stay where he is. They will become firm with him. Still smiling, Ike will become firm with them, but never in a way to be detected. Bullets will come out of nowhere to find their hearts, and their horses will be hamstrung and their lodges will catch fire. So after a time, the soldados will go hence and return no more, realizing that what cannot be changed must be accepted. This I have seen.'

Geronimo said he had seen shit, too, and also smelled it. 'This is a god?' he jeered, jerking his head at Ike. 'You will be telling us next that he can cure the pox!'

'Even so,' Tepaha said. 'Look you, old man!'

He bared his left wrist, extended it into the dim light from the fire. There was a minute patch of smallpox pits on the wrist – but only there. The deadly pox, the chronic scourge of the red men, had merely touched his flesh and gone away.

The old men were wordless with astonishment. Geronimo raised his eyes wonderingly, the sardonic expression wiped from his face.

'How?' He stared at Tepaha. 'How could this be?'

'Magic. How else?'

'Obviously. But what kind of magic?'

'With magic that only Old Ike can perform. First he casts a spell over a cow – a cow, yes – and the blood of that cow becomes flecked with gold. Then he takes those flecks, and smears them into the blood of the person who has been exposed to the pox. The disease tastes the blood of that person, and flees in terror, leaving only the smallest mark of its bite.'

'And it is always the same? The victim is always cured?'

'Certainly not,' Tepaha said loftily. 'Evil men, including those who are Ike's enemies, die in itching torment.'

Geronimo stood up and took Ike's hand. 'Old Ike King,' he said, 'you and Tepaha are welcome at my fire, and we will eat and drink together, and I, Geronimo, will call you brother.'

The food was pashofa, a kind of gruel made of hominy. Flavored with nettles, it seemed quite tasty to Ike. Yet it was somewhat on the watery side, cooked without so much as a small snake to give it body. And Tepaha, still smarting under Geronimo's recent insults, made hideous faces of displeasure as he ate.

The potent brew served them was also a corn product. When the corn was green, squaws chewed it from the cob and spat their chewings into a large pot. To this – the rough equivalent of a distiller's mash – water was added, and after a certain number of skimmings the pot was sealed, and the contents allowed to ferment.

It was very powerful stuff. As with the food, Ike found it reasonably tasty. Tepaha, of course, did not – or, at least, he appeared not to.

Such a drink, he declared loudly, would never have been served in the lodge of Old Ike King. The most humble beverage a guest might drink in Old Ike's lodge was mescal or tequila, and for honored guests – the equals of Ike and himself – there was real whiskey.

The old men around the fire squirmed in shame, and Geronimo murmured embarrassed apologies. Still, despite a reproving frown from Ike, Tepaha would not desist.

'In the lodge of Old Ike King,' Tepaha said, 'there is always meat. A guest may always fill his belly with good fat beef, and take as much with him as he will on departing. Mush is fed only to papooses, and toothless old dogs.'

'I am sorry,' Geronimo murmured. 'It has been a bad winter. There is no meat in camp.'

'Very bad planning,' Tepaha said reprovingly. 'Such could never happen with Old Ike King.'

'Sorry,' Geronimo repeated stiffly. 'If there was meat, you would be more than welcome to it.'

Tepaha gave him a jeering stare. He said he was beginning to understand Geronimo's reputation for craftiness.

'Yes, now it is clear to me. You save your meat for yourselves, and serve mush to your guests.'

It was the most terrible insult of all. For a moment, Tepaha thought that he might have gone too far. Then, at last Geronimo smiled enigmatically and stood up.

Leaving the tent, he went out into the blizzard, returning after a few moments to announce that meat was indeed available. Not enough for his entire village, but an amount more than adequate for his honored guests.

'And you and Old Ike King shall have it all, O, Tepaha. My people and I will not eat as much as a single bite.'

_… So that was when it had happened, Ike thought. That was how it had come about that he and Tepaha had been fed the Osage prisoner._

'Why, that old son-of-a-bitch!' he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hotel's bar room. 'God damn you to hell, Tepaha – '

'Osage good eating,' Tepaha patted his stomach. 'All Osage good for, eat and screw.'

Then, the doors of the hotel lobby rolled open, and Arlie and Boz entered with their wives. *d*

The two young men were dressed in approximately the same fashion as their father, even to the long knives in their boot-tops. Their squaws, each of whom took up a position behind her husband, wore levis, brightly colored flannel shirts, and buckskin moccasins and jackets.

Joshie was not quite a year older than her sister, Kay, and except for a somewhat more serious expression – a reflection of her life with Boz – might have passed as Kay's twin. Both girls had small full bodies, and were virtually the same height. Both wore their hair long, and so tightly braided as to tauten their faces, giving them a perpetually wide-eyed expression.

As their grandfather stared at them sternly, watchful for any error in deportment, the girls kept their eyes demurely downcast, their lips firmed to erase any semblance of giggling. Satisfied with his inspection, Tepaha rolled open the doors to the dining room and curtly beckoned to his grandson, I.K.

I.K. came in, hands jammed into the pockets of his mail-order suit, his bright yellow shoes tapping the floor in a kind of jaunty swagger. His brightly greased hair was parted in the middle, in the dudish fashion of the day. Despite the ominous air of the bar room, he was smiling. For he could not really believe that anything truly bad would happen to him.

He was Tepaha's youngest grandchild, and Old Ike's favorite. Both had pampered him, laughing at his fop's dress and mannerisms, only scolding him mildly for laziness and general no-accountness. So why, then, should they suddenly turn severe?

'Hi'ya, Gran'pa, Uncle Ike,' he said. 'How's your hammer hangin'?'

'Silence,' Tepaha said. 'You are in great disgrace.'

'Me? Aw, now, Gran'pa – '

Tepaha suddenly slapped him. As I.K. let out a pained howl, Tepaha slapped him again. The youth clenched his teeth, his eyes tear-filled. Tepaha drew the gleaming knife from his boot-top and handed it to him.

'You will hand this to your Uncle Ike. He will use my knife and his hand. So we both punish you for stealing from him.'

'N-no!' I.K. gasped. 'I – w-what is he gonna -?'

'He will cut off one of your fingers.'

'Cut off my -? _Oh, no!_ P-please, Gran'pa. Please, d-don't – '

Tepaha stared at him stonily. Implacably, he repeated his order. One finger would be cut off now. Two, if he delayed. Three if he delayed longer.

'Aw, now, looky,' Arlie protested. 'This ain't really fair.'

'Silence,' said Tepaha.

'But it ain't fair, Grandfather Tepaha. You an' Paw taught I.K. all the orneriness he knows. You laughed about his stealing. It ain't his fault – '

'Silence! He stole from his own family, your father. A great crime, and a shame to me.'

'But, dang it -!'

Tepaha swung his hand swiftly, slapping Arlie full in the face. Now, he declared, Arlie had best remain silent or he would be slapped again. Boz laughed at his brother's discomfiture.

'Boy, are you gutless! Catch me lettin' him slap me around!'

Arlie ignored the jibe. Tepaha grabbed his grandson by the arm, and hauled him before Old Ike. Trembling, I.K. held out his left hand, and Ike neatly sliced off his third finger and handed it back to him.

I.K. clutched it dully, holding the bleeding stump against his chest. Vacant-eyed, numb with shock, he listened as Tepaha pronounced the remainder of his sentence. He was to leave King's Junction at once. If he ever returned, he would be killed.

'Now, go,' Tepaha said, pointing. And I.K. went. And the old Apache rolled the dining room doors shut behind him.

Tepaha turned around again. His eyes found Ike's, and Ike slowly nodded; jerked his head at Boz.

'Stretch yourself out there on the floor,' he said. 'Your Gran'father Tepaha is gonna kick you.'

'Huh?' Boz grunted. 'What the hell you talkin' about?'

'I said to lay yourself down! Now, do it or I'll lay you!'

'B-but – but – ' Boz's eyes darted nervously from his father to Tepaha. 'What the shit is this? Why is Tepaha a-wantin' to kick me?'

Ike said that the kicking was his own idea, just as cutting off I.K.'s finger had been Tepaha's. 'You kicked Joshie, his kinswoman. Now, he will kick you.'

'But, God dammit -!' Boz whirled on his wife. 'You've been lyin' about me, ain't you? Now, by Christ, you take it back or I'll – '

'She didn't say nothin',' Arlie said idly. 'Got too much pride to admit that her own husband would kick her.'

'And I didn't, by God! Anyone that says I did is a fucking liar!'

'I said it,' Arlie grinned, 'an' I wasn't lying. So you better hump your ass for that kickin'!'

Boz dived for him, his hand darting toward his boot-top. At virtually the same instant, he found the point of Arlie's knife pricking at his throat.

'Now, you lay down, boy,' Arlie said softly. 'Get yourself down on them planks, or you're gonna be minus an Adam's apple.'

Boz lay down, cursing, vowing to get his brother if it took him a hundred years. Arlie laughed that it would take him that long to get a hard-on.

'Enough!' Old Ike growled; and to Tepaha, 'Whenever you are ready, old friend.'

Tepaha stepped forward. He kicked Boz twice, the second kick causing the young man to break wind noisily.

Arlie roared with laughter, as Boz sat up. 'Always figured you was full of shit. Reckon there ain't no doubt about it, now!'

His face white with pain and fury, Boz came slowly to his feet. Casually, Arlie turned his back on him, as though to address his wife.

It was a trap, of course. But Boz saw it as opportunity. He sprang, knife drawn. But Arlie was suddenly no longer where he had been, and, as suddenly, Boz was no longer period.

He was back on the floor again, slit from crotch to breastbone, his guts spilled out on the time-stained planks.

Arlie wiped the blood from his knife, giving his father an ostensibly mournful glance. 'I had to do it, Paw. Just wasn't no way out.'

Old Ike nodded, his face expressionless. 'I saw,' he said.

____________________

*Chapter Four*

Critchfield King stood on the open platform of the chair-car, watching the gradual pre-dawn lightening of the prairie, nervously flinging his cheroot away from him as he waited for the woman, the supposed soldier's bride.

What the hell had happened, he wondered savagely. What in God's name could be holding her up?

She had missed the money-belt immediately after their love-making, and promptly demanded its return. Teasingly, he had promised to give it back, but only if she joined him on the platform for a few kisses. She had agreed to do so, as soon as she had visited the toilet. That had been more than thirty minutes ago; considerably more, for the train had stopped at two villages since then. Soon it would be broad daylight, too late for a showdown with her without attracting fatal attention to himself. If she didn't show up within another five minutes –

She didn't. Nerves jumping, Critch feverishly sought an answer to the riddle, and quickly settled upon two.

She had sought out the conductor, and told him of the theft – the embarrassing and compromising fact that she, a married woman, had given herself to a man and been robbed in the process. It didn't seem likely that she would have been desperate or stupid enough to do so, but she might have. In which case, he, Critch King, was in very serious trouble.

On the other hand – and this seemed more likely – something had happened to delay her in the toilet. She had taken sick, or her clothes had become conspicuously soiled by their love-making and had to be cleaned, or – Or?

He had to find out. He had nothing to lose by learning the truth. So bracing himself, putting on an air of easy self-assurance, he left the platform and went back inside the car.

Kerosene lanterns burned at either end of it, rocking and swaying with the motion of the train, dimly illuminating its dozing cargo of humanity. Seeping through the grimy windows, dawn provided more light. So, well before reaching the seat where he and the girl had been sitting, Critch could see that it was unoccupied.

He went on through the car, and into the next one, and so on through the remaining three cars of the train. He retraced his steps, pausing once to display his ticket to a yawning conductor. The man showed no interest in him whatsoever, and, breathing easier, Critch returned to his own car and the platform where he had been standing.

Still no sign of her. Cautiously, Critch reentered the car and gently tested the door of the women's toilet.

There was no response for a moment. Then, with a dull rattle of metal, it swung open. The lock had been broken. Glass, from the shattered window, covered the floor. Critch took a startled glance at the scene. Then, swiftly pulling the door to, he entered the opposite door to the men's toilet.

He locked it, stood leaning against it. Cursed softly, as he pondered this new riddle.

The woman had jumped the train, apparently. Or, in view of the broken lock, she had been forced to jump it. Someone had broken in on her, and to escape that someone she had smashed the window glass and made her escape.

The train had stopped twice since he had last seen her. As it slowed for those stops, she could have jumped without serious risk to herself. As, also, could the person who had broken in on her, and from whom she was obviously fleeing.

But why – what -?

There could be only one answer. Someone else had known about the money belt which now rested around his middle. It hadn't belonged to the woman he had taken it from – else she would have cried out for help instead of jumping the train. Also, axiomatically, it hadn't belonged to the person who had driven her from the train (and doubtless pursued her out of the window), or that person would have sought to recover it legally. But one thing was a cinch!

He, Critch King, had stumbled onto something big. _Very big!_ Only for very high stakes would the pursued woman and her pursuer have gone to such lengths as they had.

Critch undid the belt, dipped into its pockets for the first time. His hand jerked with surprise at the first sheaf of bills he produced, almost dropping them into the open toilet. Excitedly, he drew out another sheaf, and another, making a rough count as he did so. By the time he had emptied all the belt's pockets, his heart was pounding as it had never pounded before, and he was faint with the shock of his discovery.

He lowered the toilet seat, sat down on it. He heard the conductor's muted bellow of _'King's Junction,'_ and the train slowed and stopped, and went on again.

Critch recounted the money, distributing it sheaf by sheaf in the cunningly constructed pockets of his suit. The tailor who specialized in such clothing had boasted that a fortune could be concealed in the suit without the slightest telltale bulge. Standing up and critically examining himself, Critch saw that the tailor had made no idle brag.

Seventy-two thousand dollars – _seventy-two thousand dollars._ Yet no one would have guessed that he was hiding as much as a dollar shinplaster. He had stolen a couple of hundred dollars out of the woman's purse, so all together –

_Seventy-two thousand!_ It was more money than he had ever dreamed of having. It was, in fact, too damned _much_ money to show up with at his father's household. Even with Old Ike's very liberal views about the acquisition of money, it was far too much, particularly since most of it was in five-hundred and thousand-dollar bills. The old man would simply declare him a murderer, or at best a large-scale bankrobber, and summon a Federal marshal. And a hell of a lot of good it would do Critch King, even if he could make anyone believe the truth as to how he had come by the swag.

It was one of those cases where a lie wouldn't help and the truth was damning. If nothing worse, he would be disowned by Old Ike, disqualified for any share in his father's fortune. Obviously, then, his possession of so much money would have to be kept secret. And that being the case…

A plan began to form in his mind. The first step in that plan was leaving the train at the boom city of El Reno, and then – Or, no, that wasn't quite the first step. Right at the moment, there was the money belt to be got rid of.

Critch tried to raise the glazed window. It was stuck, of course; the damned things were always stuck. Critch hesitated, then raised the lid of the toilet.

It was not truly a toilet, in the modern sense of the word. Merely a privy, which opened directly onto the roadbed. Critch dropped the belt into it. Then, after an approving glance at himself in the mirror, he lighted another cheroot and stepped out into the corridor.

The conductor was surveying the disarray of the women's restroom. He turned, his eyes sharpening with suspicion, as Critch came into the areaway.

'What's your name, mister?' he demanded.

'My name?' Critch considered the question, taking a thoughtful draw on his cigar. 'I don't believe,' he said coolly, 'that that is any of your God damned business.'

'Maybe I'll make it my business! Where you been sittin' tonight?'

'All over your filthy train,' Critch said, 'trying to find a seatmate who didn't stink or snore. Regrettably, I found no one who didn't do both.'

'You was settin' next to a young woman, wasn't you? For part of the night, anyways. I know you was!'

'Indeed?' Critch flicked ashes from his cheroot. 'Now, let me tell you something I know. That unless I am immediately provided with the drawing-room I was promised by your Tulsa ticket agent, you are going to find yourself out of a job.'

'Drawing roo – huh?' The conductor blinked stupidly. 'Now, looky, here – '

'Drawing room,' Critch repeated firmly. 'This train carries one car for first-class passengers, so I know you must have a drawing-room available by now. You will get my luggage out of the baggage car and take me to it, instantly.'

He extended his baggage checks, loftily holding out a five dollar bill with them. 'Your tip,' he explained. 'Well? What are you waiting for, man? I want to get cleaned up before we arrive in King's Junction.'

The conductor took the checks and the money, his dull face registering confusion. Then, in sudden alarm, he tried to thrust them back at Critch.

_'King's Junction?'_ he said. 'Mister, we passed King's Junction fifteen-twenty minutes ago!'

'You passed it!' Critch said with a fine show of incredulity. 'After all my instructions to your man in Tulsa, you carried me past the Junction!'

'B-but – but I called it out. Maybe you didn't hear me, but – '

'I left instructions that I be called personally! Incidentally, King is the name. Critchfield King.'

'But no one told me nothin' about – King?' said the conductor. 'Did you say – are you any relation to – to – '

'I am. Isaac Joshua King is my father. You've heard the name, I imagine?'

The conductor nodded miserably. Had he ever heard of him! Everyone connected with the railroad, from president to porter, had heard of Old Ike King and dreaded incurring his wrath. Not so long before, when the railroad had been somewhat slow in paying for a couple of runover cows, Old Ike had had a train log-chained to its tracks; delaying it some six hours until a division superintendent could arrive by special train to apologize and make a payment in person.

Ike King was a law unto himself. As the personal friend of at least one president of the United States – a man who had visited the Junction and hunted with him – the laws governing ordinary mortals seemed simply not to apply to him.

So now the conductor cringed and mumbled repeated apologies as Critch berated him. Never guessing the young man's real reason for the tirade. Forgetting his suspicions, the mystery of the shattered window and the missing woman, as Critch mercilessly bawled him out.

' – a disgrace. This railroad and everyone connected with it! Talk about your slow trains through Arkansas! I could have crawled faster than this thing travels!'

'Well, y'see, this is a local, Mr. King. Has to stop at every wide place in the road. Now we got an express that – '

'I'll bet! Probably has a top speed of twelve miles an hour!'

'No, sir. It can hit twenty-twenty-five, if the grade's right. But – '

'Oh, forget it. Who cares?' said Critch, with exaggerated weariness. 'You've carried me past my stop. Now, I assume you're going to tell me that you don't have a drawing room available.'

The conductor nodded unhappily. 'Did have one until a little spell ago. If I'd known – ' He broke off, beaming with sudden delight. 'Your brother! Now how the heck could I have forgot?'

'My brother?' Critch frowned. 'What about him?'

'I mean, he's the one that got the last stateroom! You can share it with him!' *b*

Arlie greeted Critch enthusiastically, enveloping him in a bearhug which the latter could have well done without in view of the money he was carrying. At last releasing himself, Critch shot a questioning glance at the young Indian who lolled on one of the room's upholstered benches – an Apache youth with a bandaged hand and citified clothes. Arlie said that they could talk openly, since the young man knew barely a dozen words of English.

'Gonna make it damned hard for him in El Reno,' he added. 'But he had to have a fling at city life, so Paw told him to take off.'

'I see,' Critch smiled, and he attempted to introduce himself. But through lack of usage, the Apache language had become virtually so much Greek to him. And it was left to Arlie to perform the introductions. He did so at some length, the youth apparently being rather stupid and having to ask numerous questions. Finally, however, the Indian grunted in understanding, and grinned a hopeful question at Critch.

'Whiskey?' he said.

'Why, yes,' Critch smiled. 'I have a – '

'But he ain't getting it,' Arlie declared. 'The son-of-a-bitch ain't gettin' no more until we hit El Reno. Hear me, I.K.' – he spat out another fluent stream of Apache. 'No more.'

The youth subsided, sulking with displeasure. Arlie turned his attention back to his brother, raining question after question upon him, his last question, significantly, being a casual inquiry about their mother.

Critch replied that he hadn't seen her for years, and that he had no pleasant memories of her. 'I'd rather not talk about her, if you don't mind, Arlie. The past is past, and there's no point in looking back. I've managed to do very well, in spite of everything.'

'A fool could see that,' Arlie smiled warmly. 'Paw'll be plumb proud of you. How come you didn't get off at King's Junction, anyways?'

'We-el' Critch pursed his lips judiciously. 'I had considered it. But I wasn't sure of my welcome, and I saw no reason to go home aside from the sentimental ones.'

'No reason!' Arlie exclaimed. 'Heirin' big in Paw's will wasn't a reason?'

Critch assumed an air of puzzlement, asserting that Old Ike could surely have little or nothing for his sons to inherit.

'Now, I did run into an Osage lawyer over in Tulsa – he appeared to be a pretty good fellow, at first – '

'He wrote Paw about you,' Arlie chuckled. Claimed you stole his wallet.'

'A real shyster,' Critch nodded equably. 'First, he stuck me for almost twenty dollars worth of drinks. Then, he showed up at my hotel the next morning and threatened to make a bad report on me if I didn't pay him five hundred. I told him I didn't care what he did, since I knew that my father was a relatively poor man.'

_'Paw, poor?_ He's got some debts sure, but how come you figured he was poor?'

'Well, he never really owned any land. He had some under lease in the Strip, but most of it he just moved in on, and took.'

'An' he's still got it, too, little brother! Got just what he always had. Them land-openings didn't change a thing with Paw.'

Critch shook his head wonderingly. 'But how in the world…?'

'Let me tell you,' Arlie grinned, and he did so; relating a tale that was already familiar throughout much of the Southwest.

Arlie, Boz and Old Ike had all used their right to stake out homesteads of one-hundred-and-sixty acres. In addition, some fifth of Ike's lighter-skinned Apache followers wearing city clothes had staked out claims of similar size. Like the Kings, however, they had not made the Run, the race for homesteads, but had 'soonered' the land, putting their stakes down on territory which Old Ike had held from the start.

'You know what I mean, Critch? You savvy "sooner"?'

Critch nodded his understanding. A sooner was a person who slipped across the border ahead of the starter's gun. In years to come, it was to become an affectionate second-name for Oklahoma – that is, 'the Sooner state' – as was Jayhawk to become a nickname for Kansas and Cornhusker for Nebraska.

'O' course,' Arlie continued, 'there was a lot of fuss about it. But I reckon you know it'd take more'n fuss to move Paw, an' lucky for him he had the political pull to ride the storm through.'

'Good for him,' Critch murmured. 'But you've only accounted for a few thousand acres, Arlie. How did he recover the rest of his holdings?'

'With money,' Arlie shrugged. 'I mean, he bought up the homesteaders' claims. A lot of 'em didn't have the money to carry them through a bad year, an' had to sell to Paw. The others – well, they got kind of nervous with so many Indians livin' around 'em. Got the idea, somehow, that their scalps might wind up on a pole if they didn't sell. So – '

'I see,' Critch said. 'I think I get the picture.'

'Now, don't get no wrong ideas,' his brother protested. 'Maybe they had a leetle pressure put on 'em, but they all got a fair price for their claims. More'n they were worth in most cases. You wouldn't remember, bein' away so long, but a heap of the land out here just ain't fit for nothing but grazin'. Try to put a plow to it, an it'll blow away on you. Frankly' – he shook his head, troubledly, 'I wish Paw didn't have so danged much land. Wish we had less land, and more money to work it with. I tell you, Critch, I get so damned worried at times that…'

He shook his head again, his voice trailing off into silence. Then, his expression clearing, he said, well, to hell with it.

'You and me'll work things out together, little brother. I couldn't do anything with that God damned Boz, but now that I got him out of the way…'

'Uh – out of the way?' Critch said.

'I killed the son-of-a-bitch. Prodded him into makin' a try for me, and then I gutted him. I just had to do it, Critch. He'd've got me if I hadn't. There was a couple of times when the bastard would've killed me if I hadn't been watching sharp.'

'That sounds like Boz, all right,' Critch nodded. 'He was always mean and sneaky.' And he silently added to himself that the manner of Boz's death was also typical of Arlie. Boz had bitten off far more than he could chew in tying into the middle-brother. Despite Arlie's open countenance and bubbling good humor, he could be deadly hard when he had to be. More importantly, he was smart enough to get away with the results of his hardness – transferring the bee from his own back to his victim's.

As the train poked along through the prairie, Critch nodded and smiled as Arlie rambled on genially. Nodded and smiled without actually listening, slowly coming to a decision in his own mind.

He wasn't going back to King's Junction. With seventy-two thousand dollars in his poke, he didn't need to go back. It was sufficient to support him in luxury to a ripe old age, so he could do quite well without his inheritance from Old Ike. In fact, as Arlie painted the picture, the inheritance was more potential than actual. The King holdings were burdened with debt, and Ike's feudal manner of doing things made that debt doubly burdensome. He, Critch, could easily be a very old man before his potential wealth became a reality. And it was highly unlikely that Arlie would allow him to live to be an old man.

Arlie appeared to like him, and doubtless did. Still, he would regard Critch as a threat – just as he had regarded Boz as one. So…

_He'd be on his home ground, Critch thought. Home for him, and strange territory for me. I don't buck another man's game; I was a sucker to even think of it. Mr. Critchfield King will settle for what he's got, and stay healthy!_

At El Reno, Arlie dismissed the Indian youth with a few silver dollars and a guttural torrent of Apache. Then, grabbing up Critch's bags with his own, he tossed them onto the dray of the town's leading hotel.

'We'll register-in later,' he told his brother. 'Right now, we got to get over to the U.S. Marshal's office.'

'Marshal's office?' Critch blinked. 'What for?'

'So's I can report that little accident that happened to Boz, like I came here to do,' Arlie said. 'What's the matter with you, boy? Ain't you been listenin' to nothing I said?'

'Well, uh – But I've got some business to take care of, Arlie. Suppose I get it out of the way while you see the marshal, and we can – '

'Suppose,' Arlie cut in, 'you come along to the marshal's office with me like you already promised to do. Sort of give me your moral support, as the sayin' is.'

'But – but it's very important that I – '

'Might not be,' Arlie said firmly. 'No, sir, it might turn out a hell of a lot more important for you t'be introduced proper to the marshal. There's a flock of sharpers and high-binders floodin' into El Reno, and a dude-lookin' fella like you could get mistook for one of 'em. Yes, sir,' he added slowly, 'you could get mistook awfully easy, Critch. Wouldn't be at all surprised if you was picked up an' shook down before you'd gone a quarter-mile.'

Critch gave him a sharp look. But if there was a double meaning in his brother's words, a threat, there was nothing to indicate the fact in the latter's expression. Rather, Arlie seemed genuinely concerned for his welfare, anxious that his younger kinsman should get off on the right foot in these new surroundings.

So Critch smiled pleasantly, and told Arlie to lead the way. 'The marshal's office,' he said. 'I'll take care of my business later.' El Reno, the site of the Federal land lottery, rose from the prairie in a conglomerate mass of solid brick and rickety frame buildings, some of one-story and false front, others three or four floors in height; for this was both an old town, as time was measured in the Territory, and a new one. There were even some 'tent buildings' – structures made of canvas stretched over a framework of wood. And sprawling out over the gently rolling grassland, for almost as far as the eye could see, was a chaotic array of tents and shacks thrown up by the newcome settlers.

The dusty streets were choked with covered wagons and drays and buggies, through which saddle-worn horsemen patiently wended their weary way. Most of these last were out-of-work cowhands, uprooted and unwanted as the plough furrowed through their one-time domain of the Cherokee Strip, the Big Pasture and other Territorial lands. Some might still find jobs in Texas, or westward in the states-to-be of Wyoming and New Mexico. (Or perhaps as far north as North-western Nebraska and the Dakotas.) A few, out of hateful necessity, would manage to make the transformation from cowboy to clodhopper. Some would turn outlaw. Some would become peace officers, hunting down the very men they had once worked with and called friend. As for the remainder… well, who knew? What does happen to men who can find no other path for themselves than the one occupied by the juggernaut of an onrushing civilization? To quote from the sardonic philosophy of the times, they were caught ziggin' when they shoulda been zaggin'. They had played the red, and the black came up.

The sidewalks, which were even more jammed than the streets, were of plank and of various levels, according to the whim of the owner of the business establishment upon which they fronted. If he chose to have a porch, the walk rose by steps to become part of it; descending at the porch's end to the entrance level of the adjoining establishment.

'God damn,' said Arlie exultantly, as he lunged through the crowds. 'Didja ever see anything like this, little brother?'

'Like it,' Critch said a little breathlessly. 'But not so much of it.'

'A real piss-walloper, ain't she? A rip-roarin' son-of-a-bitch!'

'If it isn't,' Critch replied, 'it'll do until one comes along.'

Blanket Indians sat with their backs against building fronts, their legs innocently thrust straight out in front of them for the unwary passer-by to trip over. Sunbonneted, gingham clad settlers' wives rubbed shoulders with skimpily-dressed saloon girls. Cowboys brushed against clodhoppers. Indians, merchants, gamblers, drummers (salesmen), clerks, workmen, women of all ages and descriptions; the bountiful, the beautiful, the damned – all were jampacked together in a chaotic, colorful mass.

Drifting out through innumerable swinging-doors, came the aroma of beer, booze and free-lunch, and the muted roar of many sounds. The click of roulette wheels, the rattle of gambling chips; the tinny tinkling of pianos, boisterous shouts and laughter, feminine squeals of protest.

Despite the devil-may-care air of things, the free and-easy atmosphere, there was no sound of gunplay, no sign of brawling. For El Reno was very well policed – as Critch was soon to discover.

It happened as he was passing a saloon, trailing Arlie by a step or two. There was a sudden explosion of yells and curses, the scraping clatter of shattering wood. The whole building seemed to tremble with it. And then out through the swinging doors burst a mass of men, their rush carrying them out into the street and slamming Critch against a hitching post.

Apparently, they had done nothing serious – merely brawled, perhaps – for the two deputy marshals who followed them into the street dismissed them after administering a few judiciously vigorous shakes and slaps. Shaken and furious, Critch picked up his dust-smeared hat; straightened to find himself looking into a pair of amiable but steely eyes.

'Nice day,' the man greeted him pleasantly. 'Mind telling me who you are, mister?'

'You're God damned right I mind!' Critch snarled. 'Who the hell are you?'

'Name's Tilghman, Bill Tilghman.'

The name didn't immediately register on Critch; the fact that this was one of the West's most famous peace officers. He made a profanely filthy suggestion to the man – or rather he started to. The first word or so was barely out of his mouth, when the cold muzzle of a.45 jabbed into his stomach.

'Now, reach!' the officer said. 'Get those hands up!'

Critch got them up, looking around wildly for Arlie. They had become separated in the fracas, and now he could see him nowhere.

The two deputy marshals came back from the street; looked interestedly at Critch. 'What you got here, Bill?'

'Someone with some pretty bad manners, for one thing. Let's see what else he's got.'

'Sure thing.'

The two deputies moved in for a search. Then, just as one stopped to feel Critch's trousers and the other yanked his coat open…

'Hey, there, you fellas! What you doin' to my little brother?'

Arlie pushed through the crowd, dropped a protective arm around his shoulders. Almost faint with relief, Critch heard him say that, sure, this was his brother. Been away from home since he was a kid, but now he was comin' back to stay.

'Mr. Tilghman, this here is – '

'We've met,' Tilghman said, and he turned on his heel and walked away. Critch was introduced to the other two men, Deputy Marshals Heck Thomas and Chris Madsen, who returned his nervously effusive greetings with dry amusement.

'Well, let's see, now,' Arlie said. 'That's about all you fellas, ain't it? No one else that might take Critch for somethin' that he ain't?'

'There's still Jim,' Madsen said. 'He was headin' for the marshal's office the last I saw.'

'Good,' Arlie said. 'That's right where we're goin'.'

As they went on their way, he good-naturedly cursed Critch, inquiring how he had ever managed to live so long with such ostensibly offensive manners; shaking his head to Critch's explanation that the bad jolting he had gotten had caused him to lose his temper.

'Better watch where you lose it from now on, boy,' he said, and Critch meekly promised that he would.

They reached the Federal building, ascended to the marshal's headquarters on the second floor. In the outer office, a heavy-set young man with the profile of McKinley was laboriously filling out a warrant on a rickety typewriter. Arlie introduced him as Deputy Marshal Jim Thompson.

'Ol' Jim used t'be a school-teacher, Critch. His uncle Harry is the marshal here.'

'Neither fact,' Thompson shook hands, smiling, 'having anything to do with my present employment. Incidentally, my full name is James Sherman Thompson.'

'Now, don't that beat all!' Arlie exclaimed. 'Ain't hardly no one in the Territory that ain't a reb, but ol' Jim always mentions his middle name! Probably'll get him killed some day.'

'I doubt that,' said U.S. Marshal Harry Thompson. 'I doubt it very much.'

He stood in the doorway of his office, a tall distinguished-looking man with coal-black hair and eyes, who bore some resemblance to the now-retired outlaw, Frank James. He was well-spoken, immaculately dressed in spotless linen and black broadcloth. For a United States Marshal is a high government official, comparable in rank to a Federal Judge, and not the roughneck two-gun man of popular fiction.

He gave his nephew a look which sent that young man hurrying back to his typewriter, then courteously gestured the King brothers inside. He listened impassively, the tips of his fingers pressed together, as Arlie told of the killing of Boz. When Arlie had at last finished, with a nervous rush of words, the marshal remained silent for a long moment. Then, leaning forward casually, he plucked the knife from young King's boot-top.

'A genuine Bowie, isn't it?' he asked.

'Sure is, Marshal Harry. One that ol' Jim gave to Paw hisself.'

'So you told me,' the marshal nodded. 'And what did I tell you? About bringing weapons into my office, that is?'

'Gosh, Marshal Harry' Arlie ran a nervous finger around his collar. 'I plumb forgot, honest!'

'If you forget again,' Thompson said softly, 'I'm going to be angry with you.'

He flipped the knife suddenly. It landed point down, almost scraping Arlie's booted foot, the haft quivering with the force of the throw. Arlie tugged it out of the flooring, a little pallid beneath his tan. He shoved it as deep down into his boot as he could, making it as inconspicuous as possible.

'Now,' Thompson said, 'I have no doubt that your brother's killing took place exactly as you've told me. It was self-defense. I also have no doubt, however, that it could have been avoided.'

'But the son-of-a-bitch tried t'kill me, Marshal Harry! Been tryin' t'get me for a long time!'

'Was he? Why didn't you report the fact to me?'

'Because it wouldn't've done no good! I couldn't've proved nothin'!'

'You wouldn't have had to. I'm sure a warning from me would have stopped Boz's attempts.'

'But – but, god-dang it, Marshal -!'

'Mmm-hmm. That isn't the King way of doing things, is it?'

'No, it ain't, by God!'

'But it will be from now on,' Thompson said. 'Your father is too old to change, and it's immaterial that he should at his time of life. But you, Arlie, and you too, sir' – he included Critch in his glance – 'you two must mature with this country, come of age with it, or cease to be a part of it. I mean that most sincerely, gentlemen. There will be no more taking of the law into one's own hands at King's Junction. If there is, I'll see to it that the person responsible goes to the gallows. Now, before you leave…

He reached into his desk, took out a 'wanted' circular and passed it to Arlie, explaining that the woodcut pictures thereon had been drawn from descriptions of the criminals, and were probably inexact likenesses.

Arlie let out an appreciative, 'Whoeee!' as he glanced at the circular. Then, frowning with the effort, occasionally faltering over the words, he read its inscription aloud:

'Wanted for murder… Ten thousand dollars reward… Anne an' Eth, uh, Eth-el Anderson, al-alie, uh, a-lias Little Sis and Big Sis Anderson. Last seen near the town of Olathe, Kansas. Approach with caution, as subjects are known to have killed thirty – '

Arlie broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Now, God damn, Marshal Harry! You ain't gonna tell me that these cute little ol' gals killed thirty people!'

'No,' Thompson agreed, 'the figure is incorrect. The bodies of seven more men have been discovered since that flyer was issued. Those two young women ran a roadhouse in Kansas. Any well-heeled male who stopped there was very apt to go no further. One of the sisters took him to bed, and the other one killed him.'

'Holy Jeez-ass! For some o' that it'd damn' near be worth it! But how come I ain't read nothin' about this in the papers?'

Marshal Thompson said that the story had been kept out of the newspapers with their cooperation. It was believed best to let the Anderson women think they were unwanted, meanwhile circularizing inns and other establishments serving the public.

'As we piece the facts together,' he continued, 'Anne – that's the younger one – skipped out on her sister, taking their combined loot with her. Ethel – the older, smarter and harder of the two – apparently is hot on Anne's trail. So if you should encounter one, the other probably isn't far behind.'

'Well, I'll be damned! An' you figure they're here in the Territory?'

'They could be. It would hardly seem a likely place for a fugitive to head for.'

Arlie promised to be on the watch for the murderous Andersons, and handed the circular to the brother.

Critch took it – and stared. *c*

_Why, the bitch had been on the train with them! She'd had to be! Might even have watched while Little Sis got the bone put to her! And the minute he'd stepped out to the platform, and Little Sis had entered the toilet_…

Ann, Little Sis, had known that her sister wouldn't listen to reason. With or without the money, Ethel was sure to kill her. So she'd jumped the train, and Big Sis had pursued her. And what had happened then…

'Yes, Mr. King?' said Marshal Thompson. 'Have you seen those women?'

Critch didn't answer him immediately. Nor did he look up. He was distrustful of his voice, fearful of what might be read from his expression. Not until he was in full control of himself and the marshal had spoken to him a second time, did he raise his eyes and speak.

'I'm not absolutely positive,' he said, his tone indicating a desire for absolute positiveness, 'but I think I may have seen the younger woman.'

'When and where?'

'Well… I'd say it had been within the last month. Just where, I have no idea. It might have been in the Dakotas, Texas, almost anywhere.'

'Texas or the Dakotas?' The marshal's brows went up. 'That's a lot of traveling for one month.'

'I enjoy travel,' Critch shrugged, 'and fortunately I can afford it.'

'Two good reasons for indulging in it,' Thompson nodded. 'Do you have a third?'

'Yes, sir. It's the only way I know of getting from one place to another.'

Arlie broke in with a nervous, 'God damn it, Critch! Don't you sass Marshal Harry!' But Thompson held up a hand, silencing him.

'You seem,' he said to Critch, 'to be somewhat on the defensive, Mr. King.'

'You seem to have put me there, sir. As a man with nothing to hide, I naturally resent it.'

'And as a man with something to hide, the best defense would be a strong offense.'

'Perhaps. You'd know more about that than I would, sir.'

Marshal Thompson nodded equably. Again he placed the tips of his fingers together, creakily rocking back and forth in his swivel chair. 'An attorney acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Al Jennings, once assured me that every man – during his lifetime – breaches the law sufficiently, in one way or another, to earn him a death sentence. Assuming his theory to be true' – the black eyes bored into Critch's face. 'Assuming it – which I don't – would you say that you were an exception to it?'

'Would you?'

'Happily,' the marshal said, 'theoretical issues are not for me to judge nor act upon. On the contrary, I am precluded from dealing with anything but facts. And the fact is, as we both know, that you are not wanted anywhere. Whether you should be is not the concern of the law, but your conscience.'

'My conscience is completely clear, marshal,' Critch smiled.

'Indeed? Then you must stand unique in this very naughty world of ours. But no matter. Through no fault of your own, you got off to a bad start in life. You seem to have survived it well, however, and the book is closed on those means by which you did so. You are in a new country. You are beginning a new life. Make it a good one, Mr. King. Make it a good one. Now, since you're apparently unable to tell me anything useful about the Anderson women…'

He stood up and held out his hand.

The King brothers shook it, Arlie edging toward the door even as he did so. And once out of the office, he hustled Critch toward the nearest saloon, fervently declaring his need for three fingers in a rain-barrel.

'God damn!' he swore, gulping down a tin cup of forty-rod. 'Don't know what there is about that fella that gets me so God damned rattled. Jus' looks at me an' I start shittin' in my pants.'

Critch laughed. 'Why, I thought he was very pleasant.'

'Yeah, you handled him just fine,' Arlie nodded. 'Had me kind of uneasy for a minute, the way you was talkin' up to him, but I reckon you knowed what you was doin'. Got to hand it to you, little brother,' he added admiringly. 'I was sure plenty glad you was with me.'

'So was I. It's always useful to know a man in his position,' Critch said. And he meant every word of it.

His meeting with the marshal had convinced him of the wisdom of steering clear of King's Junction. Or any other place within Thompson's jurisdiction. Otherwise, he would be inviting disaster upon himself. Thus far, he had been extremely lucky, staying out of jail, keeping off the wanted lists. But luck was largely a matter of weighing the odds, and the odds were all against him at King's Junction. Trouble could seek him out there, even though he did nothing culpable himself. With his shady background, of which the marshal obviously had considerable knowledge, he would become immediately suspect in the event of any wrongdoing, regardless of whether he was responsible for it.

His next move, then? Well, not the one he had decided on before meeting the marshal. He had planned to have the bulk of his stolen seventy-two thousand converted into cashier's checks, doing it through a number of banks to avoid attention. Now, even that seemed risky – riskier than keeping the money on him until he could jump to Texas or Kansas or wherever the hell he had to to escape Marshal Thompson's watchful eye.

No one knew that he had such a huge sum on him. Arlie might have learned something via his several bearhugs, enough to make him suspect that Critch had a considerable amount of cash. And Arlie certainly wasn't above stealing, if he considered it safe. But there was a very simple way of protecting himself against Arlie.

He ordered another round of drinks, paid for them from a wallet still modestly fat with the contents of Anne Anderson's purse. They drank, and Critch drew confidentially close to his brother.

'Something I want to tell you, Arlie,' he said, low-voiced. 'I've got quite a bit of money on me.'

'I could see,' Arlie grinned. 'Couldn't help peekin'.'

'More than that. Several thousand dollars. Now, I'd thought about converting it into bank checks. But after all, what's the point? I can put it in Paw's safe as soon as we get to the Junction. Meanwhile, now that you know I've got it and we can both be on the lookout for pickpockets and thieves…'

Arlie's face sagged ludicrously. Critch almost laughed out loud. So the sneaky son-of-a-bitch had planned to steal it! And now he's had his role changed from thief to watchdog!

_But not for long, Brother Arlie. Just until I jump town on you tonight._

'Well, now looky, little brother,' Arlie began uncomfortably. 'I, uh, ain't real sure that, uh – '

'You don't think it's a good idea? Well, maybe you're right. I'll just step over to the bank and buy checks with the money.'

'Well, uh…'

Arlie wasn't sure that that was a good idea either. Naturally stealing checks would do him no good. On the other hand, he obviously had no 'good' ideas of his own, i.e., some scheme for appropriating the prize which he had been nominated to protect.

'Well, all right,' he said, at last, his voice very grumpy. 'But dang it, Critch, you be watchin' out, yourself! That money gets stole off of you, Paw'll nail my hide to the barn door!'

'Oh, I'll be careful,' Critch promised. 'I've always believed that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.'

'You have, huh? Me, I've always believed that shit stinks.'

'Something wrong?' Critch asked innocently. 'Did I say something to offend you?'

Looking back on the moment later, he would curse himself roundly for his smugness; wondering how he could ever have forgotten that Arlie was an expert at dissembling, that the way he acted was not necessarily indicative of the way he felt. At the time, however…

'Shouldn't we be getting checked in at the hotel?' he suggested. 'I'd like to clean up, and get a bite to eat.'

Arlie nodded curtly, and gulped down the rest of his drink. 'Well, let's get goin'. No sense in – ' He broke off frowning, then reached out and plucked at Critch's coat. 'Damned if you ain't bustin' out at the seams, boy.'

'What?'

'Looky,' Arlie pointed. 'Can't see it unless you sorta stretch your shoulders a certain way, but – Why, by damn, there's another place! An' here's another one. An' another one, an' – I never seen nothin' like it! A whole mess of little gapes at the seams, like maybe the threads had been cut.'

Critch looked; turned slowly around to examine himself in the back-bar mirror. He looked at Arlie, now frowning at him in innocent concern.

'That coat's sure one helluva mess, little brother. You suppose maybe you could make the tailor give you your money back?'

'I hardly think so,' Critch said.

'Well, anyways, I sure hope you didn't lose no money out of all them little holes. I sure hope nothin' like that happened.'

'Now, what ever gave you that idea?' Critch said. _'You sneaky son-of-a-bitch!'_

And he suddenly slugged his brother.

That was a mistake, of course. He was simply no match for the brawny, ranch-toughened Arlie. The latter rocked with his blow, absorbing it harmlessly. Then, after a moment of ducking and dodging, of attempting to pacify Critch, he knocked him cold with a single punch.

Arlie picked him up from the floor, draped him across his shoulder. Carrying Critch's hat in his free hand, he headed toward the hotel; stopping once along the way when he was accosted by Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen. Madsen was officially curious about Critch's condition. Arlie said he just couldn't understand it himself.

'Why, we was talkin' and drinkin' just as friendly as you please, when all 't once he tried t' slug me. Called me a real dirty name, too. Hate to think I had a brother that couldn't hold his whiskey, but it sure looks that way, don't it?'

Madsen nodded drily. 'Can't have a King like that, now, can we? But I reckon you'll see to his reformin'.'

'Oh, I will, I will,' Arlie promised. 'Why, I'll bet you won't even know ol' Critch the next time you see him. No, sir, you won't even know him!'

____________________

*Chapter Five*

In the weed-grown right-of-way, Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson found a rusty shovel-blade, its handle broken off, a discard from some section-crew's tool box. With it, she scooped out a grave in the track roadbed, and buried Anne's body deep within it.

It was almost full daylight by the time she had finished. Dusting her hands, she looked around the countryside; at the rutty road on one side of the tracks, the prairie farmland on the other. She decided against the road almost immediately: she had to know where she was going before attempting to go anywhere. A chance to reconnoiter, to think was the first order of the day, and that meant finding a safe place to hole-up.

She leaped the right-of-way ditch, climbed over the two-strand fence. With the nearly flat terrain, she could see for several miles; and her shrewd eyes correctly interpreted what she saw. No smoke came from the chimneys of the house immediately beyond the field in which she now stood, nor was there any sign of life around the several adjacent farm buildings. But she would have known that without looking. The field, with its three-year-old wheat stubble, itself told her that the farm was abandoned.

A sandy-loam soil, repeatedly planted to the same cereal crop. Try that for a few years, and see what happened to your farm!

Ethel and Anne Anderson had been the daughters of a farmer. He had incestuously begun their education in sex, a fact which considerably accounted for their cold-blooded treatment of men in later years. Except for sex he had taught them nothing – unless it was that greed and ignorance are poor tools for a farmer.

Year after year, he had planted the same soil-robbing crops. Ignoring the warnings in the gradually decreasing yields. Fertilizing scantily, if at all; giving the depleted land no chance for restful fallowing. And then, when the once-good earth would no longer bear, he had cursed it for the worthlessness which he himself had brought to it – and begun to cast about for still more land to ruin.

_Well, he'd died happy, Ethel thought grimly. Got the hatchet in his head, right while he was pouring it on Little Sis._

Ethel had planned on going back to farming at some vague time in the future, and Anne had appeared to go along with the idea. Ethel had even decided that their farm – large, well-equipped and completely modern – would be in Oklahoma. The new land offered a good place to lose a bad past. Also, many newcomers would be carrying their fortunes with them. And currency of large denomination – the one kind which would permit a fortune to be conveniently and inconspicuously carried – would not arouse the suspicion in the Territory that it might elsewhere.

With their ultimate goal in mind, Ethel had periodically left the roadhouse for visits to various cities, where the loot which she and her sister had acquired through murder was converted into big bills. It was while she was away on one of these trips that Anne had skipped out, taking their combined swag with her.

By this time, however, following the dictates of her older sister had become second-nature with Anne. She did it unconsciously, without realizing that she was doing it. So inevitably, she had eventually headed into the Territory, just as Ethel had been sure she would. And Ethel had promptly taken note of her arrival in Tulsa – though not, as it turned out, quite promptly enough. That fancy-pants dude had gotten to Little Sis first.

Reaching the yard of the abandoned farm, Ethel drank and washed at the well, then inspected herself as best she could in her small pocket mirror.

Her face, hands and other exposed portions of her body were stained in semblance of a deep tan. Her hair was cropped short. She wore loose-fitting men's clothes – bib overalls and jumper, blue workshirt, and a battered felt hat. To all appearances, she was a casual laborer or farm hand, a role she had successfully played for weeks. A role she would continue to play, until and unless – well, no matter. She would know when the time came.

Revealing herself as a woman was tied-in with finding a satisfactory place to hole-up – plus. A place from which she could safely go about recovering that seventy-two thousand dollars. For never for a moment did she consider not recovering it. Acquiring it had cost more than thirty lives, and she was ready to gamble her own life in getting it back.

Leaving the abandoned farm, she trudged off across the prairie, steering wide of any occupied farms; thinking back on the dude who had bilked Little Sis, and gotten away.

She had seen the guy somewhere before, Ethel was sure. At one time or another, they had been in the same criminal haunt at the same time, and he had been pointed out to her. Not only that but his name had been mentioned – and naturally it wasn't Crittenden, as he had told Little Sis. But it was a similar sounding name. Something like Crissfeld or Crittenwell, or… well, a real fancy handle. Whether it was his first name or last, she couldn't remember. But the other name (whether first or last) had been fairly common; too ordinary to stick in her memory. But if she could just bring it back, associate one name with the other…

_And I will, Ethel confidently assured herself. I'll remember the bastard's right name in full. I'll catch up with him, and he'd better have that money when I do!_

The sun was almost directly overhead when she at last found the kind of place she was looking for. One that seemingly offered not only refuge, but help as well. She studied it from a distance, a farm with well-tilled fields, and substantial outbuildings, but a house that could not possibly contain more than one room. She was too far away to tell much about the farmer, except that he was bearded and somewhat heavyset. Apparently, however, he lived alone – as he had to, for her purposes. So by noontime, after some inner debate, and after he had unhitched his team from their plough and led them into the barn, she had come to a favorable decision about him.

He was in the house eating when she appeared in the doorway, a man in his middle forties with a dull Teutonic face. He stood up, blinking at her stupidly, brushing food from his mouth with a sleeve.

'Yah?' he said. 'Vot iss, mister?'

Ethel laughed, dropping her masquerade huskiness of voice. 'Not mister, honey. You got wife, woman?'

'No got. Vy iss your business?'

'Well, now, you just have a look and see,' Ethel said.

She crossed to a corner of the room, where a strawtick resting on some nailed-together two-by-fours did duty as a bed. Casually, she removed her clothes, stood naked before him.

A glazed look had come into his eyes; a trace of spittle coursed from the corner of his mouth. But he remained cautious.

'Vy?' he said; then, 'How much?'

'No money,' Ethel smiled. 'Nothing that you can't handle.'

'Yah?'

'Yah. So come on and have a sample. I'll clear out afterwards, if you don't want me to stay.'

She stretched out on the bed, opened her arms and legs to him. The farmer – his name was Gutzman – emphatically declared, after an hour's sampling, that he wanted her to stay. He wanted her to stay forever and ever, and he would say nothing of her presence to anyone (no one ever visited him, anyway). And if her brute husband from Nebraska should come looking for her, he, Gutzman, would kill him on the spot.

'Good care I take of you, little Greta,' he promised, hugging her to him. 'Vot you ask, I do.'

He meant it, although she had little to ask of him for the time being. In his attentiveness, his anxiety to please her, she became bored to the point of screaming. But she did not scream, of course, but wisely pretended to reciprocate his feelings. And tasting such wonders as he had never known, as he had believed it impossible to know, Gutzman almost sobbed in gratitude.

He had never experienced love, or even liking. Hungry for talk, he was barred from it by an inability to communicate. So always he was the mute stranger in any group, drinking in the tantalizing words of others. Always, he was the outsider, the man doomed to stand apart from those who talked and laughed. Many times he had tried to become one of them, grinning and nodding hopefully when they cast him a glance. Breathlessly wedging in on their conversation with blurted-out remarks. But his eagerness, his anxiety to please, seemed only to heighten the wall which life had built round him. People drew further away from him, leaving his statements hanging in the air unremarked. Taking little note of his existence, except for sly glances and secretive whispers.

Now, however, everything was different. His little Greta (Ethel) had made it so. Within her loins, he had found far more than release for his pent-up seed. In this, the ultimate gift of her body, there had been reassurance, a bolstering of his ego, an unqualified declaration of his desirability. And Hans Gutzman burst out of his shell to at last become part of life.

After a few days, he could even accept Ethel's acid-edged ribbing without feeling rebuffed. He was a little shocked by her language sometimes, but delightfully so; looking upon it as yet another naughtily charming gift from this woman of all women.

'Take it easy, Gutzy,' she would say, 'you horny old son-of-a-bitch. Those are my tits you're squeezing, not a couple of stacks of cowshit.'

_'Hee, hee!'_ – a shocked giggle from Gutzman. 'You badt girl, Greta. Maybe I spank your bottom, ya?'

'Why not? You've done every other goddamn thing to it.'

'Good badt girl, my Greta. Maybe I saddle horses tonight. Ve take nice ride, yah?'

'Yah. Now you're talkin', Gutzy.'

The horseback rides became nightly occurrences. Sometimes they lasted for hours, Gutzman jabbering on endlessly about the places they passed and the places beyond; who lived here or there or over there. Telling her everything he knew – since she seemed greatly interested – about the various towns and villages.

So, at last, amidst the unsorted dross of his chattering, Ethel found gold. They had ridden unusually far that night, the end of her first week with him. Ethel had become very tired, and Gutzman mistook her weariness for boredom. Thus, fearful as always of losing her, he had humbly apologized for being poor company – for having so little to offer – and promised to relieve the monotony by taking her on a sightseeing trip.

'Not for more than a day it vould be, because of der animals. But ve could – '

'Oh, hell, Gutzy,' Ethel yawned. 'What's there to see around here?'

'Veil – veil, dere is, uh – '

'Yah?'

'Vell, hu – ' Gutzman suddenly brightened, remembering. 'Not so far to der vest, dere is dis very fonny place. It is owned by an old man, a vite man – a beeg ranch, almost a whole county it iss, mit a little town. But dis vite man, only Indians he has to vork for him. Hundreds of vild Indians.'

'Honey,' Ethel said. 'I wouldn't walk across the street to watch an Indian screw himself in the ear.'

'Iss fonny place,' Gutzman insisted. 'Dis old vite man, badt poys, he has. Oh, dey are very mean, dis old man's sons. Already, vun of dem has killed his brother. And now anudder son has come home, so – so, uh, vell – '

'That's funny, all right,' Ethel said. 'I'm weak from laughter.'

'Iss called the Junction,' Gutzman mumbled. 'King's Junction. Der sons are – '

'King!' Ethel exclaimed, suddenly coming alive. 'Critchfield King!'

Gutzman stared at her in the moonlight. At last nodded, frowning suspiciously. 'Yah, dere is a poy named Critchfield. How you know?'

'I guessed it, you potbellied horse's ass!' Ethel laughed gaily. 'I'm the best God damned little guesser in the world.'

'But – guess you could not!'

'I just did, Gutzy. Iss so – yah?'

'No! You lie to me!'

Ethel looked at him coldly. She said, all right, if that was the way he wanted it. 'But if that is the way you want it, Gutzy, you've just lost a bedmate. I'm moving out on you!'

'But – but, liebchick. All I vant iss – '

'All you want,' Ethel said, 'is someone to screw all night, and listen to you all day, yah? And that's what I give you, yah? So if you want me to keep on giving it to you, Gutzy, you'd better pop to. When I tell you something, you'd God damned well better believe it, get me? You do it, or you'll be talking to yourself and skinning your dingus through a knothole.'

'But – but – '

'No buts. You see that thing up there in the sky? You think that's a moon? Well, it's not, Gutzy. It's a solid-gold pisspot. The angels use it whenever they have to take a leak. Iss right, yah?'

Gutzman gulped painfully. He wet his lips, looking at the soft swelling of her breasts as she breathed; at the rich thighs, suggestively spread over the saddle.

'Well?' Ethel said. 'Do you believe me or not? How about it? Are you going to have me or a knothole?'

Gutzman nodded feebly, his voice a mere whisper. 'Yah. I believe.'

'Believe what?'

'Iss – iss no moon. Only solidt-gold pisspot.'

'Good boy,' Ethel smiled approvingly. 'Now, we understand each other.'

'And now you are mine, Greta? Alvays, you vill be mine?'

'Always,' Ethel promised. 'As long as you live…' *b*

His head buried in his hands, Critch sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, grimly wishing that he could bury Arlie's head (preferably in cement, and after severing it from his body), if for no other reason than to stop his brother's endless sympathizing. It was bad enough to have lost the seventy-two thousand dollars. But to have to listen to the woeful mourning of the man who had stolen it from him – well, that was too damned much to bear!

Arlie had been leaving him with sympathy for hours. Ever since he had carried Critch up to his room, and brought him back into consciousness. And how understanding, how forgiving, he had been over Critch's earlier attempt to slug him!

_Now, don't you fret none, little brother. Mighta done the same thing myself. Fella loses a lot o' money, he just naturally strikes out at anything near him._

Critch reached down to the floor for the whiskey bottle; momentarily drowned out Arlie's voice in a long, gurgling drink. The drink emptied the bottle, and he pitched it into the wastebasket where also reposed his ruined coat.

'… awful lotta whiskey this afternoon.' _Arlie again, God damn him!_ 'Why'n't you let me get you somethin' to eat, Critch?'

'No,' Critch said curtly. 'I'll eat when I'm ready.'

'But… well, all right. Reckon I'd feel the same way, in your place.' Arlie shook his head sadly. 'I sure feel sorry for you, Critch. Sure wish there was somethin' I could do for you.'

'I wish there was something I could do for you,' Critch said.

'Y'know,' Arlie continued in a musing tone. 'Y'know what I figure, Critch? I figure that money musta been stolen off of you after we left the marshal's office. Otherwise, Marshal Harry woulda spotted them slits in your coat, and wanted to know what was what.'

'Well? What about it?'

'Well, o' course, we did pass a lot of people between his office an' that saloon. But it does narrow things down a little, don't it? I mean, known' about when you was robbed. So maybe if you was t'go to Marshal Harry an' report the theft…'

His voice trailed off into silence, his eyes sliding away from Critch's bitter gaze. 'Well, uh, maybe,' he resumed, after a moment's silence. 'Maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea after all. Might get yourself tied up in more questionin' than you could get free of in a year o' Sundays. Ol' Harry, he'd probably want to know just how you came by the money an' why a educated fella like you was carryin' it around in cash, an' exactly how much you had, right down t'the last nickle. An' uh – just how much did you have, little brother?'

Critch shot him a furious look; again almost maddened to the point of physical violence. Then, getting control of himself, he decided that Arlie quite likely didn't know the amount of the theft. He didn't, since it would have been highly impractical for him to have stolen the money himself. Instead, he had had that Indian youth steal it – I.K., or whatever his name was – arranging to meet with him later for a division of the money. (A division which would profit the Indian damned little.)

'Yeah, little brother? How much did you say you had?'

Critch hesitated, a vengeful idea coming into his mind. Suppose he told Arlie that the sum was much larger than it was. Arlie would naturally demand that the Indian produce that amount, and when he couldn't – well, all hell would pop, right? That Apache kid was obviously capable of a great deal of nastiness – as, needless to say, was Arlie. And if the two of them should get in a fight –

Huh-uh; Critch mentally shook his head to the notion. Revenge he could do without, at least for the present. His pre-eminent need was the money, and his best chance of getting it back was to have Arlie get it. A friendly Arlie – one who believed that little brother, Critch, was friendly toward him and entirely unsuspecting of his duplicity.

So, now, Critch raised somber eyes to his brother's face; heaved a huge sigh as Arlie prompted him yet a third time.

'Arlie,' he said. 'I'll tell you, but I want you to keep it in strict confidence. I can trust you to do that, can't I?'

'You know you can, boy,' Arlie declared warmly. 'Just you ask, an' that's the way it'll be.'

'I'd rather you didn't even tell Paw. He'd probably get all upset, like old people do sometimes, so why worry him about it?'

'Why, sure, sure. No point to it at all. So, how much…?'

'Seventy-two thousand dollars.'

'Seventy-two thousand dollars,' Arlie nodded. 'Well, now – '

He broke off with a gasp, lurched out of his tilted-back chair. He stared at Critch, mouth working wordlessly. Shakily pointing a finger at him as he tried to find his voice.

'Y-you said… You said – Naw! No, by God!'

'Yes, Arlie. Yes.'

'Holy howling owls! Where did you get – ' He broke off, again; stared at Critch in open admiration. 'Critch, boy, I got to hand it to you! Gettin' yourself a whole seventy-two thousand dollars and without gettin' yourself wanted. That's right, ain't it?' he added, a trifle anxiously. 'You ain't wanted? Ain't no one comin' after you for that money?'

Critch shook his head. 'No one,' he said. 'I'm in the clear.'

'No one at all?' Arlie insisted. 'You're sure of it?'

'Positive. I wish I was even a tenth as sure of getting the money back.'

Arlie mumbled commiseratingly. He said that maybe he ought to be sort of looking around for the lousy, lowdown thief. Might just get lucky and run into him.

'Meantime,' he said, putting on his hat. 'Don't you worry none about havin' a stake to go home on. I'll see t'that, and you can count on it!'

'Yes?'

'You know. You know how danged funny Paw is. Show up there without a nice little stake, two-three thousand dollars, anyways, he'd figure you was a bum. So, by gollies, I'll get you the money, little brother! I know my way around this town, an' I got plenty of friends here. So I'll get it, one way or another.'

Critch murmured his thanks; said he would never forget the favor. His situation suddenly looked brighter to him. Several thousand dollars spent in the right places would practically guarantee his recovering the money. It would take time, of course. He would have to do some traveling, make certain arrangements with certain people; so, naturally, he could not return to the Junction with Arlie. But that was all right. He'd leave a note for the latter, regretfully explaining that he had doubted his ability to adjust to ranch life after so long an absence, and was thus going his own way, gladly forfeiting any claims to an inheritance in favor of his beloved brother. Old Ike would be disappointed, and Arlie might be suspicious for a time. But –

'… be on my way, Critch, boy,' Arlie was saying, as he started toward the door. 'Now, how about somethin' t' eat, huh? Want me to send you up some supper from the dinin' room?'

'Fine, fine!' Critch smiled. 'Have to get myself straightened out if I'm seeing Paw tomorrow.'

'No ifs about it,' Arlie declared. 'Said I'd get you a nice stake t'go home on, an' I'm gonna do it. So you just eat an' get yourself a good night's sleep, an' I'll see you in the morning.'

'Morning?' Critch said. 'B-but – but – '

'Yeah?' Arlie looked at him curiously. 'What's the matter, little brother? No need t'be botherin' you before morning, is there?'

'No need to! But – but what about the money you were getting for me?'

'What about it? You got plenty for anything you need tonight. Soon as we're on the train in the mornin' I'll give you the other; enough to put you on the good side of Paw.'

'B-but – '

'But what? You sure wouldn't want a lot of money on you overnight, would you?' Arlie frowned. 'That wouldn't make no sense at all, it seems to me. You get yourself robbed again after me gettin' you up a new stake, you'd really be out of luck.'

Critch stared at him helplessly, trying to frame some plausible protest; some reasonable objection to his brother's reasoning. There was, of course, none to find. He had been out-thought just as he been outfought. And fraud having failed him, he had nothing to lose by frankness.

'Arlie,' he said quietly, 'why do you want me to come back to the Junction?'

'Why?' Arlie said. 'Well, now, why wouldn't I want you to? After all, we're brothers – '

'We're also Kings. King brothers, Arlie.'

'Well,' Arlie hesitated. 'I reckon we are a little different from other folks. But – '

'We're different all right. It was bred into us. Paw was more savage than civilized. Between him and Tepaha we were raised to believe that it was all right to do almost anything as long as you got away with it. As for our mother… well, she wound up selling her ass to all comers. Selling it or giving it away; she really didn't seem to care which.'

Arlie let out a guffaw. 'No kiddin'? Well, she was built for it, as I recall. All ass and no brains? Why, I remember one time when – uh – Well, never mind,' he concluded uncomfortably. 'Reckon it ain't really right t'be dirty-talkin' our own Maw.'

'But it's appropriate for a King. Right and wrong don't enter into the picture. So I'll ask you again, Arlie. Why do you want me at the Junction?'

Arlie said he just did, that was why. What was so God damned strange about wanting your own brother with you?

'Maybe we got kind of twisted as kids. Maybe we done plenty of wrong things in our lives. But we can change, can't we? Nothin' that says we got to keep on goin' the way we started out.'

'Forget it,' Critch said. 'Forget that I asked you.'

'But – well, dammit, I need you, boy! The ranch is just too big a job to handle by myself.'

'And I'll be a great help, won't I?' Critch shook his head cynically. 'A city dude – a man who hasn't even sat on a horse in years. Any twenty-a-month cowhand would be ten times as helpful as I would.'

'But he wouldn't be a King! Just wouldn't be fittin' to have no one else but a King runnin' things.'

'Whatever you say, Arlie,' Critch shrugged. 'Whatever you say.'

He yawned elaborately, stretched out on the bed with his hands under his head. He closed his eyes, with a murmur of apology; opening them for a moment with apparent surprise at finding Arlie still present.

'Something else?' he said.

'You're God damned right there's something else! I tell a fella somethin', I don't want him callin' me a liar!'

'Oh, I don't blame you,' Critch said earnestly. 'I've never liked it either. Of course, there is a way of avoiding it…'

He allowed his voice to trail off into silence, giving his brother a look of preternatural solemnity. Arlie scowled furiously, started to say something, then turned to the door and yanked it open. On the point of slamming it, he turned again and faced his brother. Grinning good-naturedly; his expression more or less back to normal.

'All right, little brother. All right. I just might have another reason for wantin' you back at the Junction.'

'You just might,' Critch agreed.

"Course, I ain't sayin' that that is the reason. But it might be I'd feel a lot safer that way. Might figure it'd be a lot easier to look out for you, if I knew exactly where to look out.'

'There's another side to that coin, of course.'

'Meanin', the more distance there was between us the safer I'd be?' Arlie shook his head, grinning. 'Huh-uh, little brother. Huh-uh. Because I know something about you that you don't even know yourself.'

'Such as?'

'Such as somethin' you can't do. Oh, you think you can. Prob'ly thought about doin' it plenty of times. Prob'ly even planned t'do it. But it's God danged lucky you never tried, because you couldn't no more do it than you could rub your ass an' your elbow at the same time. An' the reason I know you can't do it is because I can an' I know what it takes. An' you ain't got what it takes, little brother. You just ain't got it.'

'I ain't got what it takes,' said Critch, 'to do what?'

'To kill. You could maybe hire it done. I figure you maybe might hire it done if you was in the proper fix t'do it. So… 'Arlie's drawl faded off into the silence, his grin dying with it. And once again he became the concerned big brother, the doer of good deeds. 'So,' he resumed slowly. 'So I reckon it's a plumb fine idea for you to come back to the Junction with me, Critch. Don't you? Don't you reckon it's just about the finest idea a fella ever had?'

Critch nodded dully. 'Plumb fine,' he said.

____________________

*Interlude*

_Arlie went to I.K.'s sleazy hotel around midnight. The Indian youth had a half-breed whore with him, but he had remained dressed in anticipation of young King's visit; and he promptly handed over a sheaf of thousand-dollar bills as soon as he had dismissed the naked girl. Arlie counted the money; emitted an awed whistle of appreciation. 'God damn! A whole ten thousand dollars, huh?'_

_'I steal good, yes?' I.K. beamed modestly. 'Do plenty all right for my ol' frien', Arlie?'_

_'Uh-hah, plenty,' Arlie drawled. 'Kinda puzzlin', though. I coulda sworn that Critch had maybe a dozen packets of dough stashed in that coat of his instead of just one.'_

_'Did have,' I.K. nodded promptly. 'I get bank to cash into t'ousand-dollar bills. Make easier to carry, you know.'_

_Arlie said that that had been real smart of him. And kinda dumb of the bank, when you come to think of it. 'They didn't ask you no questions, huh? Didn't want to know how come a God damned greasy-assed Injun kid like you got himself so much money?'_

_I.K. made a sudden dive for the door. Arlie caught him, and twisted an arm behind his back. Not until the Apache youth was on the verge of having his shoulder dislocated, did he at last gasp out a confession. 'Up there! Behin' chimney hole!'_

_Arlie pried loose the flowered-tin cover of the chimney outlet, and scooped the money out onto the bed. Counting it methodically he discovered the amount to be a hundred dollars short of seventy-two thousand. I.K. sulkily explained the shortage. 'Cash bill with dirty 'ief bartender. Give me thirty dollars for hundred.'_

'Thirty dollars, huh?' Arlie said, taking out his wallet. 'Well, here's thirty more for you. You be real careful with your spendin', an' you can live on it for quite a while.'

_I.K. cursed him vilely. 'God damn you, ol' Arlie! You promise me half!'_

Arlie said, well, that made them both pretty sneaky, didn't it? Anyway, he continued, it would do the youth no good if he was given all the money. It would go into the pockets of smarter thieves, and he would go into jail in less than a week.

I.K. cursed him at length. He pleaded. Abruptly, he attempted an attack. The cursing and begging accomplished nothing, of course. Anticipating the attack, Arlie fended it off with a suddenly outthrust boot, the spur of which ripped the Apache's pantsleg from top to bottom.

Arlie whooped with laughter at sight of the ruined trousers. I.K. continued to scowl and curse for a time, then joined in the laughter. Arlie took a pint bottle from his hip pocket, and they drank together. Friends, to all appearances.

_To all appearances_…

_For it was not the Apache way – it was not I.K.'s way – to betray one's intentions with a display of enmity._

____________________

*Chapter One*

In her room at the King's Junction ranchhouse-hotel – the room which she had formerly shared with her late husband, Boz – Joshie King drew the window shade tight, stealthily lit the coal-oil lamp and stood facing the mirror. Naked, she shivered a little with the early morning chill; shivered also with the tantalizing, demanding urge which had seethed through her plump little body since the day, three weeks before, when she had seen Critch for the first time. _God damn, she thought,_ thinking the words with the complete innocence with which she would have spoken them, without reference to their meaning. _God damn, he pound my stuff plenty soon, I betcha! That Critch, he screw me good!_

Placing her hands behind her head, she examined her armpits – entirely hairless now, painfully denuded a hair at a time. She had seen pictures of bare-shouldered women, women in evening gowns; deciding, after the closest scrutiny, that they had no hair in the pits of their arms. She was not sure whether they were born that way, or whether they had achieved the condition themselves. But she was sure that such swell-lookin' women, with all their little niceties, were the kind that would appeal to a swell-lookin' fella like Critch. And she was prepared to go to any lengths to make herself like them.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, and looked thoughtfully down at herself. Despite her tightly plaited hair, with its concomitant tightening of her facial tissues, her brow puckered in a puzzled frown.

Well, she thought, were they or weren't they? Were those swell-lookin' women only hairless between their arms, or was the area surrounding their stuff also without hair?

There was no way of knowing, she guessed. Despite her most earnest searching, she had been unable to find a picture of a woman – swell-lookin' or otherwise – in the nude.

Joshie scowled, pondering the riddle. Then, hesitantly, her hand went to her crotch, and she began a half-hearted plucking of its tightly curled hair. She ceased almost as soon as she began. It hurt too God damned much, and it also impinged upon a practice which was strictly tabu.

At any rate, what did it matter, what did it really matter whether she was haired or hairless there? Critch had been pleasant to her since his return to the Junction three weeks before, but he had carefully avoided anything resembling an overture either on his part or hers.

That he wanted her, she was sure. Wanted her as badly as she wanted him. But he definitely did not want, and was determined not to have, the inevitable result of an intimate relationship.

Critch would have great plans for the future. A swell-lookin' fella like Critch would have to have. And there would be no room in such plans for an Apache bride.

He would have no squaw for a wife, not Critch King. He wouldn't, because he had no intention of staying here on the ranch a day longer than he had to. Joshie was sure of it. Everyone else apparently thought otherwise, including Old Uncle Ike and Old Grandfather Tepaha. But Joshie knew better. She had had more opportunity than anyone else to observe Critch, to study his attitude and read between the lines of his speech. And she knew._

Bleakly, she turned despairing eyes upon the mirror, looking into it and beyond to a future of loveless emptiness.

There could be no man for her but a King. This was so, a fact accepted by all. Something that could not be changed, and which she could not contemplate changing.

She would have Critch or no one. And she could not possibly have Critch. Unless…

_What if his life depended upon her?_

_What if she had certain information which could compel him to marry her?_

She glanced toward the window; noted, in the thin margin between casing and shade, a grayish adulteration of the darkness which presaged dawn. Arlie and her sister, Kay, Arlie's wife, should be awake by now. Awake and talking. That much Joshie knew from her past eavesdropping outside their door. And while she had learned virtually nothing that was of use to her, nothing that she could piece together into the complete and conclusive, she had heard enough to be tantalized. For one thing – one very important thing – she had become reasonably certain that Kay was suspicious of Critch's intentions toward Arlie. And Kay's suspicions, Joshie knew, were not likely to remain merely that. Sooner or later – very, very soon, in all likelihood – Kay would see to it that they were translated into action.

It had been so with Boz.

It would be so with Critch.

_And, by God, she God damn well better not! Joshie thought hotly. Critch gonna be my ol' husband!_

Still, and despite what she herself was sure of, Joshie had no concrete proof. Most of what she knew was merely instinctive, knowledge born of knowledge of her sister rather than what her sister had said. Kay had said nothing which could be pointed to as evidence, and Arlie had said even less. And until they did say something utterly damning and incriminating, and impossible to explain away…

Joshie stood up. She pulled a short cotton shift over her head, a garment made of flour sacks. Silently, she left the room, crossed the hall to the door of her sister and brother-in-law. She sank to her knees, then lay flat on her stomach on the carpet runner, her ear pressed tightly against the aperture at the base of the door.

A strong draft swept through it: their window was open, and a morning breeze was sweeping across the room, sweeping the room's sounds before it to the tensely listening Joshie.

She could hear everything as clearly as though she were in the room with Kay and Arlie. But all she could hear for a time was the measured creaking of the bed, and the quickening tumult of copulation to climax.

Then, after a period of contented quiet… *b*

Arlie withdrew from his wife's full body; flopped down on his back at her side. 'Now, by God,' he declared, 'that's what I call a prime piece of meat! The more I get, the better it gets.'

Kay giggled, pleasedly, then suddenly made herself silent and drew slightly away from him. Arlie asked what the hell was the matter with her. Kay said there was no point in telling him. After all, she was only his wife, and a person of no consequence. Arlie let out a groan.

'Now, God damn it, ol' squaw -!'

'See? What I tell you?' Kay demanded. 'I tell you something for your own good, an' – '

'Well, I ain't gonna tell you nothing for your own good,' Arlie asserted. 'I'm gonna do something! Just one more God damned word out of you about Critch, an' I'm – '

'Hokay, hokay,' Kay shrugged. 'I not say one more God damn word. But by God, maybe some day you wish I had, I betcha.'

Arlie said, 'Oh, shit!' very loudly. There was a considerable silence after this, as Kay assumed an attitude of haughty hurt. At last, Arlie gave one of her breasts an affectionate pinch, and asked her why such a pretty little squaw had to be such a big horse's ass.

'I'm tellin' you, honey. I've said it before an' I'll say it again. Ol' Critch, he couldn't kill a baby chigger if it was chewin' his dong off.'

'Ho!' sniffed Kay. 'So you say, an I say how come? He a King, ain't he? You kill, ol' Boz kill, ol' Uncle Ike kill. All Kings plenty mean sonsabitches. All killers. So how come not Critch?'

Arlie wet his lips hesitantly. 'I don't know why,' he admitted. 'But I still know it. Maybe he got away from here young enough, so's he growed up different. Anyways, it just ain't in him t'kill no one.'

'Then, how he get all that money? You t'ink maybe some one jus' give it to him?'

'God damn it, don't you listen to nothin' I say? I told you Critch wasn't a killer. Which don't mean that he ain't the smoothest, sneakiest, crookedest son-of-a-bitch that ever come down the pike.'

'So he crooks somebody for money. Beeg, beeg money like U.S. treasury department, an ol' Critch he get it. Fool people plenty.'

'That's for sure, ol' squaw.'

'Critch plenty good foolin' people. Maybe so he fool you.'

'Oh, for shit's sake -!' Arlie slapped his forehead. 'I'll tell you who he fooled! Some God damn stupid woman like you!'

The outburst was purely retaliatory, its substance mere irritation. Not until the words were out of his mouth, did he consider their portent; that what he had said in thoughtless anger was quite likely true.

_By God, it made sense, didn't it? Lacking the guts to kill, Critch would logically choose women to victimize. He had screwed some woman for the seventy-two thousand; doubtless screwed her literally as well as figuratively._

What woman would be carrying so much cash? Why hadn't she appealed to the law, thus making Critch a wanted man – which he definitely was not?

The answer came to Arlie almost simultaneously with the question. The woman hadn't kicked because she couldn't. She was wanted herself. And…

_Those Anderson sisters! Critch had almost stared a hole in the wanted posters on them. Looked at 'em so long that Marshal Thompson had been half-way suspicious. And ol' Critch had covered up pretty well, being such a smooth, sneaky bastard. But still – _

Had Critch swindled both of the sisters or only one? How had he, no killer, managed to rob a woman (or women) who killed for a living?

'… well. Well?' Kay's voice cut in on his thoughts. 'You answer me, ol' Arlie!'

Arlie yawned elaborately, mumbled that he must have dozed off for a minute. 'What the hell you jabberin' about now?'

'I say,' repeated Kay firmly, 'that everyone kill sometime, 'bout something, even ol' Critch. Right now, he t'ink maybe he get money back, so he don't do nothin'. But he find out money gone, zzzzt, you be dead, ol' husband.'

Arlie groaned. Silently cursed himself for telling her about the money, and deciding to be very cautious in confiding in her henceforth.

'Ol' Uncle Ike, he like Critch better'n you. Maybe so some day Critch own ranch, an' you be up shit creek.'

Arlie grunted that she had obviously been up the creek herself and swallowed too much of its contents. 'Critch is just someone new for Paw to talk to, an' he ain't seen Critch since he was a kid. Soon as the newness wears off he'll be just as rough on Critch as he is on everyone.'

'Ho,' said Kay.

'Ho, ho!' said Arlie.

'Ol' Uncle Ike, he buys skinny cigars Critch like. He buy special extra fine whiskey Critch like. An' all the time, he make talk with Critch. Ol' Uncle Ike, he say, Arlie, go do this, do that; I will talk with Critch.'

'But God damn it, I just got through telling you -! I mean, uh, if you didn't keep your jaw goin' all the time like the clatter-bone in a duck's ass, an' I ever got a chance to think -!'

Kay turned on her side, pulled his head against her breast and gave him a motherly caress. She kissed him gently, softly stroking his hair; holding him protectively close. Of course, he should think, she said; and whatever he thought would be right, because he was her ol' Arlie an' he always knew what was best.

Arlie sighed, a mixture of contentment and protest. 'I thought you'd changed your mind about Critch. Thought you had him tabbed for Joshie's man.'

'Did,' admitted Kay. 'But that before I see danger. Mus' take care of husband first. Ol' Joshie, she do same thing with Critch. Ol' Boz no God damn good or she take care of him, too.'

Arlie hesitated.

'Well,' he said. 'I guess there's no hell of a big hurry about Critch. Nothin' I got to rush into.'

'You no think so, Arlie? My ver', ver' smart ol' husband he really think there no hurry?'

There was an insidiously incredulous note to her voice; a note of stunned astonishment. Thus, a mother might address an adult son who has just wet his Sunday britches.

'Well, but, looky,' Arlie squirmed. 'Marshal Thompson already put me on warning, an' he damn well meant what he said. I go for Critch, Marshal Thompson gonna be comin' for me!'

'Maybe so Critch have accident,' Kay suggested smoothly. 'Critch have accident not your fault.'

'Well,' Arlie said. 'Well…'

'My ol' Arlie, he plenty sneaky devil,' Kay said flatteringly. 'He fix up plenty bad accident on ol' Critch, an' nobody prove it not accident. I know, by God!'

She kissed him again. Resumed her hypnotic stroking of his head. But Arlie was not yet won over. Or if he was, he did not say so.

He flung back the covers suddenly, and swung his feet to the floor.

'Time to get up,' he announced. 'Pile out, ol' squaw.'

He stood up, began pulling on his clothes.

Outside the door, Joshie also stood up and silently returned to her room. *c*

In his room, Critch King also began dressing; now and then wincing or stifling a groan as his movements twisted some saddle-tortured muscle or joint. His first week had been pure murder for him. Every day he had silently sworn that he could not take another day. Every morning it had been a monumental struggle to get out of bed, and he had had to fight to keep from begging off for the day. He had mustered up the strength and courage to resist such an admission of weakness only because he had to. For despite the surprising amiability – even favoritism – which his father had shown toward him, he well knew Old Ike's detestation of weakness. Ike simply would not tolerate it in a son, any more than he would have tolerated improvidence. And since Critch had to remain at the Junction, at least until he recovered his stolen money, and he could only remain there by living up to the old man's standards – well, somehow he had done it. He had never thought he could, but he had. And now, after three weeks, what had once seemed unbearable was now merely difficult, and less and less difficult with each passing day.

In the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, he studied himself in the dresser mirror; felt a kind of abashed pride at the change in his appearance. The normal olive pallor of his face had given way to heavy tan. He had gained weight; even his shoulders appeared to have broadened. His clothes, garments virtually identical with those worn by Tepaha, Arlie and Ike, now fitted him snugly whereas they had originally seemed to hang on him.

He glanced down at his hands, grinned sourly at their appearance. They were calloused, stiff, the nails torn and stubby. But, never mind. Money and time would take care of such trifles. He would have the first and hence the last as soon as he had evened the score with Arlie. For the time being, he must move slowly. Giving Arlie time to become unwary and let his guard down; working to ingratiate himself even further with Old Ike; getting into the good graces of everyone who might later prove useful to him.

All he had to do was what he had been doing. Work – and wait for opportunity to reveal itself. And for seventy-two thousand dollars he was prepared to work and wait indefinitely.

Critch finished dressing, putting the final touch to his costume by tucking a knife into his boot-top. The knife was expected of him, and he was doing what was expected. Also, he had been practising with it at night. Shadow-fighting before the mirror until he was too exhausted to make another feint.

It could come in very handy some day. He just might give Brother Arlie the surprise of a lifetime.

Taking a final look at himself, Critch lounged near the door, waiting for the sound of the others emerging from their rooms. Meanwhile, speculating on just where Arlie had hidden the money.

He was confident that Arlie had not left it in El Reno, but had brought it back to the ranch with him. For once, on the return trip to the Junction, Arlie had left him alone in their stateroom for a few moments, and Critch had seized the opportunity to search his brother's carpetbag. And buried at the bottom of it, beneath several articles of clothing, was a heavy steel box.

It was a brand-new box, with the El Reno merchant's price tag still on it. Shaking it, Critch had heard a telltale rustling, a softish series of thuds from within. He was debating what to do – whether to take the box and risk leaping from the window – when he heard Arlie at the door. So he had hastily jammed the receptacle back where he had gotten it, and reclosed the carpetbag. And that had been his last chance to recover the money.

For the rest of their ride, Arlie had ridden with his feet on the bag, or taken it with him whenever he left the stateroom.

Now, Critch heard familiar sounds in the hallway, and he stepped out into it. He said good-morning to Arlie, nodded at Kay and gave a warm smile to Joshie. Then, the four of them started down the stairs, Arlie and Critch in front, Kay walking behind her husband and Joshie behind Critch.

They were nearing the foot of the staircase when there was a scurrying scuffle, an angrily sibilant whispering from the two girls. Arlie whirled around, gave each a long slow look. But their round dolls' faces with the preternaturally widened eyes were prim masks of innocence. So the descent continued, and the foursome continued on into the bar where Tepaha and Ike awaited them.

Drinks were poured for the men, Critch's from a special bottle which Arlie stared at meaningfully. They toasted each other silently, tossed down the liquor at a gulp; thudded their glasses back to the table. Old Ike hoisted himself up from his chair, turned to lead the way into the dining room. And Kay suddenly let out a yell.

'Ouch! God damn, plenty ouch, by God!'

Simultaneously, she began to hop about on one moccasined foot, clutching the other in her hands.

Tepaha leaped forward. Grabbing her shoulders, he gave her a vigorous shake; demanded the reason for her outrageous breach of decorum.

'Speak, witless girl! Stop dancing like crazy chicken and explain, or I slap you loose from pants!'

Kay gingerly lowered her foot to the floor, looked murderously at her sister.

'Ol' Joshie stamp on my foot, Grandfather. Hurt like hell.'

'So!' said Tepaha, turning ominously to Joshie. 'Did you stamp on your sister's foot? _Did you?'_

Joshie nodded nervously, sullenly, adding that Kay had invited the attack.

'Ol' Kay say mean things, Grandfather Tepaha. I try to make her stop, but she keep on.'

'That is no excuse,' Tepaha declared sternly. 'One wrong does not right another.' He hesitated, one hand drawn back. 'What were these mean things?'

'Well – ' Joshie fidgeted, her eyes downcast. 'She say – she say – '

'Speak quickly, foolish child!'

'S-she say… she – ' Joshie's voice suddenly strengthened, blurting out the words. 'She say I want ol' Critch to fock my possy! She say my possy no good, so he no fock me!'

Tepaha blinked, let out a stunned grunt. He looked at Ike, a look that silently appealed for help. But his old friend had averted his eyes, and was convulsed by a spasm of coughing.

Helplessly, Tepaha shifted his gaze back to Joshie. 'Such words are spoken only between man and woman,' he said. 'Privately. You will have to be punished.'

His arm arced for a slap. Critch spoke up quickly.

'Pardon me, Grandfather, but Kay spoke the words first. Joshie only repeated them at your request.'

'Well – ' Tepaha hesitated; nodded. 'You speak truth, Critch. Stand forward, Kay.'

'Now, just a God damn minute!' Arlie snapped. 'What about Joshie stomping on Kay's foot? What about that, huh? And' – glaring at Critch. 'Just where the hell you get off buttin' into this? You got nothin' to say about Kay or Joshie neither! She ain't your squaw.'

'Now, Arlie,' Critch said mildly. 'After all, fair is fair – '

'Fair is shit! If Kay gets slapped, then by God Joshie gets it! It's both of 'em or neither!'

Tepaha's face hardened. Arlie put a protective arm around Kay, and Joshie moved closer to Critch. Silence fell over the room as one stubborn glare locked with another. Then, old Ike found his voice, declared firmly that the matter was to be dropped.

'Not another God damn word out o' no one, or by God I'll do a hell of a lot more than slap! Now, they's work to be done an' breakfast t'be et before, so let's get at it.'

He led the way into the dining room.

Tepaha stalked behind him, after a stern glare at the four young people.

Arlie followed, followed by his wife. Critch, trailed by Joshie, entered last. As, of course, was proper for the youngest son.

The meal was a huge one, consisting mainly of meat: steak, pork chops and ribs, slices of venison roast. Along with the meat, there were eggs, cracked-corn porridge, stewed dried fruit, biscuits, cornbread and buckwheat cakes. There was milk also – canned milk. As on many ranches, even today, all effort was concentrated on the production of beef. A cow's milk went to suckle her calf, without a drop's diversion to human beings.

The meal was cooked, and also served, by squaws; kinswomen, by blood or marriage, to the workmen in the Junction's several business establishments: the blacksmith shop, the feed and grain store, and the general store.

There was virtually no talk at the table, everyone emulating Ike and Tepaha in disposing of as much food as possible in the time allotted for breakfast. Critch had failed to do this, in the beginning; fastidiously picking at his food, and feeling a little ill at the gorging of the others. The result was that he had almost collapsed from weakness in midmorning. And by the time the sun was directly overhead, signalling the lunch hour, he had toppled rather than climbed down from his saddle.

At last, Old Ike glanced at his turnip-like watch, belched heavily, and shoved back his plate. Tepaha also belched and leaned back from the table. In short, the meal was over.

Ike caught Arlie's eye, and nodded to him. 'You an' Kay go saddle up. You're gettin' a late start this mornin'.'

'Me an' Kay again, huh?' Arlie scowled. 'How come it ain't never Critch and Joshie.'

Ike ignored him, turning to Joshie. 'Go bring Critch's bottle, an' some of his seegars. We got talk to make.'

Joshie said, 'Yes, Old Uncle,' and scurried away, giving her sister a triumphant sneer. Still ignoring Arlie, Ike spoke to Critch: How did Critch feel about ranch work by now? Was everyone treatin' him all right? Was there anything he needed? Critch murmured appropriate replies, nervously aware of his brother's displeasure. Arlie flung back his chair suddenly. He stamped out of the room, moving so fast that Kay was forced to run to keep up with him.

'So everything's goin' all right?' Ike asked, as Joshie poured after-breakfast drinks. 'Any questions about the work or anythin'?'

'None so far,' Critch smiled. 'None, that is, that Arlie hasn't been able to answer.'

'They's maybe plenty Arlie can learn from you. You figure he needs to know somethin', you speak up.'

Critch nodded, without the slightest intention of carrying out his father's order. Arlie's hurt pride and huffiness must not be turned into anger. Moreover, he could hardly suggest improvements in a routine which, while arduous, was the essence of simplicity.

The day's work consisted of merely visiting the holdings of one Apache tenant after another. At each place, Arlie and Critch consulted with the head of the family, inquiring into his progress, taking note of his needs and offering such advice as seemed indicated. Meanwhile, Joshie and Kay performed much the same chore for the household's womenfolk.

'Lessee, now,' Old Ike rumbled. 'The four of you is still ridin' together, right? Maybe you ought to be splittin' up into twos, so's you could cover more ground.'

'Well…' Critch hesitated. 'If you think I'm ready…'

Ike said it wasn't what he thought, but what Critch thought that mattered. 'Make up your own mind,' he added, hoisting his heavy body from his chair. 'Now, you better be skedaddlin' out o' here.' *d*

Old Ike and Old Tepaha retired to the bar room for a time, each napping briefly, head on chest, though both would have denied it. They awakened simultaneously, and went for a highly critical tour of the Junction's commercial facilities. It was nearing train time by then, so they walked down to the depot. The agent-telegrapher, a half-breed who lived primitively on the premises, treated them to coffee and amiable insults. In the distance, the train hooted its approach and they went outside to greet it.

It came and went, leaving not an iota of mail. Not a single dun or notice of creditor's judgement. It had been so for many days now, more days than Old Ike's memory – a memory that was responsive only to things in the distant past rather than the immediate – could accurately recall.

With relief and puzzlement, he pondered the riddle aloud.

Tepaha declared that the answer was simple. 'All bad men. Bad men make bad enemies. Maybe so all get killed, I betcha.'

'All 't once? That don't make sense.'

'Huh! What makes sense, then, you so God damn smart?'

'Well… I reckon they just figured I was an A-1 honest fella that wasn't out to beat no one for his money – like they'd've knowed in the first place if they had any God damn sense – so they ups and decides t'stop pesterin' me.'

'Ho! You one crazy shit, ol' Ike.'

'What's crazy about it, you dried up ol' son-of-a-bitch?'

'Huh! I say maybe all get killed, all 't once, you say don't make sense. You say all get nice-nice all 't once, I say you don't make no sense. Same God damn thing, by God, only I smarter'n you. Enemies like fleas on dead dog. No nice-nice never. Bite him till he dies.'

Arguing crotchetily, the two old men walked back toward the hotel. And at last Ike yawned, losing interest in the discussion. Ending it with the statement that he was content with the fact that his creditors were leaving him alone, and he didn't care a cow turd why they were doing it.

'Now' – he suppressed another yawn, turning into the hotel's bar, 'we'll just have ourselves a little drink, an' then I'm goin' up to my room. Got some plannin' I got to do.'

'I also have plans to make,' Tepaha declared with great dignity, 'and must do so in my room.'

They drank.

They went up the stairs together. Each leaning slightly against the other, each supporting the other with his body.

At the head of the stairs, they stood panting for a time. Then, as they trudged slowly down the hall toward their rooms and beds, Tepaha addressed his friend. Speaking in Spanish as do all wise men when treating of delicate and painful matters.

'Great evil may derive from one pure in heart. He is blind to the mottled snake in the corn rows.'

'And kindness can be as a dagger,' Ike nodded. 'Tell me thou, what is in thy heart?'

'So. Then I tell you that you are creating bad blood between your sons. In clutching Critch too closely to your bosom, you are thrusting Arlie aside.'

'This… this I know.' Old Ike bowed his head. 'It is something I cannot help.'

'Cannot? Cannot becomes unbelievable on the lips of Old Ike King.' Tepaha hesitated. 'Is it because of her? You see her image in Critch?'

'Perhaps. But I see much more than that. I see a small boy thrust away from me when I should have held him closely to my heart. The time I have to spend with him does not equal the years that I spent without him.'

'But, Ike, my dear friend – '

'No. I cannot change what I was, friend Tepaha, and I cannot change what I am. Nor what I do. The heart is its own master, O, Tepaha, and you have entered a room where only I can dwell. Leave now, and do not return.'

'It shall be as you say,' Tepaha said.

Spanish was abandoned at this point, and they slid back into their everyday vernacular. Old Ike grunted that he would see Tepaha in an hour or so, as soon as he finished his planning, which was extensive and arduous since he had to do it for everyone.

'These God damn kids, nowadays, Tepaha; they ain't like we was. Have to tell 'em when to piss or it'd be runnin' out their ears.'

'Arlie plenty smart boy,' Tepaha said. 'Work damn hard, too.'

'Yeah, hell,' Old Ike said. 'I guess so. Who the hell said he wasn't?'

"Course, Critch plenty damn smart, too…'

'You're God damn right he is! Brought more'n three thousand dollars home with him, an' he was all dressed up an' talkin' as fine as the president of the U.S. An' – an' – '

'Also, he be good worker, come by an' by. Maybe so as good as Arlie.'