King Blood

'What d'ya mean, maybe so, come by an' by?' Ike bellowed. 'He's as good now, you stupid old shit!'

He yanked open the door to his room, entered it and slammed the door behind him. Sitting down heavily on the bed, he toed his boots off and sank back on the pillows with a grateful sigh.

He had not meant to be like this…

Stubbornly, he had set up certain barriers between himself and his errant son; grimly leaving it to Critch to surmount those barriers or to remain away forever. And Critch had surmounted them. Climbed over them unscathed, and returned home in grandeur. A young man handsome as sin, and smart as paint. And –

_An' hell. Hell, wasn't he entitled to a little favorin'? A little somethin' extra? Why, hell, he was kinda like a visitor, a guest, an' a fella that didn't put himself out a mite for a guest was a pretty sorry son-of-a-bitch. An' when someone was more'n a visitor, your youngest son that you hadn't seen in years, what the hell was wrong with makin' sure that he knew he was welcome?_

…The heart is its own master, and Ike dwelt in a chamber where there was room for no other.

And he slept.

____________________

*Chapter Two*

Now, in this first hour after dawn, the village of King's Junction was wide awake and working. A hammer rang on the anvil of the blacksmith's shop. At the feed store a wagon was being loaded. Apache clerks, apron bedecked over their buckskin and levi costumes, were washing windows and sweeping the wooden walk of the general store.

As the two King brothers rode out of town, Tepaha's two granddaughters riding behind them, Arlie was greeted by and gave greeting to the Junction's various workers. But he had not a word nor a glance for Critch. Similarly, Joshie and Kay rode in haughty silence, neither acknowledging the other's presence with so much as a look.

Critch lighted a cheroot, made a tentative gesture of offering one to Arlie. The latter looked stonily straight ahead, and Critch returned the cigar to his pocket.

He knew the reason for Arlie's attitude, or thought he did: Old Ike's cozying up to him, his youngest son. Yet there was nothing new in this: Ike had been behaving thus ever since his return. So why should Arlie take such great offense this morning?

Had Arlie simply had too much of it? Or had something else happened that he, Critch, was unaware of?

He didn't know, but he knew that Arlie's anger could not be allowed to continue. Until he recovered the money, he must stay on his brother's good side.

They crossed the railroad tracks, and took one of the rutted, reddish-loam roads which led out into the ranch proper. Wordlessly, they rode through the fine spring morning, threadily misted with the early sun's lifting of the night's dew. Stalks of young, uneared corn wafted in the breeze like long lines of green flame. The heavy-sweet smell of embryonically budding alfalfa drifted to them from distant acres.

Critch sniffed it with exaggerated interest, hoping to attract his brother's attention. Failing to, he cleared his throat noisily.

'Uh, about that alfalfa, Arlie,' he said. 'How do you find it as a crop?'

Arlie made no answer for a time; seemingly intended to make none. Finally, however, he asked Critch what the hell he was talking about. 'What do you mean, how do I find it?'

'I mean, isn't it pretty hard on land like this? I've heard that it took a lot out of the soil, used several hundred tons of water per acre.'

'Huh. An' just where did you hear that?'

'I'm not sure,' Critch said. 'It's just something I heard or read somewhere. For all I know, it's all nonsense, but I thought you'd know the facts.'

The implied compliment was more than Arlie could resist. He said, with forced grumpiness, that, hell, how would he know what was what? He'd never been nowhere nor read nothin'.

'But I guess it ain't a real good crop for out here,' he went on, his tone warming slightly. 'Not real fittin' for the soil an' climate, an' it can be damned bad for cattle. Bloats 'em to beat hell they get too much of it.'

'Yes?' Critch frowned. 'Then why is it planted?'

'Because that's what the folks that planted it wanted,' Arlie shrugged. 'It's their land, the Indians, I mean, as long as they work it. They got the say-so of what goes on it.'

'That doesn't sound like a very good way of running things,' Critch said.

'It's their land,' Arlie repeated. 'If a man can't do what he wants with his own, he ain't a man. That's the way the Indians look at it. That's the way Paw looks at it.'

Critch nodded, subsiding. He had broken the ice with his brother, which was all he wanted to do. The Indians, for all he cared, could shove the land up their copper-skinned asses.

'I tell you something, Critch… 'Arlie resumed, after a silence of several minutes. 'I, uh, well – I think I'll just have me one of them seegars, after all!'

Critch gave him one, smiling inwardly. Unctuously courteous, he also held a match for his brother. The thaw in their relationship seemingly had its effect on Joshie and Kay. Seemingly. For as the foursome jogged onward, a murmur of sporadic conversation between the sisters drifted up to the two men.

'About this morning, Arlie,' Critch began a low-voiced apology, determined to keep things on their present happy keel. 'I don't blame you for getting sore, and – '

'Oh, hell,' Arlie laughed. 'I can't blame you for Paw's doin'. Anyways, I wasn't 'specially sore about that. I just sort of got my short hairs ruffled about, well, several things. Got myself kinda nervy, you know.'

'I didn't want to come back here, Arlie. It was your idea.'

'An' it still is,' his brother said firmly. 'I just wouldn't have it no other way.'

'Well,' said Critch, 'as long as you feel – '

_'Yeow! Damn' bitch!'_ shrieked Kay.

_'Fix you, mean bitch!'_ screamed Joshie.

Arlie whirled around, cursing. 'Now, what the holy hell -!' Critch also pivoted in the saddle; then, emulating his brother, he scrambled to the road and raced toward the two girls.

Each had her hands knotted in the other's braids. Each tugged with all her might as she screamed obscenities at the other. Each simultaneously released a hand and began slugging and clawing. The wild commotion caused their horses to rear and buck, pitching the two girls to the road. But the fight went on unabated. They tumbled and rolled in the dirt, hitting, scratching and gouging.

Arlie yelled for them to stop, profanely threatening punishment to come. Ignored, he tried to separate them and received a moccasined foot in his face.

'Now, by God!' – he fell back, rubbing an incipiently swelling nose. 'By Christ, that does it!'

He whipped the knife from his boot-top. Hand darting deftly, he made two delicate jabs with the needle-sharp point of the blade, sinking it a minute fraction of an inch into each girl's flaring, pear-shaped bottom.

That ended the fracas. Yipping simultaneously, they came to their feet. Began doing a little dance of pain as they gripped their bottoms. Arlie took advantage of the distraction to seize his wife and hang on to her, and Critch did likewise with Joshie.

'God damn stupid squaws!' Arlie cursed. 'What the hell was that all about, huh?' And as Kay began a sulky reply, he silenced her with a shake. 'Never mind, by God! I reckon I already know. Now, just looky what you done with your crazy carryin' on.'

He pointed. All four horses had bolted during the melee, and were now scattered, grazing peacefully, about the adjacent field.

'So start movin'!' Arlie commanded. 'Get out there an' catch up them ponies. An' no more nonsense neither, or I'll make your ass smoke like a big baked potato!'

Kay backed a step or two away from him, then halted stubbornly. 'Ol' Joshie's fault, too. I go, she gotta go.'

'Now, God damn you, ol' squaw -!' Arlie took a warning stride toward her. 'You gonna move, or you want me to move you?'

Kay moved… a few more steps. Again halted mulishly. 'Is only fair,' she asserted. 'Joshie n' me, we both make fight. Both should go after ponies.'

'Uh-hah! So's you could start yourself another fight, huh?'

'No. No more fight,' Kay promised. 'But Joshie gotta go with me. Is right thing to do.'

'Well, but – ' Arlie hesitated, awkwardly, cast a half pleading look at his brother. 'Critch, I don't want t'do no buttin' in on your squaw – I mean, kind of your squaw even if she ain't really – but – '

'Kay is right,' Critch agreed handsomely. 'Joshie, you go and help your sister!'

Joshie tossed her head. 'Ho, ho!' she jeered. 'Looka who's talkin'. What you say I tell you go to hell?'

'He don't say nothin'!' Arlie snapped. 'He just plops you over his knee and pounds your happy ass off! I mean,' he added hastily, with a deferential glance at his brother, 'I mean, uh, that's right, ain't it, Critch? Paw an' Grandfather Tepaha don't favor beatin' up a woman, but they got nothin' against a good ass-paddlin'.'

'My own sentiments exactly,' Critch declared firmly. 'Joshie' – he pointed. 'Go and help Kay catch those ponies.'

'Huh! An' you gonna pound my ass if I don't?'

'You're damned right he is,' said Arlie. 'Right, Critch!'

'Uh, right,' Critch mumbled. 'I mean, I certainly will.'

Joshie bowed her head meekly… with false meekness. Inwardly titillated, warmly content with herself, she departed with her sister. They started across the field, moving ahead and to the side – each intuitively accepting her role in catching the horses so as to come up and close in on the animals from opposite directions. The two men watched them for a few moments, Arlie opining that there was nothing like exercise for taking the orneriness out of a squaw; then, satisfied that the girls intended no more mischief, they sat down on the bank of the roadside ditch and lighted cheroots.

There was an amiable silence for several minutes. A silence at last broken by Arlie's good-natured declaration that the girls' quarreling was really Critch's fault.

'I mean it, little brother. You just bounce that Joshie around in a bed, like you ought to've done long ago, and there wouldn't be nothin' for her an' Kay t'fuss about.'

'You mean marry her?' Critch laughed irritably. 'Why, I barely know the girl.'

'You know her well enough. How the hell you gonna get to know her if you don't marry her?'

'Forget it,' Critch said. 'It's out of the question.'

'How come it is? You don't figure you're too good to marry an Indian, do you? After all, you're part Indian yourself.'

'On Maw's side,' Critch nodded. 'Paw's, too, for all I know – or he knows. So, naturally, it's not a question of being too good for Joshie. I'm simply not ready to marry anyone yet.'

'Well,' Arlie grumbled. 'It'd sure save a hell of a lot of trouble if you was ready. Anyways, it just ain't natural goin' on like this. You need a woman, an' Joshie needs a man.'

Critch carefully studied the tip of his cheroot; cautiously remarked that he could not disagree with his brother's belief anent the need of man for woman, and vice versa.

'I find Joshie highly desirable, and she is obviously attracted to me, so there's no problem _per se_ about going to bed with her. But – '

'Sure, but you can't do it without marryin' her,' Arlie nodded. 'Naturally. An' you don't figure to marry her – not yet, anyways – so what's the use of talking about it?'

'Right,' murmured Critch. 'You're absolutely right, Arlie.' And from the corners of his eyes, he studied his brother with veiled incredulity.

For Arlie's face was guileless, utterly free of mockery. He undoubtedly had meant what he said. He could not accept the notion of extramarital sex with a granddaughter of Tepaha.

'Lookin' kinda puzzled, Critch,' Arlie opined, giving his brother a direct look. 'Somethin' I can help you with?'

'What?' Critch blinked. 'Oh, no, not at all. I was just thinkin' that, uh – uh – '

'Yeah?'

'Well, uh – about us pairing off. I mean, you and Kay taking one area and Joshie and I covering another. Do you think I'm ready for that yet? Paw was saying this morning that we might give it a try – if you thought it was all right, of course.'

Arlie hesitated, chewing a stem of Johnson grass. 'Why not give it a try?' he suggested. 'Ain't really no other way of finding out whether you're up to it.'

'Right,' Critch said, adding that they'd still be ahead of the game even if the experiment proved unsuccessful. 'At least, we won't have to worry about the girls fighting for a day.'

'Now, you're talking!' Arlie declared, and he stood up, dusting the seat of his pants. 'Well, guess we're 'bout ready to ride.'

The two girls returned, each riding a horse and leading one. The four animals were portioned out to their proper owners, and the sisters were apprised of the change in plans. Then, Arlie and Kay rode off down the road together, and Critch and Joshie cut out across the field to the south.

Joshie kept her mount reined in close to Critch, ostensibly to advise him on the day's routine. As their legs brushed repeatedly, Critch attempted to pull away, but each time he was defeated. Ramblingly chattering of this and that – he could only guess at what was important – she clung close to him, pressing her thigh against his until he could feel its heat, and his nostrils were filled with the sweet smell of fecund flesh.

Unable to get away from her, he at last ceased to try. Deciding to let her have her own way, and see what she would do with it. Which, for the moment, was nothing at all. Seemingly, he had defeated her by ceasing to resist. For she suddenly became silent, her small round face creased with puzzlement. She even allowed her horse to draw away a little, relieving him of the tantalizing pressure of her body.

So they rode for a time, with Critch silently congratulating himself yet somehow disappointed by his victory. At last he risked a glance at her, and saw that she was smiling at him archly, her head flirtatiously cocked to one side. And again she brought her horse in close to his.

'I bad girl while ago,' she said, her voice softly husky with desire. 'You paddle my ass, yes?'

'W-what? No! No, of course not!' Critch snapped. 'What's the matter with you anyway?'

Joshie replied sweetly that nothing was the matter. She had been a bad squaw, and bad squaws got spanked. 'This is so,' she declared serenely. 'It is the way it has always been.'

'Well, it's not going to be that way with me!' Critch said firmly.

'How come not?' Joshie inquired. And added brightly, 'I bet you paddle ass God damn good! Pound shit right outta me!'

'Now, God damn it -!' Critch turned on her in a fury of frustration. 'What the hell is this? Are you crazy or something? Now, stop talking like that or I'm going to be very angry with you!'

Joshie gave him a look of baffled innocence. Talkin' like what? she inquired. She talked like everyone else.

'I talk plenty God damn good,' she asserted, a trace of pique coming into her voice. 'Maybe so you talk bad.'

Critch drew a deep breath, on the point of exploding. Slowly he exhaled, getting control of himself; recognizing the justice of what she said.

'I'm sorry, Joshie,' he said. 'You do talk like everyone else here, and being a minority of one, I suppose I do seem to be wrong just as you seem to be right. But – '

'Min – Min-or-ity? What is, ol' Critch?'

'A damn fool in this case,' Critch said. 'But, look, Joshie. When I was a boy, Paw hired teachers to come to the ranch. They traveled from family to family, and every child was taught to read and write. On top of that – '

'Is still same way,' the Indian girl interposed. 'Also, boy'r girl want to go 'way to school, Old Uncle Ike he send 'em.'

'Then, you did have some schooling. At least you learned simple arithmetic and how to read and write.'

Joshie said sure she had. Same as all papooses. She had not chosen to go away to school, since rarely did anyone else so choose and she had not wished to go alone. 'Too God damn lonesome,' she pointed out cheerfully. 'I be, uh – how you say – min-or-ty.'

'Minority. But what I'm getting at is this. You've had enough education to know that nice girls don't talk like you do – '

'I nice girl!' Joshie bristled. 'I plenty God damn nice!'

'Of course, you are. An extremely nice girl,' Critch said smoothly. 'But people are liable to think that you're not nice if you use words like, well, shit and ass and – '

Joshie broke in to say that any God damn people who said she was not nice would get the shit kicked out of them. 'An' Old Uncle Ike an' Old Grandfather Tepaha an' everyone else, they do kickin'! You say, Old Uncle and Old Grandfather not nice? No one here not nice? You tell me that, huh?'

'No, of course, not. But you've been taught better, Joshie. Surely, your teachers didn't teach you such words, now, did they?'

'Ho! Because maybe so teachers God damn fools! They right, an' everyone else wrong, like hell! I tell you somethin', ol' Critch,' she continued hotly. 'Is like so. You with Apache, you by God better talk Apache. You talk Osage'r Kiowa'r Comanche, maybe so lose God damn hair.'

'Well,' sighed Critch. 'I think I see your point, but…'

He left the sentence unfinished, tried to divert the conversation to safer ground. 'What's this place up ahead here?' he nodded. 'I don't see any people around.'

Joshie said tartly that there was nothing wrong with his eyesight: he saw no people because the place was untenanted. 'Land worn out, so Old Uncle Ike say let lie fallow. That's why grass an' weeds grow all over hell. Build up land.'

'That's very interesting,' Critch said flatteringly. 'You certainly know a lot, Joshie.'

'But not know how to talk good,' Joshie said sulkily. 'Not nice girl.'

'Oh, now, look,' Critch smiled. 'That's not what I said at all.'

'Did. Say Joshie talk bad. Say Joshie bad girl.'

'But I didn't! I certainly didn't mean it, if I did! Why, I actually think you're the nicest girl I ever met.'

'But not pretty?' Imperceptibly, she reined her horse in close to his. 'You not think I pretty?'

'Why, of course, I think you're pretty,' Critch declared. 'You're an extremely pretty girl, Joshie.'

'"Stremely?" What is "stremely?"'

'It means very – very, very pretty.'

'Well… 'Joshie fidgeted with her reins, her eyes downcast. 'You like me plenty lot, ol' Critch?'

'I do! I certainly do!'

'How much you like?'

'Well, uh, a great deal. I mean, very much.'

"Stremely much?' she said softly. "Stremely, 'stremely much, ol' Critch?'

And she raised her small round face to his, pink lips tremulously parted against the small white teeth. And her full breasts swelled with shuddery sweetness, the nipples firmly outlined against the cloth of her shirt. And her arms went out and up, started to pull his head down to hers. And –

And her horse, brought too close too often to Critch's, curled black lips back from its teeth, and bit the other animal on the neck.

Happenings after that came too fast for Critch to follow.

His horse screamed, side-stepped and stood straight up on its hind legs. It brought its forefeet down again with spine-rattling force. It kicked, bucked and took off across the countryside like a black rocket. Critch had lost the reins at the outset, was now without any control. He could only cling to the saddle pommel and pray – activities at which he was almost wholly unpracticed. And he was given no time for a refresher course.

The horse soared over the five-foot wall of a crumbling rock corral. Effortlessly, it sailed above a startled covey of up-flying quail. It leaped a broad creek bed and a prairie-dog village and an evil duster of thorn-bush, and an endless number of equally fearsome hazards that lay in its self-appointed path. Fearlessly, it went over them all – a steed with wings on its heels, undaunted and seemingly undauntable. And then it came to a patch of bare earth – a patch approximately double the size of a man's palm. Only a tiny segment of barren soil, hardly enough to see amidst the lush overgrowth. But the horse saw it, and, by some strange quirk of equine reasoning, saw it as a monstrous menace.

The animal abruptly dug in with all four hooves, coming to a split-second stop. Critch locked his boots in the stirrups, and clung to the saddle fore and aft. So despite the tremendous forward thrust, he managed to stay in the saddle. Unfortunately, the saddle did not stay on the horse.

There was a rip and a snap. Then, the circingle (bellyband) parted, and Critch shot onward and upward.

At the height of his flight, the saddle turned slowly, his feet still snagged in the stirrups, until it was above him. Then he plummeted to the earth with its forty-pound weight on top of him.

The shock of the impact drove a yell from his body. Blending with it, he heard a distant scream from Joshie.

Then he heard nothing. *b*

While their horses grazed along the grassy brook-side, Kay and Arlie shared their noon meal of soda-biscuits and dried beef. Arlie's normal good humor had returned; was heightening now as he filled his stomach with food. Knowing that his mood was as good as it would be that day, Kay forced herself to confess the deed she had done that morning. An act that she had regretted almost from the time of its commission.

'I sure plenty sorry, ol' Arlie,' she said tremulously. 'Jus' mad and worry about you, or I no do such stupid thing.'

Arlie nodded absently, stuffing a whole biscuit into his mouth. 'Well – _whuff – _well,' he said, spitting crumbs. 'Can't say as I blame you for that.'

'You sure?' Kay said, her tone a mixture of hope and disbelief. 'Was all right to cut bellyband on Critch's saddle?'

Her husband's head moved in another idle nod, and he added a hearty smidgeon of beef to the mixture in his mouth. Sure, it was all right, he said. After all, what was wrong with –

He coughed, choked. Stumbled to his feet bent over, coughing and gagging and spraying the air with soggy samples of his luncheon. Watery-eyed and breathless, he at last rested, turning a terrifying gaze upon his wife.

Kay shrank back from him, her voice a frightened whimper.

'I sorry. I so sorry, nice ol' Arlie. You – you like good col' drink o' water, yes? I get right away!'

'No,' said Arlie tonelessly. 'You stay right there.'

'But – I say I sorry, ol' husband!' Kay insisted. 'I do damn stupid thing, plenty God damn sorry!'

'Huh-uh.' Arlie slowly shook his head. 'You just think you're sorry. If Critch gets killed or hurt bad you'll know what bein' sorry means. You an' me both will.'

'Both? How you mean, both?'

'How I mean, both?' Arlie mocked her bitterly. 'What you think I mean, you God damn stupid squaw? Who the hell you think's gonna get blamed for cuttin' that bellyband?'

'But I take blame! I tell truth!' Kay protested; and then, recognizing the worthlessness of such an admission, she broke into helpless tears.

'That's right. Bawl your God damn head off!' Arlie snarled. 'That helps a hell of a lot!'

Kay sobbed again that she was sorry. She repeated it over and over, adding with humble hopefulness that she was ver' mean, bad ol' squaw and utterly deserving of dire punishment. 'You beat my ass good?' she pleaded tearfully. 'Will make all right, ol' husband?'

'Like shit, you stupid squaw!'

'P-puh-puhleeze,' begged Kay, fumbling with the belt of her trousers. 'Please spank ass, make everyt'ing hokay again!'

Weeping, her small head bowed, she released the belt clasp, allowed the pants to drop down around her ankles. She raised the short undershift with her hands, completely exposing the curved, tawny-skinned area below her navel.

And stood there crying as though her heart would break. Sobbing helplessly but hopefully, still hoping that Arlie would 'make hokay'. A child in a woman's body. A child environmentally forced into womanhood.

And at last Arlie's arms went around her, and he called her his ol' squaw with gruff tenderness, and ordered her to stop crying before she got her socks wet.

'You want folks t'think you pissed in 'em?' he teased her lovingly. 'Why, God damn, they're liable to think you're still a papoose and I wouldn't get to diddle you no more.'

Kay sniffed; giggled tearfully. She made an innocently profane response to her husband's jest. Arlie kissed her on the head, his lips brushing the snowy 'part' between her tightly plaited braids. He gave her a single swat on her bared buttocks. Then, he bent down, pulled her trousers back up and firmly refastened the belt.

'Now,' he said, 'I hope you learned somethin' from this, Kay. From now on, you keep t'hell out of my business, get me? I want anything done, I'll do it myself. You just keep your hands off and your mouth shut, or I'll have your ass suckin' wind till it sounds like a train whistle.'

His wife murmured a meek, 'Hokay,' then scanned his face anxiously. 'I be good, you bet. But – will be hokay 'bout Critch? You fix everything, ol' husband?'

Arlie said he would do what he could, his actions automatically being governed by Critch's condition. 'If he's hurt bad, or if he's dead – well, I can't do nothin'. A damn fool would know that the cinch had been cut.'

'No, no, please…' Kay's eyes filled with tears again. 'He not be hurt bad, please. Not dead!'

'We'll hope not. I figure on findin' out damn quick.'

He nodded, turned and strode toward his grazing horse. Kay started after him, but he waved her back firmly.

'You stay here an 'wait for me, ol' squaw. Don't want you mixed up in this any more than you already are.'

'But maybe so you need me. Maybe so I tell Critch I cut bellyband, he not be mad at you.'

'Maybe so nobody tells him nothin'.' Arlie said flatly. 'Maybe so I don't even talk to him.'

Kay stared at him, her head cocked puzzledly. 'How come this? We don't apologize, say plenty God damn sorry, ol' Critch he tell ol' Uncle 'n' ol' Grandfather. You 'n' me be in plenty much trouble!'

'You're gonna be in plenty anyways,' Arlie advised her. 'You an' Joshie both. Paw an' Tepaha sees them scratches on your faces an' find out you been fightin', you're really gonna catch hell!'

'Don't mind that. Not too bad that trouble. But when ol' Critch tells 'bout – '

'Suppose he don't tell about it? Suppose he keeps quiet, an' makes Joshie keep quiet?'

'S'pose?' Kay frowned worriedly. 'S'pose dog shit watermelon? Makes no God damn sense.'

Arlie said that maybe it didn't make any sense to a squaw who was all ass and no brains. But it would make plenty to a smart son-of-a-bitch like his brother.

'And don't you never think he ain't smart,' he added, as he straddled his horse.

'He's not's smart as you!' Kay declared loyally. 'My ol' Arlie, he smartest son-of-a-bitch in world!

Arlie shrugged off the compliment, wheeling his horse around. 'Don't make up your mind too fast,' he told her. 'Wait and see what I do if Critch happens to be dead.' *c*

The four men had ridden the morning east-bound train through King's Junction, debarking from it at the third whistle-stop beyond. From there, via handcar, they had ridden westward again, finally stopping at the point where they were now.

One of the men was a section-crew foreman, another a division superintendent of the railroad. The other two were United States Marshal Harry Thompson and his nephew, Deputy Marshal James Sherman Thompson.

The four lifted the handcar from the track, and set it down on the right-of-way. Then they walked down the embankment to a point marked by a heavy staked-down tarpaulin.

'Hope I didn't mess up nothin' by doin' that,' the foreman said anxiously, nodding towards the canvas. 'But one foot was startin' to poke out, an' I figured – '

'You did the right thing,' Marshal Thompson assured him. 'Now, you say you made the discovery about seven last night?'

'Yessir. After the men had put in their hours. I was back-checkin' on a day's work… I always do that, Mr. Hardcastle' – a glance at the division superintendent, who nodded approvingly. 'I was coasting along slow, and there was still a little sunlight, so off in the weeds there I get the glint of something bright. O' course, I figure that one of my damn fool hands has left a tool behind… I always watch out for tools, Mr. Hardcastle. I know tools are expensive, an' – '

'So is time,' Marshal Thompson said drily. 'Suppose we use no more of it than we have to. Satisfactory?'

'Well – well, sure. I mean, yes, sir.'

'Thank you. I gather then that you were alone when you discovered the body, correct? And you have told no one else about it. Very well, then. That leaves us but one thing to do, at the moment. A rather unpleasant chore. Gentlemen, if you will don your gloves and give me your assistance…'

…The body was rolled into the tarpaulin, placed on the handcar and transported back to the starting point of the morning's expedition. They loaded it into the coffin that was waiting for it on the evening's west-bound train, and the marshal and his deputy nephew took the same train back to El Reno.

Deputy Thompson had a number of questions and suggestions for Marshal Thompson as they rode through the night. Marshal Thompson, after a considerable silence, had a single suggestion for Deputy Thompson: to shut up or leave their stateroom.

The young man promptly stood up. 'Sorry,' he said stiffly. 'I didn't mean to offend you.'

'Oh, sit down, sit down,' sighed his uncle. 'Don't be so quick to get on your high horse, Jim. If you want to continue in public office, you'll have to remember two things. Touchiness is a luxury you can never afford; that's number one. Secondly, you'll never make yourself popular by telling a man something he already knows, and asking him questions he can't answer.'

'I didn't realize I was doing that. Not that I look upon myself as a participant in a popularity contest.'

'But you are, Jim. You most certainly are. I'm both judge and audience in the contest, and the moment you cease to be popular with me, I declare you disqualified.' He gave his nephew a lengthy look, his dark eyes gradually becoming thoughtful. 'I'm joking, of course, Jim; no one, relative or not, has to cozy up to me to hold his job. In fact, it would be the quickest way he could lose it. But I do think it's time you were moving on to something else – something better.'

Deputy Thompson gave his uncle a steady stare; at last, turned it toward the window and the dark panorama beyond. There was the clangor of bells, a blur of red and white lights as they rattled through a crossing. The engine whistled eerily, fearfully, as its headlights swept the prairie and found nothing but emptiness.

'I'm thirty years old, Uncle Harry. I don't have much time left to start carving out a career…'

'How true,' his uncle said solemnly. 'In another year or so you'll be tripping over your long gray beard. Wait, now, wait!' he laughed, holding up a hand. 'I mean to see you started on a career, Jim. I mean to do just that. So if you'll stop getting huffy, and listen…'

The Territory had been first thrown open to settlement in 1889, he pointed out. (The Territory, as opposed to Old Oklahoma, on the east, which had been moved into some fifty years before by the Five Civilized tribes.) But Deputy James Sherman Thompson had actually seen very little of it, his movements being limited by his job, and that little had become so heavily populated – relatively speaking – as to limit opportunities for a bright young man. Such a man could do well to hie himself elsewhere, to the Big Pasture country, or the Unassigned lands, or one of the other areas recently opened to settlement or soon to be opened.

'Now, the spot I have in mind for you, Jim, is down in the Kiowa-Caddo-Comanche country. I can line up a number of people who will help you there, and with your experience as a deputy marshal and your ability to make friends – How the hell do you make them anyway, Jim? I'm always amazed that anyone as stiff-necked and opinionated as you could have even one friend.'

Deputy Thompson denied that he was either stiff-necked or opinionated. He did, however, have certain beliefs, and he could not, in all honesty, refrain from letting them be known to those who – having lacked his advantages – might hold contrary and erroneous views.

'As for making friends, I suppose it's simply a matter of liking people. I've met very few men that I couldn't find some good in; something that I could honestly like. I like them well enough to remember their names, and the names of their wives and children, and – '

'And,' the marshal nodded his understanding, 'that's all you need to do, to shine the light of recognition upon a world of strangers. I doubt that there lives a man with soul so dead that he doesn't pray for deliverance from anonymity.'

His nephew's blue eyes lighted up with appreciation; he threw back his head and laughed, a laugh so utterly ingenuous and wholesomely good-humored as to warm the marshal's pragmatist's heart.

'Jim,' he said. 'Dammit all, Jim…!'

'Yes, sir?'

Marshal Thompson hesitated, started to speak, shook his head. After a time, he said, 'Getting back to the subject of the Kiowa-Caddo-Comanche country, I think the sooner you're down there the better. My friends will give you all possible assistance. With their help, your peace officer's experience and your talent for making friends, you should be a shoo-in for sheriff when the county government is set up.'

'Sheriff?' His nephew was disappointed. 'I'm qualified to practise law. Why not county attorney?'

'Two reasons. You're qualified to practise law, but you've never practised. And an experienced and popular young lawyer, Al Jennings, wants the job.'

'Oh,' said the deputy flatly. 'Oh.'

'You don't like Al? Too many freckles for you?'

Deputy Thompson frowned, brushing the jest aside. 'I can't trust him somehow. He seems, well, too personally involved with his clients. Too intrigued with them. You can't spend much time with him without his talking about how smart such and such a criminal is, or how much "easy money" he got away with.'

'Mmm. So?'

'Well… I mean, look at it this way. We both know former outlaws, men who held up banks and robbed trains, who became peace officers. It seems possible, then, that a peace officer – a county attorney – could turn outlaw. Be a bank-robber or hold-up man.'

'A grim prospect for Al,' Marshal Thompson said gravely. 'But a unique experience for you. You'll be about the first sheriff in history to arrest his county attorney.'

Young Thompson grinned half-heartedly. Murmured that the unhappy precedent could be avoided if he became county judge, instead of sheriff. His uncle advised him that the judgeship was already nailed down by a mutual friend who was also an experienced jurist. The deputy expressed dismay.

'He's just not qualified, Uncle Harry. I don't know how he's managed to stay on the bench this long. Why, I've repeatedly heard him advise juries that a reasonable doubt is a doubt you can give a reason for!'

'Well? What's wrong with that?'

'He'll find out if he ever comes up against a truly gifted attorney. Someone like Temple Houston. It's a reversible error. Anyone ever convicted in his court will get a new trial for the asking.'

The marshal grunted noncommittally; then, his memory stirred, he chuckled, stating that nothing which Temple Houston could do would greatly surprise him.

'I remember a case of his years ago. A dance-hall chippy who'd swindled a bank for practically all its assets. Well, the evidence was all against her; Temple hardly bothered to put on a defense. But, of course, he hadn't thrown in the towel. Ordinarily, this woman dressed to show everything north and south of her navel, but Temple kept her dressed in a sunbonnet and an old mother-hubbard. And when it came time for his summation to the jury, well,' Thompson laughed, 'I wish you could have been there, Jim. I can't remember everything he said, only the concluding words as he pointed from this chippy to the witnesses for the prosecution. "Who are you going to believe, gentlemen of the jury? I ask you, who are you going to believe – this poor old woman, who stands on the crumbling precipice of eternity, or that blood-sucking octopus with its tentacles in Wall Street and its teeth in the throat of our tortured citizenry – _The First Territorial Bank of Pumpkin Wells, Oklahoma!"_ The jury brought in a not guilty verdict without leaving the box.'

Deputy Thompson chuckled appreciatively. The marshal recalled another Temple Houston incident.

'It was late in the afternoon, and Temple had been looking pretty wan all day. Right in the middle of cross-examining a witness, he turned to the judge and asked for a thirty-minute adjournment. His honor naturally wanted to know the reason for the request. Temple said it was to preserve the dignity of the court. "I have such a terrible hangover, sir, that only a few quick drinks will save me from flying apart, creating such an unholy mess in these hallowed precincts that even the Blind Goddess must become aware of it, and, lifting her robes, flee in terror."

'Well, his honor pursed his lips judiciously, and glanced at the county attorney. "What say the people?" he asked.

'"May it please the court," the prosecutor said, "the people's concern for the dignity of the court is second only to our sympathy and admiration for our illustrious opponent-at-law. We will be happy to concur in his request for a recess, and even happier to join him for a drink."

'"So will I," the judge said. "Adjournment granted." The three of them went across to the saloon together, and – '

'Uncle Harry,' said Deputy Thompson, _'Uncle Harry.'_

'… and then they – Well, what is it?' Marshal Thompson frowned grumpily. 'You interrupted a very good story.'

'I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that I'll be very happy to take the job as sheriff. It should be an excellent stepping-stone to higher office.'

'Stepping-stone? It's an important job in itself.'

'I'm sure you're right, sir. And I'd certainly give it my undivided attention as long as I held it. But – '

'I know, I know,' the marshal gestured irritably. 'You aspire to higher office. The very highest in the country, correct? Now, don't sit there looking lofty. And, for God's sake, don't tell me that any man can be president!'

'Why not, Uncle Harry?' His nephew was honestly puzzled.

'I'll ask you a question. What is the male population of the United States, and how many of those males may simultaneously occupy the office of president?'

'Well… there can only be one president at a time, of course, but – '

'Correct, only one, despite the fact that there must be many, many others equally well qualified among the multi-million population of males. You worry me, Jim,' Marshal Thompson shook his head troubledly. 'I'm afraid my favorite niece-in-law, your dear mother, did you a serious disservice in your childhood. She should have taught you more arithmetic, and dwelt less on the fact that Abe Lincoln was her fourth cousin.'

'Second cousin. After all he would hardly have performed the marriage ceremony for a mere fourth cousin.'

'Second cousin, eh? And Mr. Lincoln married her to your father? Interesting, very interesting. There seems to have been a remarkable improvement in your mother's memory, or mine has abandoned me completely.'

'After I serve as sheriff,' said Deputy Thompson firmly, 'I shall run for Congress.'

'Oh, shut up,' said his uncle.

'You introduced the subject of politics, sir. I was trying to discuss the murder of the Anderson woman, Little Sis, that is – '

'How do we know it was Little Sis? How do we know she was murdered?'

'Well… of course, we can't make positive identification. But it would certainly seem a safe assumption that the dead woman was she, and that – '

'We can assume that, yes. We can also assume that she was murdered by her older sister. Little Sis jumped the train when she discovered that Big Sis was following her. The latter went right out the window after Little Sis, who she thought was carrying the loot from their many murders – _and she may have been carrying it, Jim._ Big Sis may have gotten it all back from her before beating her to death.'

'But Little Sis couldn't have had the money! Critchfield King had stolen it from her!'

'Did he?'

'Of course, he did! And Arlington King stole it from him.'

'Did he?'

'Yes, certainly! You know he must have, Uncle Harry! Why – why, everything points to the fact that – '

'It points to it, in our minds. Which way it would point in the minds of a jury is something else again, as you should know better than I. Or didn't you tell me you were a qualified attorney? No, Jim,' the marshal averred firmly. 'We have no evidence to go on at all, at this point. Not one whit of proof. We can assume certain things, and I think our assumptions may be correct. Whether we can prove it or not depends on Big Sis.'

'On her? How?'

'Quite simply. Assuming that Big Sis was on the train with her sister and Critch King, she must have gotten a good look at Critch. Enough to recognize him if she ever saw him again. Also, she may have found out who he was from someone on the train. Or, if he was using his right name, she could have gotten it from Little Sis before pounding her to death. In other words, assuming that Critch did steal the money, Big Sis will probably try to get it back from him.'

Deputy Thompson leaned forward excitedly. 'You think she's still in the area, then? Why don't we organize a search party and hunt her down?'

'Hunt exactly where? She could be any place within a fifty mile area. We could possibly dig her up if we had enough time and money, but that would still leave this job half done. Critch King – and, Arlie, too, perhaps – is guilty of being an accessory. The only way we can get him, or them, is through her.'

'I see,' the deputy nodded. 'You'll keep a watch on Critch, and when she tries to make contact with him…'

'Right,' the marshal said. 'Right, Jim. And now as your relative and friend, I again implore you to drop your preposterous political aspirations.'

'Sorry,' his nephew said shortly. 'I see nothing preposterous about them.'

'But you must! Territorial Oklahoma is governed by appointed Republicans. The state, however, will be Democratic. It's geographically southern, and the settlers are mainly southern, so it will go into the Democratic column. You can overcome that handicap as a candidate for local office, sheriff, that is. You'll have the opportunity to meet people at first hand, to get to know them and become friends with them. And that's all you need to do. But if you run for Congress or the Senate, where it's largely a matter of speech-making and impersonal contact…' He broke off, studying his nephew's adamant expression. 'I know what I'm talking about, Jim. It's my business to know these things. I can even tell you who your opponent would most likely be in a congressional race.'

'Very interesting,' said the deputy.

'His name is Gore. Keep it in mind, you'll be hearing it for years to come. He's a southerner, a gentleman and a scholar. He's also blind – which will get him a huge sympathy vote, even though he doesn't need it or want it. Don't tangle with him, Jim. He'll beat your pants off if you do.'

'I doubt that, sir.'

'Do you,' Marshal Thompson asked, 'doubt the existence of the word, nephewcide?'

'I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir.'

'Hmmm,' said his uncle ominously. 'Hmmm.'

Author's note: After three terms as sheriff of Caddo County, Oklahoma, James Sherman Thompson ran for Congress against Mr. Gore. Thompson's three-car campaign train carried a banner on each car, the three spelling out his full name. The brass band accompanying the train played _Marching Through Georgia_ at each stop. Inevitably, Thompson suffered a smashing defeat, one which, by association, reflected disastrously upon his uncle. Recovering from the debacle after several years, they were powerful political figures in Oklahoma for almost two decades. And several towns in the state bore some form of the family name; for example_, Jimtomson._

The fictional Anderson sisters had their real-life counterpart in the Bender family, operators of a murder-for-money roadhouse in southern Kansas. Like Big Sis and Little Sis, the Benders are said to have fled into Oklahoma Territory, successfully eluding a pursuing posse and eventually becoming highly respected citizens of the new state. According to another story, however, the posse lied in reporting that the family had escaped. Actually (or so the story goes) the Benders were caught and killed by their pursuers, who then appropriated their ill-gotten wealth for themselves.

The anecdotes concerning attorney Temple Houston are basically true. A reasonable doubt is not, of course, 'a doubt that you can give a reason for'. In so advising juries, the judge in question (we mercifully omit his name) committed a reversible error – one which secured new trials for approximately half the Territorial prison population.

Al Jennings, first county attorney of Caddo County, Oklahoma, ended a most promising political career, by turning outlaw. He showed little aptitude for his new vocation – the entire loot from one train robbery consisted of a bunch of bananas – and other hootowlers jeered his wild tales of gun-battles with lawmen. (His one battle seems actually to have been with a low-hanging tree branch, which knocked out several front teeth.) In a more enlightened era, Jennings might have received the psychiatric treatment which his erratic behavior so clearly dictated. In early day Oklahoma, however, prison was the one place for criminals. And the freckle-splotched former attorney was a criminal, by his own admission if nothing else. While in prison, Jennings gained a sad sort of fame by recounting his 'exploits' to a widely read writer. In actuality, the one man seriously hurt or deprived by Jennings would seem to be Jennings himself.

The King ranch, and the town of King's Junction, with its various appurtenances and enterprises, are strictly the product of the author's imagination. Completely fictional, also, are the people who populate the town and ranch, including the Kings themselves. Anyone even vaguely familiar with Oklahoma history will know that such places and people did not and could not exist. Anyone not thus familiar will have to accept their non-existence on the word of the author, the son of James Sherman Thompson.

Aching in every bone, Critch lay on a bunk in the abandoned farmhouse, his mattress a pile of grain sacks, his covering the blanket from his horse. He didn't seem to have broken anything, though how he had escaped a fractured neck was miraculous. Joshie bent over him, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead, asking anxiously if he was sure he was all right.

'I'll live.' Critch managed a smile. 'Nothing worse than a bad jolting. I just hope you didn't hurt yourself in lugging me in here.'

'Ho!' Joshie dismissed the notion. 'I God damn plenty strong squaw. Strong like hell, by God!'

He smiled at her, laughed softly. She looked away abashedly, eyes downcast. Very carefully, spacing the words out, she said, 'I… am… very… sorry. I… do… not… talk… good.'

'Joshie,' said Critch, 'Joshie, dear, I like the way you talk. I wouldn't change a word of it for the world.'

'You – you really mean?' Her wide-wide eyes searched his face. 'No shit?'

'No shit,' he said warmly. 'I like everything about you.'

He meant it. For a momentary eternity he had been dead; he had met death face to face, and the look and smell of her had terrified him.

And now, mercifully, thanks to luck and Joshie's prompt ministrations, he had been brought back into life. Joshie had intervened as death clutched at him. Joshie would provide whatever was needed to complete his rescue.

Like her? Like was hardly the word. He would have loved her if she had been half a ton in weight, with a face as homely as a mud fence.

Smiling, he held out his arms to her: one of the few entirely sincere acts of his misspent life. He drew her face down against his, feeling the soft breasts press upon his chest, feeling the wild pounding of her heart. With incredible gentleness – so gently that he was hardly aware of it – she slid a leg across his body, then drew up the other leg. And was at last in the bunk with him; was lying on top of him.

Unwillingly, he tried to protest, and found her mouth covering his. The protest died in his throat; and she raised her body slightly, one of her small quick hands busying itself with her trousers. The hand finished its task, gave a single swift pull at the fly of his levis. Then, she had settled down upon him again, the small soft-hard body pressing harder and harder. It began to jerk, in epileptic rhythm, delicately fitting itself into and around his own body. And her lips whispered frantically, ecstatically pouring out a stumbling stream of innocent lewdness.

_And the soft moistness caressing his crotch. And the bared buttocks filling his hands. And – _

'Holy God!' He let out a yell. 'What the hell is this?'

He gave her a shove, almost yelling again at the sharp stabs of pain which the action induced. Joshie flew out of the bunk, stumbling in her lowered trousers and sat down hard on the floor.

She came to her feet, slowly pulling her pants up and fastening them; frowning at him more in wonder than in anger.

'Why you do, ol' Critch? You say you like me.'

'Why? Why, God damn it – ' He caught himself. 'Well, I do like you, Joshie. I mean it, I like you very much. That's why I couldn't let you do this.'

'Is why?'_

'Of course. When a man likes and respects a girl as much as I do you, well, uh, he doesn't do that to her. Or let her do it to herself.'

'No?' Her head tilted puzzledly to one side. 'He only fock girl he don't like?'

'Uh, well, no, I don't mean that exactly. You see, uh – ' he hesitated. 'You see, it's like this, Joshie. Nice girls aren't supposed to have relations with a man unless they're married to him.'

'No want relations. Just fock. Anyway, maybe so sometime we get married, I betcha.'

'Well, uh, yes. Maybe we will sometime. But – '

'Sure t'ing,' said Joshie with utmost certitude. 'King blood got to mix with blood of Tepaha. Is way it is.'

Critch wet his lips, nervously; mumbled that what she said was undoubtedly true. But marriage was something that lay in their future; just how far he was unprepared to say, since they had grown up in different worlds and he needed time to adjust to this one. Also –

'Also, make no God damn difference,' Joshie declared firmly. 'We gonna get married. Now we what you call engage', so is all right to fock.'

'Dammit, Joshie!' Critch started to rise from the bunk, then flopped back with a groan. 'I – didn't you hear your grandfather this morning? He said you shouldn't say such words.'

'Huh-uh, did not. He say should only be used between man 'n' woman. Anyway, don't want to say words 'bout it; just want to do it.'

'Well, you're not going to,' Critch snapped. 'You might have a baby, for God's sake! What about that?'

Joshie let out a derisive, 'Ho, ho! Squaw no want baby, no have baby.'

'Well, just the same…' Critch began; and then smoothly altered his tone, placing the issue on a practical basis. 'I've had a terrible fall, Joshie, and it's possible that I've been hurt inside. If it wasn't for that, I'd be more than willing to do what you want. Why, my God,' he avowed warmly, 'I'm probably a lot more anxious than you are. But if I tried to when I was seriously hurt – '

Joshie interrupted with the declaration that she would not allow him to take such a fearful risk. 'You hokay now?' she asked anxiously. 'I no hurt you inside some place, maybe?'

'Not seriously, if at all,' Critch said. 'I'm sure I'll be all right as long as I take it easy for a while.'

'Then you take easy. I make you, by God!' said Joshie. 'Ol' Boz, he get hurt inside, too. Make balls no God damn good. Was mean God damn bastard, anyway, but…' Her voice trailed off into silence, her small face falling at memory of the ball-less Boz. 'You my ol' husband now,' she resumed, her tone brightening. 'Same as ol' husband, anyway. We take easy now, make up plenty los' time later.'

Critch complimented her on her wisdom, suppressing an inward twinge of guilt. He had never minded lying – in fact, preferred lying to telling the truth, since it was the much more profitable of the two, in the long run, and invariably more interesting. Still, lying to someone who was so easy to deceive, so eager to believe, was hardly a thing to take pride in. Nor was the profit in it readily discernible. So why –

'Joshie,' Critch said. 'Come here.'

Joshie said hokay and came immediately. Sank down on her knees at the side of the bunk. 'What you want, ol' Critch?'

His arms went around her. He drew her close, burying his face in her hair. _I want to tell you something, Joshie. Something very important._

'Want to tell you something, Critch.' Joshie pulled her head back from his. 'Something ver' important.'

'I want to tell you…' He broke off, frowning at the seriousness of her expression. 'Yes? What is it, Joshie.'

"Bout ol' Arlie. He cut saddle cinch on horse. Is why you almost get killed.'

'B-but – ' He stared at her, stunned. 'But how do you – why -?'

'Cinch cut. You want me to show you, by God?' She started to rise, paused as his hand detained her. 'Is true, Critch. Ol' Arlie, he cut.'

'You mean you saw him? And you didn't warn me?'

'Course not,' Joshie exclaimed indignantly. 'I listen outside door this morning while he an' Kay talk. Kay want him to kill you. Arlie say maybe so Marshal Thompson find out, so Kay say fix up nice little accident. You see?' – she gave him an anxious look. 'I don' know nothin' for sure. Not till you have accident an' I see cut cinch.'

Critch nodded slowly, an unreasoning rage growing in his heart. That God damn Arlie! What kind of a rotten son-of-a-bitch was he, anyway? Forcing him to come to the ranch, and then trying to kill him!

How low-down could a man get?

Joshie watched him with grave anxiety, misreading his savage scowl. 'I sure sorry, Critch. Jus' not think he try to do it so soon.'

'What?' he said blankly. 'What are you talking about?'

"Bout why he want to kill you. Ol' Arlie tell Kay no good reason to kill you. Kay say there be plenty reason when you find out money gone. She say you hokay 'long as you think you get money back. But you find out he no have money, you sure 's hell kill him.'

She nodded with grave emphasis, dark eyes concernedly fixed upon his face. He sat quite still, staring at her and beyond her. And slowly his lips curled back from his teeth in a frightful grin.

'Gone,' he said. 'So the money's gone.'

'Uh-huh.' She bobbed her head. 'Arlie steal from you, yes? Was very much?'

Critch's grin widened hideously. He said, Oh, no, no it wasn't much at all. Hardly worth talking about. Why – why –

He began to laugh. He fell back into the bunk laughing, then hoisted himself out of it. Began staggering around the floor, oblivious to the wracking pain of his movements; simultaneously whooping and hollering and weeping.

Not much money. _Not much!_

What a wonderful, wonderful joke! The money was gone, and Arlie was afraid he'd be sore about it; killing mad. Imagine that! For, of course, he wasn't a bit angry. Perish the thought! Arlie might think he was angry when he got his head caved in and his ribs carved out and his balls toasted over a slow fire… so he'd have to keep laughing throughout the mayhem. Make Arlie understand that it was really very funny.

As funny as permanently stripping a brother of his wealth, and then trying to kill him…

'Critch! Please, ol' Critch! Don' do no more.' Joshie clung to him frantically, her voice half-sobbing. 'No more laugh, please. Scare me plenty much.'

The red haze cleared from Critch's eyes. His insane hysterics ended as suddenly as they had begun, and he docilely allowed Joshie to guide him back to the bunk. He would not, however, lie down in it.

'I think I'd better sit up a while,' he explained. 'Maybe even move around a little. I'm liable to get stiff as a board if I don't.'

'Well…' Joshie gave him a doubtful look. 'Well, hokay, but you no ride horse. I go get wagon for you.'

Critch smiled his agreement, then masked his handsome features with an expression of great concern. 'But it'd be way after dark before you could get back here. I won't allow that, Joshie.'

'Ho,' she scoffed. 'I be all right.' But Critch shook his head firmly, over-riding her with the tenderly playful reminder that she was now his squaw and must do as he said.

'You let Arlie bring the wagon. See that he does do it. Tell him I want to talk to him privately.'

'But he try to kill you!' Joshie protested. 'He get you alone, he try to finish job, an' you too hurt to fight back!'

'Now don't you worry about me,' Critch said, chucking her under the chin. 'I'm feeling better all the time. Anyway, Arlie won't be stupid enough to make two attempts on my life in one day.'

'Well…' She didn't think it was a good idea. She saw no reason to take a chance that need not be taken. 'I tell you, ol' Critch – '

'No,' Critch said firmly. 'I tell you, ol' Joshie. I tell you to have Arlie come after me alone. So that's what you do, yes? Yes.' He gave her a playful pat on the bottom; stood up and kissed her. 'One more thing, Joshie. That bellyband – the saddle cinch – broke, understand? It wasn't cut; it broke.'

'Like hell!' Joshie blazed indignantly. 'Was by God cut!'

'But you don't say that. You say that it broke. You say that,' he said slowly, letting the words sink in. 'Because if you don't, Joshie, I just might stop liking you…'

'No! Oh, no, Critch!'

'I might if you don't say what I tell you to do. You just might have to go through life using your finger instead of the real thing.'

'Finger tabu,' Joshie said. 'Anyway, no damn good. I do what you say, ol' Critch.'

____________________

*Chapter Three*

Some five hundred yards from the abandoned farm house, Arlie lay bellied down in the lush growth of weeds and grass, his nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute. Joshie's horse and Critch's saddleless animal were hobbled in the grownover yard of the dwelling, so obviously the two were inside. But as to what condition Critch was in, Arlie could only guess. For more than an hour now, he had lain hidden and watched the place. Fretting, worrying; profanely praying to whatever powers that be that nothing was seriously amiss with his brother. More than an hour of agonized waiting… and he knew no more now than he had at its beginning.

A red fire ant crept inside his boot, seemed to sting him endlessly before he could crush it. A miniscule cloud of gnats discovered him, began a gauzily insane dance in front of his eyes. Refusing to be dispelled or dodged, eventually taking refuge in his nostrils.

The experience left his eyes waterily itching, his nose maddeningly irritated. In the discomfort of the moment, he told himself that he didn't give a damn if Critch had broken his neck; it would save some hangman the job, since he was certainly long overdue for such a fracture. In the next moment, however, he was retracting the thought with superstition-born haste. He cared very much about Critch's welfare. Oh, yes; yes, indeed. No one could be more concerned for Critch than he. Nothing would gladden his heart so much as the sight of Critch, alive and in reasonably good condition.

Arlie scrubbed his scratchy nose, rubbed his reddened and itchy eyes. He raised his head slightly, looked toward the distant house. His heart executed a sudden skip-jump, and his broad face broke into a delighted grin.

Critch was stepping down from the door of the cabin, coming out into the yard. He was bent over a little, his movements somewhat stiff, and he limped. But he was certainly very, very far from being dead. He had certainly sustained no very serious injuries.

He limped to the horses with Joshie, waited while she mounted her animal and took the reins of his. He waved to her as she rode away, his horse galloping at her side. Then, he hoisted himself up into the door of the house, and disappeared within its shadow-dark interior.

Arlie lay amidst the weeds for a few moments longer. Debating the wisdom of looking in on his brother, and finally deciding against it. Critch would make no mention of the cut cinch, and he would forbid Joshie to. He dared not mention it, lest stern Old Ike drive him, Arlie, from the ranch – in which case, naturally, he would take the stolen money with him, permanently removing it from Critch's reach.

If Critch ever found out that the money was gone -! But never mind that; worry about it when the time came. All that mattered now was that Critch would make no mention of the attempt on his life. He intended to pass it off as an accident. And since an accident automatically cannot be anticipated, a call on him at this point would be awkward to say the least.

How embarrassing to ride miles out of your way to inquire into a man's injuries, when you could have no legitimate knowledge of those injuries. How embarrassing for both of you!

_Just wouldn't be right, Arlie thought virtuously._ And he began to creep back through the weeds, moving unerringly toward the _arroyo_ some half mile distant where his horse was tethered. Essentially a primitive, he could have traveled in this fashion for hours; the hunter who might momentarily become hunted. Instinctively; without conscious effort, his movements were virtually silent. And no telltale wake followed him through the weeds. Now and then his head poked up through the rank growth for reconnoitering, but this was done so quickly, in the fractional second of an eye's blink, that no one could have seen him. Or, rather, realized that they had seen him. At virtually the same instant, he was there and not there. Nothing more, apparently, than a flickering trick of sunlight and shadow.

But while he could not be seen, he saw. And unheard, he heard. So after some eight or ten minutes, he altered his direction, moving off at an approximate right angle to it. After perhaps another ten minutes, he again angled sharply to the right, now heading almost straight toward the house. There was an interval of a few minutes more, and then he came up immediately behind Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.

She was crawling on her hands and knees, a position which drew her trousers tight over her posterior. Grinning, Arlie aimed a big forefinger at the cleft between her buttocks, and gave her a powerful goose.

Big Sis 'Yipped!' and reared upward, both hands grasping at the offended area. Arlie grabbed them, bound her wrists with his bandanna and flipped her over on her back. It was all done too swiftly for Ethel Anderson to follow; before she knew what was happening. One moment she had been creeping toward the cabin. A split second later she was trussed and helpless, and an outside lummox – one of the Kings, apparently – was sprawled on top of her.

He grinned down into her face, pawing roughly over her body until he had found the tightly rolled wad of bills – all the money she had in the world – and her.28 caliber pistol. He tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, and tossed the gun far into the weeds.

Meanwhile, Miss Anderson had considerably recovered her wits, and was much her normal brazen self. 'How about it, big boy?' she said, her eyes sensuously bold. 'As long as you're taking things, why not take me?'

'How I gonna take you?' said Arlie, with assumed idiocy. 'You mean I eat you, or somethin'?'

'Now you just might want to,' she murmured. 'Eat or do the next best thing. Have a look at those tits.'

He pulled her shirt open, studied the pink-tipped abundance that tumbled out. He allowed his mouth to open in wonderment; at last looked up with patently puzzled eyes.

'You only got two,' he said plaintively.

'I only – whaat?' said Ethel Anderson. 'How the hell many did you think I'd have?'

'Kinda depends on whether you're a cow or sow or a bitch. Now, I don't figure you for a cow; you're too fuckin' filthy to stay in the same barn with one. So I reckon you must be a sow or – '

'You smart aleck son-of-a-bitch!' snapped Ethel, and she spat full in his face.

Arlie grinned, letting the spittle slide down his jaw; making no move to wipe it away. 'You spit pretty good,' he said. 'Want to do it again?'

'You're damned right I do!' she said. And she did. Spitting repeatedly into his face until her mouth was dry, and she could spit no more.

Arlie asked if she was sure she was through; if not, she was to take her time and finish. Miss Anderson shook her head uneasily, attempted an apologetic smile. For one of the very few times in her life she was frightened. Frightened, terrified, rather, to a degree she had never known before. Arlie brushed his sleeve across his face, mopping up the spittle. He continued to grin at her, a meaningless empty grin. A grin that hinted of a bottomless pit, where lurked unspeakable horrors.

Miss Anderson tore her eyes away from the grin; gasped out that she was sorry. 'I mean it! I really am! If you'll just let me go, Mr – uh – Mr – '

'Name's King,' Arlie said. 'The fella you was sneakin' up on in yonder house is my brother, Critch. You, now, I reckon you must be the gal called Big Sis Anderson, and you're plenty wanted for murder.'

Big Sis hesitated. 'All right. But there's probably one thing you don't know. Your brother has the money I murdered to get. He stole it off my younger sister.'

'Mmm? And where's your sister now?'

'Well, I, uh… I'm not sure, exactly. But – '

'Never mind,' Arlie chuckled. 'Now I'll tell you something you don't know. I stole that money off'n Critch. Took every penny of it an' spent it.'

Miss Anderson nodded promptly; again said, 'All right, You're not going to turn me over to the law, are you? They'd make you dig up that money if you did.'

Arlie said, nope, he wasn't going to turn her in. The Kings weren't much for botherin' the law with their problems, sort of likin' to deal with 'em themselves. 'But you're kind of a problem I don't know how to handle. I mean, what the heck am I gonna do with you?'

'You don't have to do anything. Just lift yourself off of me, and I'll do the rest.'

'You mean you'll just leave? Not come around no more?'

'Why not? There's nothing here for me with the money gone.'

'Now, ain't you nice?' Arlie said. 'I tell you the money's gone, an' you take my word for it just like that. Makes me wonder how anyone as trustin' as you managed to get so much money to begin with.'

'Look!' Big Sis snapped. 'If you've got something to say, say it! Whether you have or haven't got the money it's the same difference. There's nothing I can do about it.'

'There ain't? Now I'd a thought you could do just plenty about it. You'd sure as hell try, anyways. You'd get the money back, or me'n brother Critch would get a hatchet in our heads. Reckon we'd get one irregardless, what with you kind of havin' the hatchet habit.'

Miss Anderson cursed bitterly and at length, declaring that he could believe anything he wished as long as he lifted his big ass off of her. 'I've told you the truth, God damn you! Now get up before you smother me.'

'No,' said Arlie.

'No? What do you mean no?'

'I mean, you ain't convinced me that you wouldn't make plenty of trouble for me an' little brother. So I guess I'll just have to convince myself, won't I? Have to make sure that you don't never come near me or Critch again.'

'Do it then, damn you! But for God's sake get up so I can breathe!'

Arlie removed himself from her, still keeping well down among the weeds. Ethel Anderson sat up, drinking in great chest-swelling gulps of air. Arlie asked her where she had left her horse; learned that it was behind some trees about a quarter-mile to the north. He told her to head in that direction, unbinding her wrists so that she could crawl ahead of him.

They proceeded thus for a few hundred yards, until they had come up on the blind side of the house and were almost out in the open. Then, Miss Anderson suddenly flipped over on her back, simultaneously throwing a handful of dirt in his face and kicking out mightily with both feet. She came to her feet running, racing as fast as her well-curved legs could carry her. She burst out of the weeds and into the open. Heart pounding wildly, she sped toward the trees behind which her horse was tethered. She rounded them, and –

And had to fling herself backwards to keep from being impaled on the blade of Arlie's outthrust knife. He gestured with it, ordered her to stretch herself out on the ground. She obeyed, eyes fixed fearfully on his face. Mumbling incoherent apologies for what she had done. Arlie said genially that she was not to feel bad about it at all. His plans for her had been unchanged by her attempted escape.

'Now, we'll just get you out of them clothes…' He tore them off her with a couple of hard tugs of his hand. 'An' then I'll just cut myself a nice piece of ass.'

Her fear abating, Big Sis said irritably that he could have done that without destroying her clothes. She'd make a hell of a sight traveling across the countryside naked. Arlie said her nakedness would be no bother to her, her mind being occupied by other things.

'Like this,' he said, squatting astride her, and firmly gripping a bare buttock. 'Like goin' around with only one cheek to your ass.'

The cold edge of his knife pressed against the bulging flesh. She gasped, then screamed, as the blade sank in, was almost buried in the pulsing softness.

'What are you -? _No! Stop! S-STOP!'_

Arlie lightened the pressure on the knife, asked what the hell she was fussin' about. 'Just cuttin' myself a piece of ass like I said I was goin' to.'

'You're c-crazy -! _No! N-n-n-noo!'_

Arlie shifted his weight a little, forcing her face down into the dirt so that her screams became a frantic muffled mumble. She squirmed and pitched, and Arlie only brought his weight down the harder, murmuring assurances that she was making a lot of fuss over nothin'.

'What's one piece o' ass to a gal that's got as much as you have? If you're afraid it'll make you lopsided, I can even things up by whopping off the other cheek. Now, you jus' lay real still an' – '

Big Sis reared up violently. Managed one short, strangled scream. Then she flopped down on the ground again in a dead faint; lay motionless and silent.

When she regained consciousness she was lying on her back, her hands again bound behind her. A gag made from shreds of her clothes was in her mouth, and Arlie was seated on her chest, his back to her. He gave her an over-the-shoulder grin; a reassuring wink and nod. Then, taking a tight hold on the loose flesh of her crotch, he brought his knife down hard and slowly inscribed a circle around her uterus.

He had decided to leave her ass intact, he explained, as a relatively harmless part of her body. Instead he was going to remove the real mischief maker. And with her cooperation and his skill, the operation would be quite painless.

'Wish I had me a nickel for every puss I cut off,' he went on, carefully reinscribing the circle with his knife. 'An' ol' Indian trick, y'know, an' us Kings are prob'ly more Indian than white. Funny thing is the woman don't hardly feel it – you don't feel nothin', do you? – till a long time afterward. That's maybe because it's mostly muscle, you know, an' stretchy; got more give to it than a mile o' cat gut. Why I seen a fella stretch a gal's puss clean over her head, an' then let it snap shut around her neck. Man, oh, man, what a sight to see!' His body shook with laughter. 'That gal was flingin' herself around like a chicken with its head off; strangled to death by her own tokus. Now – _lay still!_ You keep up that kickin' and squirmin', you'll _really_ get hurt…'

Big Sis could not lie still; no more could she be silent. Her entire body was racked with involuntary trembling, and an incessant moan came from her muffled mouth.

'Now, less just see,' murmured Arlie. 'Uh-huh, I reckon that'll just about do it. Just one quick pull on the hair patch, an' the thing oughta lift right off as slick as pig shit.'

He knotted his fingers in the pubic hair, gave it a long steady pull. He paused; gave a harder pull. Then turned his head to give her an abashed look.

'You mind waitin' a day or two f'r it to drop off? Seems t'be stuck pretty bad right now. Reckon it musta got sort of scabbed on, what with all the bleedin'.'

He held out his hand, by way of demonstration. A hand that was scarlet, dripping with blood. Then, as her eyes grew wider and wider, he reached around and wiped the hand on her crotch.

'Reckon I oughta put it back where I got it, huh? Well, now that we got that over with…'

He stood up, held a hand out to her. She took it silently, staring at him with unseeing eyes, and he drew her to her feet. As he guided her to her horse, helped her to get astride the saddle, he looked searchingly into the frozen face – into the eyes that looked only inward – and was almost shocked by what he saw. Almost moved to pity her.

Almost. He was virtually immune to shock and feelings of pity.

'Now, you're gonna be all right,' he said gruffly. 'You've had the fear of God put into you, an' you figure you're half-killed. But – '

'I know…' She smiled at him suddenly; the open, innocent smile of a child. And her voice was thin, high-pitched: a child's voice. 'It's like Papa says.'

'Uh, how's that?' Arlie said.

'I live with Papa,' she piped. 'Papa an' my little sister, Anne. Papa said it would only hurt us at first, and then it would feel good. An' I guess he ought to know, 'cause he's my Papa an' Papas know everything!' She tossed her head in childish bravado; then her voice clouded, and an incipient whimper came into her voice. 'But it still hurts. It hurts awful, awful bad. An' – an' – ' Dry-eyed, she began to sob. 'I want my Mama. _I want my Mama…!'_

A bilish lump had risen in Arlie's throat. He gulped it down sickishly. 'Jesus Christ!' he breathed. 'Jeez-ass Keerist!'

'I got to go now,' said Ethel Anderson. 'You better go, too, or your Papa'll be mad.'

She nodded to him winsomely. Nudging the horse's flanks with her heels, she galloped away. And in the dying sunset Arlie stared after her, the naked woman grown smaller and smaller in the distance. And at last disappearing, as all things must, at horizon's end.

Arlie turned, and trudged away in the direction of his own horse. His big hands clenched and unclenched slowly, and his mind was in turmoil. Emotionally, he was tugged this way and that; self-damned and self-praised; his inner self simultaneously shaken and reassured.

Could a thing be both wrong and right? Could justice be injustice? Condemnation wrestled with rationalization, and the latter at last won out.

He shrugged as he came up to his horse, his face and conscience clearing.

'Shit and four are ten,' he mumbled. 'Shot a goose and killed a hen.'

…It was quite late at night when Ethel Anderson reached the Gutzman farm, and Gutzman was already in bed. Hearing her ride in, he got up and lit the kerosene lamp; trying to maintain his anger with her as she drew oats from the feed shed, then, after a suitable interval led the horse to the watering trough. There was the sound of the barn door opening, the sound of its closing again. And then, finally, the rasping of weary footsteps, crossing the rutted soil of the barnyard and approaching the house.

Gutzman forced back the beam of approval which threatened to disperse his stern scowl.

So his Greta vas a goot woman. So always she took care of the animals first, herself second. Still, vas such an excuse to behave like whoore voman? To stay out half the night, and give him insults instead of explanations.

Standing in his long grayish-hued underwear, he drew himself erect as she entered the door; arms folded across his chest, his expression ominously severe.

'So, Greta!' he boomed. 'You vill now tell me vy – vy – '

The lamp wick was economically dampered, so that there was little light outside its immediate vicinity. His view of her, then, was dim and limited: a head and face, a partial torso, painted upon the darkness. But her nudeness was obvious – the fact that she had been out in public, doubtless before other men, without clothes. And that was more than enough to infuriate him.

'Badt girl!' he shouted. 'Fallen voman! Vy? Vot iss, answer me!'

Ethel bowed her head humbly. Her hands remained behind her, as they had in the beginning.

In her child's voice, she said, 'I lost my thing, Papa. You can't do it to me any more.'

'Vot! Vot?' gasped Gutzman, and at last he noted the dark smear of her groin. 'Vot has happened to you, Greta? Vy you talk like leetle girl?'

'I'm my Papa's good little girl,' Ethel said desperately, 'an' my Papa likes my thing better'n anyone's. An' now it's gone. An' – an' – ' She raised stubborn eyes to his. 'It's not my fault, an' you're not gonna whip me.'

_Tell me I'm not, yuh little bitch! Went an' sewed it up, did you? Well, time I tear them threads outta yuh_…!

'Mein Gott!' Gutzman stammered. 'Ach, my poor leetle Greta! Blease, you tell Gutzy vy – vot – '

'I'm going to kill you, Papa. I'm going to rip your thing off.'

She brought her hands around in front of her, jabbed with the item they were holding. It was a pitchfork, the needle-sharp tines gleaming dully through their encrustations of manure.

Gutzman stood frozen with surprise. Stunned, unable to move, he stammered incoherent inquiries as to the reason for this horror which confronted him. Ethel crept in closer, ignoring his questions; at last beginning to sing:

_Jesus wants me for a sunbeam,_

A sunbeam, a sunbeam!

Jesus wants me for a sunbeam,

I'll be a sunbeam for him!

She lunged forward suddenly. Gutzman let out a yell, flung himself aside. The tines of the fork sank in the wall behind him, and before he could recover sufficiently to wrest the tool from her, she had jerked it free. Was again jabbing and stabbing at him.

Slowly, he began to back away from her, keeping his eyes on her face. Blindly feeling with his hands for something with which to defend himself. He stumbled against a chair, almost went over backwards as she lunged at him again. He bumped into the stove, cold now after hours of disuse, and began circling it. Too late he remembered the large pile of firewood he had stacked behind it that night. A pile too large for him to move around, or to step over backward. And, of course, he would have to do it backward. Death awaited him the moment he turned away from her.

Now, she laughed with childish pleasure, merrily aware of his predicament: then broke into sobs, declaring her willingness to be a sunbeam for Jesus.

All the time moving nearer. And slowly drawing the pitchfork back for its final thrust.

Gutzman fumbled behind him with sweat-wet hands. Feeling the rough bark of the firewood. Trying to find a stick that would serve as a weapon.

He found none. All were sections of split logs; half-logs, in other words. Too big to be gripped firmly, or swung quickly. Large chunks of wood burned longer than small, though they were often difficult to ignite. Usually, it was necessary to splinter one up for kindling, and –

Gutzman at last found his weapon. He swung with it, an infinitesimal fraction of a second before Ethel could lunge with the pitchfork.

She released the fork, and said a single word; a long drawn-out, 'Ohhh,' that was like a sigh of relief. Then, she crumpled to the floor, and there was no further sound from her except for the bubbling of her wound.

Gutzman let out an anguished cry of 'Greta!' He tottered out from behind the stove, and sank down on his knees before her. At first he kept his eyes firmly shut; and when he at last opened them, he kept them turned away from her face and head, from the fatal injury he had wrought, and looked only at her body.

She had fallen on her side in death, one knee drawn slightly up: a semi-foetal position. Gutzman studied the flaring buttock thus exposed, then tenderly shifted her body enough to look at the other one.

He leaned back, frowning. Scratched his frowsy head puzzledly. After a long moment, he turned her on her back, and spread her legs with awkward delicacy. Reaching behind him, he palmed water from the stove's reservoir, splashed it upon her crotch and gingerly scrubbed it with the sleeve of his underwear.

Again he leaned back, baffled by a seemingly idiotic paradox.

His leetle Greta… all bloody she was there in the place he had so happily visited so often. Yet how could this be? Where had the blood come from? There was not even the smallest cut, the slightest break in the skin, either there or anywhere else on her body.

He scowled, looking down at her; then suddenly squinted and bent close.

Circling the pubic area was a deep reddish indentation; much the same kind of marking he had noted on her buttock. He had supposed this last to be a memento of the saddle or of too-tight underpants. Yet that could hardly be, could it, if a virtually identical imprint existed around her crotch.

Gutzman could think of only one thing which might have made such an indentation. One which could not possibly have made it, since, to his way of thinking, it would have been preposterously pointless to do so:

Pressing a knife down hard on the blade's dull edge…

Gutzman gave his head a sad shake, firmly and finally denying the ridiculous theory. No one but he was responsible for leetle Greta's death. Only he had contributed to it. He had babbled to her unceasingly, talked until the sound of his voice must have been like the buzzing of bees. And all night long he had pressed himself upon her, taking advantage of her dependency; giggling stupidly at her profane pleas to leave her alone before he wore it out.

How many times had she cursed him, declared that he was driving her crazy. _Oh, Gott, Gott! So sorry I am, Greta!_ She had warned him, and he had ignored her. And, now, here was the awful result of his selfishness.

Those curious indentations had nothing to do with the tragedy. Already, even, they were beginning to fade and disappear. They would be gone before the marshal could send someone to investigate, nor was there any point in mentioning them. For he, alone, was guilty. He, Gutzman, that selfish, thoughtless, demanding man, who had made Greta murderously insane, and then split her lovely head with a hatchet. *b*

Critch limped out to the well, and drew up a pail of water. He dipped cupped hands into the pail, blew a couple of tiny silverfish from the water and drank thirstily. He repeated the process several times, pausing intermittently to chew down a string of jerked beef. His inner self at last refreshed, he stripped to the waist and gave himself a half bath.

The rays of the dying sun warmed and dried him. He returned to the house, feeling considerably less stiff and achy.

He lay down in the bunk, and lighted a cheroot. By the time it was finished, he was all but drained of his rage against Arlie and was able to think reasonably. To see the dangerous futility of killing his brother.

Marshal Thompson had warned them both about taking the law into their own hands. And the marshal was obviously not a man to be trifled with. He would not accept a murder attempt by Arlie, as an excuse for killing Arlie. He would simply point out that only the law was authorized to deal with criminals, and that individuals who did so were criminals themselves. And that would be that – the next to the last chapter in the life of Critchfield King.

The best argument against killing Arlie, however, was the pointlessness of it. It would not get him his money back. It would leave him stuck here on this debt-burdened ranch, a place he was as incapable of running without Arlie as he was of flying.

There were two good reasons then for not killing Arlie. And added to them, Critch admitted, perhaps a third. The fact that he was doubtless incapable of killing. In the blazing heat of his rage, he had believed himself capable – had sworn that he would take Arlie's life. But now that he had cooled off, had had time to think clearly…

Arlie's demise was desirable, of course. If nothing more, killing him was the best insurance against getting killed. For the present, however, it must remain only an ideal. Something only to be achieved if and when the right time came.

In the meantime, and killing aside, Arlie must certainly be punished. He must be taught that an injury or an attempted injury to his brother would bring prompt and painful retaliation.

Critch sat up in the bunk, gazed thoughtfully around the darkening room. Then, his eyes lighting, he arose and went over to the stove; reached a hand under it. The hand closed over a metallic object, and he drew it out. Stood hefting a heavy steel poker.

_Nice, he thought. Very nice, indeed._ And loosening his belt, he slid the poker down his trouser leg. He refastened the belt, took several tentative steps. He could only walk stiff-legged, naturally, but that was all right. Even without the poker, his movements tended to stiffness.

He returned to the bunk. Lay back down again. The darkness became almost absolute, and he closed his eyes. And within minutes was fast asleep.

Several hours later he awakened to the distant rattle of wagon wheels. He sat up slightly to glance out of the window, and he saw the bobbing glimmer of a lantern. He stayed where he was for a time, watching the lantern draw closer, listening to the sound of the wheels grow louder. Then, at a faint haloo from Arlie, he arose and limped out into the yard.

'Here!' he shouted. 'All ready and waiting.'

'Good! Be right with you!' Arlie shouted back. And he soon was.

He leaped down from the wagon seat, came forward with anxious offers of assistance. Critch accepted it, directing it so as to conceal the presence of the poker and to place his brother in line for a hard kick as the latter hoisted him into the rear of the wagon.

'Yeeow!' yelled Arlie, clutching at his groin. 'Watch what you're doin', God damn it!'

'Oh, did I kick you?' Critch asked innocently. 'I'm terribly sorry, Arlie.'

'Well, you sure as hell -! Ah, to hell with it,' Arlie said, and he rounded the wagon, and climbed up in the seat. 'Make yourself comfortable on them quilts,' he said grumpily, as they started off. 'Got grub an' a jug of coffee there somewhere, if you want it.'

Critch thanked him warmly. He again expressed regret for the kick, vocally hoping that it had not landed on his brother's balls. 'I know how much that can hurt,' he went on. 'Why, when that saddle came down on top of me today, I thought my nuts had been crushed.'

Arlie cleared his throat noisily. He popped the reins over the horses' backs, sending them forward with a leap.

'Uh, how you suppose it happened?' he said, finally. 'Cinch bust on you?'

'It must have. Anyone who cut it would have to be a real lowdown, rotten, bastardly, mother-jumping son-of-a-bitch – wouldn't he? And I don't know of anyone like that around here – do you?'

'Uh, er, looky,' grunted Arlie. 'Why don't you eat some of that grub?'

Critch said he believed he would, at that, and locating the lunch basket, he began to eat. (He also found the pepper shaker, and loosened the lid on it.) Between mouthfuls of food and coffee, he continued to muse profanely, lewdly and loudly re the type of person – if it were possible for such a creature to exist – who would cut a man's saddle cinch.

'You know what, Arlie? I think anyone who would do a thing like that would screw a skunk in the ass, and then eat its – '

'Shut up!' howled Arlie. 'You hear me, _shut up!'_

'Shut up?' said Critch. 'Now, why should I, anyway?'

Arlie turned around, yelling because, that was why! 'Because if you open your stinkin' mouth one more time, I'll – Yeeow!' he yelled and flung his hands to his eyes. 'Eeyow! You crazy son-of-a-_OOoouch!'_

'What's the matter? You don't like pepper?' said Critch, and began to roar with laughter. 'Suppose you try a little dose of this.'

He stood up in the jolting wagon, raised the steel poker high. He brought it down with all his might, at the very moment the wagon hit a rock and bounced upward. Arlie lurched backwards, the poker almost scraping the tip of his nose. Blinded, he clawed the air frantically, seeking something to cling to. He found it, the poker, that is, just as Critch raised it for another swing. Just as the wagon again bounced high for a second time.

The jounce pitched him heels over head, still clinging futilely to the poker. Also clinging to it, lacking time to let go, Critch soared after him.

They came down between the team, landing precariously on the wagon's swingle-tree. There ensued an insane melee of kicks and punches and gouges, only part of which punished the intended targets, the rest being inadvertently shared with the justly indignant horses.

Angry whinnyings and equine screams rose above the tumult from the brothers. The team reared, and began to race. The wagon literally flew behind them, hitting naught but the high spots; the swingle-tree pitching and tossing like a wild thing.

Arlie and Critch were necessarily and hastily diverted from each other. As the team tore through a tangle of spiny prairie bush, the one thought of the partially shredded brothers was to end this man-killing neo-flight. Or, at least, to end their part in it. But destiny apparently had concluded that here were two fools, who didn't know what they wanted and should be given ample opportunity for second thoughts. And the horses had seemingly decided that whatever their whilom masters wanted, they didn't want. So they proceeded to blaze a new trail across the countryside – the roughest, most overgrown part of it – taking the brothers King along with them.

Unlike man, however, there is fortunately a limit to the havoc which animals can create. The team reached that limit when they sought to soar over the steep-banked bed of a dry creek. For while they cleared the obstacle themselves, continuing their mad race through the night, they took nothing with them but odds and ends of harness. The Kings remained behind, all-but-buried beneath the shattered wagon.

For a time, they were too battered and benumbed to move. Or hardly to realize what had happened to them. But at last achieving partial recovery, they reached almost simultaneously for their knives – which, of course, had been lost – then, cursed and clawed about for other weapons.

Critch found a wheel spoke, and Arlie found a length of harness chain. They struck at each other feebly, blows which could have caused no more damage if performed with turkey feathers. Panting, they cursed one another, then, exhausted, fell back prone in the grass.

They lay heaving for breath, hearts laboring with exertion. A light breeze rattled the grass and weeds, made a sound of suppressed snickering. A few stars peered down from the blue-black sky, humorously twinkling and winking. From the far distance, space-muted to a near whisper, came a triumphant neighing, a mocking hee-haw… the final comment of the fleeing team.

The brothers rested.

They crawled slowly out from under the wreckage. Slowly climbed up the creek bank and out onto the prairie.

They came to their feet. They began to circle slowly, facing one another, their arms outspread. Poised for the advantageous moment. Arlie said he was going to beat the shit out of Critch. Critch said he was going to beat the shit out of Arlie.

'You'll get enough to eat for a change,' he said. 'A nice double helping. Maybe, I'll give you something to drink along with it. Something like lemonade.'

'You smart-aleck son-of-a-bitch!' Arlie yelled.

'You slimy, sneaky, backstabbing bastard!' Critch shouted.

He suddenly aimed a kick at his brother. Arlie caught his foot, twisted it sharply and threw him to the ground. Critch rolled frantically, trying to get out of the way of what was coming. But Arlie leaped on top of him, and drew a big fist high.

'Now, by God!' he grunted. 'Now, I'm just gonna beat the ever-lastin' – '

He flung himself backward with a howl of pain; began an agonized hugging of his kneecap. Critch mocked him fiendishly, hefting a rock in his hand. He insisted that Arlie's pain was all in his mind, and that such a small rock could not possibly have caused serious injury.

'Have a look at it yourself,' he advised. _'You dirty bastard!'_

He hurled the rock suddenly – barely missed braining his brother. He grunted disgustedly, then brightened as he saw that Arlie was still helpless; ripe for a few hard kicks in the head.

'Now, just you take it easy,' he advised Arlie, his voice hideously soothing. 'Old Dr. Critchfield is going to put you to sleep, and when you wake up – three or four months from now – '

He started to get to his feet.

He sat down abruptly. Grimaced with pain as he clutched his twisted ankle. Wearily, he began to curse.

And Arlie ceased to howl and flop about, and laughed maliciously. 'I hope it's busted, you son-of-a-bitch! Serve you right for jumping me!'

'And I hope your kneecap is broken! It'll serve you right for cutting my saddle cinch!'

Arlie hesitated, wet his lips nervously. 'About that cinch, Critch. I'll take the blame before I let Kay suffer for it. But… hell, you oughta know I wouldn't do nothin' as dumb as that! Maybe they don't have to hide me under a washtub to let the sun come up, but I'm sure too bright to cut a saddle cinch!'

'Then who – you mean Kay did it?'

Arlie nodded with a mixture of disgust and pride. 'The poor damn' nervy little squaw! She was sore, an' she thought she was helpin' me, protection' me, y'know, an' – well, Jesus! A blind idjit would know the cinch had been cut, and figger me for the fella that cut it!'

Critch studied his brother suspiciously; at last moved his head in a slow nod.

'All right,' he said. 'You didn't cut it. Now what about the money, and don't ask me what money!'

'What mon – All right, all right!' Arlie said hastily. 'I.K. stole the money from you, and I took it away from him. I admit it, if it makes you feel any better.'

'You don't have it now. What did you do with it?'

'Well, uh, what makes you think I don't have it now? Anyway,' Arlie said, defensively belligerent, 'that money wasn't yours to begin with. You stole it off'n them Anderson sisters!'

'Where's the money, Arlie? If I have to guess about it…'

'Dang it, Critch, I was gonna tell you later on! After you sort of got settled down.'

'Tell me now.' Critch waited. 'I know you brought it back here from El Reno. What did you do with it after that?'

'I didn't bring it back here. That steel box in my satchel was just to fool you. Wasn't nothin' in it but some cut-up newspaper.'

'All right,' Critch said. 'Same question. What did you do with that money.'

Arlie mumbled that he had spent it. Critch laughed angrily. 'Spent it? What the hell could you have spent seventy thousand dollars on?'

Arlie told him, repeating the information as Critch stared at him dumbfounded.

'What else could I spend it on, with us about to be debted out of the ranch? I spent it on what you're sittin' on. And I don't mean your lousy ass!'

He glared at his brother defiantly. Critch silently stared back at him, his mind in a turmoil. Trying to think. Perhaps trying not to think what the future now held for him. His hand went to his pocket, fumbled fruitlessly for a cheroot. He looked down at himself, frowning, seemingly noticing his tattered clothes for the first time. At last he sighed and shook himself; a man coming into reality from a dream.

'What do you think, Arlie? Do you suppose we could borrow some horses around here, anywhere?'

'Ain't likely,' Arlie said. 'These folks work any horses they got, and they'd lose most of a day before we could return 'em. Anyways, you come up on a place out here after dark, you'll likely get shot a-fore you can say howdy-do.'

'I imagine we'd better make ourselves comfortable here then, don't you? Paw will send for us as soon as that run-away team hits town.'

'If it hits town,' Arlie said. 'It wasn't headin' in that direction, an' I don't see it as bein' in any hurry to get there. There's too many fields of green corn along the way.'

'Well, then…?'

'It's your left ankle that's twisted, right? An' me, I'm crippled in the right knee. So I reckon if we just kind of lean on each other, favorin' our bad legs, an' puttin' our weight on t'other ones…'

They got to their feet, loosely speaking. They started to hobble-hop together, and Critch suspiciously drew back.

'Hold up, Arlie! You've got a cut hand!'

'Huh? Well, damned if I ain't!' Arlie said, and he clenched his fist, stanching the flow of blood. 'What's it to you, anyways, little brother?'

'I'd say it was a fresh cut. A knife cut. Which means a hell of a lot to me.'

Arlie said truthfully that it wasn't a fresh cut. He'd gotten it earlier in the day… somehow… and it had doubtless broken open during the recent hectic events.

'Now, looky, Critch. Just where the hell would I hide a knife in these rags?'

'All right,' Critch nodded grudgingly. 'Let's get organized.'

But now Arlie held back, pointing out that a man who could hide a stove poker in his clothes was far sneakier than he.

'Shake your arms, little brother. Shake 'em good! An' maybe you better drop your pants, too.'

'Like hell I will! There's hardly enough left of 'em to drop, anyway.'

Arlie shrugged; said he guessed he'd just have to risk it.

Critch snorted; declared that he was risking much himself.

'So don't start anything. If you do, I'll finish it.'

'Same to you, brother Critch. The same to you.'

So at last, they came together, watchfully juxtaposing themselves so that their crippled legs were on the inside. Then, each laid an arm across the other's shoulder; and they began the long walk to the Junction.

The morning was well advanced by the time they reached it, and they had hardly crossed the tracks when the train from El Reno arrived. The brothers ignored it, too weary to look around. Marshal Harry Thompson descended to the station platform, flicking specks of soot from his snowy white shirt. As the train departed, he glanced toward the railroad right-of-way, nodded toward the dark head which poked up from the weeds. The head disappeared, and Thompson strode swiftly down the walk toward Arlie and Critch.

He caught up with them a few steps short of the hotel-ranchhouse; made affable inquiries as to the cause of their wretched condition. Arlie explained nervously, and the marshal voiced suave concern.

'I imagine you're completely worn out, aren't you? Can't think of anything but eating and getting to bed? Well, gentlemen' – he looked from one to the other, dark eyes suddenly turned crystal-hard. 'I'm afraid such creature comforts will have to be postponed for a while. Indefinitely, you might say. I have some questions to ask you.'

'Uh, questions?' Arlie gulped uneasily. 'Questions 'bout what.'

'Forget it!' Critch said curtly. 'I'm eating breakfast and then I'm going to bed. The marshal can postpone his questions, or do the next best thing!'

'Which,' said Thompson, 'would be what?'

'Go shit in your hat!'

Critch reached for the door. Paused abruptly, hands half-raised, as he looked down the blue-black barrel of the marshal's forty-five.

'That remark you made,' Thompson said, 'became the epitaph of the last man who made it to me. I wonder if you'd like it to be yours?'

Critch shook his head; managed a weak grin. 'I'd prefer to postpone it, sir. Indefinitely, you might say.'

'Or until you've answered my questions?'

'Or until then. But we do have certain rights, Marshal. Before this goes any further, we're entitled to know the nature of your questions.'

'You're right, of course,' said Thompson, reholstering his gun. 'Please forgive the omission. My questions – to which I expect complete and satisfactory answers – are concerned with robbery and murder.'

_ c_

They were assembled in the hotel's bar room – the brothers and the marshal, Ike and Tepaha. A bottle and glasses of whiskey sat before the two old men. They sipped at it occasionally, their seamed faces expressionless; reflecting not the slightest interest in what was happening or what might happen.

'… well, Arlie?' the marshal was saying. 'I'm still waiting. What's your answer?'

'Sure, Marshal Harry, sure. Now, uh, lessee…' Arlie wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. 'Just a minute now. It'll come to me in a minute. Uh, mmm, uh – What was that question again, marshal?'

'The same as it was the first fifteen times I asked it! The same as it was damned near an hour ago!'

'Uh, yes, sir?'

'All right, I'll repeat it once more. Three weeks ago, give or take a day, you paid off approximately seventy thousand dollars in indebtedness against this ranch. _Now where did you get the money?'_

'Where did I get it?'

'You heard me! Yes!'_

'Mmm,' said Arlie. 'Now, lessee…'

In the old days, thought Tepaha, there was no interference from men of the law. A bad son was simply reported to his father, who dealt with him as he deemed best. For who was better prepared to sit in judgment than the father, who more able to decide the proper punishment? Surely, since it was the offender who was punished, it was he who should be judged, not the offense he committed. Surely, though errors might sometimes occur, they were much less frequent when the father, rather than the law, passed judgment. This was so, and it could hardly be otherwise. For the father's judgment was of the individual, and there was honor in it as well as knowledge. And the law's judgment was of the faceless mass (and created by that mass) – and this in the name of justice!

At any rate, thought Tepaha, there was no wrong in stealing, except from friends and family. Others who were stolen from were themselves criminal, since, by making their property stealable, they had doubtless tempted an honest man to thievery.

Similarly, it was impossible to defraud an importunate creditor. The worst that could be done to them was not as bad as they deserved. And how could it be otherwise? Trust was not something you gave a man one day, withdrew the next, and re-extended a third. This patently was not trust at all, but rather the most heinous fraud. Real trust was permanent – not something given when unneeded, and taken away when one's need was worst. This was so. Only a law which boasted of its blindness would hold otherwise.

Ol' Marshal Harry full of shit, thought Tepaha.

'For the last time, Arlie,' said Marshal Thompson. 'I'm asking for the last time – '

'I'll answer the question,' Critch said. 'Arlie got the money from me.'

'Of course, he did.' The marshal turned on him grimly. 'I wondered when he or you would get around to admitting it. He stole the money from you, and you – '

'Stole it from me?' Critch gave him a wondering look. 'Now, why in the world do you think – ' He broke off, bursting into laughter. 'I'm sorry, marshal. I'd entirely forgotten the little joke we pulled on that Indian kid. I guess you must have forgotten it too, eh, Arlie?'

'Now danged if I didn't!' Arlie declared, and immediately began whooping with laughter. 'Don't see how I coulda forgot it neither, the way we had ol' I.K. goin'. Funniest thing you ever saw, Marshal Harry!'

Thompson looked sourly from one brother to the other. 'You expect me to believe that? That it was all a joke?'

'I hardly see how you can believe anything else,' said Critch, 'as long as Arlie and I say it was a joke.'

'Why, sure,' Arlie said warmly. 'You sure as hell couldn't believe I.K. He's the biggest damned liar in the Territory, and they's plenty of people that'll swear to it.'

Thompson said to let it go; whether the money had been stolen from Critch or whether Critch had given it to Arlie was not really important. The –

'Oh, I disagree, Marshal,' Critch broke in. 'The truthfulness of I.K. could be of the greatest importance. After all, if he lied in one instance he'd doubtless lie in another.'

'Forget it!' Thompson snapped. 'All I want to know is where you got that money – almost seventy thousand dollars?'

'Oh, one way and another,' Critch said airily. 'Gambling, cotton speculation; that sort of thing.'

'Can you prove that?'

'Naturally, I can't. No one could. Fortunately, I don't have to prove it. However' – he smiled pleasantly, 'I believe I can lend substantial credence to at least one part of my statement, if you'd care to join me in a game of poker.'

Thompson said he didn't care to, or need to. He already knew where Critch had gotten the money: from Ethel and/or Anne Anderson, alias Big Sis and Little Sis Anderson.

'Mmm,' Critch frowned thoughtfully. 'Ethel and Anne Anderson. Now where have I heard those names before?'

'Don't pull that stuff on me, mister! You stole that seventy thousand dollars from one or both of them, _and I can prove it!'_

In the old days, thought Old Ike King, a man did what he was big enough to do, and mostly there wasn't much difference between the men whose necks he stretched or who stretched his, if so it was to be. Mostly there was nothing personal in it, however it was. It was just a case of taking or being taken, killing or being killed. Well, sure, there was fellas that boohooed and whined about it – but there was fellas that would cry if you hung 'em with a new rope. And, sure, maybe you wished things was a different way; but they wasn't, and all you could do was hold out and hope.

In the old days, thought Old Ike King, a friend was someone you wouldn't kill, even when you had the chance, and vicey versa. A friend was someone you'd kill for and vicey versa. A friend was someone who did no wrong, no matter what he did; who saw you as doing no wrong, no matter what you did.

Now the padres weren't bad fellas, in their own way. But it was only natural that they should be mixed up about right and wrong, since they seldom got shot at or scalped, if at all. It was easy for them to believe that there was a fella with a long gray beard who lived up in the sky and looked out for everyone or anyways never let 'em get killed unless it was for their own good. It was easy for them to believe that there was a hell deep inside the earth; instead of its really bein' where you didn't have to dig for it.

In a funny kinda way, Old Ike King and the padres really thought a lot alike. They believed that whiskery fella up in the sky wasn't never wrong about nothing, whereas Ike believed that it was friends, those closest to him, who did no wrong.

You had to believe in 'em, see? You'd go out of your mind if you didn't, what with having to decide a hundred times a day what was right or wrong or halfway between.

To come right down to cases, what the hell could you believe in if not your friends and family? A man that would doubt them and believe an outsider would have to be a plumb sorry asshole…

'… afraid I don't understand, Marshal,' Critch was saying. 'You state that I stole the money from the Andersons, together or singly, yet you don't seem to have any idea of the amount they had. I do hope this isn't normal procedure for you, sir. To draw an analogy, you could charge a man with horse-stealing, with no proof that the horse ever existed.'

Thompson lowered his head doggedly, his face reddening. 'We know this,' he said. 'The Andersons were in business for approximately ten years, during which time they killed close to forty well-heeled travelers. It's not unreasonable to believe then that their aggregate loot amounted to seventy thousand dollars.'

'Maybe, maybe not,' Critch shrugged. 'The sisters had expenses during those ten years. It's not unreasonable to believe that those expenses amounted to forty or fifty thousand.'

'I'm talking about their net loot! After expenses!'

'Umm-hmm. I assume your estimate was arrived at after consulting the various relatives and heirs of the murder victims? They told you the probable amount the deceased had on their persons.'

'Correct. There was one man alone who had more than ten thousand.'

'Yes? And what did some of the others have?'

'Well, there was one with seventy-five hundred, and one with four thousand plus, and another with close to eight thousand, and – '

Thompson broke off, his mouth literally snapping shut. Silently, he berated his nephew for persuading him to venture forth on what was patently a fool's errand.

Critch laughed softly. 'Well, Marshal? If the individuals you mentioned are typical, the sisters must have netted closer to half-a-million than seventy thousand. What do you suppose happened to the rest of it?'

'Don't get smart with me, young man!'

'I wouldn't think of it, sir. You've got trouble enough in store for you, as it is. It's my guess that the heirs of practically every missing person in the country are going to claim that their loved ones were murdered by the Andersons, and that said loved ones possessed small fortunes in cash or its equivalent at the time of their demise. By the time the claims are all filed and adjudicated, to no one's satisfaction, of course, I suspect that you and the people who appointed you are going to have something in common that you don't have now. You're both going to wish you were dead.'

The marshal grunted, silently guessing that Critch was probably right. In any case, he had no intention of finding out by filing charges against young King. There was simply no evidence to support an arrest. No proof that the Andersons had had anything to steal, or that Critch had stolen it.

For his part, Critch was not feeling nearly as easy as he acted. He still could not bring himself to look at his father. Nor had Old Ike spoken a word, or otherwise indicated what he felt. That he must know or be reasonably sure that the money was stolen seemed certain. And whether the law, as represented by Marshal Thompson, could prove it meant nothing to him. Old Ike was his own law. He passed his own judgments.

'Well, Marshal?' Critch leaned against the bar, easing the weight from his injured ankle. 'I believe I've said all I have to say. Do you still want to arrest me?'

Thompson shook his head; said that he'd never wanted to arrest anyone in his life. 'So, no, I don't want to arrest you. In fact, I didn't come here with any real hope or intention of doing so. I'm probably not as familiar with the criminal code and the rules of evidence as you seem to be. But I'm sufficiently versed in them to know when I have a case against a man and when I don't – and I obviously didn't in this instance. As long as I was here, of course, I tried to do my damnedest. But the main purpose of my visit – I believe I mentioned it earlier, didn't I? – is murder.'

'Murder?' Critch blinked. 'What murder?'

'The murder of Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.'

'But that's cra -!' Critch broke off, made a business out of lighting a cheroot. Gained a few seconds' time to think.

There was something wrong here; something subtly out of key in the marshal's attitude and tone. A charge of murder would naturally take precedence over any other, so why…? Never mind, Critch thought, never mind. The question was, how to use it to his own advantage. Get himself solidly back in the good graces of his father.

'Well, Marshal…' he shrugged. 'Perhaps, if you're going to accuse me of murder…'

'I'm not sure that I am going to. Perhaps I'll charge Arlie instead.'

He turned to grin coldly at Arlie, who was gulping a drink of whiskey. Arlie choked, spluttered and let out an indignant howl of denial.

'That's a God damn lie! I did not neither kill that woman!'

'So?' The marshal's brows went up. 'Then if you didn't, Critch did. I know that one of the two of you is guilty. You see, gentlemen…'

Big Sis had been killed the previous afternoon, he explained. Killed in the vicinity of the cabin where Critch had ostensibly been recuperating from his injuries. Arlie had also been seen in the area at the time, and, like Critch, had had the opportunity to commit the murder… _to which there had been an eyewitness!_ However, the eyewitness had been some distance away, and he was only sure that one of the brothers had done the killing – not which one. So…

'There's no problem here,' Critch said quietly. 'I'm guilty, Marshal.'

'That's an unqualified confession?' Thompson said. 'You wouldn't like to take some second thoughts?'

'Second thoughts? What about?'

'The fact that my eyewitness actually inclines to the belief that Arlie was the killer rather than you. Now, you were right nearby at the time of the murder. You could have witnessed it. And with you to corroborate the testimony of my witness…'

'Now, Marshal…' Critch gave him a stern look. 'You surely aren't suggesting that I incriminate my brother by lying to you?'

'I'm suggesting that you're lying right now! That you're doing so to protect your brother!'

'Nonsense! Why, I'd have everything to lose and nothing to gain by lying.' Critch shook his head; let it bow with humility. 'As things stand now, I know my father can't have a very high opinion of me. He couldn't possibly consider me fit to carry on in his footsteps. Given time, I might be able to redeem myself in his eyes, but I could only get that time by putting the blame on Arlie for a murder that I – '

'You don't have to put it on me!' Arlie snapped. 'I'm doin' it myself. I 'preciate your tryin' to protect me, little brother, but I ain't gonna allow it.' He drew himself up, extending his wrists. 'Put the cuff on, Marshal Harry. I done that killin'.'

The marshal looked at him, shook his head cynically. He had misstated the facts a little himself, he said. His eyewitness was actually of the opinion that Critch was the killer. So if Arlie would corroborate the witness's testimony…

'I won't!' Arlie said doggedly. 'I done it, an' I'm takin' the blame.'

'You didn't, and you're not,' Critch said. 'I'm your man, Marshal.'

'The hell you are!'

'The hell you are!'shouted the brothers King.

And as they squared off from each other, their fists drawn back, the marshal suddenly burst into laughter. Smilingly assured them that neither was guilty, that the person who had killed Ethel Anderson had already admitted it.

'Now,' he went on, 'you have a right to know why I put you through this rigmarole. The answer is that I felt you two were a potential source of very big trouble. And by way of heading off that trouble, I had to resolve some very serious doubts I entertained concerning your character.'

'They ain't nothin' wrong with my boys' character…' Old Ike spoke for the first time. 'Asked me, I'd a told you.'

And Tepaha added that ol' Harry was one big damned fool, unable to see what was obvious to an idiot.

The marshal nodded in suave apology. 'Not knowing them as well as you, I regarded them as two very determined, self-seeking young men. Thoroughly selfish and willing to go to any lengths to get their own way. I am glad to say that I was wrong.'

He was by no means sure that he had been wrong. Still, it was a world of miracles, was it not? And if giving a dog a bad name turned him bad, perhaps by giving him a good one he could be made – well, safe at least.

'Shit,' grunted Old Ike King; then, with Tepaha, rose heavily to his feet.

He started toward the door, Tepaha trailing; rambling of plans he had to make and the lack of time for damned foolishness. He added that the boys were to eat themselves some breakfast. Then, after a moment's grudging pause:

'Welcome to stay'n eat, too, Harry.'

'Why, thank you, Ike…' The marshal hesitated. 'If you're sure it's not too much trouble.'

Ike gestured, brushing the notion aside, and went on out the door. But Old Tepaha turned, eyes blazing proudly: spoke in a mixture of Apache and Spanish, as do all wise men when both forcefulness and delicacy are required.

'Has a dog entered the lodge of Old Ike King?' he inquired. 'Surely no man would suggest that his host was so poor in manners and goods as to make his presence troublesome.'

'I am no dog,' Thompson replied. 'We have smoked together and been warmed at one another's fires, and we are friends.'

'Then, heed me!' Tepaha said. 'In the lodge of Old Ike King, there is always meat of which any man may eat his fill. Also, there is always drink. Mescal, and tequila, and for honored guests the finest whiskey.'

The marshal inclined his head courteously. 'I have seen this,' he declared. *c*

Breakfast finished and farewells exchanged, Marshal Thompson walked back through the village of King's Junction and entered the railroad station. He checked the arrival time of the next west-bound train with the half-breed station agent; then, went down the station platform to its end, and came to a stop behind the freight-shed.

He was concealed there from both the townspeople and the agent. I.K. promptly scampered up from the right-of-way ditch, and joined him. His suit and other garments had been recently purchased but no one would have guessed it from his appearance.

'Twenty-three skidoo, Marshal Harry,' he said pertly. 'How's your hammer hangin'?'

Thompson replied that it had seemed to be satisfactorily suspended at his last inspection. Then, shook his head amazedly as he looked the young Indian up and down.

'My God, I.K.! How can anyone manage to get so many grease spots on him?'

'Ho, ho,' I.K. said, companionably nudging him with an elbow. 'Don' kid me, kid. I a chicken inspector.' Then, after taking a cautious look around, 'You got 'em tied up, huh? Haul 'em to station like God damn hogs?'

The marshal said, no, he did not have the King brothers tied up. And, no – replying to the youth's next question – neither had he shot their asses off. I.K. gaped at him; profanely professed puzzlement and displeasure.

'What kinda shit you make, ol' Harry? That Critch have seventy-two thousand dollars he steal – '

'That he probably stole,' the marshal interjected. 'But there's no way of proving that he did.'

'Sure, there is way! If money not stolen, how come he not make 'plaint to you when Arlie make me steal from him? You ask him, ol' Harry. Watch sonofbitch squirm.' I.K. nodded firmly, giving Thompson a speculative look. 'Maybe I better be marshal. Show you how to do job.'

Thompson said equably that maybe he had. As preparation for it, he suggested that the young Indian first learn how to tell the truth – or how to lie a hell of a lot better.

'Critch insists that he gave the money to Arlie, and Arlie agrees that he did. Since they are not proven thieves, and you're an admitted one – and a liar as well – '

I.K. ripped out an indignant curse. 'I never tell lie, by God! Name me one God damn time I lie!'

'Just now, for one. And yesterday afternoon when you had the section-crew foreman send me that telegram.' The marshal looked at him sternly. 'You could have caused some very serious trouble by doing that, I.K. Fortunately, I got a later telegram from a constable down the line, identifying the man who actually did the killing.'

'Act'ly did it?' I.K. exploded. 'What you mean, act'ly? Ol' Arlie kill her – same damn woman you show me picture of! Stab her to death with knife!'

'No,' said Thompson. 'No.'

'Well… I quite some way off. Maybe so make mistake. I see Critch stab her, and t'ink was Arlie.'

'No. You saw nothing of the kind, because neither of them killed her.'

'By God, yes! Yes, yes, yes!'

The marshal said, by God, no! No, no, no! 'The woman was killed last night by a farmer named Gutzman. She'd been living with him for the past three weeks. Apparently, she suddenly went out of her mind, and he had to kill her in self-defense.'

'But – but – ' I.K. was suddenly struck by inspiration. 'Hokay, was maybe like this. Ol' Arlie or Critch stab her like I say, partly kill her, then ol' Gutzman – '

'Finished her off?' Thompson shook his head. 'No, I.K. She wasn't stabbed, or even scratched. Her only wound was in the head, where Gutzman hit her with a hatchet.'

'But, by God – '

The youth's mouth opened and closed helplessly. He gestured wildly, pounding his fist in his palm. Again he tried to speak, and again was helpless. At last, he gave up. Fatalistically accepted the paradox of having seen what he could not have seen.

'By God,' he said, looking across the railroad tracks and beyond, into the endless expanse of the King ranch. 'I guess I screw things up good, I betcha.'

'Ah, well,' Marshal Thompson said, 'we all make mistakes. The point is to learn from them, and do better in the future.'

'Ho, boy, some future I got!' said I.K. glumly. 'I stay 'round here, ol' grandfather an' ol' uncle cut my God damn balls off.'

The marshal said that it seemed wise, under the circumstances, for the youth not to stay there. 'Now, you seem to be basically a bright young man. Just the fellow I need for a job in my office…'

'Hey, is God damn fine, Marshal Harry!' I.K. exclaimed. 'I wear big badge, shoot people's ass off, yes?'

'We-el, no, not exactly. You'd be my chief broom-and-mop deputy. Have full charge of keeping all the offices clean. It doesn't sound like much of a job, perhaps,' the marshal went on. 'But it would pay you enough to live on, and give you an opportunity to go to school.'

'Humph!' said I.K. 'School!'

'Yes, school,' Thompson said. 'You need it, I.K. Without schooling, an education, I see a very unhappy life for you in Oklahoma.'

I.K. grunted, gave the marshal a sardonic look. For the first time, his voice took on an edge. 'I tell you 'bout Indian in Oklahoma, ol' marshal. What kinda life we gonna lead. Like you say, I smart young fella, so I tell you…'

'Yes?'

'No. All I tell you is, I know plenty already. How to gamble, get drunk, screw women. Is all I need to know.'

'How about lying?'

'Lying?'

'You heard me,' Thompson said sternly. 'You don't lie worth a damn, now do you? Why, I've caught you in two lies this morning, and I wasn't even trying.'

'But, dammit, was not -!' I.K. caught himself; fatalistically gulped down his denial. 'Hokay,' he sighed. 'Maybe not lie so damn good. Ol' Critch an' Arlie maybe lie one hell of a lot better, no shit.'

'Well, then.' The marshal spread his hands. 'Well, then, my young friend?'

'Well… I learn how to lie good in school?'

'Now, where else would you learn?' Thompson said equably.

'I learn from first-class liar books? Books full of God damn lies?'

'See for yourself,' Thompson shrugged.

'By God, I do it! We shake on it, Marshal Harry!'

He thrust out a grime-smeared palm.

Thompson looked down at it, diplomatically substituted a cigar for his own hand.

'Smoke up,' he said, striking and holding a match. 'To your glorious future as the biggest liar in Oklahoma.'

I.K. exhaled a great cloud of smoke. Gave him a shrewdly knowing grin.

'Don't kid me, kid,' he said. 'I a chicken inspector.' *d*

It was well before daylight when old Ike King, after an uneasily restless night, wearily pushed himself up from his bed and began to dress. The month was August and the night had been a scorcher, yet he could not fault the heat for his inability to sleep. Why, hell, heat had never bothered him no more than cold. Not really bothered him, that is, until maybe the last year or so. So, obviously, something else was making him feel as he did.

A feeling that old fires had begun to blaze in his stomach; that his lungs were all but choked on the fumes from them.

A feeling that his heart, despite its increasingly heavy pounding, might stop beating at any moment.

He finished dressing, sat down on the bed for a time to rest. He got to his feet again, trudged to the door and went out into the hall.

He and Tepaha met at the stairs, and they descended to the bar room together. Over stiff drinks, they grunted and grumbled at one another, and Tepaha revealed that he also had slept badly. Unlike Ike, however, he had pinpointed the cause.

It was the kitchen squaws. Old age had made them slovenly and careless, so that the best of food became botched in their hands. Consequently, there was such an uproar in a man's guts after eating that the thunder of it made sleep impossible. And he was indeed lucky to be wakeful, since he otherwise might die of the squaws' evil messes.

Ike said he was full of shit.

'Critch's been eatin' their cookin' for six months, ain't he? A swell young fella that ain't never et in nothin' but the finest places. He says the food's fine, an' I reckon he knows more than a stupid old bastard like you.'

Tepaha said Ike was full of shit.

'Shit,' they said in unison, glaring at each other. And they went in to breakfast together.

They ate considerably more than usual – Ike to show his contempt for Tepaha's opinion; Tepaha to show that he was as hardy as Ike.

Then, with Ike's sons and Tepaha's granddaughters gone on their day's rounds, the two old men returned to the bar.

They had several more drinks, occasionally nodding over their glasses; talking hardly at all. After an unusually long silence, Tepaha said it was time for their walk, and Ike declared flatly that they had just returned from it.

'Tryin' to trick me, huh?' he jeered. 'Think I don't know what I'm doin' no more.'

Tepaha started to voice a profane rebuttal; suppressed it after a sharp look into his old friend's face.

'You too smart for me, Old Ike,' he said; but was not quite able to resist a small jibe. 'Too bad you not so smart with Creek-nigger wife.'

'Hell,' Ike grumbled. 'Bein' a Creek didn't make her a nigger. Ninety-nine to one she wasn't. I was just jokin' her.'

'Sure. I just joke, too,' said Tepaha.

Ike gulped down another long drink, felt a turgid boiling inside him. He passed a hand over his brow, wiping away the cold, oozing sweat, and gradually a sly look spread over his face.

'God damn,' he laughed. 'Damned if I didn't put the joke on her.'

'How? What you say, Old Ike?' said Tepaha.

Ike sat grinning, not answering him.

When he spoke, it was of the good days when they were young, and they had fled a Mexican firing squad together.

'Kids nowadays don't have no guts no more like we had, Tepaha. Lock 'em up and tell 'em they're gonna get shot in the mornin', an' they'd probably play with their peters all night.'

'Kids no damn good,' Tepaha agreed.

Ike had another huge drink. He needed it to offset the effects of the first one. At least, he needed it.

Tepaha asked him how he had happened to be in Mexico in that long-ago time. Ike said there was nothing unusual about it.

'Reckon I was about twelve when I took out from Louisiana, and into Tejas. Didn't have hardly nothin' with me but my clothes an' this old Collier five-shot. You ever see a Collier, Tepaha? Well, they was flintlocks – pistols, and they started makin' 'em about 1810. Don't know whether they was ever issue or not, but this blue-coat had one, an'…'

His voice died, but his lips continued to move. Filling in a gap in the story which some part of his mind chose to keep silent. Then, after two or three minutes, he again became audible.

'… mission wasn't too bad, but two years of it was all I could hold. They just wasn't anything interestin' goin' on; if it was interestin' the padres stopped it, an' them mission Indians sort of rubbed me the wrong way. I mean, what the hell, Tepaha.

'What kind of life was it for an Indian to hang around bein' told what to do an' when he could do it. I'm not sayin' the padres was mean to 'em, but – '

'Padres should have beat red asses,' Tepaha said scornfully. 'Mission Indians – God damn soup Indians! Sing, pray, maybe so get nice bowl of soup. Shit!'

'Well, that's the way I felt,' Ike continued. 'So I was a growed man, by then, fifteen an' some, so I just took me off into Mexico which was right handy there. Borrowed me one o' the mission horses to start with, an' when it got used up I started borrowin' from the Mejicanos. Done some other borrowin', too, like a bit of money now an' then t'spend in the cantinas. An' what with one thing an' another, I finally wound up in that jail where you was…'

He looked at his empty glass; pushed it aside. He picked up the bottle and drank from it – drank until Tepaha gently took it out of his hand.

'You say you start out from Louisiana, Ike. Was your home?'

'Florida!' Ike suddenly shouted. 'Don't you ever remember nothin'?'

'Florida home of Seminole'; Tepaha said. 'Most same as Creek.' And after a silence, he asked, 'You part Seminole, ol' Ike, how come chase across Louisiana?'

He could not explain his curiosity. In all the decades they had been together, he had given hardly a second thought to his friend's origins. But now, inexplicably, the matter had become of great moment to him.

'… ain't part Seminole,' Old Ike was snarling. 'Ain't part Creek 'r Cherokee 'r Choctaw 'r Chickasaw. But when they started movin' the Tribes up the trail… 'bout 1830 it was for my people…'

As before, his lips continued to move, but soundlessly. Omitting that which his mind preferred to keep silent, or which was too painful for telling. But Old Tepaha was able to supply much that was missing for himself.

The Five Tribes had owned much of the richest land in the south. Industrious, inventive, and well-educated, they were increasingly the envy of their white neighbors. And as the white population grew, exerted more and more pressure on Congress…

The forced exodus of the Tribes from their homeland was one of the most shameful and least remarked episodes of history. Uprooted, thousands upon thousands, they were herded west-by-north to a wilderness across the Arkansas, where they were to have their own nations and live forever in freedom. They would be 'happier' thus, of course. It was for the red man's 'own good'.

The unwilling migration began in the 1820s and ended some twenty years later. Many who began the journey did not complete it. So very, very many that the route by which the red men made their forced march became known as The Trail of Tears.

The white government generously decreed that the Indians be allowed to take all their possessions with them to their new homeland. Everything – including Negro slaves. And then as now, a Negro was anyone having Negro blood, however infinitesimal the amount might be…

Tepaha gave Ike a sharp look – which told him nothing at all, of course. Hesitantly, he said, 'You overseer's boy, Old Ike? Maybe bluecoat's son?'

'Who the hell say so?' Ike glowered. 'What's the difference, anyways?'

Tepaha shrugged; said that there was none. 'Just asked, ol' Ike. You say you not Indian. Not Seminole or Creek or – '

'GOD DAMN!' Ike burst into uproarious laughter. 'God damn if that wasn't a joke on her!'

His laughter grew louder, more violent. He began to shake with it, eyes bulging, the veins on his neck standing out. He coughed, gasping for breath, but still the laughter would not stop. His eyes found Tepaha's, inviting him to share in the joke of his heritage – and the impending joke, the greatest jest of all. Then, very slowly, he arose from his chair and drew himself up majestically.

'I am Old Ike King,' he said in Apache. 'Lions flee at sound of my name, and great bears grovel before me and lick at my balls, lest I beat them with a small stick. In my lodge there is always meat, and – '

His heavy body crashed to the floor, shaking the entire building.

The kitchen squaws came running in, crying out with alarm and wonder. But Tepaha stamped his foot at them, cursing terribly, and drove them from the room. For the senseless chatterings of squaws will creep like maggots through a man's ears and into his brain, creating such havoc that his own speech becomes likewise idiotic. This is well known.

Tepaha went down on his knees at the side of his fallen friend. He said, come, Old Ike, it is time now to make plans – and he drew an arm of Ike's across his shoulders, put his own arm around Ike's back. And slowly, an inch at a time, he stood up. Miraculously lifting the dead man with him.

Staggering, knees buckling with the terrible weight, he started for the stairs. For they were brothers, and he was Tepaha, chief vaquero for Old Ike King.

He made it to the foot of the stairs, shakily felt for and found the first step. After several attempts, he managed to bring his other foot up on the step. Then, stood there panting, a great rattling coming into his chest; his eyes all but blinded with sweat.

'By God,' he mumbled, his heart thundering like a war drum. 'You one heavy son-of-bitch, Old Ike…'

He got his foot on another step, started to bring his other foot up with it. But something had happened to the stairs, something so strange, that he was transfixed with wonderment. Could only watch as they slowly became perpendicular, then gradually bent down over him until he was looking up at the ceiling.

From somewhere came the sound of a mighty crash. So great that its echoes seemed never to end. There was a moment of incredible pain, and then bliss such as Tepaha had never believed possible.

_'By God, we do it, Old Ike,' he thought proudly._

The kitchen squaws came running in again, and now the clattering of their voices was such as to demolish the brain of the wisest man. But Tepaha had already deafened his ears to them.

Permanently. *Epilogue*

The lowest of dogs may piss on the loftiest of dead men…

This is well known.

Arlie commented idly on the fact one fall Sunday afternoon when the two brothers, accompanied by Joshie and Kay, visited the last earthly resting place of Old Tepaha and Old Ike. The two men had not been buried in the despised fashion of whites – for why should they? Instead, their fully-clad bodies had been placed in a comfortable sitting position, then covered over with rock to form an Indian wickiup. They were thus protected from the teeth of varmints, but not entirely from the elements, which, after all, they had lived with all their lives and might need in death (so far as anyone knew). It was possibly this last which inspired Arlie's remarks that Sunday afternoon:

'Heard me a story once about a Osage that was buried in a wickiup. Seemed like he'd owned several pet bitches an' their smell was still strong on him. So naturally every damn dog in the Nation come around to take a piss on his grave. Well, it turned out that he wasn't really dead at all, just in what they call a state of suspensive annie-mation, or something, an' all this dog piss leaked through and snapped him out of it. He came bustin' out of the rocks, an' went back to his village. But it was the funniest God damn thing, Critch – you know what happened?'

Critch nodded smiling, having heard the story: no other Indian would speak to the man, or give any sign of recognizing his existence; not even his own wife, when he had intercourse with her. As far as the Indians were concerned, a man who died stayed dead, and this creature who had returned to them was only an evil spirit.

'Well' Arlie took a critical last look at the graves. 'Just one thing missing, I guess. There ought to be a war spear sticking up betwixt 'em, with a scalp hangin' from the top. Just don't seem right somehow without it,' he added, sidling a glance at his brother. 'Critch, y'wouldn't feel hurt, would you, if I slipped into your room some night an' lifted a little hair?'

'I wouldn't feel hurt,' Critch said. 'But you would.'

Arlie laughed and slapped him on the back. They headed their horses homeward, the two girls following.

As they rode, Arlie spoke seriously to his brother. 'Kinda late to be thankin' you, Critch, but better late than never. Anyways I'm obliged to you for not tellin' the marshal that I stole that money off of you.'

'Quite all right,' Critch said easily. 'Think nothing of it.'

'O' course,' Arlie continued thoughtfully. 'I reckon I was kinda doin' you a favor by not tellin' him I stole it from you. The kinda money that was, it wasn't exactly comfortable t' have a claim on it.'

'But I did claim it, dear brother. I admitted that it was mine.'

'Uh-huh, sure. After you'd had time to think up a story to go with it.'

'Why don't we put it this way?' Critch said. 'You don't owe me anything, and I don't owe you anything.'

Arlie hesitated; then, shook his head. Said he reckoned Critch did owe him something. 'Look how I spoke up for you when the marshal had you pinned for murderin' Big Sis! Claimed I done it myself, didn't I?'

'What about it?' Critch said. 'I did the same thing for you.'

'Yea, sure. Because you wanted to make yourself look good to Paw! I know, because I, uh – Anyways, you knew danged well you wasn't running any risk by confessing! What the hell? If Marshal Harry'd had any idea that either one of us killed that woman, he'd've arrested us right away instead o' standing around talkin' for an hour!'

The brothers stared at each other. A teasing smile played around Critch's lips, and Arlie slowly reddened.

'Like you was sayin', little brother,' he grinned sheepishly. 'You don't owe me nothin' and I don't owe you nothing. We was both tryin' to make up to Paw. We both knew we was safe confession' t'the murder. Reckon we think so much alike that, uh…'

He broke off, giving his brother a long, penetrating look. Then, asked if he could ask a fair question.

'By all means,' Critch said.

'Well, looky, then… how do you honest-to-God feel about me? I mean, do you ever sort of feel that you'd like to, uh, have this place to yourself? If you could work it out safe and easy, I mean.'

'I'll ask you a question,' Critch said. 'The same one.'

'Well, uh, would you believe me if I told you?'

'Would you believe me if I told you?' Critch asked.

Arlie scowled at him. Then, gradually, the scowl crinkled into a smile, and he burst into whoops of laughter.

'God damn, little brother! They's sure as hell one thing for sure!'

'Which is?'

'We may have to bust our ass on this place, but we sure ain't never gonna get bored! No, sir, they ain't never gonna be a dull minute for you an' me!'

Critch chuckled agreement.

As they rode on through the fall afternoon, Joshie and Kay, who had been primly decorous theretofore, were suddenly overcome with a spasm of giggling, the sound of which drifted up to the two men. Arlie tried to make his face severe – after all, he was the family's eldest now. Failing miserably in the attempt, he spoke chidingly to his brother.

The squaws were getting out of hand, he declared, and it was largely Critch's fault. For where you had one squaw with a man and one without, there was no damn telling what might happen. And what the by-God was wrong with Critch that he didn't marry Joshie?

'What's the hurry?' Critch shrugged. 'I'll get around to it some day.'

_'Some day?_ What kind of answer is that? You like her don't you.'

'Very much. In fact, I think she's the most delightful female I've ever known.'

'Well, she's crazy about you, too. So marry her, dammit! She needs a man, and you need a woman.'

'Oh,' Critch said innocently. 'You mean we need each other to sleep with? That's why we should get married?'

Arlie said, why, sure, what else, adding that he had been greatly concerned about his brother's sexless state. 'It just ain't natural for a man not to be gettin' his stuff,' he said darkly. 'An' it sure don't do a squaw no good either. Why, it plumb makes me shiver t'think what might happen, if you an' Joshie don't start knockin' it off pretty soon. Might go crazy as bed bugs.'

'Well, gracious me!' Critch said. 'We certainly can't have that, now can we?'

He looked over his shoulder, swung an arm in a beckoning motion. The two girls immediately drew abreast of them, and Critch lifted Joshie from her saddle and onto his own.

She cuddled against him happily, giving him the reins of her horse. While Arlie stared dumbfounded, Critch suggested that his brother and Kay take a long ride by themselves, since he and Joshie had private business to transact at the hotel.

'We usually take care of it at bedtime,' he explained, 'but that suddenly seems too long to wait. I hope you don't mind… big brother?'

Arlie gulped; scowled. 'Now, look here – ' he began. 'What the hell's goin' on here? What kind of business you takin' care of, anyways?'

'Well…' Critch arched an amused brow at him. 'Let's just say that it isn't fiddling, but it's something that rhymes with the word.'

Joshie again burst into giggles, quivering deliciously against him. Kay gave Arlie a resigned look, then rolled her eyes heavenward.

'Ho, boy,' she sighed, 'you plenty damn stupid, ol' husband.'

'But – but – God dang it!' Arlie looked helplessly from his wife to Critch and Joshie. 'I mean, why, hell's fire -!'

He blinked his eyes. Vigorously shook his head in the manner of a man recovering from a hard punch. Somehow, as Critch began to draw away with Joshie, he managed to raise his voice in a feeble facsimile of insouciance.

'Ride her easy, little brother! Take your spurs off before you mount!'

'Leave spurs on,' Kay called. 'Make ol' Joshie jump!'

'I jump anyway!' Joshie called back happily. 'Ol' Critch, he plenty damn man!'

*The End*

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