King Blood (12 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

_What if his life depended upon her?_

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

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

It had been so with Boz.

It would be so with Critch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Ho,' said Kay.

'Ho, ho!' said Arlie.

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

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

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

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

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

Arlie hesitated.

'Well,' he said. 'I guess there's no hell of a big hurry about Critch. Nothin' I got to rush into.'

'You no think so, Arlie? My ver', ver' smart ol' husband he really think there no hurry?'

There was an insidiously incredulous note to her voice; a note of stunned astonishment. Thus, a mother might address an adult son who has just wet his Sunday britches.

'Well, but, looky,' Arlie squirmed. 'Marshal Thompson already put me on warning, an' he damn well meant what he said. I go for Critch, Marshal Thompson gonna be comin' for me!'

'Maybe so Critch have accident,' Kay suggested smoothly. 'Critch have accident not your fault.'

'Well,' Arlie said. 'Well…'

'My ol' Arlie, he plenty sneaky devil,' Kay said flatteringly. 'He fix up plenty bad accident on ol' Critch, an' nobody prove it not accident. I know, by God!'

She kissed him again. Resumed her hypnotic stroking of his head. But Arlie was not yet won over. Or if he was, he did not say so.

He flung back the covers suddenly, and swung his feet to the floor.

'Time to get up,' he announced. 'Pile out, ol' squaw.'

He stood up, began pulling on his clothes.

Outside the door, Joshie also stood up and silently returned to her room. *c*

In his room, Critch King also began dressing; now and then wincing or stifling a groan as his movements twisted some saddle-tortured muscle or joint. His first week had been pure murder for him. Every day he had silently sworn that he could not take another day. Every morning it had been a monumental struggle to get out of bed, and he had had to fight to keep from begging off for the day. He had mustered up the strength and courage to resist such an admission of weakness only because he had to. For despite the surprising amiability – even favoritism – which his father had shown toward him, he well knew Old Ike's detestation of weakness. Ike simply would not tolerate it in a son, any more than he would have tolerated improvidence. And since Critch had to remain at the Junction, at least until he recovered his stolen money, and he could only remain there by living up to the old man's standards – well, somehow he had done it. He had never thought he could, but he had. And now, after three weeks, what had once seemed unbearable was now merely difficult, and less and less difficult with each passing day.