King Blood (15 page)

'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.