King Blood (20 page)

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.