King Blood (5 page)

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

'Call it forty.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he hadn't just lost his wife –

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

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

Captain Crittenden.

Was it really as unthinkable as it seemed?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How he figger out skunk make bad stink?'

'Why, you God damn -!'

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

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

'I say it. You got no balls.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'How you do it?'

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

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

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

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

'Critch? What the hell for?'

'Hah! Same reason kill sonabitch, Boz.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Well… Maybe you show me?' *b*

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Shit!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were prodded and kicked to their feet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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