King Blood

by Jim Thompson

Critch gave him a sharp look. But if there was a double meaning in his brother's words, a threat, there was nothing to indicate the fact in the latter's expression. Rather, Arlie seemed genuinely concerned for his welfare, anxious that his younger kinsman should get off on the right foot in these new surroundings.

  So Critch smiled pleasantly, and told Arlie to lead the way. "The marshal's office," he said. "I'll take care of my business later." El Reno, the site of the Federal land lottery, rose from the prairie in a conglomerate mass of solid brick and rickety frame buildings, some of one-story and false front, others three or four floors in height; for this was both an old town, as time was measured in the Territory, and a new one. There were even some "tent buildings'—structures made of canvas stretched over a framework of wood. And sprawling out over the gently rolling grassland, for almost as far as the eye could see, was a chaotic array of tents and shacks thrown up by the newcome settlers.

  The dusty streets were choked with covered wagons and drays and buggies, through which saddle-worn horsemen patiently wended their weary way. Most of these last were out-of-work cowhands, uprooted and unwanted as the plough furrowed through their one-time domain of the Cherokee Strip, the Big Pasture and other Territorial lands. Some might still find jobs in Texas, or westward in the states-to-be of Wyoming and New Mexico. (Or perhaps as far north as North-western Nebraska and the Dakotas.) A few, out of hateful necessity, would manage to make the transformation from cowboy to clodhopper. Some would turn outlaw. Some would become peace officers, hunting down the very men they had once worked with and called friend. As for the remainder...well, who knew? What 'does' happen to men who can find no other path for themselves than the one occupied by the juggernaut of an onrushing civilization? To quote from the sardonic philosophy of the times, they were caught ziggin' when they shoulda been zaggin'. They had played the red, and the black came up.

  The sidewalks, which were even more jammed than the streets, were of plank and of various levels, according to the whim of the owner of the business establishment upon which they fronted. If he chose to have a porch, the walk rose by steps to become part of it; descending at the porch's end to the entrance level of the adjoining establishment.

  "God damn," said Arlie exultantly, as he lunged through the crowds. "Didja ever see anything like this, little brother?"

  "Like it," Critch said a little breathlessly. "But not so much of it."

  "A real piss-walloper, ain't she? A rip-roarin' son-of-a-bitch!"

  "If it isn't," Critch replied, "it'll do until one comes along."

  Blanket Indians sat with their backs against building fronts, their legs innocently thrust straight out in front of them for the unwary passer-by to trip over. Sunbonneted, gingham clad settlers' wives rubbed shoulders with skimpily-dressed saloon girls. Cowboys brushed against clodhoppers. Indians, merchants, gamblers, drummers '(salesmen),' clerks, workmen, women of all ages and descriptions; the bountiful, the beautiful, the damned—all were jampacked together in a chaotic, colorful mass.

  Drifting out through innumerable swinging-doors, came the aroma of beer, booze and free-lunch, and the muted roar of many sounds. The click of roulette wheels, the rattle of gambling chips; the tinny tinkling of pianos, boisterous shouts and laughter, feminine squeals of protest.

  Despite the devil-may-care air of things, the free and-easy atmosphere, there was no sound of gunplay, no sign of brawling. For El Reno was very well policed—as Critch was soon to discover.

  It happened as he was passing a saloon, trailing Arlie by a step or two. There was a sudden explosion of yells and curses, the scraping clatter of shattering wood. The whole building seemed to tremble with it. And then out through the swinging doors burst a mass of men, their rush carrying them out into the street and slamming Critch against a hitching post.

  Apparently, they had done nothing serious—merely brawled, perhaps—for the two deputy marshals who followed them into the street dismissed them after administering a few judiciously vigorous shakes and slaps. Shaken and furious, Critch picked up his dust-smeared hat; straightened to find himself looking into a pair of amiable but steely eyes.

  "Nice day," the man greeted him pleasantly. "Mind telling me who you are, mister?"

  "You're God damned right I mind!" Critch snarled. "Who the hell are you?"

  "Name's Tilghman, Bill Tilghman."

  The name didn't immediately register on Critch; the fact that this was one of the West's most famous peace officers. He made a profanely filthy suggestion to the man—or rather he started to. The first word or so was barely out of his mouth, when the cold muzzle of a .45 jabbed into his stomach.

  "Now, reach!" the officer said. "Get those hands up!"

  Critch got them up, looking around wildly for Arlie. They had become separated in the fracas, and now he could see him nowhere.

  The two deputy marshals came back from the street; looked interestedly at Critch. "What you got here, Bill?"

  "Someone with some pretty bad manners, for one thing. Let's see what else he's got."

  "Sure thing."

  The two deputies moved in for a search. Then, just as one stopped to feel Critch's trousers and the other yanked his coat open...

  "Hey, there, you fellas! What you doin' to my little brother?"

  Arlie pushed through the crowd, dropped a protective arm around his shoulders. Almost faint with relief, Critch heard him say that, sure, this was his brother. Been away from home since he was a kid, but now he was comin' back to stay.

  "Mr. Tilghman, this here is—"

  "We've met," Tilghman said, and he turned on his heel and walked away. Critch was introduced to the other two men, Deputy Marshals Heck Thomas and Chris Madsen, who returned his nervously effusive greetings with dry amusement.

  "Well, let's see, now," Arlie said. "That's about all you fellas, ain't it? No one else that might take Critch for somethin' that he ain't?"

  "There's still Jim," Madsen said. "He was headin' for the marshal's office the last I saw."

  "Good," Arlie said. "That's right where we're goin'."

  As they went on their way, he good-naturedly cursed Critch, inquiring how he had ever managed to live so long with such ostensibly offensive manners; shaking his head to Critch's explanation that the bad jolting he had gotten had caused him to lose his temper.

  "Better watch where you lose it from now on, boy," he said, and Critch meekly promised that he would.

  They reached the Federal building, ascended to the marshal's headquarters on the second floor. In the outer office, a heavy-set young man with the profile of McKinley was laboriously filling out a warrant on a rickety typewriter. Arlie introduced him as Deputy Marshal Jim Thompson.

  "Ol' Jim used t'be a school-teacher, Critch. His uncle Harry is the marshal here."

  "Neither fact," Thompson shook hands, smiling, "having anything to do with my present employment. Incidentally, my full name is James Sherman Thompson."

  "Now, don't that beat all!" Arlie exclaimed. "Ain't hardly no one in the Territory that ain't a reb, but ol' Jim always mentions his middle name! Probably'll get him killed some day."

  "I doubt that," said U.S. Marshal Harry Thompson. "I doubt it very much."

  He stood in the doorway of his office, a tall distinguished-looking man with coal-black hair and eyes, who bore some resemblance to the now-retired outlaw, Frank James. He was well-spoken, immaculately dressed in spotless linen and black broadcloth. For a United States Marshal is a high government official, comparable in rank to a Federal Judge, and not the roughneck two-gun man of popular fiction.

  He gave his nephew a look which sent that young man hurrying back to his typewriter, then courteously gestured the King brothers inside. He listened impassively, the tips of his fingers pressed together, as Arlie told of the killing of Boz. When Arlie had at last finished, with a nervous rush of words, the marshal remained silent for a long moment. Then, leaning forward casually, he plucked the knife from young King's boot-top.

  "A genuine
Bowie, isn't it?" he asked.

  "Sure is, Marshal Harry. One that ol' Jim gave to Paw hisself."

  "So you told me," the marshal nodded. "And what did I tell you? About bringing weapons into my office, that is?"

  "Gosh, Marshal Harry' Arlie ran a nervous finger around his collar. "I plumb forgot, honest!"

  "If you forget again," Thompson said softly, "I'm going to be angry with you."

  He flipped the knife suddenly. It landed point down, almost scraping Arlie's booted foot, the haft quivering with the force of the throw. Arlie tugged it out of the flooring, a little pallid beneath his tan. He shoved it as deep down into his boot as he could, making it as inconspicuous as possible.

  "Now," Thompson said, "I have no doubt that your brother's killing took place exactly as you've told me. It was self-defense. I also have no doubt, however, that it could have been avoided."

  "But the son-of-a-bitch tried t'kill me, Marshal Harry! Been tryin' t'get me for a long time!"

  "Was he? Why didn't you report the fact to me?"

  "Because it wouldn't've done no good! I couldn't've proved nothin'!"

  "You wouldn't have had to. I'm sure a warning from me would have stopped Boz's attempts."

  "But—but, god-dang it, Marshal—!"

  "Mmm-hmm. That isn't the King way of doing things, is it?"

  "No, it ain't, by God!"

  "But it will be from now on," Thompson said. "Your father is too old to change, and it's immaterial that he should at his time of life. But you, Arlie, and you too, sir'—he included Critch in his glance—"you two must mature with this country, come of age with it, or cease to be a part of it. I mean that most sincerely, gentlemen. There will be no more taking of the law into one's own hands at King's Junction. If there is, I'll see to it that the person responsible goes to the gallows. Now, before you leave...

  He reached into his desk, took out a "wanted' circular and passed it to Arlie, explaining that the woodcut pictures thereon had been drawn from descriptions of the criminals, and were probably inexact likenesses.

  Arlie let out an appreciative, "Whoeee!" as he glanced at the circular. Then, frowning with the effort, occasionally faltering over the words, he read its inscription aloud:

  "Wanted for murder...Ten thousand dollars reward...Anne an' Eth, uh, Eth-el Anderson, al-alie, uh, a-lias Little Sis and Big Sis Anderson. Last seen near the town of Olathe, Kansas. Approach with caution, as subjects are known to have killed thirty—"

  Arlie broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. "Now, God damn, Marshal Harry! You ain't gonna tell me that these cute little ol' gals killed thirty people!"

  "No," Thompson agreed, "the figure is incorrect. The bodies of seven more men have been discovered since that flyer was issued. Those two young women ran a roadhouse in Kansas. Any well-heeled male who stopped there was very apt to go no further. One of the sisters took him to bed, and the other one killed him."

  "Holy Jeez-ass! For some o' that it'd damn' near be worth it! But how come I ain't read nothin' about this in the papers?"

  Marshal Thompson said that the story had been kept out of the newspapers with their cooperation. It was believed best to let the Anderson women think they were unwanted, meanwhile circularizing inns and other establishments serving the public.

  "As we piece the facts together," he continued, "Anne—that's the younger one—skipped out on her sister, taking their combined loot with her. Ethel—the older, smarter and harder of the two—apparently is hot on Anne's trail. So if you should encounter one, the other probably isn't far behind."

  "Well, I'll be damned! An' you figure they're here in the Territory?"

  "They could be. It would hardly seem a likely place for a fugitive to head for."

  Arlie promised to be on the watch for the murderous Andersons, and handed the circular to the brother.

  Critch took it—and stared.

  'Why, the bitch had been on the train with them! She'd had to be! Might even have watched while Little Sis got the bone put to her! And the minute he'd stepped out to the platform, and Little Sis had entered the toilet'...

  Ann, Little Sis, had known that her sister wouldn't listen to reason. With or without the money, Ethel was sure to kill her. So she'd jumped the train, and Big Sis had pursued her. And what had happened then...

  "Yes, Mr. King?" said Marshal Thompson. "Have you seen those women?"

  Critch didn't answer him immediately. Nor did he look up. He was distrustful of his voice, fearful of what might be read from his expression. Not until he was in full control of himself and the marshal had spoken to him a second time, did he raise his eyes and speak.

  "I'm not absolutely positive," he said, his tone indicating a desire for absolute positiveness, "but I think I may have seen the younger woman."

  "When and where?"

  "Well...I'd say it had been within the last month. Just where, I have no idea. It might have been in the Dakotas, Texas, almost anywhere."

  "Texas or the Dakotas?" The marshal's brows went up. "That's a lot of traveling for one month."

  "I enjoy travel," Critch shrugged, "and fortunately I can afford it."

  "Two good reasons for indulging in it," Thompson nodded. "Do you have a third?"

  "Yes, sir. It's the only way I know of getting from one place to another."

  Arlie broke in with a nervous, "God damn it, Critch! Don't you sass Marshal Harry!" But Thompson held up a hand, silencing him.

  "You seem," he said to Critch, "to be somewhat on the defensive, Mr. King."

  "You seem to have put me there, sir. As a man with nothing to hide, I naturally resent it."

  "And as a man 'with' something to hide, the best defense would be a strong offense."

  "Perhaps. You'd know more about that than I would, sir."

  Marshal Thompson nodded equably. Again he placed the tips of his fingers together, creakily rocking back and forth in his swivel chair. "An attorney acquaintance of mine, a Mr. Al Jennings, once assured me that every man—during his lifetime—breaches the law sufficiently, in one way or another, to earn him a death sentence. Assuming his theory to be true'—the black eyes bored into Critch's face. "Assuming it—which I don't—would you say that you were an exception to it?"

  "Would you?"

  "Happily," the marshal said, "theoretical issues are not for me to judge nor act upon. On the contrary, I am precluded from dealing with anything but facts. And the fact is, as we both know, that you are not wanted anywhere. Whether you should be is not the concern of the law, but your conscience."

  "My conscience is completely clear, marshal," Critch smiled.

  "Indeed? Then you must stand unique in this very naughty world of ours. But no matter. Through no fault of your own, you got off to a bad start in life. You seem to have survived it well, however, and the book is closed on those means by which you did so. You are in a new country. You are beginning a new life. Make it a good one, Mr. King. Make it a good one. Now, since you're apparently unable to tell me anything useful about the Anderson women..."

  He stood up and held out his hand.

  The King brothers shook it, Arlie edging toward the door even as he did so. And once out of the office, he hustled Critch toward the nearest saloon, fervently declaring his need for three fingers in a rain-barrel.

  "God damn!" he swore, gulping down a tin cup of forty-rod. "Don't know what there is about that fella that gets me so God damned rattled. Jus' looks at me an' I start shittin' in my pants."

  Critch laughed. "Why, I thought he was very pleasant."

  "Yeah, you handled him just fine," Arlie nodded. "Had me kind of uneasy for a minute, the way you was talkin' up to him, but I reckon you knowed what you was doin'. Got to hand it to you, little brother," he added admiringly. "I was sure plenty glad you was with me."

  "So was I. It's always useful to know a man in his position," Critch said. And he meant every word of it.

  His meeting with the marshal had convinced him of the wisdom of steering clear of King
's Junction. Or any other place within Thompson's jurisdiction. Otherwise, he would be inviting disaster upon himself. Thus far, he had been extremely lucky, staying out of jail, keeping off the wanted lists. But luck was largely a matter of weighing the odds, and the odds were all against him at King's Junction. Trouble could seek him out there, even though he did nothing culpable himself. With his shady background, of which the marshal obviously had considerable knowledge, he would become immediately suspect in the event of any wrongdoing, regardless of whether he was responsible for it.

  His next move, then? Well, not the one he had decided on before meeting the marshal. He had planned to have the bulk of his stolen seventy-two thousand converted into cashier's checks, doing it through a number of banks to avoid attention. Now, even that seemed risky—riskier than keeping the money on him until he could jump to Texas or Kansas or wherever the hell he had to to escape Marshal Thompson's watchful eye.

  No one knew that he had such a huge sum on him. Arlie might have learned something via his several bearhugs, enough to make him suspect that Critch had a considerable amount of cash. And Arlie certainly wasn't above stealing, if he considered it safe. But there was a very simple way of protecting himself against Arlie.

  He ordered another round of drinks, paid for them from a wallet still modestly fat with the contents of Anne Anderson's purse. They drank, and Critch drew confidentially close to his brother.

  "Something I want to tell you, Arlie," he said, low-voiced. "I've got quite a bit of money on me."

  "I could see," Arlie grinned. "Couldn't help peekin'."

  "More than that. Several thousand dollars. Now, I'd thought about converting it into bank checks. But after all, what's the point? I can put it in Paw's safe as soon as we get to the Junction. Meanwhile, now that you know I've got it and we can both be on the lookout for pickpockets and thieves..."

  Arlie's face sagged ludicrously. Critch almost laughed out loud. So the sneaky son-of-a-bitch had planned to steal it! And now he's had his role changed from thief to watchdog!

  'But not for long, Brother Arlie. Just until I jump town on you tonight.'