by Jim Thompson
"Well, you're not going to," Critch snapped. "You might have a baby, for God's sake! What about that?"
Joshie let out a derisive, "Ho, ho! Squaw no want baby, no have baby."
"Well, just the same..." Critch began; and then smoothly altered his tone, placing the issue on a practical basis. "I've had a terrible fall, Joshie, and it's possible that I've been hurt inside. If it wasn't for that, I'd be more than willing to do what you want. Why, my God," he avowed warmly, "I'm probably a lot more anxious than you are. But if I tried to when I was seriously hurt—"
Joshie interrupted with the declaration that she would not allow him to take such a fearful risk. "You hokay now?" she asked anxiously. "I no hurt you inside some place, maybe?"
"Not seriously, if at all," Critch said. "I'm sure I'll be all right as long as I take it easy for a while."
"Then you take easy. I make you, by God!" said Joshie. "Ol' Boz, he get hurt inside, too. Make balls no God damn good. Was mean God damn bastard, anyway, but..." Her voice trailed off into silence, her small face falling at memory of the ball-less Boz. "You my ol' husband now," she resumed, her tone brightening. "Same as ol' husband, anyway. We take easy now, make up plenty los' time later."
Critch complimented her on her wisdom, suppressing an inward twinge of guilt. He had never minded lying—in fact, preferred lying to telling the truth, since it was the much more profitable of the two, in the long run, and invariably more interesting. Still, lying to someone who was so easy to deceive, so eager to believe, was hardly a thing to take pride in. Nor was the profit in it readily discernible. So why—
"Joshie," Critch said. "Come here."
Joshie said hokay and came immediately. Sank down on her knees at the side of the bunk. "What you want, ol' Critch?"
His arms went around her. He drew her close, burying his face in her hair. 'I want to tell you something, Joshie. Something very important.'
"Want to tell you something, Critch." Joshie pulled her head back from his. "Something ver' important."
"I want to tell you..." He broke off, frowning at the seriousness of her expression. "Yes? What is it, Joshie."
"Bout ol' Arlie. He cut saddle cinch on horse. Is why you almost get killed."
"B-but—" He stared at her, stunned. "But how do you—why—?"
"Cinch cut. You want me to show you, by God?" She started to rise, paused as his hand detained her. "Is true, Critch. Ol' Arlie, he cut."
"You mean you saw him? And you didn't warn me?"
"Course not," Joshie exclaimed indignantly. "I listen outside door this morning while he an' Kay talk. Kay want him to kill you. Arlie say maybe so Marshal Thompson find out, so Kay say fix up nice little accident. You see?"—she gave him an anxious look. "I don' know nothin' for sure. Not till you have accident an' I see cut cinch."
Critch nodded slowly, an unreasoning rage growing in his heart. That God damn Arlie! What kind of a rotten son-of-a-bitch was he, anyway? Forcing him to come to the ranch, and then trying to kill him!
How low-down could a man get?
Joshie watched him with grave anxiety, misreading his savage scowl. "I sure sorry, Critch. Jus' not think he try to do it so soon."
"What?" he said blankly. "What are you talking about?"
"Bout why he want to kill you. Ol' Arlie tell Kay no good reason to kill you. Kay say there be plenty reason when you find out money gone. She say you hokay "long as you think you get money back. But you find out he no have money, you sure "s hell kill him."
She nodded with grave emphasis, dark eyes concernedly fixed upon his face. He sat quite still, staring at her and beyond her. And slowly his lips curled back from his teeth in a frightful grin.
"Gone," he said. "So the money's gone."
"Uh-huh." She bobbed her head. "Arlie steal from you, yes? Was very much?"
Critch's grin widened hideously. He said, Oh, no, no it wasn't much at all. Hardly worth talking about. Why—why—
He began to laugh. He fell back into the bunk laughing, then hoisted himself out of it. Began staggering around the floor, oblivious to the wracking pain of his movements; simultaneously whooping and hollering and weeping.
Not much money. 'Not much!'
What a wonderful, wonderful joke! The money was gone, and Arlie was afraid he'd be sore about it; killing mad. Imagine that! For, of course, he wasn't a bit angry. Perish the thought! Arlie might 'think' he was angry when he got his head caved in and his ribs carved out and his balls toasted over a slow fire...so he'd have to keep laughing throughout the mayhem. Make Arlie understand that it was really very funny.
As funny as permanently stripping a brother of his wealth, and then trying to kill him...
'"Critch!' Please, ol' Critch! Don' do no more." Joshie clung to him frantically, her voice half-sobbing. "No more laugh, please. Scare me plenty much."
The red haze cleared from Critch's eyes. His insane hysterics ended as suddenly as they had begun, and he docilely allowed Joshie to guide him back to the bunk. He would not, however, lie down in it.
"I think I'd better sit up a while," he explained. "Maybe even move around a little. I'm liable to get stiff as a board if I don't."
"Well..." Joshie gave him a doubtful look. "Well, hokay, but you no ride horse. I go get wagon for you."
Critch smiled his agreement, then masked his handsome features with an expression of great concern. "But it'd be way after dark before you could get back here. I won't allow that, Joshie."
"Ho," she scoffed. "I be all right." But Critch shook his head firmly, over-riding her with the tenderly playful reminder that she was now his squaw and must do as he said.
"You let Arlie bring the wagon. See that he does do it. Tell him I want to talk to him privately."
"But he try to kill you!" Joshie protested. "He get you alone, he try to finish job, an' you too hurt to fight back!"
"Now don't you worry about me," Critch said, chucking her under the chin. "I'm feeling better all the time. Anyway, Arlie won't be stupid enough to make two attempts on my life in one day."
"Well..." She didn't think it was a good idea. She saw no reason to take a chance that need not be taken. "I tell you, ol' Critch—"
"No," Critch said firmly. "I tell 'you,' ol' Joshie. I tell you to have Arlie come after me alone. So that's what you do, yes? Yes." He gave her a playful pat on the bottom; stood up and kissed her. "One more thing, Joshie. That bellyband—the saddle cinch—broke, understand? It wasn't cut; it broke."
"Like hell!" Joshie blazed indignantly. "Was by God cut!"
"But you don't say that. You say that it broke. You say that," he said slowly, letting the words sink in. "Because if you don't, Joshie, I just might stop liking you..."
'"No!' Oh, no, Critch!"
"I might if you don't say what I tell you to do. You just might have to go through life using your finger instead of the real thing."
"Finger 'tabu,'' Joshie said. "Anyway, no damn good. I do what you say, ol' Critch."
Chapter Three
Some five hundred yards from the abandoned farm house, Arlie lay bellied down in the lush growth of weeds and grass, his nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute. Joshie's horse and Critch's saddleless animal were hobbled in the grownover yard of the dwelling, so obviously the two were inside. But as to what condition Critch was in, Arlie could only guess. For more than an hour now, he had lain hidden and watched the place. Fretting, worrying; profanely praying to whatever powers that be that nothing was seriously amiss with his brother. More than an hour of agonized waiting...and he knew no more now than he had at its beginning.
A red fire ant crept inside his boot, seemed to sting him endlessly before he could crush it. A miniscule cloud of gnats discovered him, began a gauzily insane dance in front of his eyes. Refusing to be dispelled or dodged, eventually taking refuge in his nostrils.
The experience left his eyes waterily itching, his nose maddeningly irritated. In the discomfort of the moment, he told himself that he didn't
give a damn if Critch 'had' broken his neck; it would save some hangman the job, since he was certainly long overdue for such a fracture. In the next moment, however, he was retracting the thought with superstition-born haste. He cared very much about Critch's welfare. Oh, yes; yes, indeed. No one could be more concerned for Critch than he. Nothing would gladden his heart so much as the sight of Critch, alive and in reasonably good condition.
Arlie scrubbed his scratchy nose, rubbed his reddened and itchy eyes. He raised his head slightly, looked toward the distant house. His heart executed a sudden skip-jump, and his broad face broke into a delighted grin.
Critch was stepping down from the door of the cabin, coming out into the yard. He was bent over a little, his movements somewhat stiff, and he limped. But he was certainly very, very far from being dead. He had certainly sustained no very serious injuries.
He limped to the horses with Joshie, waited while she mounted her animal and took the reins of his. He waved to her as she rode away, his horse galloping at her side. Then, he hoisted himself up into the door of the house, and disappeared within its shadow-dark interior.
Arlie lay amidst the weeds for a few moments longer. Debating the wisdom of looking in on his brother, and finally deciding against it. Critch would make no mention of the cut cinch, and he would forbid Joshie to. He dared not mention it, lest stern Old Ike drive him, Arlie, from the ranch—in which case, naturally, he would take the stolen money with him, permanently removing it from Critch's reach.
If Critch ever found out that the money was gone—! But never mind that; worry about it when the time came. All that mattered now was that Critch would make no mention of the attempt on his life. He intended to pass it off as an accident. And since an accident automatically cannot be anticipated, a call on him at this point would be awkward to say the least.
How embarrassing to ride miles out of your way to inquire into a man's injuries, when you could have no legitimate knowledge of those injuries. How embarrassing for both of you!
'Just wouldn't be right, Arlie thought virtuously.' And he began to creep back through the weeds, moving unerringly toward the 'arroyo' some half mile distant where his horse was tethered. Essentially a primitive, he could have traveled in this fashion for hours; the hunter who might momentarily become hunted. Instinctively; without conscious effort, his movements were virtually silent. And no telltale wake followed him through the weeds. Now and then his head poked up through the rank growth for reconnoitering, but this was done so quickly, in the fractional second of an eye's blink, that no one could have seen him. Or, rather, realized that they had seen him. At virtually the same instant, he was there and not there. Nothing more, apparently, than a flickering trick of sunlight and shadow.
But while he could not be seen, he saw. And unheard, he heard. So after some eight or ten minutes, he altered his direction, moving off at an approximate right angle to it. After perhaps another ten minutes, he again angled sharply to the right, now heading almost straight toward the house. There was an interval of a few minutes more, and then he came up immediately behind Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.
She was crawling on her hands and knees, a position which drew her trousers tight over her posterior. Grinning, Arlie aimed a big forefinger at the cleft between her buttocks, and gave her a powerful goose.
Big Sis ''Yipped!"' and reared upward, both hands grasping at the offended area. Arlie grabbed them, bound her wrists with his bandanna and flipped her over on her back. It was all done too swiftly for Ethel Anderson to follow; before she knew what was happening. One moment she had been creeping toward the cabin. A split second later she was trussed and helpless, and an outside lummox—one of the Kings, apparently—was sprawled on top of her.
He grinned down into her face, pawing roughly over her body until he had found the tightly rolled wad of bills—all the money she had in the world—and her .28 caliber pistol. He tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, and tossed the gun far into the weeds.
Meanwhile, Miss Anderson had considerably recovered her wits, and was much her normal brazen self. "How about it, big boy?" she said, her eyes sensuously bold. "As long as you're taking things, why not take me?"
"How I gonna take you?" said Arlie, with assumed idiocy. "You mean I eat you, or somethin'?"
"Now you just might want to," she murmured. "Eat or do the next best thing. Have a look at those tits."
He pulled her shirt open, studied the pink-tipped abundance that tumbled out. He allowed his mouth to open in wonderment; at last looked up with patently puzzled eyes.
"You only got two," he said plaintively.
"I only—'whaat?"' said Ethel Anderson. "How the hell many did you think I'd have?"
"Kinda depends on whether you're a cow or sow or a bitch. Now, I don't figure you for a cow; you're too fuckin' filthy to stay in the same barn with one. So I reckon you must be a sow or—"
"You smart aleck son-of-a-bitch!" snapped Ethel, and she spat full in his face.
Arlie grinned, letting the spittle slide down his jaw; making no move to wipe it away. "You spit pretty good," he said. "Want to do it again?"
"You're damned right I do!" she said. And she did. Spitting repeatedly into his face until her mouth was dry, and she could spit no more.
Arlie asked if she was sure she was through; if not, she was to take her time and finish. Miss Anderson shook her head uneasily, attempted an apologetic smile. For one of the very few times in her life she was frightened. Frightened, terrified, rather, to a degree she had never known before. Arlie brushed his sleeve across his face, mopping up the spittle. He continued to grin at her, a meaningless empty grin. A grin that hinted of a bottomless pit, where lurked unspeakable horrors.
Miss Anderson tore her eyes away from the grin; gasped out that she was sorry. "I mean it! I really am! If you'll just let me go, Mr—uh—Mr—"
"Name's King," Arlie said. "The fella you was sneakin' up on in yonder house is my brother, Critch. You, now, I reckon you must be the gal called Big Sis Anderson, and you're plenty wanted for murder."
Big Sis hesitated. "All right. But there's probably one thing you don't know. Your brother has the money I murdered to get. He stole it off my younger sister."
"Mmm? And where's your sister now?"
"Well, I, uh...I'm not sure, exactly. But—"
"Never mind," Arlie chuckled. "Now I'll tell you something 'you' don't know. I stole that money off'n Critch. Took every penny of it an' spent it."
Miss Anderson nodded promptly; again said, "All right, You're not going to turn me over to the law, are you? They'd make you dig up that money if you did."
Arlie said, nope, he wasn't going to turn her in. The Kings weren't much for botherin' the law with their problems, sort of likin' to deal with "em themselves. "But you're kind of a problem I don't know how to handle. I mean, what the heck am I gonna do with you?"
"You don't have to do anything. Just lift yourself off of me, and I'll do the rest."
"You mean you'll just leave? Not come around no more?"
"Why not? There's nothing here for me with the money gone."
"Now, ain't you nice?" Arlie said. "I tell you the money's gone, an' you take my word for it just like that. Makes me wonder how anyone as trustin' as you managed to get so much money to begin with."
"Look!" Big Sis snapped. "If you've got something to say, say it! Whether you have or haven't got the money it's the same difference. There's nothing I can do about it."
"There ain't? Now I'd a thought you could do just plenty about it. You'd sure as hell try, anyways. You'd get the money back, or me'n brother Critch would get a hatchet in our heads. Reckon we'd get one irregardless, what with you kind of havin' the hatchet habit."
Miss Anderson cursed bitterly and at length, declaring that he could believe anything he wished as long as he lifted his big ass off of her. "I've told you the truth, God damn you! Now get up before you smother me."
"No," said Arlie.
"No? What do you mean n
o?"
"I mean, you ain't convinced me that you wouldn't make plenty of trouble for me an' little brother. So I guess I'll just have to convince myself, won't I? Have to make sure that you don't never come near me or Critch again."
"Do it then, damn you! But for God's sake get up so I can breathe!"
Arlie removed himself from her, still keeping well down among the weeds. Ethel Anderson sat up, drinking in great chest-swelling gulps of air. Arlie asked her where she had left her horse; learned that it was behind some trees about a quarter-mile to the north. He told her to head in that direction, unbinding her wrists so that she could crawl ahead of him.
They proceeded thus for a few hundred yards, until they had come up on the blind side of the house and were almost out in the open. Then, Miss Anderson suddenly flipped over on her back, simultaneously throwing a handful of dirt in his face and kicking out mightily with both feet. She came to her feet running, racing as fast as her well-curved legs could carry her. She burst out of the weeds and into the open. Heart pounding wildly, she sped toward the trees behind which her horse was tethered. She rounded them, and—
And had to fling herself backwards to keep from being impaled on the blade of Arlie's outthrust knife. He gestured with it, ordered her to stretch herself out on the ground. She obeyed, eyes fixed fearfully on his face. Mumbling incoherent apologies for what she had done. Arlie said genially that she was not to feel bad about it at all. His plans for her had been unchanged by her attempted escape.
"Now, we'll just get you out of them clothes..." He tore them off her with a couple of hard tugs of his hand. "An' then I'll just cut myself a nice piece of ass."
Her fear abating, Big Sis said irritably that he could have done that without destroying her clothes. She'd make a hell of a sight traveling across the countryside naked. Arlie said her nakedness would be no bother to her, her mind being occupied by other things.
"Like this," he said, squatting astride her, and firmly gripping a bare buttock. "Like goin' around with only one cheek to your ass."