by Jim Thompson
"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."
"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.
He caught up with them a few steps short of the hotel-ranchhouse; made affable inquiries as to the cause of their wretched condition. Arlie explained nervously, and the marshal voiced suave concern.
"I imagine you're completely worn out, aren't you? Can't think of anything but eating and getting to bed? Well, gentlemen'—he looked from one to the other, dark eyes suddenly turned crystal-hard. "I'm afraid such creature comforts will have to be postponed for a while. Indefinitely, you might say. I have some questions to ask you."
"Uh, questions?" Arlie gulped uneasily. "Questions "bout what."
"Forget it!" Critch said curtly. "I'm eating breakfast and then I'm going to bed. The marshal can postpone his questions, or do the next best thing!"
"Which," said Thompson, "would be what?"
"Go shit in your hat!"
Critch reached for the door. Paused abruptly, hands half-raised, as he looked down the blue-black barrel of the marshal's forty-five.
"That remark you made," Thompson said, "became the epitaph of the last man who made it to me. I wonder if you'd like it to be yours?"
Critch shook his head; managed a weak grin. "I'd prefer to postpone it, sir. Indefinitely, you might say."
"Or until you've answered my questions?"
"Or until then. But we do have certain rights, Marshal. Before this goes any further, we're entitled to know the nature of your questions."
"You're right, of course," said Thompson, reholstering his gun. "Please forgive the omission. My questions—to which I expect complete and satisfactory answers—are concerned with robbery and murder."
They were assembled in the hotel's bar room—the brothers and the marshal, Ike and Tepaha. A bottle and glasses of whiskey sat before the two old men. They sipped at it occasionally, their seamed faces expressionless; reflecting not the slightest interest in what was happening or what might happen.
"...well, Arlie?" the marshal was saying. "I'm still waiting. What's your answer?"
"Sure, Marshal Harry, sure. Now, uh, lessee..." Arlie wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. "Just a minute now. It'll come to me in a minute. Uh, mmm, uh—What was that question again, marshal?"
"The same as it was the first fifteen times I asked it! The same as it was damned near an hour ago!"
"Uh, yes, sir?"
"All right, I'll repeat it once more. Three weeks ago, give or take a day, you paid off approximately seventy thousand dollars in indebtedness against this ranch. 'Now where did you get the money?"'
"Where did I get it?"
"You heard me! 'Yes!"'
"Mmm," said Arlie. "Now, lessee..."
In the old days, thought Tepaha, there was no interference from men of the law. A bad son was simply reported to his father, who dealt with him as he deemed best. For who was better prepared to sit in judgment than the father, who more able to decide the proper punishment? Surely, since it was the offender who was punished, it was he who should be judged, not the offense he committed. Surely, though errors might sometimes occur, they were much less frequent when the father, rather than the law, passed judgment. This was so, and it could hardly be otherwise. For the father's judgment was of the individual, and there was honor in it as well as knowledge. And the law's judgment was of the faceless mass (and created by that mass)—and this in the name of justice!
At any rate, thought Tepaha, there was no wrong in stealing, except from friends and family. Others who were stolen from were themselves criminal, since, by making their property stealable, they had doubtless tempted an honest man to thievery.
Similarly, it was impossible to defraud an importunate creditor. The worst that could be done to them was not as bad as they deserved. And how could it be otherwise? Trust was not something you gave a man one day, withdrew the next, and re-extended a third. This patently was not trust at all, but rather the most heinous fraud. Real trust was permanent—not something given when unneeded, and taken away when one's need was worst. This was so. Only a law which boasted of its blindness would hold otherwise.
Ol' Marshal Harry full of shit, thought Tepaha.
"For the last time, Arlie," said Marshal Thompson. "I'm asking for the last time—"
"I'll answer the question," Critch said. "Arlie got the money from me."
"Of course, he did." The marshal turned on him grimly. "I wondered when he or you would get around to admitting it. He stole the money from you, and you—"
'"Stole' it from me?" Critch gave him a wondering look. "Now, why in the world do you think—" He broke off, bursting into laughter. "I'm sorry, marshal. I'd entirely forgotten the little joke we pulled on that Indian kid. I guess you must have forgotten it too, eh, Arlie?"
"Now danged if I didn't!" Arlie declared, and immediately began whooping with laughter. "Don't see how I coulda forgot it neither, the way we had ol' I.K. goin'. Funniest thing you ever saw, Marshal Harry!"
Thompson looked sourly from one brother to the other. "You expect me to believe that? That it was all a joke?"
"I hardly see how you can believe anything else," said Critch, "as long as Arlie and I say it was a joke."
"Why, sure," Arlie said warmly. "You sure as hell couldn't believe I.K. He's the biggest damned liar in the Territory, and they's plenty of people that'll swear to it."
Thompson said to let it go; whether the money had been stolen from Critch or whether Critch had given it to Arlie was not really important. The—
"Oh, I disagree, Marshal," Critch broke in. "The truthfulness of I.K. could be of the greatest importance. After all, if he lied in one instance he'd doubtless lie in another."
"Forget it!" Thompson snapped. "
All I want to know is where you got that money—almost seventy thousand dollars?"
"Oh, one way and another," Critch said airily. "Gambling, cotton speculation; that sort of thing."
"Can you prove that?"
"Naturally, I can't. No one could. Fortunately, I don't have to prove it. However'—he smiled pleasantly, "I believe I can lend substantial credence to at least one part of my statement, if you'd care to join me in a game of poker."
Thompson said he didn't care to, or need to. He already knew where Critch had gotten the money: from Ethel and/or Anne Anderson, alias Big Sis and Little Sis Anderson.
"Mmm," Critch frowned thoughtfully. "Ethel and Anne Anderson. Now where have I heard those names before?"
"Don't pull that stuff on me, mister! You stole that seventy thousand dollars from one or both of them, 'and I can prove it!"'
In the old days, thought Old Ike King, a man did what he was big enough to do, and mostly there wasn't much difference between the men whose necks he stretched or who stretched his, if so it was to be. Mostly there was nothing personal in it, however it was. It was just a case of taking or being taken, killing or being killed. Well, sure, there was fellas that boohooed and whined about it—but there was fellas that would cry if you hung "em with a new rope. And, sure, maybe you wished things was a different way; but they wasn't, and all you could do was hold out and hope.
In the old days, thought Old Ike King, a friend was someone you wouldn't kill, even when you had the chance, and vicey versa. A friend was someone you'd kill for and vicey versa. A friend was someone who did no wrong, no matter what he did; who saw you as doing no wrong, no matter what you did.
Now the 'padres' weren't bad fellas, in their own way. But it was only natural that they should be mixed up about right and wrong, since they seldom got shot at or scalped, if at all. It was easy for them to believe that there was a fella with a long gray beard who lived up in the sky and looked out for everyone or anyways never let "em get killed unless it was for their own good. It was easy for them to believe that there was a hell deep inside the earth; instead of its really bein' where you didn't have to dig for it.