by Jim Thompson
In a funny kinda way, Old Ike King and the 'padres' really thought a lot alike. They believed that whiskery fella up in the sky wasn't never wrong about nothing, whereas Ike believed that it was friends, those closest to him, who did no wrong.
You had to believe in "em, see? You'd go out of your mind if you didn't, what with having to decide a hundred times a day what was right or wrong or halfway between.
To come right down to cases, what the hell could you believe in if not your friends and family? A man that would doubt them and believe an outsider would have to be a plumb sorry asshole...
"...afraid I don't understand, Marshal," Critch was saying. "You state that I stole the money from the Andersons, together or singly, yet you don't seem to have any idea of the amount they had. I do hope this isn't normal procedure for you, sir. To draw an analogy, you could charge a man with horse-stealing, with no proof that the horse ever existed."
Thompson lowered his head doggedly, his face reddening. "We know this," he said. "The Andersons were in business for approximately ten years, during which time they killed close to forty well-heeled travelers. It's not unreasonable to believe then that their aggregate loot amounted to seventy thousand dollars."
"Maybe, maybe not," Critch shrugged. "The sisters had expenses during those ten years. It's not unreasonable to believe that those expenses amounted to forty or fifty thousand."
"I'm talking about their net loot! After expenses!"
"Umm-hmm. I assume your estimate was arrived at after consulting the various relatives and heirs of the murder victims? They told you the probable amount the deceased had on their persons."
"Correct. There was one man alone who had more than ten thousand."
"Yes? And what did some of the others have?"
"Well, there was one with seventy-five hundred, and one with four thousand plus, and another with close to eight thousand, and—"
Thompson broke off, his mouth literally snapping shut. Silently, he berated his nephew for persuading him to venture forth on what was patently a fool's errand.
Critch laughed softly. "Well, Marshal? If the individuals you mentioned are typical, the sisters must have netted closer to half-a-million than seventy thousand. What do you suppose happened to the rest of it?"
"Don't get smart with me, young man!"
"I wouldn't think of it, sir. You've got trouble enough in store for you, as it is. It's my guess that the heirs of practically every missing person in the country are going to claim that their loved ones were murdered by the Andersons, and that said loved ones possessed small fortunes in cash or its equivalent at the time of their demise. By the time the claims are all filed and adjudicated, to no one's satisfaction, of course, I suspect that you and the people who appointed you are going to have something in common that you don't have now. You're both going to wish you were dead."
The marshal grunted, silently guessing that Critch was probably right. In any case, he had no intention of finding out by filing charges against young King. There was simply no evidence to support an arrest. No proof that the Andersons had had anything to steal, or that Critch had stolen it.
For his part, Critch was not feeling nearly as easy as he acted. He still could not bring himself to look at his father. Nor had Old Ike spoken a word, or otherwise indicated what he felt. That he must know or be reasonably sure that the money was stolen seemed certain. And whether the law, as represented by Marshal Thompson, could prove it meant nothing to him. Old Ike was his own law. He passed his own judgments.
"Well, Marshal?" Critch leaned against the bar, easing the weight from his injured ankle. "I believe I've said all I have to say. Do you still want to arrest me?"
Thompson shook his head; said that he'd never wanted to arrest anyone in his life. "So, no, I don't want to arrest you. In fact, I didn't come here with any real hope or intention of doing so. I'm probably not as familiar with the criminal code and the rules of evidence as you seem to be. But I'm sufficiently versed in them to know when I have a case against a man and when I don't—and I obviously didn't in this instance. As long as I was here, of course, I tried to do my damnedest. But the main purpose of my visit—I believe I mentioned it earlier, didn't I?—is murder."
"Murder?" Critch blinked. "What murder?"
"The murder of Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson."
"But that's cra—!" Critch broke off, made a business out of lighting a cheroot. Gained a few seconds' time to think.
There was something wrong here; something subtly out of key in the marshal's attitude and tone. A charge of murder would naturally take precedence over any other, so why...? Never mind, Critch thought, never mind. The question was, how to use it to his own advantage. Get himself solidly back in the good graces of his father.
"Well, Marshal..." he shrugged. "Perhaps, if you're going to accuse me of murder..."
"I'm not sure that I am going to. Perhaps I'll charge Arlie instead."
He turned to grin coldly at Arlie, who was gulping a drink of whiskey. Arlie choked, spluttered and let out an indignant howl of denial.
"That's a God damn lie! I did not neither kill that woman!"
"So?" The marshal's brows went up. "Then if you didn't, Critch did. I know that one of the two of you is guilty. You see, gentlemen..."
Big Sis had been killed the previous afternoon, he explained. Killed in the vicinity of the cabin where Critch had ostensibly been recuperating from his injuries. Arlie had also been seen in the area at the time, and, like Critch, had had the opportunity to commit the murder...'to which there had been an eyewitness!' However, the eyewitness had been some distance away, and he was only sure that one of the brothers had done the killing—not which one. So...
"There's no problem here," Critch said quietly. "I'm guilty, Marshal."
"That's an unqualified confession?" Thompson said. "You wouldn't like to take some second thoughts?"
"Second thoughts? What about?"
"The fact that my eyewitness actually inclines to the belief that Arlie was the killer rather than you. Now, you were right nearby at the time of the murder. You could have witnessed it. And with you to corroborate the testimony of my witness..."
"Now, Marshal..." Critch gave him a stern look. "You surely aren't suggesting that I incriminate my brother by lying to you?"
"I'm suggesting that you're lying right now! That you're doing so to protect your brother!"
"Nonsense! Why, I'd have everything to lose and nothing to gain by lying." Critch shook his head; let it bow with humility. "As things stand now, I know my father can't have a very high opinion of me. He couldn't possibly consider me fit to carry on in his footsteps. Given time, I might be able to redeem myself in his eyes, but I could only get that time by putting the blame on Arlie for a murder that I—"
"You don't have to put it on me!" Arlie snapped. "I'm doin' it myself. I "preciate your tryin' to protect me, little brother, but I ain't gonna allow it." He drew himself up, extending his wrists. "Put the cuff on, Marshal Harry. I done that killin'."
The marshal looked at him, shook his head cynically. He had misstated the facts a little himself, he said. His eyewitness was actually of the opinion that Critch was the killer. So if Arlie would corroborate the witness's testimony...
"I won't!" Arlie said doggedly. "I done it, an' I'm takin' the blame."
"You didn't, and you're not," Critch said. "I'm your man, Marshal."
"The hell you are!"
"The hell you are!"shouted the brothers King.
And as they squared off from each other, their fists drawn back, the marshal suddenly burst into laughter. Smilingly assured them that neither was guilty, that the person who had killed Ethel Anderson had already admitted it.
"Now," he went on, "you have a right to know why I put you through this rigmarole. The answer is that I felt you two were a potential source of very big trouble. And by way of heading off that trouble, I had to resolve some very serious doubts I entertained concerning your character."
&n
bsp; "They ain't nothin' wrong with my boys' character..." Old Ike spoke for the first time. "Asked me, I'd a told you."
And Tepaha added that ol' Harry was one big damned fool, unable to see what was obvious to an idiot.
The marshal nodded in suave apology. "Not knowing them as well as you, I regarded them as two very determined, self-seeking young men. Thoroughly selfish and willing to go to any lengths to get their own way. I am glad to say that I was wrong."
He was by no means sure that he had been wrong. Still, it was a world of miracles, was it not? And if giving a dog a bad name turned him bad, perhaps by giving him a good one he could be made—well, safe at least.
"Shit," grunted Old Ike King; then, with Tepaha, rose heavily to his feet.
He started toward the door, Tepaha trailing; rambling of plans he had to make and the lack of time for damned foolishness. He added that the boys were to eat themselves some breakfast. Then, after a moment's grudging pause:
"Welcome to stay'n eat, too, Harry."
"Why, thank you, Ike..." The marshal hesitated. "If you're sure it's not too much trouble."
Ike gestured, brushing the notion aside, and went on out the door. But Old Tepaha turned, eyes blazing proudly: spoke in a mixture of Apache and Spanish, as do all wise men when both forcefulness and delicacy are required.
"Has a dog entered the lodge of Old Ike King?" he inquired. "Surely no man would suggest that his host was so poor in manners and goods as to make his presence troublesome."
"I am no dog," Thompson replied. "We have smoked together and been warmed at one another's fires, and we are friends."
"Then, heed me!" Tepaha said. "In the lodge of Old Ike King, there is always meat of which any man may eat his fill. Also, there is always drink. Mescal, and tequila, and for honored guests the finest whiskey."
The marshal inclined his head courteously. "I have seen this," he declared.
Breakfast finished and farewells exchanged, Marshal Thompson walked back through the village of King's Junction and entered the railroad station. He checked the arrival time of the next west-bound train with the half-breed station agent; then, went down the station platform to its end, and came to a stop behind the freight-shed.
He was concealed there from both the townspeople and the agent. I.K. promptly scampered up from the right-of-way ditch, and joined him. His suit and other garments had been recently purchased but no one would have guessed it from his appearance.
"Twenty-three skidoo, Marshal Harry," he said pertly. "How's your hammer hangin'?"
Thompson replied that it had seemed to be satisfactorily suspended at his last inspection. Then, shook his head amazedly as he looked the young Indian up and down.
"My God, I.K.! How can anyone manage to get so many grease spots on him?"
"Ho, ho," I.K. said, companionably nudging him with an elbow. "Don' kid me, kid. I a chicken inspector." Then, after taking a cautious look around, "You got "em tied up, huh? Haul "em to station like God damn hogs?"
The marshal said, no, he did not have the King brothers tied up. And, no—replying to the youth's next question—neither had he shot their asses off. I.K. gaped at him; profanely professed puzzlement and displeasure.
"What kinda shit you make, ol' Harry? That Critch have seventy-two thousand dollars he steal—"
"That he 'probably' stole," the marshal interjected. "But there's no way of proving that he did."
"Sure, there is way! If money not stolen, how come he not make "plaint to you when Arlie make me steal from him? You ask him, ol' Harry. Watch sonofbitch squirm." I.K. nodded firmly, giving Thompson a speculative look. "Maybe I better be marshal. Show you how to do job."
Thompson said equably that maybe he had. As preparation for it, he suggested that the young Indian first learn how to tell the truth—or how to lie a hell of a lot better.
"Critch insists that he gave the money to Arlie, and Arlie agrees that he did. Since they are not proven thieves, and you're an admitted one—and a liar as well—"
I.K. ripped out an indignant curse. "I never tell lie, by God! Name me one God damn time I lie!"
"Just now, for one. And yesterday afternoon when you had the section-crew foreman send me that telegram." The marshal looked at him sternly. "You could have caused some very serious trouble by doing that, I.K. Fortunately, I got a later telegram from a constable down the line, identifying the man who actually did the killing."
"Act'ly did it?" I.K. exploded. "What you mean, act'ly? Ol' Arlie kill her—same damn woman you show me picture of! Stab her to death with knife!"
"No," said Thompson. "No."
"Well...I quite some way off. Maybe so make mistake. I see Critch stab her, and t'ink was Arlie."
"No. You saw nothing of the kind, because neither of them killed her."
"By God, yes! Yes, yes, yes!"
The marshal said, by God, no! No, no, no! "The woman was killed last night by a farmer named Gutzman. She'd been living with him for the past three weeks. Apparently, she suddenly went out of her mind, and he had to kill her in self-defense."
"But—but—" I.K. was suddenly struck by inspiration. "Hokay, was maybe like this. Ol' Arlie or Critch stab her like I say, partly kill her, then ol' Gutzman—"
"Finished her off?" Thompson shook his head. "No, I.K. She wasn't stabbed, or even scratched. Her only wound was in the head, where Gutzman hit her with a hatchet."
"But, by God—"
The youth's mouth opened and closed helplessly. He gestured wildly, pounding his fist in his palm. Again he tried to speak, and again was helpless. At last, he gave up. Fatalistically accepted the paradox of having seen what he could not have seen.
"By God," he said, looking across the railroad tracks and beyond, into the endless expanse of the King ranch. "I guess I screw things up good, I betcha."
"Ah, well," Marshal Thompson said, "we all make mistakes. The point is to learn from them, and do better in the future."
"Ho, boy, some future I got!" said I.K. glumly. "I stay "round here, ol' grandfather an' ol' uncle cut my God damn balls off."
The marshal said that it seemed wise, under the circumstances, for the youth not to stay there. "Now, you seem to be basically a bright young man. Just the fellow I need for a job in my office..."
"Hey, is God damn fine, Marshal Harry!" I.K. exclaimed. "I wear big badge, shoot people's ass off, yes?"
"We-el, no, not exactly. You'd be my chief broom-and-mop deputy. Have full charge of keeping all the offices clean. It doesn't sound like much of a job, perhaps," the marshal went on. "But it would pay you enough to live on, and give you an opportunity to go to school."
"Humph!" said I.K. "School!"
"Yes, school," Thompson said. "You need it, I.K. Without schooling, an education, I see a very unhappy life for you in Oklahoma."
I.K. grunted, gave the marshal a sardonic look. For the first time, his voice took on an edge. "I tell you "bout Indian in Oklahoma, ol' marshal. What kinda life we gonna lead. Like you say, I smart young fella, so I tell you..."
"Yes?"
"No. All I tell you is, I know plenty already. How to gamble, get drunk, screw women. Is all I need to know."
"How about lying?"
"Lying?"
"You heard me," Thompson said sternly. "You don't lie worth a damn, now do you? Why, I've caught you in two lies this morning, and I wasn't even trying."
"But, dammit, was not—!" I.K. caught himself; fatalistically gulped down his denial. "Hokay," he sighed. "Maybe not lie so damn good. Ol' Critch an' Arlie maybe lie one hell of a lot better, no shit."
"Well, then." The marshal spread his hands. "Well, then, my young friend?"
"Well...I learn how to lie good in school?"
"Now, where else would you learn?" Thompson said equably.
"I learn from first-class liar books? Books full of God damn lies?"
"See for yourself," Thompson shrugged.
"By God, I do it! We shake on it, Marshal Harry!"
He thrus
t out a grime-smeared palm.
Thompson looked down at it, diplomatically substituted a cigar for his own hand.
"Smoke up," he said, striking and holding a match. "To your glorious future as the biggest liar in Oklahoma."
I.K. exhaled a great cloud of smoke. Gave him a shrewdly knowing grin.
"Don't kid me, kid," he said. "I a chicken inspector."
It was well before daylight when old Ike King, after an uneasily restless night, wearily pushed himself up from his bed and began to dress. The month was August and the night had been a scorcher, yet he could not fault the heat for his inability to sleep. Why, hell, heat had never bothered him no more than cold. Not 'really' bothered him, that is, until maybe the last year or so. So, obviously, something else was making him feel as he did.
A feeling that old fires had begun to blaze in his stomach; that his lungs were all but choked on the fumes from them.
A feeling that his heart, despite its increasingly heavy pounding, might stop beating at any moment.
He finished dressing, sat down on the bed for a time to rest. He got to his feet again, trudged to the door and went out into the hall.
He and Tepaha met at the stairs, and they descended to the bar room together. Over stiff drinks, they grunted and grumbled at one another, and Tepaha revealed that he also had slept badly. Unlike Ike, however, he had pinpointed the cause.
It was the kitchen squaws. Old age had made them slovenly and careless, so that the best of food became botched in their hands. Consequently, there was such an uproar in a man's guts after eating that the thunder of it made sleep impossible. And he was indeed lucky to be wakeful, since he otherwise might die of the squaws' evil messes.
Ike said he was full of shit.
"Critch's been eatin' their cookin' for six months, ain't he? A swell young fella that ain't never et in nothin' but the finest places. He says the food's fine, an' I reckon he knows more than a stupid old bastard like you."
Tepaha said Ike was full of shit.