King Blood (17 page)

'Quite simply. Assuming that Big Sis was on the train with her sister and Critch King, she must have gotten a good look at Critch. Enough to recognize him if she ever saw him again. Also, she may have found out who he was from someone on the train. Or, if he was using his right name, she could have gotten it from Little Sis before pounding her to death. In other words, assuming that Critch did steal the money, Big Sis will probably try to get it back from him.'

Deputy Thompson leaned forward excitedly. 'You think she's still in the area, then? Why don't we organize a search party and hunt her down?'

'Hunt exactly where? She could be any place within a fifty mile area. We could possibly dig her up if we had enough time and money, but that would still leave this job half done. Critch King – and, Arlie, too, perhaps – is guilty of being an accessory. The only way we can get him, or them, is through her.'

'I see,' the deputy nodded. 'You'll keep a watch on Critch, and when she tries to make contact with him…'

'Right,' the marshal said. 'Right, Jim. And now as your relative and friend, I again implore you to drop your preposterous political aspirations.'

'Sorry,' his nephew said shortly. 'I see nothing preposterous about them.'

'But you
must!
Territorial Oklahoma is governed by appointed Republicans. The state, however, will be Democratic. It's geographically southern, and the settlers are mainly southern, so it will go into the Democratic column. You can overcome that handicap as a candidate for local office, sheriff, that is. You'll have the opportunity to meet people at first hand, to get to know them and become friends with them. And that's all you need to do. But if you run for Congress or the Senate, where it's largely a matter of speech-making and impersonal contact…' He broke off, studying his nephew's adamant expression. 'I know what I'm talking about, Jim. It's my business to know these things. I can even tell you who your opponent would most likely be in a congressional race.'

'Very interesting,' said the deputy.

'His name is Gore. Keep it in mind, you'll be hearing it for years to come. He's a southerner, a gentleman and a scholar. He's also blind – which will get him a huge sympathy vote, even though he doesn't need it or want it. Don't tangle with him, Jim. He'll beat your pants off if you do.'

'I doubt that, sir.'

'Do you,' Marshal Thompson asked, 'doubt the existence of the word, nephewcide?'

'I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir.'

'Hmmm,' said his uncle ominously. 'Hmmm.'

Author's note: After three terms as sheriff of Caddo County, Oklahoma, James Sherman Thompson ran for Congress against Mr. Gore. Thompson's three-car campaign train carried a banner on each car, the three spelling out his full name. The brass band accompanying the train played _Marching Through Georgia_ at each stop. Inevitably, Thompson suffered a smashing defeat, one which, by association, reflected disastrously upon his uncle. Recovering from the debacle after several years, they were powerful political figures in Oklahoma for almost two decades. And several towns in the state bore some form of the family name; for example_, Jimtomson._

The fictional Anderson sisters had their real-life counterpart in the Bender family, operators of a murder-for-money roadhouse in southern Kansas. Like Big Sis and Little Sis, the Benders are said to have fled into Oklahoma Territory, successfully eluding a pursuing posse and eventually becoming highly respected citizens of the new state. According to another story, however, the posse lied in reporting that the family had escaped. Actually (or so the story goes) the Benders were caught and killed by their pursuers, who then appropriated their ill-gotten wealth for themselves.

The anecdotes concerning attorney Temple Houston are basically true. A reasonable doubt is not, of course, 'a doubt that you can give a reason for'. In so advising juries, the judge in question (we mercifully omit his name) committed a reversible error – one which secured new trials for approximately half the Territorial prison population.

Al Jennings, first county attorney of Caddo County, Oklahoma, ended a most promising political career, by turning outlaw. He showed little aptitude for his new vocation – the entire loot from one train robbery consisted of a bunch of bananas – and other hootowlers jeered his wild tales of gun-battles with lawmen. (His one battle seems actually to have been with a low-hanging tree branch, which knocked out several front teeth.) In a more enlightened era, Jennings might have received the psychiatric treatment which his erratic behavior so clearly dictated. In early day Oklahoma, however, prison was the one place for criminals. And the freckle-splotched former attorney
was
a criminal, by his own admission if nothing else. While in prison, Jennings gained a sad sort of fame by recounting his 'exploits' to a widely read writer. In actuality, the one man seriously hurt or deprived by Jennings would seem to be Jennings himself.

The King ranch, and the town of King's Junction, with its various appurtenances and enterprises, are strictly the product of the author's imagination. Completely fictional, also, are the people who populate the town and ranch, including the Kings themselves. Anyone even vaguely familiar with Oklahoma history will know that such places and people did not and could not exist. Anyone not thus familiar will have to accept their non-existence on the word of the author, the son of James Sherman Thompson.

Aching in every bone, Critch lay on a bunk in the abandoned farmhouse, his mattress a pile of grain sacks, his covering the blanket from his horse. He didn't seem to have broken anything, though how he had escaped a fractured neck was miraculous. Joshie bent over him, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead, asking anxiously if he was sure he was all right.

'I'll live.' Critch managed a smile. 'Nothing worse than a bad jolting. I just hope you didn't hurt yourself in lugging me in here.'

'Ho!' Joshie dismissed the notion. 'I God damn plenty strong squaw. Strong like hell, by God!'

He smiled at her, laughed softly. She looked away abashedly, eyes downcast. Very carefully, spacing the words out, she said, 'I… am… very… sorry. I… do… not… talk… good.'

'Joshie,' said Critch, 'Joshie, dear, I like the way you talk. I wouldn't change a word of it for the world.'

'You – you really mean?' Her wide-wide eyes searched his face. 'No shit?'

'No shit,' he said warmly. 'I like everything about you.'

He meant it. For a momentary eternity he had been dead; he had met death face to face, and the look and smell of her had terrified him.

And now, mercifully, thanks to luck and Joshie's prompt ministrations, he had been brought back into life. Joshie had intervened as death clutched at him. Joshie would provide whatever was needed to complete his rescue.

Like
her? Like was hardly the word. He would have loved her if she had been half a ton in weight, with a face as homely as a mud fence.

Smiling, he held out his arms to her: one of the few entirely sincere acts of his misspent life. He drew her face down against his, feeling the soft breasts press upon his chest, feeling the wild pounding of her heart. With incredible gentleness – so gently that he was hardly aware of it – she slid a leg across his body, then drew up the other leg. And was at last in the bunk with him; was lying on top of him.

Unwillingly, he tried to protest, and found her mouth covering his. The protest died in his throat; and she raised her body slightly, one of her small quick hands busying itself with her trousers. The hand finished its task, gave a single swift pull at the fly of his levis. Then, she had settled down upon him again, the small soft-hard body pressing harder and harder. It began to jerk, in epileptic rhythm, delicately fitting itself into and around his own body. And her lips whispered frantically, ecstatically pouring out a stumbling stream of innocent lewdness.

_And the soft moistness caressing his crotch. And the bared buttocks filling his hands. And – _

'Holy God!' He let out a yell. 'What the hell is this?'

He gave her a shove, almost yelling again at the sharp stabs of pain which the action induced. Joshie flew out of the bunk, stumbling in her lowered trousers and sat down hard on the floor.

She came to her feet, slowly pulling her pants up and fastening them; frowning at him more in wonder than in anger.

'Why you do, ol' Critch? You say you like me.'

'Why?
Why, God damn it – ' He caught himself. 'Well, I do like you, Joshie. I mean it, I like you very much. That's why I couldn't let you do this.'

'Is
why?'
_

'Of course. When a man likes and respects a girl as much as I do you, well, uh, he doesn't do that to her. Or let her do it to herself.'

'No?' Her head tilted puzzledly to one side. 'He only fock girl he don't like?'

'Uh, well, no, I don't mean that exactly. You see, uh – ' he hesitated. 'You see, it's like this, Joshie. Nice girls aren't supposed to have relations with a man unless they're married to him.'

'No want relations. Just fock. Anyway, maybe so sometime we get married, I betcha.'

'Well, uh, yes. Maybe we will sometime. But – '

'Sure t'ing,' said Joshie with utmost certitude. 'King blood got to mix with blood of Tepaha. Is way it is.'

Critch wet his lips, nervously; mumbled that what she said was undoubtedly true. But marriage was something that lay in their future; just how far he was unprepared to say, since they had grown up in different worlds and he needed time to adjust to this one. Also –

'Also, make no God damn difference,' Joshie declared firmly. 'We gonna get married. Now we what you call engage', so is all right to fock.'

'Dammit, Joshie!' Critch started to rise from the bunk, then flopped back with a groan. 'I – didn't you hear your grandfather this morning? He said you shouldn't say such words.'

'Huh-uh, did not. He say should only be used between man 'n' woman. Anyway, don't want to say words 'bout it; just want to do it.'

'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?'