King Blood (2 page)

In the private room of one of Tulsa's fancier saloons, an establishment with carpeted floors and crystal chandeliers, the lawyer poured whiskey for them and held a match to Critch King's cigar. He took a delicate taste of the liquor, studying his young guest over the brim of his glass. Critch was interestedly examining a framed document which hung on the wall – a handwritten testimonial to the saloon, signed by Washington Irving.

'You know _A Tour of the Prairies,_ Mr. King?'

'I thought I did until I saw this.' Critch nodded at the document. 'I didn't know Mr. Irving was ever in the Tulsa area.'

Dying Horse chuckled approvingly; agreed that the point was certainly moot. 'But we've had the printing arts, and the arts and craftsmen associated with them, in Eastern Oklahoma for a very long time. George Creekmore's newspaper was possibly the first major periodical west of the Mississippi.'

'A Cherokee language newspaper,' Critch nodded. 'Then this testimonial is probably a forgery?'

'Mmm. Done by a tramp journeyman with a small talent and a large thirst. Like the etching over there, for example.'

Critch arose and walked over to the far wall. He took a long look at the drawing which hung there, a picture of an Indian mounted on a pony, their heads bowed dispiritedly as they stared down the face of a cliff.

'No – ' with a shake of his head, Critch sat back down at their table. 'I'd have to disagree with you there, sir. That's a genuine Remington if I ever saw one.'

'You're a good judge of art, Mr. King!'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You're a remarkable young man, all around. How anyone could have overcome the handicaps you must have suffered to become a gentleman and a scholar…!'

Critch murmured appreciation for the lawyer's good opinion, modestly pointing out that hardship often brought out the best in a man. 'When a man's got no one to help him, he simply has to try harder. At least, that's the way I've always seen it. If a man truly wants to make something of himself, he can do it, regardless of birth and background!'

Dying Horse looked into his guest's innocently earnest young face, his heart warming as it seldom did to a white man. _Regardless of birth._ Now here was understanding for you! Here was a man who knew what it was to suffer and struggle against unbearable odds.

_God damn Ike King! he thought. Practically on his death-bed, and he treats his own son like this!_

He took a quick drink, then another. Critch smiled at him gently, gave one of the bronzed hands a comforting pat.

'Don't let it upset you, Judge. I haven't seen my father since I was a child, but I don't imagine he's changed any.'

'No.'

'I've often thought that if he'd treated my mother a little differently…' Critch shook his head regretfully. 'She was part Creek, you know, and she had rather crisp, curly hair. Dad used to accuse her of being part Negro.'

'He did, eh?' Dying Horse laughed angrily. 'Sounds about like him!'

'Of course, there was some intermarriage among the Creeks,' Critch shrugged. 'But what of it, anyway? At any rate, why taunt a woman publicly with something she couldn't help?'

The Osage gulped another large drink, a red flush spreading under the lighter hue of his face. He brought the heavy glass down on the table with a bang.

_Getting a little drunk, Critch thought shrewdly. When will these stinking Indians learn that they can't drink?_

'Mr. King – _hic, hup – _your father is, as you may know, my client in this area. It was my duty, if you could be found, to look you over and to decide whether you were fit to be claimed as his son and heir. I have decided, in the affirmative. The only question in my mind is whether he is fit to be claimed as your father!'

Critch smiled a soft demurral. After all, they shouldn't be too hard on the old man.

'I'll welcome the chance to see him before he dies. I would have gone back before this, but I wasn't sure of my reception.'

'You'll find it satisfactory,' Dying Horse assured him, 'under the circumstances. Now, if you were down on your luck, if you'd been a failure in life and really needed help…'

'I'd certainly never go near Dad,' Critch laughed, ruefully. 'A strange man, my father, but fair – absolutely fair – in his own way. He never excused his own failures, so why should he excuse them in others?'

'But his own son,' the lawyer protested. 'His own flesh and blood!'

'Only if he chose to claim me as a son,' Critch pointed out. 'Which he wouldn't do unless I met his standards.'

They talked a while longer. Then, the lawyer glanced at the clock and remembered an appointment. As he reached for his wallet and beckoned to a waiter, Critch laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.

'My treat, Counsellor. I insist.'

'Nonsense. Business, Mr. King, so we're both the guests of your father. I – ' he broke off scowling, slapping his hip. 'God damn it!' he said. 'I've lost my wallet!'

'Why, that's too bad,' Critch frowned sympathetically. 'Was there very much in it?'

'Well, not a great deal. Fifty dollars or so.'

_God damn! thought Critch._

He lingered over his drink while the attorney hastened away to his appointment. Then, after a leisurely free lunch provided by the establishment, he visited the backyard privvy where he emptied the wallet of money and dropped it down the hole.

Out on the street again, he sauntered through the mid-day throngs, his expression suave and smiling, his eyes alert for yet another wink from fortune. For certainly it would not be smart to present himself to Ike King with such picayune pickings as he had now. There was his ticket to buy, and his meals and incidental expenses. He would be virtually broke on arrival, a very dangerous way to be with a sire like old Ike. Isaac Joshua King might well haul out a fatted calf for the returning prodigal, a figuratively golden calf, but only if the returnee was herding a few steers in front of him as proof of his merit.

The relatively few dollars stolen from Attorney Dying Horse represented nothing more than another chance. It was something to build on, something to be used in trimming a truly well-heeled sucker.

Ike had better things to do, by his own admission, than to drive prospective purchasers over his holdings. Nor was it necessary for him to do so, since his woman could do it just as well, and, like all women, never did nothin' much useful anyways that he could see. Neither could he see (he joked jovially) that he was doing anything chancy in having his wife traipse around all day with such a good-lookin' young feller, because anyone that wanted a half-nigger Creek was sure as hell welcome to her! Still, as a gesture to the proprieties, his son Critchfield could accompany them, the son being good for little else (that he could see) except to be planted in the barn as a pissing-post.

Critch found the daily excursions happy ones. His mother always packed generous lunches – food that was far tastier than any she ever prepared at the hotel. She was also almost consistently good-humored, rarely giving way to the sudden flashes of temper which sent her blinding-quick hands out to slap and pinch and shake him. True, she was always sorry after these tantrums, as quick with pampering as she was with punishment. But while he forgave he could not completely forget, nor relax completely while she was within striking distance. He had never been able to, that is, until the advent of Ray Chance.

Critch was to marvel in later years that such a thorough-going scoundrel as Ray found it so easy to bring out all that was good and generous in people. But under analysis the trait seemed to be largely a matter of ignoring the grossest faults while praising the smallest virtues. Of turning negatives into affirmatives. Under Ray's magic, the ugliest dross became pure gold.

Ray never criticized his sniffling, but praised the manly manner in which he blew his nose. _(Almost had me blowing the damned thing off, Critch remembered wryly.)_ Ray never remarked on his clumsiness, a tendency to trip over his own feet, but praised the fortitude which kept him tearless and unwhimpering. Ray had no jeers nor sneers for his thumb sucking, his nervousness-inspired nail-biting. Merely remarking that it would be a shame to do anything which might mar the finest-looking hands he'd ever seen on a boy.

To demonstrate the strength and grace and other virtues which Ray and no other had ever observed in him, Critch took long runs across the prairie when they stopped during the noon hour. Leaping creeks and puddles. Jumping high in the Johnson grass and weeds tirelessly until he was only a speck in the distance. Winded, he came back much more slowly than he had gone, but that was all right, too. For Ray found much to admire in the way he conserved his strength when wisdom so dictated. Ray had many compliments for his ability to creep through the grass unseen (like a skilful hunter), then suddenly to spring up as if out of nowhere.

He was a lot better at creeping and sneaking than even Ray realized, several times approaching them so closely without their being aware of him that he saw things unintended for his eyes, and he knew he had better creep right back the way he had come from. But being a child and curious, his retreats were unhurried to say the least.

Ray and his mother were the first human beings he had seen at sexual intercourse. But he had witnessed it many times among the so-called lower animals, and none of life's innocent myths or intimate mysteries had survived the onslaught of Elizabethan nouns and verbs, which comprised much of Old Ike's vocabulary. So Critch well knew what he was seeing, even though the mechanics of it were new to him.

Ray was pounding his mother's meat. Ray was diddling his mother's pussy.

But why couldn't she accept it reasonably, as cattle and chickens did, instead of with such disgusting and annoying antics? Throwing her legs around Ray! Pitching and tossing with her butt until Ray was almost dislodged! Stretching and straining her big persimmon-tipped titties as she tried to force them to Ray's mouth! And laughing and crying at the same time, like nine kinds of a damn' fool! _Maybe she was part nigger, after all. Maybe?_

Old Ike had drifted through the Nations at a time when the Five Tribes were still slave-holders. And he had seen certain fleshly exhibitions which he still talked about with amusement and wonder. God damn! he would say. God damn, it was a pure marvel how one of them wenches could carry on when she got the bone in her!

A lady, now, she didn't like to do it. A lady just put up with it, because it was part of bein' a wife and mother, an' to keep it out of another hole. But them God damn nigger wenches! They could bust the balls on a dozen big bucks and still be hankerin' for more! It was the way they was built, y'know. All sap and rubber, and the more they used it the better it got (instead of gettin' loose as a goose like a lady's did).

Why, God damn, there was this one plenty-old wench. All of forty, if she was a day; practically toothless, with dugs as flat as a beetle's ass. But, by Christ, you just hold a cotton boll up to her crotch and see what happened! By Christ, she couldn't have plucked that boll any cleaner if she'd used her hands. Looked like a bush bunny had jumped up inside of her an' left his tail stickin' out.

A fact, by Christ! That's the way them wenches was. Built different, y'know. Not like ladies.

_But like his mother? thought Critch._

_That was the way niggers acted, wasn't it?_

There came a day when Old Ike left King Junction before daylight for the long horseback ride to another village. Hardly was he out of sight before Critch, his mother and Ray also left – considerably earlier than they usually did – and with them went the contents of Ike King's strong box, stolen by his wife and secreted in the lunch hamper.

They traveled very fast, with none of the happy nonsense concomitant to their daily excursions. As the buggy sped over the rutted trail, the wheels rocking and dipping and jouncing, Critch was several times nearly thrown from his perch behind the lattice-backed seat. But his tentative protests and inquiries went unanswered by the two adults. And their unusual silence, the strained expressions on their faces, were more effective with Critch than any flattery or admonition could have been.

Something strange was going on. Something that was undoubtedly an extension of Ray's pounding of his mother's meat. Which was all right, by gosh, but if there was any fun in it they needn't think he was going to be left out of it!

It was early afternoon before they stopped. Not at one of the pleasant places they usually chose, but at a dismal line shack near the approximate eastern boundary of Old Ike's domain. Ray ate a sandwich while he fed and watered the horse. Critch pumped a drink for himself, warily accepted the parcel of food which his mother handed him and allowed her to lead him inside the shack.

There she stooped and put her arms around him. She hugged and kissed him many times, wept a little, and falteringly then firmly told him what he was to do.

Critch stared at her angrily.
'No!'
he shouted, so suddenly and loudly that she was almost rocked over backwards on her heels.

She started to strike him. 'Brat! Snotnose!' Then, bringing herself up with an effort, she became loving and pleading. But her son remained obdurate.

_No, no, no!_ He _wasn't_ going to stay there! Never mind the fact that she had left a note for his father, who would come and take him home. Never mind about his being a big brave boy. She wasn't foolin' him, by gosh!, and she was just a big old liar when she said that she and Ray would be back in Junction City in no time at all and the three of them would have endless good times together.

'I'm goin' with you, because you ain't comin' back, never ever! You
can't
come back!'

'Now, Critch. Of course, we can, honey. Why do you – '

'Because! You an' Ray are married, so Papa can't be your husband no more!'

'Mar – Of course, we're not married!'

'You are so! You an' Ray been fuckin' so that makes you married!'

Ray appeared in the doorway at that moment, thus undoubtedly preventing Mrs. King from snatching her son baldheaded as she had often threatened to do. Ray said Critch was absolutely right; he and Critch's mother
were
married, and there was no reason in the world why Critch shouldn't go along with them and be their son.

'But, Ray -!' Mrs. King stared flabbergasted at her lover. 'We can't!'

'No? Think about it a moment. Think how much protection a big, brave boy like Critch will be for us.' He winked at her. 'Well? Do you see it?'

'Well…'

'Ike is going to be pretty annoyed. If only we were involved, he just might arrange some unpleasantness. But as long as we have Critch with us…'

Critch went with them. Ray insisted on it. Nor did he apparently ever regret his decision, unless it was at the end of his career when he may have suspected Critch of his betrayal.

The boy was bright, malleable and anxious to please. One who was readily molded into the tasteful and personable pattern which he had arduously created for himself. There was little if any immediate monetary reward for his careful tutelage of Critch. But Ray glimpsed a truly amazing potential in the youth, who would meanwhile fill his need for kindred companionship. He needed someone to talk to, someone who shared his likes and dislikes and his carefully acquired taste for the aesthetic. Ray's mother could satisfy none of those needs. The one she did fill was actually the least important to him.

Critch was pleasure and promise for Ray Chance. Critch enhanced his life. The woman, on the other hand, detracted from it, giving nothing but her tireless and increasingly tiresome loins.

Ray fancied himself as a master swindler, a man who achieved his ends by out-thinking his victims. He was not squeamish about the fatal employment of poisons and guns and knives, when they were necessary. But he felt a little demeaned in doing so, his great-thinker's image tarnished by the act of violence. And now, as a self-appointed model for the boy – a lad who literally worshipped him – he was unable to suffer the slightest smudge on his intrinsically tawdry escutcheon.

Alone, a swindler may 'work' single or double, temporarily acquiring a 'wife' or 'sister' if he chooses to do the latter. But a team, a man with a real or pseudo-encumbrance, must work double. Necessity – her mere presence – will force the woman into at least a minor role. She must be privy to her 'husband's' or 'brother's' affairs. Ignorance of them will spell disaster for them both.

So Ray launched one of the simplest confidence games. The supposed past-posting of a winning horse, on a race already run. He rehearsed his 'wife' in her tiny role until she appeared letter-perfect. And, indeed, there was very little to rehearse. She had no more than a dozen words to say, before bursting into tears.

A few words, then the tears. What, for God's sake, could have been easier? A child could have done it, if the role had called for a child. Yet _she – she,_ the stupid slut – blew it! She tipped the 'fool' she had roped, and the fool hollered copper.

Ray got them out of it, but not without an 'icing-off' of the law (the payment of bribes) which completely absorbed the remaining contents of Ike King's strongbox. Afterwards, she sulkily suggested that it wasn't her fault. He had made her nervous, and – brightly – she was sure she would do much better 'next time'. Ray was too furious to reply to this. But when they were alone that night, he beat her within an inch of her life.

He would have left her cold, except for his fear of losing Critch by doing so. He had to be surer of the boy than he was now; to weaken her hold on him while strengthening his own. And, dammit, she
must
be good for something besides screwing!

Bluntly speaking, however, she was good for little else. There was little else that she had been used for since her marriage to Ike at age thirteen. And, now, in her early thirties, such other talents as may have lain within her had become atrophied.

Ray was forced to accept her for what she was, and to make the best of it. It did not work out too badly for a time.

She was sweet bait for the badger game. An over-the-shoulder look at a fool, then a sensuous twist of her hips, and she had him in her bedroom. Into which, of course, her outraged 'husband' would burst at a crucial moment.

Money-wise, they began to 'get well,' as the saying was. But, gradually, repetition brought boredom to her, making her into a preposterous facsimile of the errant and frightened wife she was supposed to be. Instead of cowering, she was apt to yawn. Once she had even squatted on the pot, mumbling her pleas for forgiveness to the tinkle of urine.

Ray lectured her, pointing out their terrible physical danger, the certain fiscal disaster, which must derive from her attitude. He beat her, frustration adding to his fury as he sensed her gratification at the punishment. But neither scoldings nor beatings could change her. Just as boredom, too much of a sameness, had driven her from old Ike, it was now taking her off on another tangent. And at the worst possible time. They needed to hit big, or at least steady, yet in the sorry sum of her moments, there was no jackpot.

Descent is easy. One must rest before the long climb upward, and the best place is always on the next step down. There is no hurry, no cause for alarm. After all, what goes down must come up, mustn't it?