He stood up and held out his hand.
The King brothers shook it, Arlie edging toward the door even as he did so. And once out of the office, he hustled Critch toward the nearest saloon, fervently declaring his need for three fingers in a rain-barrel.
'God damn!' he swore, gulping down a tin cup of forty-rod. 'Don't know what there is about that fella that gets me so God damned rattled. Jus' looks at me an' I start shittin' in my pants.'
Critch laughed. 'Why, I thought he was very pleasant.'
'Yeah, you handled him just fine,' Arlie nodded. 'Had me kind of uneasy for a minute, the way you was talkin' up to him, but I reckon you knowed what you was doin'. Got to hand it to you, little brother,' he added admiringly. 'I was sure plenty glad you was with me.'
'So was I. It's always useful to know a man in his position,' Critch said. And he meant every word of it.
His meeting with the marshal had convinced him of the wisdom of steering clear of King's Junction. Or any other place within Thompson's jurisdiction. Otherwise, he would be inviting disaster upon himself. Thus far, he had been extremely lucky, staying out of jail, keeping off the wanted lists. But luck was largely a matter of weighing the odds, and the odds were all against him at King's Junction. Trouble could seek him out there, even though he did nothing culpable himself. With his shady background, of which the marshal obviously had considerable knowledge, he would become immediately suspect in the event of any wrongdoing, regardless of whether he was responsible for it.
His next move, then? Well, not the one he had decided on before meeting the marshal. He had planned to have the bulk of his stolen seventy-two thousand converted into cashier's checks, doing it through a number of banks to avoid attention. Now, even that seemed risky – riskier than keeping the money on him until he could jump to Texas or Kansas or wherever the hell he had to to escape Marshal Thompson's watchful eye.
No one knew that he had such a huge sum on him. Arlie might have learned something via his several bearhugs, enough to make him suspect that Critch had a considerable amount of cash. And Arlie certainly wasn't above stealing, if he considered it safe. But there was a very simple way of protecting himself against Arlie.
He ordered another round of drinks, paid for them from a wallet still modestly fat with the contents of Anne Anderson's purse. They drank, and Critch drew confidentially close to his brother.
'Something I want to tell you, Arlie,' he said, low-voiced. 'I've got quite a bit of money on me.'
'I could see,' Arlie grinned. 'Couldn't help peekin'.'
'More than that. Several thousand dollars. Now, I'd thought about converting it into bank checks. But after all, what's the point? I can put it in Paw's safe as soon as we get to the Junction. Meanwhile, now that you know I've got it and we can both be on the lookout for pickpockets and thieves…'
Arlie's face sagged ludicrously. Critch almost laughed out loud. So the sneaky son-of-a-bitch had planned to steal it! And now he's had his role changed from thief to watchdog!
_But not for long, Brother Arlie. Just until I jump town on you tonight._
'Well, now looky, little brother,' Arlie began uncomfortably. 'I, uh, ain't real sure that, uh – '
'You don't think it's a good idea? Well, maybe you're right. I'll just step over to the bank and buy checks with the money.'
'Well, uh…'
Arlie wasn't sure that that was a good idea either. Naturally stealing checks would do him no good. On the other hand, he obviously had no 'good' ideas of his own, i.e., some scheme for appropriating the prize which he had been nominated to protect.
'Well, all right,' he said, at last, his voice very grumpy. 'But dang it, Critch, you be watchin' out, yourself! That money gets stole off of you, Paw'll nail my hide to the barn door!'
'Oh, I'll be careful,' Critch promised. 'I've always believed that an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.'
'You have, huh? Me, I've always believed that shit stinks.'
'Something wrong?' Critch asked innocently. 'Did I say something to offend you?'
Looking back on the moment later, he would curse himself roundly for his smugness; wondering how he could ever have forgotten that Arlie was an expert at dissembling, that the way he acted was not necessarily indicative of the way he felt. At the time, however…
'Shouldn't we be getting checked in at the hotel?' he suggested. 'I'd like to clean up, and get a bite to eat.'
Arlie nodded curtly, and gulped down the rest of his drink. 'Well, let's get goin'. No sense in – ' He broke off frowning, then reached out and plucked at Critch's coat. 'Damned if you ain't bustin' out at the seams, boy.'
'What?'
'Looky,' Arlie pointed. 'Can't see it unless you sorta stretch your shoulders a certain way, but – Why, by damn, there's another place! An' here's another one. An' another one, an' – I never seen nothin' like it! A whole mess of little gapes at the seams, like maybe the threads had been cut.'
Critch looked; turned slowly around to examine himself in the back-bar mirror. He looked at Arlie, now frowning at him in innocent concern.
'That coat's sure one helluva mess, little brother. You suppose maybe you could make the tailor give you your money back?'
'I hardly think so,' Critch said.
'Well, anyways, I sure hope you didn't lose no money out of all them little holes. I sure hope nothin' like that happened.'
'Now, what ever gave you that idea?' Critch said. _'You sneaky son-of-a-bitch!'_
And he suddenly slugged his brother.
That was a mistake, of course. He was simply no match for the brawny, ranch-toughened Arlie. The latter rocked with his blow, absorbing it harmlessly. Then, after a moment of ducking and dodging, of attempting to pacify Critch, he knocked him cold with a single punch.
Arlie picked him up from the floor, draped him across his shoulder. Carrying Critch's hat in his free hand, he headed toward the hotel; stopping once along the way when he was accosted by Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen. Madsen was officially curious about Critch's condition. Arlie said he just couldn't understand it himself.
'Why, we was talkin' and drinkin' just as friendly as you please, when all 't once he tried t' slug me. Called me a real dirty name, too. Hate to think I had a brother that couldn't hold his whiskey, but it sure looks that way, don't it?'
Madsen nodded drily. 'Can't have a King like that, now, can we? But I reckon you'll see to his reformin'.'
'Oh, I will, I will,' Arlie promised. 'Why, I'll bet you won't even know ol' Critch the next time you see him. No, sir, you won't even know him!'
____________________
*Chapter Five*
In the weed-grown right-of-way, Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson found a rusty shovel-blade, its handle broken off, a discard from some section-crew's tool box. With it, she scooped out a grave in the track roadbed, and buried Anne's body deep within it.
It was almost full daylight by the time she had finished. Dusting her hands, she looked around the countryside; at the rutty road on one side of the tracks, the prairie farmland on the other. She decided against the road almost immediately: she had to know where she was going before attempting to go anywhere. A chance to reconnoiter, to think was the first order of the day, and that meant finding a safe place to hole-up.
She leaped the right-of-way ditch, climbed over the two-strand fence. With the nearly flat terrain, she could see for several miles; and her shrewd eyes correctly interpreted what she saw. No smoke came from the chimneys of the house immediately beyond the field in which she now stood, nor was there any sign of life around the several adjacent farm buildings. But she would have known that without looking. The field, with its three-year-old wheat stubble, itself told her that the farm was abandoned.