King Blood

After a few days, he could even accept Ethel's acid-edged ribbing without feeling rebuffed. He was a little shocked by her language sometimes, but delightfully so; looking upon it as yet another naughtily charming gift from this woman of all women.

'Take it easy, Gutzy,' she would say, 'you horny old son-of-a-bitch. Those are my tits you're squeezing, not a couple of stacks of cowshit.'

_'Hee, hee!'_ – a shocked giggle from Gutzman. 'You badt girl, Greta. Maybe I spank your bottom, ya?'

'Why not? You've done every other goddamn thing to it.'

'Good badt girl, my Greta. Maybe I saddle horses tonight. Ve take nice ride, yah?'

'Yah. Now you're talkin', Gutzy.'

The horseback rides became nightly occurrences. Sometimes they lasted for hours, Gutzman jabbering on endlessly about the places they passed and the places beyond; who lived here or there or over there. Telling her everything he knew – since she seemed greatly interested – about the various towns and villages.

So, at last, amidst the unsorted dross of his chattering, Ethel found gold. They had ridden unusually far that night, the end of her first week with him. Ethel had become very tired, and Gutzman mistook her weariness for boredom. Thus, fearful as always of losing her, he had humbly apologized for being poor company – for having so little to offer – and promised to relieve the monotony by taking her on a sightseeing trip.

'Not for more than a day it vould be, because of der animals. But ve could – '

'Oh, hell, Gutzy,' Ethel yawned. 'What's there to see around here?'

'Veil – veil, dere is, uh – '

'Yah?'

'Vell, hu – ' Gutzman suddenly brightened, remembering. 'Not so far to der vest, dere is dis very fonny place. It is owned by an old man, a vite man – a beeg ranch, almost a whole county it iss, mit a little town. But dis vite man, only Indians he has to vork for him. Hundreds of vild Indians.'

'Honey,' Ethel said. 'I wouldn't walk across the street to watch an Indian screw himself in the ear.'

'Iss fonny place,' Gutzman insisted. 'Dis old vite man, badt poys, he has. Oh, dey are very mean, dis old man's sons. Already, vun of dem has killed his brother. And now anudder son has come home, so – so, uh, vell – '

'That's funny, all right,' Ethel said. 'I'm weak from laughter.'

'Iss called the Junction,' Gutzman mumbled. 'King's Junction. Der sons are – '

'King!' Ethel exclaimed, suddenly coming alive. 'Critchfield King!'

Gutzman stared at her in the moonlight. At last nodded, frowning suspiciously. 'Yah, dere is a poy named Critchfield. How you know?'

'I guessed it, you potbellied horse's ass!' Ethel laughed gaily. 'I'm the best God damned little guesser in the world.'

'But – guess you could not!'

'I just did, Gutzy. Iss so – yah?'

'No! You lie to me!'

Ethel looked at him coldly. She said, all right, if that was the way he wanted it. 'But if that is the way you want it, Gutzy, you've just lost a bedmate. I'm moving out on you!'

'But – but, liebchick. All I vant iss – '

'All you want,' Ethel said, 'is someone to screw all night, and listen to you all day, yah? And that's what I give you, yah? So if you want me to keep on giving it to you, Gutzy, you'd better pop to. When I tell you something, you'd God damned well better believe it, get me? You do it, or you'll be talking to yourself and skinning your dingus through a knothole.'

'But – but – '

'No buts. You see that thing up there in the sky? You think that's a moon? Well, it's not, Gutzy. It's a solid-gold pisspot. The angels use it whenever they have to take a leak. Iss right, yah?'

Gutzman gulped painfully. He wet his lips, looking at the soft swelling of her breasts as she breathed; at the rich thighs, suggestively spread over the saddle.

'Well?' Ethel said. 'Do you believe me or not? How about it? Are you going to have me or a knothole?'

Gutzman nodded feebly, his voice a mere whisper. 'Yah. I believe.'

'Believe what?'

'Iss – iss no moon. Only solidt-gold pisspot.'

'Good boy,' Ethel smiled approvingly. 'Now, we understand each other.'

'And now you are mine, Greta? Alvays, you vill be mine?'

'Always,' Ethel promised. 'As long as you live…' *b*

His head buried in his hands, Critch sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, grimly wishing that he could bury Arlie's head (preferably in cement, and after severing it from his body), if for no other reason than to stop his brother's endless sympathizing. It was bad enough to have lost the seventy-two thousand dollars. But to have to listen to the woeful mourning of the man who had stolen it from him – well, that was too damned much to bear!

Arlie had been leaving him with sympathy for hours. Ever since he had carried Critch up to his room, and brought him back into consciousness. And how understanding, how forgiving, he had been over Critch's earlier attempt to slug him!

_Now, don't you fret none, little brother. Mighta done the same thing myself. Fella loses a lot o' money, he just naturally strikes out at anything near him._

Critch reached down to the floor for the whiskey bottle; momentarily drowned out Arlie's voice in a long, gurgling drink. The drink emptied the bottle, and he pitched it into the wastebasket where also reposed his ruined coat.

'… awful lotta whiskey this afternoon.' _Arlie again, God damn him!_ 'Why'n't you let me get you somethin' to eat, Critch?'

'No,' Critch said curtly. 'I'll eat when I'm ready.'

'But… well, all right. Reckon I'd feel the same way, in your place.' Arlie shook his head sadly. 'I sure feel sorry for you, Critch. Sure wish there was somethin' I could do for you.'

'I wish there was something I could do for you,' Critch said.

'Y'know,' Arlie continued in a musing tone. 'Y'know what I figure, Critch? I figure that money musta been stolen off of you after we left the marshal's office. Otherwise, Marshal Harry woulda spotted them slits in your coat, and wanted to know what was what.'

'Well? What about it?'

'Well, o' course, we did pass a lot of people between his office an' that saloon. But it does narrow things down a little, don't it? I mean, known' about when you was robbed. So maybe if you was t'go to Marshal Harry an' report the theft…'

His voice trailed off into silence, his eyes sliding away from Critch's bitter gaze. 'Well, uh, maybe,' he resumed, after a moment's silence. 'Maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea after all. Might get yourself tied up in more questionin' than you could get free of in a year o' Sundays. Ol' Harry, he'd probably want to know just how you came by the money an' why a educated fella like you was carryin' it around in cash, an' exactly how much you had, right down t'the last nickle. An' uh – just how much did you have, little brother?'

Critch shot him a furious look; again almost maddened to the point of physical violence. Then, getting control of himself, he decided that Arlie quite likely didn't know the amount of the theft. He didn't, since it would have been highly impractical for him to have stolen the money himself. Instead, he had had that Indian youth steal it – I.K., or whatever his name was – arranging to meet with him later for a division of the money. (A division which would profit the Indian damned little.)

'Yeah, little brother? How much did you say you had?'

Critch hesitated, a vengeful idea coming into his mind. Suppose he told Arlie that the sum was much larger than it was. Arlie would naturally demand that the Indian produce that amount, and when he couldn't – well, all hell would pop, right? That Apache kid was obviously capable of a great deal of nastiness – as, needless to say, was Arlie. And if the two of them should get in a fight –