'Gone,' he said. 'So the money's gone.'
'Uh-huh.' She bobbed her head. 'Arlie steal from you, yes? Was very much?'
Critch's grin widened hideously. He said, Oh, no, no it wasn't much at all. Hardly worth talking about. Why – why –
He began to laugh. He fell back into the bunk laughing, then hoisted himself out of it. Began staggering around the floor, oblivious to the wracking pain of his movements; simultaneously whooping and hollering and weeping.
Not much money. _Not much!_
What a wonderful, wonderful joke! The money was gone, and Arlie was afraid he'd be sore about it; killing mad. Imagine that! For, of course, he wasn't a bit angry. Perish the thought! Arlie might think he was angry when he got his head caved in and his ribs carved out and his balls toasted over a slow fire… so he'd have to keep laughing throughout the mayhem. Make Arlie understand that it was really very funny.
As funny as permanently stripping a brother of his wealth, and then trying to kill him…
'Critch! Please, ol' Critch! Don' do no more.' Joshie clung to him frantically, her voice half-sobbing. 'No more laugh, please. Scare me plenty much.'
The red haze cleared from Critch's eyes. His insane hysterics ended as suddenly as they had begun, and he docilely allowed Joshie to guide him back to the bunk. He would not, however, lie down in it.
'I think I'd better sit up a while,' he explained. 'Maybe even move around a little. I'm liable to get stiff as a board if I don't.'
'Well…' Joshie gave him a doubtful look. 'Well, hokay, but you no ride horse. I go get wagon for you.'
Critch smiled his agreement, then masked his handsome features with an expression of great concern. 'But it'd be way after dark before you could get back here. I won't allow that, Joshie.'
'Ho,' she scoffed. 'I be all right.' But Critch shook his head firmly, over-riding her with the tenderly playful reminder that she was now his squaw and must do as he said.
'You let Arlie bring the wagon. See that he does do it. Tell him I want to talk to him privately.'
'But he try to kill you!' Joshie protested. 'He get you alone, he try to finish job, an' you too hurt to fight back!'
'Now don't you worry about me,' Critch said, chucking her under the chin. 'I'm feeling better all the time. Anyway, Arlie won't be stupid enough to make two attempts on my life in one day.'
'Well…' She didn't think it was a good idea. She saw no reason to take a chance that need not be taken. 'I tell you, ol' Critch – '
'No,' Critch said firmly. 'I tell you, ol' Joshie. I tell you to have Arlie come after me alone. So that's what you do, yes? Yes.' He gave her a playful pat on the bottom; stood up and kissed her. 'One more thing, Joshie. That bellyband – the saddle cinch – broke, understand? It wasn't cut; it broke.'
'Like hell!' Joshie blazed indignantly. 'Was by God cut!'
'But you don't say that. You say that it broke. You say that,' he said slowly, letting the words sink in. 'Because if you don't, Joshie, I just might stop liking you…'
'No! Oh, no, Critch!'
'I might if you don't say what I tell you to do. You just might have to go through life using your finger instead of the real thing.'
'Finger tabu,' Joshie said. 'Anyway, no damn good. I do what you say, ol' Critch.'
____________________
*Chapter Three*
Some five hundred yards from the abandoned farm house, Arlie lay bellied down in the lush growth of weeds and grass, his nervousness increasing with the passing of each minute. Joshie's horse and Critch's saddleless animal were hobbled in the grownover yard of the dwelling, so obviously the two were inside. But as to what condition Critch was in, Arlie could only guess. For more than an hour now, he had lain hidden and watched the place. Fretting, worrying; profanely praying to whatever powers that be that nothing was seriously amiss with his brother. More than an hour of agonized waiting… and he knew no more now than he had at its beginning.
A red fire ant crept inside his boot, seemed to sting him endlessly before he could crush it. A miniscule cloud of gnats discovered him, began a gauzily insane dance in front of his eyes. Refusing to be dispelled or dodged, eventually taking refuge in his nostrils.
The experience left his eyes waterily itching, his nose maddeningly irritated. In the discomfort of the moment, he told himself that he didn't give a damn if Critch had broken his neck; it would save some hangman the job, since he was certainly long overdue for such a fracture. In the next moment, however, he was retracting the thought with superstition-born haste. He cared very much about Critch's welfare. Oh, yes; yes, indeed. No one could be more concerned for Critch than he. Nothing would gladden his heart so much as the sight of Critch, alive and in reasonably good condition.
Arlie scrubbed his scratchy nose, rubbed his reddened and itchy eyes. He raised his head slightly, looked toward the distant house. His heart executed a sudden skip-jump, and his broad face broke into a delighted grin.
Critch was stepping down from the door of the cabin, coming out into the yard. He was bent over a little, his movements somewhat stiff, and he limped. But he was certainly very, very far from being dead. He had certainly sustained no very serious injuries.
He limped to the horses with Joshie, waited while she mounted her animal and took the reins of his. He waved to her as she rode away, his horse galloping at her side. Then, he hoisted himself up into the door of the house, and disappeared within its shadow-dark interior.
Arlie lay amidst the weeds for a few moments longer. Debating the wisdom of looking in on his brother, and finally deciding against it. Critch would make no mention of the cut cinch, and he would forbid Joshie to. He dared not mention it, lest stern Old Ike drive him, Arlie, from the ranch – in which case, naturally, he would take the stolen money with him, permanently removing it from Critch's reach.
If Critch ever found out that the money was gone -! But never mind that; worry about it when the time came. All that mattered now was that Critch would make no mention of the attempt on his life. He intended to pass it off as an accident. And since an accident automatically cannot be anticipated, a call on him at this point would be awkward to say the least.
How embarrassing to ride miles out of your way to inquire into a man's injuries, when you could have no legitimate knowledge of those injuries. How embarrassing for both of you!
_Just wouldn't be right, Arlie thought virtuously._ And he began to creep back through the weeds, moving unerringly toward the _arroyo_ some half mile distant where his horse was tethered. Essentially a primitive, he could have traveled in this fashion for hours; the hunter who might momentarily become hunted. Instinctively; without conscious effort, his movements were virtually silent. And no telltale wake followed him through the weeds. Now and then his head poked up through the rank growth for reconnoitering, but this was done so quickly, in the fractional second of an eye's blink, that no one could have seen him. Or, rather, realized that they had seen him. At virtually the same instant, he was there and not there. Nothing more, apparently, than a flickering trick of sunlight and shadow.
But while he could not be seen, he saw. And unheard, he heard. So after some eight or ten minutes, he altered his direction, moving off at an approximate right angle to it. After perhaps another ten minutes, he again angled sharply to the right, now heading almost straight toward the house. There was an interval of a few minutes more, and then he came up immediately behind Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.
She was crawling on her hands and knees, a position which drew her trousers tight over her posterior. Grinning, Arlie aimed a big forefinger at the cleft between her buttocks, and gave her a powerful goose.