King Blood

'What mon – All right, all right!' Arlie said hastily. 'I.K. stole the money from you, and I took it away from him. I admit it, if it makes you feel any better.'

'You don't have it now. What did you do with it?'

'Well, uh, what makes you think I don't have it now? Anyway,' Arlie said, defensively belligerent, 'that money wasn't yours to begin with. You stole it off'n them Anderson sisters!'

'Where's the money, Arlie? If I have to guess about it…'

'Dang it, Critch, I was gonna tell you later on! After you sort of got settled down.'

'Tell me now.' Critch waited. 'I know you brought it back here from El Reno. What did you do with it after that?'

'I didn't bring it back here. That steel box in my satchel was just to fool you. Wasn't nothin' in it but some cut-up newspaper.'

'All right,' Critch said. 'Same question. What did you do with that money.'

Arlie mumbled that he had spent it. Critch laughed angrily. 'Spent it? What the hell could you have spent seventy thousand dollars on?'

Arlie told him, repeating the information as Critch stared at him dumbfounded.

'What else could I spend it on, with us about to be debted out of the ranch? I spent it on what you're sittin' on. And I don't mean your lousy ass!'

He glared at his brother defiantly. Critch silently stared back at him, his mind in a turmoil. Trying to think. Perhaps trying not to think what the future now held for him. His hand went to his pocket, fumbled fruitlessly for a cheroot. He looked down at himself, frowning, seemingly noticing his tattered clothes for the first time. At last he sighed and shook himself; a man coming into reality from a dream.

'What do you think, Arlie? Do you suppose we could borrow some horses around here, anywhere?'

'Ain't likely,' Arlie said. 'These folks work any horses they got, and they'd lose most of a day before we could return 'em. Anyways, you come up on a place out here after dark, you'll likely get shot a-fore you can say howdy-do.'

'I imagine we'd better make ourselves comfortable here then, don't you? Paw will send for us as soon as that run-away team hits town.'

'If it hits town,' Arlie said. 'It wasn't headin' in that direction, an' I don't see it as bein' in any hurry to get there. There's too many fields of green corn along the way.'

'Well, then…?'

'It's your left ankle that's twisted, right? An' me, I'm crippled in the right knee. So I reckon if we just kind of lean on each other, favorin' our bad legs, an' puttin' our weight on t'other ones…'

They got to their feet, loosely speaking. They started to hobble-hop together, and Critch suspiciously drew back.

'Hold up, Arlie! You've got a cut hand!'

'Huh? Well, damned if I ain't!' Arlie said, and he clenched his fist, stanching the flow of blood. 'What's it to you, anyways, little brother?'

'I'd say it was a fresh cut. A knife cut. Which means a hell of a lot to me.'

Arlie said truthfully that it wasn't a fresh cut. He'd gotten it earlier in the day… somehow… and it had doubtless broken open during the recent hectic events.

'Now, looky, Critch. Just where the hell would I hide a knife in these rags?'

'All right,' Critch nodded grudgingly. 'Let's get organized.'

But now Arlie held back, pointing out that a man who could hide a stove poker in his clothes was far sneakier than he.

'Shake your arms, little brother. Shake 'em good! An' maybe you better drop your pants, too.'

'Like hell I will! There's hardly enough left of 'em to drop, anyway.'

Arlie shrugged; said he guessed he'd just have to risk it.

Critch snorted; declared that he was risking much himself.

'So don't start anything. If you do, I'll finish it.'

'Same to you, brother Critch. The same to you.'

So at last, they came together, watchfully juxtaposing themselves so that their crippled legs were on the inside. Then, each laid an arm across the other's shoulder; and they began the long walk to the Junction.

The morning was well advanced by the time they reached it, and they had hardly crossed the tracks when the train from El Reno arrived. The brothers ignored it, too weary to look around. Marshal Harry Thompson descended to the station platform, flicking specks of soot from his snowy white shirt. As the train departed, he glanced toward the railroad right-of-way, nodded toward the dark head which poked up from the weeds. The head disappeared, and Thompson strode swiftly down the walk toward Arlie and Critch.

He caught up with them a few steps short of the hotel-ranchhouse; made affable inquiries as to the cause of their wretched condition. Arlie explained nervously, and the marshal voiced suave concern.

'I imagine you're completely worn out, aren't you? Can't think of anything but eating and getting to bed? Well, gentlemen' – he looked from one to the other, dark eyes suddenly turned crystal-hard. 'I'm afraid such creature comforts will have to be postponed for a while. Indefinitely, you might say. I have some questions to ask you.'

'Uh, questions?' Arlie gulped uneasily. 'Questions 'bout what.'

'Forget it!' Critch said curtly. 'I'm eating breakfast and then I'm going to bed. The marshal can postpone his questions, or do the next best thing!'

'Which,' said Thompson, 'would be what?'

'Go shit in your hat!'

Critch reached for the door. Paused abruptly, hands half-raised, as he looked down the blue-black barrel of the marshal's forty-five.

'That remark you made,' Thompson said, 'became the epitaph of the last man who made it to me. I wonder if you'd like it to be yours?'

Critch shook his head; managed a weak grin. 'I'd prefer to postpone it, sir. Indefinitely, you might say.'

'Or until you've answered my questions?'

'Or until then. But we do have certain rights, Marshal. Before this goes any further, we're entitled to know the nature of your questions.'

'You're right, of course,' said Thompson, reholstering his gun. 'Please forgive the omission. My questions – to which I expect complete and satisfactory answers – are concerned with robbery and murder.'

_ c_

They were assembled in the hotel's bar room – the brothers and the marshal, Ike and Tepaha. A bottle and glasses of whiskey sat before the two old men. They sipped at it occasionally, their seamed faces expressionless; reflecting not the slightest interest in what was happening or what might happen.

'… well, Arlie?' the marshal was saying. 'I'm still waiting. What's your answer?'

'Sure, Marshal Harry, sure. Now, uh, lessee…' Arlie wrinkled his brow thoughtfully. 'Just a minute now. It'll come to me in a minute. Uh, mmm, uh – What was that question again, marshal?'

'The same as it was the first fifteen times I asked it! The same as it was damned near an hour ago!'

'Uh, yes, sir?'

'All right, I'll repeat it once more. Three weeks ago, give or take a day, you paid off approximately seventy thousand dollars in indebtedness against this ranch. _Now where did you get the money?'_

'Where did I get it?'

'You heard me! Yes!'_

'Mmm,' said Arlie. 'Now, lessee…'

In the old days, thought Tepaha, there was no interference from men of the law. A bad son was simply reported to his father, who dealt with him as he deemed best. For who was better prepared to sit in judgment than the father, who more able to decide the proper punishment? Surely, since it was the offender who was punished, it was he who should be judged, not the offense he committed. Surely, though errors might sometimes occur, they were much less frequent when the father, rather than the law, passed judgment. This was so, and it could hardly be otherwise. For the father's judgment was of the individual, and there was honor in it as well as knowledge. And the law's judgment was of the faceless mass (and created by that mass) – and this in the name of justice!