With a regretful little shake of her head, she finished dressing. She started to leave the stall, then sat down on the stool and crossed one leg over the other. Her shoes were high-topped and laced, in the style of the day. With a sharp twist of her hand, she removed the heel of one of them.
It was hollow, and a tiny Derringer nestled within it. Reassured, she replaced the heel, smoothed out her skirt and left the stall. And once again her mind moved from business to pleasure.
Captain Crittenden.
Was it really as unthinkable as it seemed?
He was kind of dumb, in a cute way, and he would be vain like all men. So why shouldn't he suddenly find himself in the saddle, and why shouldn't she suddenly find herself playing horsie, without either of them – heaven forbid! – ever, ever meaning for it to happen?
Smiling, he came swiftly toward her as she emerged from the restroom. Guiding her out of the station, he complimented her on her appearance, giving her various little pats and squeezes – amiably innocent actions which unerringly detected the money belt. With the same ostensible inadvertence, she nudged him with a breast and rubbed a buttock against his thigh.
Arm in arm, Anne-Emma, professional murderess, and Critch-Captain Crittenden, arch scoundrel, moved companionably toward their date with destiny.
____________________
*Chapter Three*
In their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Old Ike's oldest son, Boz, grabbed the firm round breast of his Apache wife, Joshie – old Tepaha's grand-daughter – and twisted it cruelly. Twisting it harder and harder, gritting threats to rip it off of her. And the girl still remained coldly stoical. Silent, motionless; refusing to recognize the torture of her husband's presence by even the smallest moan or movement.
At last, he desisted, shifting from brutality to a kind of argumentative pleading. Making a feeble attempt at caressing her in the pre-dawn darkness.
'Aah, c'm on now, Joshie. Why'nt you admit it, huh? You warned him, didn't you? You told ol' Arlie that I was trying to get him.'
'Hah!' the girl spat out the word. 'I your squaw. You think I tell on sonabitch husband?'
'Well, how did he find out then, huh? How'd he figger it out if you didn't tell him?'
'How he figger out skunk make bad stink?'
'Why, you God damn -!'
'Arlie smarter'n you, old Boz. Old Arlie plenty man.'
'Shit! You sayin' I ain't a man?'
'I say it. You got no balls.'
Boz cursed, started to reach out for her again. Then knowing the uselessness of it, he angrily flopped over on his back.
And in their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Arlie grasped his wife, Kay – for King – who was also Tepaha's grand-daughter and Joshie's sister, and gave her naked bottom an admiring slap.
'Now, that's an ass,' he declared. 'Gets any bigger you'll be shittin' in a washtub.'
'Ho!' Kay giggled happily. 'I shit in your hand, old husband.'
'Now, God damn if you ain't a snotty ol' squaw!'
'You like snotty ol' squaw?' She snuggled close to him, sneaking a small hand across his hard, flat belly. 'You like ol' squaw's stuff?'
'Well, now, I ain't so sure that I do. Maybe I just better take me a little sample…'
After they had again separated their bodies, and lay contentedly side by side, Kay whispered in her husband's ear, nudging him with playful impatience when he did not immediately answer.
'You do it, huh, ol' Arlie? You kill sonabitch Boz today?'
'We-el' Arlie paused, teasing her. 'Well, I reckon so. Figger I'll have me a plenty good chance today.'
'How you do it?'
Arlie shrugged lazily, murmuring that he'd kind of have to wait and see. 'But if I know that son-of-a-bitch, he's practically gonna do it for me.'
'Just you do it,' Kay insisted; then, wifelike, 'You too good-natured. Let people put things over on you.'
Arlie said he was going to put something over on her in about a moment. Kay persisted in her nagging.
'You get Critch, too. He come, you kill him.'
'Critch? What the hell for?'
'Hah! Same reason kill sonabitch, Boz.'
'Now, God damn,' drawled Arlie, in admiring wonderment. 'Ain't you the bloodthirsty ol' squaw! Don't even know whether Critch is comin', an' already you're after me to kill him.'
'Must make plans,' Kay said smugly. 'Must be ready.'
'Keep it up,' Arlie warned her. 'You just keep on talkin', an' I'll show you some plans. Danged good ones, too.'
'Ho! You not ready, old husband. Too soon.'
Arlie faced around to her, gave her bottom another smack. 'Real sure of that, are you? Real, real sure?'
'Well… Maybe you show me?' *b*
Behind the closed double-doors of the hotel ranchhouse bar room, Tepaha, the Apache, and Isaac Joshua King blustered and snarled at one another. Old Ike called Tepaha a woman with a peter. Old Tepaha declared that Ike had done treachery to a friend and brother.
'Even a boast you have made of it!' the old Indian shouted. 'You were warmed at Geronimo's fire. You smoked with him, and he called you friend and brother, and you smiled and called him like-wise. And then – ' Tepaha raised his arm dramatically. 'Then you – '
'Silence!' Old Ike cut him off with an infuriated howl. 'You twist truth into lies! I told you how it was! A hundred times, I told you! Why the hell don't you get the straight of it?'
'Shit!' said Tepaha loudly. 'Old Ike is old shit!'
It was a favorite word of his; one that he found extremely useful (as did Ike). Depending on how, where and when it was used, it could be virtually a vocabulary by itself.
'Goin' to tell you one more time,' Old Ike said. 'Ain't gonna tell it again, so by God you better listen…'
'Shit!'
'Will you hear me, old fool! The bluecoats had Geronimo in a cage there at Fort Sill. In a cage, by God, like a chongo in a zoo. An' all the God damn' saddle-tramps an' nesters an' their God damn' families for miles around had come in to gawk an' poke fun at him. Well, by Christ, I didn't like it a damn bit, an' I let 'em know it. I pushed my way through 'em, knockin' a few of 'em down, by God, an' I called Geronimo my friend and brother, like he was, o' course, an' I put my hand through the bars to shake with him. An' you know what that dirty chongo Apache done?'
'Chongo,' taunted Old Tepaha. 'Apache monkey, you monkey, too. You Apache brother.'
'That God damn' – _shut up!_ – that God damn' Geronimo grabbed my hand and bit it! So, by Christ, I just got me a-hold of the bastard's nose, an' I damn' near twisted if off'n him before the bluecoats butted in. An' – an' I ain't a damn' bit sorry, neither!'
But he was sorry. He had acted instinctively, without stopping to think that Geronimo's eyes and ears were probably failing him, and he had judged Old Ike yet another enemy instead of his friend and brother.
He was sorry as hell, Old Ike was. And Tepaha was sorry that he had raised the subject. He had done so out of friendship and pride – the same motives which had moved Old Ike to taunt and abuse him. For great shame had come to the families of Tepaha and King; a particularly degrading shame, since a member of each family had offended against a member of the other family. Boz was known to have abused his wife, Joshie. I.K. – Tepaha's grandson – had been caught stealing from his 'Uncle,' Old Ike.
It is unforgivable to steal from family. From others, it is all right, even commendable. Though Old Ike's thinking, as regards the latter, was not quite so liberal as it once had been.
At any rate, they had been shamed – and even now they waited to mete out stern punishment to the guilty ones – and out of their deep hurt they acted as they did. To divert one another. To boldly prove that they were above hurt. For it is insulting to offer pity to a man, and disgraceful to appear to be in need of it.