He was back on the floor again, slit from crotch to breastbone, his guts spilled out on the time-stained planks.
Arlie wiped the blood from his knife, giving his father an ostensibly mournful glance. 'I had to do it, Paw. Just wasn't no way out.'
Old Ike nodded, his face expressionless. 'I saw,' he said.
____________________
*Chapter Four*
Critchfield King stood on the open platform of the chair-car, watching the gradual pre-dawn lightening of the prairie, nervously flinging his cheroot away from him as he waited for the woman, the supposed soldier's bride.
What the hell had happened, he wondered savagely. What in God's name could be holding her up?
She had missed the money-belt immediately after their love-making, and promptly demanded its return. Teasingly, he had promised to give it back, but only if she joined him on the platform for a few kisses. She had agreed to do so, as soon as she had visited the toilet. That had been more than thirty minutes ago; considerably more, for the train had stopped at two villages since then. Soon it would be broad daylight, too late for a showdown with her without attracting fatal attention to himself. If she didn't show up within another five minutes –
She didn't. Nerves jumping, Critch feverishly sought an answer to the riddle, and quickly settled upon two.
She had sought out the conductor, and told him of the theft – the embarrassing and compromising fact that she, a married woman, had given herself to a man and been robbed in the process. It didn't seem likely that she would have been desperate or stupid enough to do so, but she might have. In which case, he, Critch King, was in very serious trouble.
On the other hand – and this seemed more likely – something had happened to delay her in the toilet. She had taken sick, or her clothes had become conspicuously soiled by their love-making and had to be cleaned, or – Or?
He had to find out. He had nothing to lose by learning the truth. So bracing himself, putting on an air of easy self-assurance, he left the platform and went back inside the car.
Kerosene lanterns burned at either end of it, rocking and swaying with the motion of the train, dimly illuminating its dozing cargo of humanity. Seeping through the grimy windows, dawn provided more light. So, well before reaching the seat where he and the girl had been sitting, Critch could see that it was unoccupied.
He went on through the car, and into the next one, and so on through the remaining three cars of the train. He retraced his steps, pausing once to display his ticket to a yawning conductor. The man showed no interest in him whatsoever, and, breathing easier, Critch returned to his own car and the platform where he had been standing.
Still no sign of her. Cautiously, Critch reentered the car and gently tested the door of the women's toilet.
There was no response for a moment. Then, with a dull rattle of metal, it swung open. The lock had been broken. Glass, from the shattered window, covered the floor. Critch took a startled glance at the scene. Then, swiftly pulling the door to, he entered the opposite door to the men's toilet.
He locked it, stood leaning against it. Cursed softly, as he pondered this new riddle.
The woman had jumped the train, apparently. Or, in view of the broken lock, she had been forced to jump it. Someone had broken in on her, and to escape that someone she had smashed the window glass and made her escape.
The train had stopped twice since he had last seen her. As it slowed for those stops, she could have jumped without serious risk to herself. As, also, could the person who had broken in on her, and from whom she was obviously fleeing.
But why – what -?
There could be only one answer. Someone else had known about the money belt which now rested around his middle. It hadn't belonged to the woman he had taken it from – else she would have cried out for help instead of jumping the train. Also, axiomatically, it hadn't belonged to the person who had driven her from the train (and doubtless pursued her out of the window), or that person would have sought to recover it legally. But one thing was a cinch!
He, Critch King, had stumbled onto something big. _Very big!_ Only for very high stakes would the pursued woman and her pursuer have gone to such lengths as they had.
Critch undid the belt, dipped into its pockets for the first time. His hand jerked with surprise at the first sheaf of bills he produced, almost dropping them into the open toilet. Excitedly, he drew out another sheaf, and another, making a rough count as he did so. By the time he had emptied all the belt's pockets, his heart was pounding as it had never pounded before, and he was faint with the shock of his discovery.
He lowered the toilet seat, sat down on it. He heard the conductor's muted bellow of _'King's Junction,'_ and the train slowed and stopped, and went on again.