Critch looked; turned slowly around to examine himself in the back-bar mirror. He looked at Arlie, now frowning at him in innocent concern.
'That coat's sure one helluva mess, little brother. You suppose maybe you could make the tailor give you your money back?'
'I hardly think so,' Critch said.
'Well, anyways, I sure hope you didn't lose no money out of all them little holes. I sure hope nothin' like that happened.'
'Now, what ever gave you that idea?' Critch said. _'You sneaky son-of-a-bitch!'_
And he suddenly slugged his brother.
That was a mistake, of course. He was simply no match for the brawny, ranch-toughened Arlie. The latter rocked with his blow, absorbing it harmlessly. Then, after a moment of ducking and dodging, of attempting to pacify Critch, he knocked him cold with a single punch.
Arlie picked him up from the floor, draped him across his shoulder. Carrying Critch's hat in his free hand, he headed toward the hotel; stopping once along the way when he was accosted by Deputy Marshal Chris Madsen. Madsen was officially curious about Critch's condition. Arlie said he just couldn't understand it himself.
'Why, we was talkin' and drinkin' just as friendly as you please, when all 't once he tried t' slug me. Called me a real dirty name, too. Hate to think I had a brother that couldn't hold his whiskey, but it sure looks that way, don't it?'
Madsen nodded drily. 'Can't have a King like that, now, can we? But I reckon you'll see to his reformin'.'
'Oh, I will, I will,' Arlie promised. 'Why, I'll bet you won't even know ol' Critch the next time you see him. No, sir, you won't even know him!'
____________________
*Chapter Five*
In the weed-grown right-of-way, Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson found a rusty shovel-blade, its handle broken off, a discard from some section-crew's tool box. With it, she scooped out a grave in the track roadbed, and buried Anne's body deep within it.
It was almost full daylight by the time she had finished. Dusting her hands, she looked around the countryside; at the rutty road on one side of the tracks, the prairie farmland on the other. She decided against the road almost immediately: she had to know where she was going before attempting to go anywhere. A chance to reconnoiter, to think was the first order of the day, and that meant finding a safe place to hole-up.
She leaped the right-of-way ditch, climbed over the two-strand fence. With the nearly flat terrain, she could see for several miles; and her shrewd eyes correctly interpreted what she saw. No smoke came from the chimneys of the house immediately beyond the field in which she now stood, nor was there any sign of life around the several adjacent farm buildings. But she would have known that without looking. The field, with its three-year-old wheat stubble, itself told her that the farm was abandoned.
A sandy-loam soil, repeatedly planted to the same cereal crop. Try that for a few years, and see what happened to your farm!
Ethel and Anne Anderson had been the daughters of a farmer. He had incestuously begun their education in sex, a fact which considerably accounted for their cold-blooded treatment of men in later years. Except for sex he had taught them nothing – unless it was that greed and ignorance are poor tools for a farmer.
Year after year, he had planted the same soil-robbing crops. Ignoring the warnings in the gradually decreasing yields. Fertilizing scantily, if at all; giving the depleted land no chance for restful fallowing. And then, when the once-good earth would no longer bear, he had cursed it for the worthlessness which he himself had brought to it – and begun to cast about for still more land to ruin.
_Well, he'd died happy, Ethel thought grimly. Got the hatchet in his head, right while he was pouring it on Little Sis._
Ethel had planned on going back to farming at some vague time in the future, and Anne had appeared to go along with the idea. Ethel had even decided that their farm – large, well-equipped and completely modern – would be in Oklahoma. The new land offered a good place to lose a bad past. Also, many newcomers would be carrying their fortunes with them. And currency of large denomination – the one kind which would permit a fortune to be conveniently and inconspicuously carried – would not arouse the suspicion in the Territory that it might elsewhere.
With their ultimate goal in mind, Ethel had periodically left the roadhouse for visits to various cities, where the loot which she and her sister had acquired through murder was converted into big bills. It was while she was away on one of these trips that Anne had skipped out, taking their combined swag with her.
By this time, however, following the dictates of her older sister had become second-nature with Anne. She did it unconsciously, without realizing that she was doing it. So inevitably, she had eventually headed into the Territory, just as Ethel had been sure she would. And Ethel had promptly taken note of her arrival in Tulsa – though not, as it turned out, quite promptly enough. That fancy-pants dude had gotten to Little Sis first.