King Blood(35)

Arlie sighed, a mixture of contentment and protest. 'I thought you'd changed your mind about Critch. Thought you had him tabbed for Joshie's man.'

'Did,' admitted Kay. 'But that before I see danger. Mus' take care of husband first. Ol' Joshie, she do same thing with Critch. Ol' Boz no God damn good or she take care of him, too.'

Arlie hesitated.

'Well,' he said. 'I guess there's no hell of a big hurry about Critch. Nothin' I got to rush into.'

'You no think so, Arlie? My ver', ver' smart ol' husband he really think there no hurry?'





There was an insidiously incredulous note to her voice; a note of stunned astonishment. Thus, a mother might address an adult son who has just wet his Sunday britches.

'Well, but, looky,' Arlie squirmed. 'Marshal Thompson already put me on warning, an' he damn well meant what he said. I go for Critch, Marshal Thompson gonna be comin' for me!'

'Maybe so Critch have accident,' Kay suggested smoothly. 'Critch have accident not your fault.'

'Well,' Arlie said. 'Well…'

'My ol' Arlie, he plenty sneaky devil,' Kay said flatteringly. 'He fix up plenty bad accident on ol' Critch, an' nobody prove it not accident. I know, by God!'

She kissed him again. Resumed her hypnotic stroking of his head. But Arlie was not yet won over. Or if he was, he did not say so.

He flung back the covers suddenly, and swung his feet to the floor.

'Time to get up,' he announced. 'Pile out, ol' squaw.'

He stood up, began pulling on his clothes.

Outside the door, Joshie also stood up and silently returned to her room. *c*

In his room, Critch King also began dressing; now and then wincing or stifling a groan as his movements twisted some saddle-tortured muscle or joint. His first week had been pure murder for him. Every day he had silently sworn that he could not take another day. Every morning it had been a monumental struggle to get out of bed, and he had had to fight to keep from begging off for the day. He had mustered up the strength and courage to resist such an admission of weakness only because he had to. For despite the surprising amiability – even favoritism – which his father had shown toward him, he well knew Old Ike's detestation of weakness. Ike simply would not tolerate it in a son, any more than he would have tolerated improvidence. And since Critch had to remain at the Junction, at least until he recovered his stolen money, and he could only remain there by living up to the old man's standards – well, somehow he had done it. He had never thought he could, but he had. And now, after three weeks, what had once seemed unbearable was now merely difficult, and less and less difficult with each passing day.

In the flickering light of the kerosene lamp, he studied himself in the dresser mirror; felt a kind of abashed pride at the change in his appearance. The normal olive pallor of his face had given way to heavy tan. He had gained weight; even his shoulders appeared to have broadened. His clothes, garments virtually identical with those worn by Tepaha, Arlie and Ike, now fitted him snugly whereas they had originally seemed to hang on him.

He glanced down at his hands, grinned sourly at their appearance. They were calloused, stiff, the nails torn and stubby. But, never mind. Money and time would take care of such trifles. He would have the first and hence the last as soon as he had evened the score with Arlie. For the time being, he must move slowly. Giving Arlie time to become unwary and let his guard down; working to ingratiate himself even further with Old Ike; getting into the good graces of everyone who might later prove useful to him.

All he had to do was what he had been doing. Work – and wait for opportunity to reveal itself. And for seventy-two thousand dollars he was prepared to work and wait indefinitely.

Critch finished dressing, putting the final touch to his costume by tucking a knife into his boot-top. The knife was expected of him, and he was doing what was expected. Also, he had been practising with it at night. Shadow-fighting before the mirror until he was too exhausted to make another feint.

It could come in very handy some day. He just might give Brother Arlie the surprise of a lifetime.

Taking a final look at himself, Critch lounged near the door, waiting for the sound of the others emerging from their rooms. Meanwhile, speculating on just where Arlie had hidden the money.

He was confident that Arlie had not left it in El Reno, but had brought it back to the ranch with him. For once, on the return trip to the Junction, Arlie had left him alone in their stateroom for a few moments, and Critch had seized the opportunity to search his brother's carpetbag. And buried at the bottom of it, beneath several articles of clothing, was a heavy steel box.

It was a brand-new box, with the El Reno merchant's price tag still on it. Shaking it, Critch had heard a telltale rustling, a softish series of thuds from within. He was debating what to do – whether to take the box and risk leaping from the window – when he heard Arlie at the door. So he had hastily jammed the receptacle back where he had gotten it, and reclosed the carpetbag. And that had been his last chance to recover the money.