'No – ' with a shake of his head, Critch sat back down at their table. 'I'd have to disagree with you there, sir. That's a genuine Remington if I ever saw one.'
'You're a good judge of art, Mr. King!'
'Thank you, sir.'
'You're a remarkable young man, all around. How anyone could have overcome the handicaps you must have suffered to become a gentleman and a scholar…!'
Critch murmured appreciation for the lawyer's good opinion, modestly pointing out that hardship often brought out the best in a man. 'When a man's got no one to help him, he simply has to try harder. At least, that's the way I've always seen it. If a man truly wants to make something of himself, he can do it, regardless of birth and background!'
Dying Horse looked into his guest's innocently earnest young face, his heart warming as it seldom did to a white man. _Regardless of birth._ Now here was understanding for you! Here was a man who knew what it was to suffer and struggle against unbearable odds.
_God damn Ike King! he thought. Practically on his death-bed, and he treats his own son like this!_
He took a quick drink, then another. Critch smiled at him gently, gave one of the bronzed hands a comforting pat.
'Don't let it upset you, Judge. I haven't seen my father since I was a child, but I don't imagine he's changed any.'
'No.'
'I've often thought that if he'd treated my mother a little differently…' Critch shook his head regretfully. 'She was part Creek, you know, and she had rather crisp, curly hair. Dad used to accuse her of being part Negro.'
'He did, eh?' Dying Horse laughed angrily. 'Sounds about like him!'
'Of course, there was some intermarriage among the Creeks,' Critch shrugged. 'But what of it, anyway? At any rate, why taunt a woman publicly with something she couldn't help?'
The Osage gulped another large drink, a red flush spreading under the lighter hue of his face. He brought the heavy glass down on the table with a bang.
_Getting a little drunk, Critch thought shrewdly. When will these stinking Indians learn that they can't drink?_
'Mr. King – _hic, hup – _your father is, as you may know, my client in this area. It was my duty, if you could be found, to look you over and to decide whether you were fit to be claimed as his son and heir. I have decided, in the affirmative. The only question in my mind is whether he is fit to be claimed as your father!'
Critch smiled a soft demurral. After all, they shouldn't be too hard on the old man.
'I'll welcome the chance to see him before he dies. I would have gone back before this, but I wasn't sure of my reception.'
'You'll find it satisfactory,' Dying Horse assured him, 'under the circumstances. Now, if you were down on your luck, if you'd been a failure in life and really needed help…'
'I'd certainly never go near Dad,' Critch laughed, ruefully. 'A strange man, my father, but fair – absolutely fair – in his own way. He never excused his own failures, so why should he excuse them in others?'
'But his own son,' the lawyer protested. 'His own flesh and blood!'
'Only if he chose to claim me as a son,' Critch pointed out. 'Which he wouldn't do unless I met his standards.'
They talked a while longer. Then, the lawyer glanced at the clock and remembered an appointment. As he reached for his wallet and beckoned to a waiter, Critch laid a ten-dollar bill on the table.
'My treat, Counsellor. I insist.'
'Nonsense. Business, Mr. King, so we're both the guests of your father. I – ' he broke off scowling, slapping his hip. 'God damn it!' he said. 'I've lost my wallet!'
'Why, that's too bad,' Critch frowned sympathetically. 'Was there very much in it?'
'Well, not a great deal. Fifty dollars or so.'
_God damn! thought Critch._
He lingered over his drink while the attorney hastened away to his appointment. Then, after a leisurely free lunch provided by the establishment, he visited the backyard privvy where he emptied the wallet of money and dropped it down the hole.
Out on the street again, he sauntered through the mid-day throngs, his expression suave and smiling, his eyes alert for yet another wink from fortune. For certainly it would not be smart to present himself to Ike King with such picayune pickings as he had now. There was his ticket to buy, and his meals and incidental expenses. He would be virtually broke on arrival, a very dangerous way to be with a sire like old Ike. Isaac Joshua King might well haul out a fatted calf for the returning prodigal, a figuratively golden calf, but only if the returnee was herding a few steers in front of him as proof of his merit.
The relatively few dollars stolen from Attorney Dying Horse represented nothing more than another chance. It was something to build on, something to be used in trimming a truly well-heeled sucker.
____________________
*Chapter Two*
Raymond Chance had come to King's Junction in the guise of a capitalist, a man seeking likely land in which to invest his money. He was a very plausible and personable man, needless to say, and he was equipped with a number of impressive letters of introduction, all fakes, of course, like his handsomely engraved sheaf of cashier checks. As a guest of the Junction Hotel, which was also the King ranchhouse, he had ready access to Isaac Joshua, who was not unagreeable to selling some of his own land, providing the price was right.