'I doubt that, sir.'
'Do you,' Marshal Thompson asked, 'doubt the existence of the word, nephewcide?'
'I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir.'
'Hmmm,' said his uncle ominously. 'Hmmm.'
Author's note: After three terms as sheriff of Caddo County, Oklahoma, James Sherman Thompson ran for Congress against Mr. Gore. Thompson's three-car campaign train carried a banner on each car, the three spelling out his full name. The brass band accompanying the train played _Marching Through Georgia_ at each stop. Inevitably, Thompson suffered a smashing defeat, one which, by association, reflected disastrously upon his uncle. Recovering from the debacle after several years, they were powerful political figures in Oklahoma for almost two decades. And several towns in the state bore some form of the family name; for example_, Jimtomson._
The fictional Anderson sisters had their real-life counterpart in the Bender family, operators of a murder-for-money roadhouse in southern Kansas. Like Big Sis and Little Sis, the Benders are said to have fled into Oklahoma Territory, successfully eluding a pursuing posse and eventually becoming highly respected citizens of the new state. According to another story, however, the posse lied in reporting that the family had escaped. Actually (or so the story goes) the Benders were caught and killed by their pursuers, who then appropriated their ill-gotten wealth for themselves.
The anecdotes concerning attorney Temple Houston are basically true. A reasonable doubt is not, of course, 'a doubt that you can give a reason for'. In so advising juries, the judge in question (we mercifully omit his name) committed a reversible error – one which secured new trials for approximately half the Territorial prison population.
Al Jennings, first county attorney of Caddo County, Oklahoma, ended a most promising political career, by turning outlaw. He showed little aptitude for his new vocation – the entire loot from one train robbery consisted of a bunch of bananas – and other hootowlers jeered his wild tales of gun-battles with lawmen. (His one battle seems actually to have been with a low-hanging tree branch, which knocked out several front teeth.) In a more enlightened era, Jennings might have received the psychiatric treatment which his erratic behavior so clearly dictated. In early day Oklahoma, however, prison was the one place for criminals. And the freckle-splotched former attorney was a criminal, by his own admission if nothing else. While in prison, Jennings gained a sad sort of fame by recounting his 'exploits' to a widely read writer. In actuality, the one man seriously hurt or deprived by Jennings would seem to be Jennings himself.
The King ranch, and the town of King's Junction, with its various appurtenances and enterprises, are strictly the product of the author's imagination. Completely fictional, also, are the people who populate the town and ranch, including the Kings themselves. Anyone even vaguely familiar with Oklahoma history will know that such places and people did not and could not exist. Anyone not thus familiar will have to accept their non-existence on the word of the author, the son of James Sherman Thompson.
Aching in every bone, Critch lay on a bunk in the abandoned farmhouse, his mattress a pile of grain sacks, his covering the blanket from his horse. He didn't seem to have broken anything, though how he had escaped a fractured neck was miraculous. Joshie bent over him, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead, asking anxiously if he was sure he was all right.
'I'll live.' Critch managed a smile. 'Nothing worse than a bad jolting. I just hope you didn't hurt yourself in lugging me in here.'
'Ho!' Joshie dismissed the notion. 'I God damn plenty strong squaw. Strong like hell, by God!'
He smiled at her, laughed softly. She looked away abashedly, eyes downcast. Very carefully, spacing the words out, she said, 'I… am… very… sorry. I… do… not… talk… good.'
'Joshie,' said Critch, 'Joshie, dear, I like the way you talk. I wouldn't change a word of it for the world.'
'You – you really mean?' Her wide-wide eyes searched his face. 'No shit?'
'No shit,' he said warmly. 'I like everything about you.'
He meant it. For a momentary eternity he had been dead; he had met death face to face, and the look and smell of her had terrified him.
And now, mercifully, thanks to luck and Joshie's prompt ministrations, he had been brought back into life. Joshie had intervened as death clutched at him. Joshie would provide whatever was needed to complete his rescue.
Like her? Like was hardly the word. He would have loved her if she had been half a ton in weight, with a face as homely as a mud fence.
Smiling, he held out his arms to her: one of the few entirely sincere acts of his misspent life. He drew her face down against his, feeling the soft breasts press upon his chest, feeling the wild pounding of her heart. With incredible gentleness – so gently that he was hardly aware of it – she slid a leg across his body, then drew up the other leg. And was at last in the bunk with him; was lying on top of him.