A red fire ant crept inside his boot, seemed to sting him endlessly before he could crush it. A miniscule cloud of gnats discovered him, began a gauzily insane dance in front of his eyes. Refusing to be dispelled or dodged, eventually taking refuge in his nostrils.
The experience left his eyes waterily itching, his nose maddeningly irritated. In the discomfort of the moment, he told himself that he didn't give a damn if Critch had broken his neck; it would save some hangman the job, since he was certainly long overdue for such a fracture. In the next moment, however, he was retracting the thought with superstition-born haste. He cared very much about Critch's welfare. Oh, yes; yes, indeed. No one could be more concerned for Critch than he. Nothing would gladden his heart so much as the sight of Critch, alive and in reasonably good condition.
Arlie scrubbed his scratchy nose, rubbed his reddened and itchy eyes. He raised his head slightly, looked toward the distant house. His heart executed a sudden skip-jump, and his broad face broke into a delighted grin.
Critch was stepping down from the door of the cabin, coming out into the yard. He was bent over a little, his movements somewhat stiff, and he limped. But he was certainly very, very far from being dead. He had certainly sustained no very serious injuries.
He limped to the horses with Joshie, waited while she mounted her animal and took the reins of his. He waved to her as she rode away, his horse galloping at her side. Then, he hoisted himself up into the door of the house, and disappeared within its shadow-dark interior.
Arlie lay amidst the weeds for a few moments longer. Debating the wisdom of looking in on his brother, and finally deciding against it. Critch would make no mention of the cut cinch, and he would forbid Joshie to. He dared not mention it, lest stern Old Ike drive him, Arlie, from the ranch – in which case, naturally, he would take the stolen money with him, permanently removing it from Critch's reach.
If Critch ever found out that the money was gone -! But never mind that; worry about it when the time came. All that mattered now was that Critch would make no mention of the attempt on his life. He intended to pass it off as an accident. And since an accident automatically cannot be anticipated, a call on him at this point would be awkward to say the least.
How embarrassing to ride miles out of your way to inquire into a man's injuries, when you could have no legitimate knowledge of those injuries. How embarrassing for both of you!
_Just wouldn't be right, Arlie thought virtuously._ And he began to creep back through the weeds, moving unerringly toward the _arroyo_ some half mile distant where his horse was tethered. Essentially a primitive, he could have traveled in this fashion for hours; the hunter who might momentarily become hunted. Instinctively; without conscious effort, his movements were virtually silent. And no telltale wake followed him through the weeds. Now and then his head poked up through the rank growth for reconnoitering, but this was done so quickly, in the fractional second of an eye's blink, that no one could have seen him. Or, rather, realized that they had seen him. At virtually the same instant, he was there and not there. Nothing more, apparently, than a flickering trick of sunlight and shadow.
But while he could not be seen, he saw. And unheard, he heard. So after some eight or ten minutes, he altered his direction, moving off at an approximate right angle to it. After perhaps another ten minutes, he again angled sharply to the right, now heading almost straight toward the house. There was an interval of a few minutes more, and then he came up immediately behind Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.
She was crawling on her hands and knees, a position which drew her trousers tight over her posterior. Grinning, Arlie aimed a big forefinger at the cleft between her buttocks, and gave her a powerful goose.
Big Sis 'Yipped!' and reared upward, both hands grasping at the offended area. Arlie grabbed them, bound her wrists with his bandanna and flipped her over on her back. It was all done too swiftly for Ethel Anderson to follow; before she knew what was happening. One moment she had been creeping toward the cabin. A split second later she was trussed and helpless, and an outside lummox – one of the Kings, apparently – was sprawled on top of her.
He grinned down into her face, pawing roughly over her body until he had found the tightly rolled wad of bills – all the money she had in the world – and her.28 caliber pistol. He tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, and tossed the gun far into the weeds.
Meanwhile, Miss Anderson had considerably recovered her wits, and was much her normal brazen self. 'How about it, big boy?' she said, her eyes sensuously bold. 'As long as you're taking things, why not take me?'
'How I gonna take you?' said Arlie, with assumed idiocy. 'You mean I eat you, or somethin'?'