King Blood(55)

The best argument against killing Arlie, however, was the pointlessness of it. It would not get him his money back. It would leave him stuck here on this debt-burdened ranch, a place he was as incapable of running without Arlie as he was of flying.

There were two good reasons then for not killing Arlie. And added to them, Critch admitted, perhaps a third. The fact that he was doubtless incapable of killing. In the blazing heat of his rage, he had believed himself capable – had sworn that he would take Arlie's life. But now that he had cooled off, had had time to think clearly…

Arlie's demise was desirable, of course. If nothing more, killing him was the best insurance against getting killed. For the present, however, it must remain only an ideal. Something only to be achieved if and when the right time came.

In the meantime, and killing aside, Arlie must certainly be punished. He must be taught that an injury or an attempted injury to his brother would bring prompt and painful retaliation.

Critch sat up in the bunk, gazed thoughtfully around the darkening room. Then, his eyes lighting, he arose and went over to the stove; reached a hand under it. The hand closed over a metallic object, and he drew it out. Stood hefting a heavy steel poker.

_Nice, he thought. Very nice, indeed._ And loosening his belt, he slid the poker down his trouser leg. He refastened the belt, took several tentative steps. He could only walk stiff-legged, naturally, but that was all right. Even without the poker, his movements tended to stiffness.

He returned to the bunk. Lay back down again. The darkness became almost absolute, and he closed his eyes. And within minutes was fast asleep.

Several hours later he awakened to the distant rattle of wagon wheels. He sat up slightly to glance out of the window, and he saw the bobbing glimmer of a lantern. He stayed where he was for a time, watching the lantern draw closer, listening to the sound of the wheels grow louder. Then, at a faint haloo from Arlie, he arose and limped out into the yard.

'Here!' he shouted. 'All ready and waiting.'

'Good! Be right with you!' Arlie shouted back. And he soon was.

He leaped down from the wagon seat, came forward with anxious offers of assistance. Critch accepted it, directing it so as to conceal the presence of the poker and to place his brother in line for a hard kick as the latter hoisted him into the rear of the wagon.

'Yeeow!' yelled Arlie, clutching at his groin. 'Watch what you're doin', God damn it!'

'Oh, did I kick you?' Critch asked innocently. 'I'm terribly sorry, Arlie.'

'Well, you sure as hell -! Ah, to hell with it,' Arlie said, and he rounded the wagon, and climbed up in the seat. 'Make yourself comfortable on them quilts,' he said grumpily, as they started off. 'Got grub an' a jug of coffee there somewhere, if you want it.'

Critch thanked him warmly. He again expressed regret for the kick, vocally hoping that it had not landed on his brother's balls. 'I know how much that can hurt,' he went on. 'Why, when that saddle came down on top of me today, I thought my nuts had been crushed.'

Arlie cleared his throat noisily. He popped the reins over the horses' backs, sending them forward with a leap.

'Uh, how you suppose it happened?' he said, finally. 'Cinch bust on you?'

'It must have. Anyone who cut it would have to be a real lowdown, rotten, bastardly, mother-jumping son-of-a-bitch – wouldn't he? And I don't know of anyone like that around here – do you?'

'Uh, er, looky,' grunted Arlie. 'Why don't you eat some of that grub?'

Critch said he believed he would, at that, and locating the lunch basket, he began to eat. (He also found the pepper shaker, and loosened the lid on it.) Between mouthfuls of food and coffee, he continued to muse profanely, lewdly and loudly re the type of person – if it were possible for such a creature to exist – who would cut a man's saddle cinch.

'You know what, Arlie? I think anyone who would do a thing like that would screw a skunk in the ass, and then eat its – '

'Shut up!' howled Arlie. 'You hear me, _shut up!'_

'Shut up?' said Critch. 'Now, why should I, anyway?'

Arlie turned around, yelling because, that was why! 'Because if you open your stinkin' mouth one more time, I'll – Yeeow!' he yelled and flung his hands to his eyes. 'Eeyow! You crazy son-of-a-_OOoouch!'_

'What's the matter? You don't like pepper?' said Critch, and began to roar with laughter. 'Suppose you try a little dose of this.'

He stood up in the jolting wagon, raised the steel poker high. He brought it down with all his might, at the very moment the wagon hit a rock and bounced upward. Arlie lurched backwards, the poker almost scraping the tip of his nose. Blinded, he clawed the air frantically, seeking something to cling to. He found it, the poker, that is, just as Critch raised it for another swing. Just as the wagon again bounced high for a second time.