The jounce pitched him heels over head, still clinging futilely to the poker. Also clinging to it, lacking time to let go, Critch soared after him.
They came down between the team, landing precariously on the wagon's swingle-tree. There ensued an insane melee of kicks and punches and gouges, only part of which punished the intended targets, the rest being inadvertently shared with the justly indignant horses.
Angry whinnyings and equine screams rose above the tumult from the brothers. The team reared, and began to race. The wagon literally flew behind them, hitting naught but the high spots; the swingle-tree pitching and tossing like a wild thing.
Arlie and Critch were necessarily and hastily diverted from each other. As the team tore through a tangle of spiny prairie bush, the one thought of the partially shredded brothers was to end this man-killing neo-flight. Or, at least, to end their part in it. But destiny apparently had concluded that here were two fools, who didn't know what they wanted and should be given ample opportunity for second thoughts. And the horses had seemingly decided that whatever their whilom masters wanted, they didn't want. So they proceeded to blaze a new trail across the countryside – the roughest, most overgrown part of it – taking the brothers King along with them.
Unlike man, however, there is fortunately a limit to the havoc which animals can create. The team reached that limit when they sought to soar over the steep-banked bed of a dry creek. For while they cleared the obstacle themselves, continuing their mad race through the night, they took nothing with them but odds and ends of harness. The Kings remained behind, all-but-buried beneath the shattered wagon.
For a time, they were too battered and benumbed to move. Or hardly to realize what had happened to them. But at last achieving partial recovery, they reached almost simultaneously for their knives – which, of course, had been lost – then, cursed and clawed about for other weapons.
Critch found a wheel spoke, and Arlie found a length of harness chain. They struck at each other feebly, blows which could have caused no more damage if performed with turkey feathers. Panting, they cursed one another, then, exhausted, fell back prone in the grass.
They lay heaving for breath, hearts laboring with exertion. A light breeze rattled the grass and weeds, made a sound of suppressed snickering. A few stars peered down from the blue-black sky, humorously twinkling and winking. From the far distance, space-muted to a near whisper, came a triumphant neighing, a mocking hee-haw… the final comment of the fleeing team.
The brothers rested.
They crawled slowly out from under the wreckage. Slowly climbed up the creek bank and out onto the prairie.
They came to their feet. They began to circle slowly, facing one another, their arms outspread. Poised for the advantageous moment. Arlie said he was going to beat the shit out of Critch. Critch said he was going to beat the shit out of Arlie.
'You'll get enough to eat for a change,' he said. 'A nice double helping. Maybe, I'll give you something to drink along with it. Something like lemonade.'
'You smart-aleck son-of-a-bitch!' Arlie yelled.
'You slimy, sneaky, backstabbing bastard!' Critch shouted.
He suddenly aimed a kick at his brother. Arlie caught his foot, twisted it sharply and threw him to the ground. Critch rolled frantically, trying to get out of the way of what was coming. But Arlie leaped on top of him, and drew a big fist high.
'Now, by God!' he grunted. 'Now, I'm just gonna beat the ever-lastin' – '
He flung himself backward with a howl of pain; began an agonized hugging of his kneecap. Critch mocked him fiendishly, hefting a rock in his hand. He insisted that Arlie's pain was all in his mind, and that such a small rock could not possibly have caused serious injury.
'Have a look at it yourself,' he advised. _'You dirty bastard!'_
He hurled the rock suddenly – barely missed braining his brother. He grunted disgustedly, then brightened as he saw that Arlie was still helpless; ripe for a few hard kicks in the head.
'Now, just you take it easy,' he advised Arlie, his voice hideously soothing. 'Old Dr. Critchfield is going to put you to sleep, and when you wake up – three or four months from now – '
He started to get to his feet.
He sat down abruptly. Grimaced with pain as he clutched his twisted ankle. Wearily, he began to curse.
And Arlie ceased to howl and flop about, and laughed maliciously. 'I hope it's busted, you son-of-a-bitch! Serve you right for jumping me!'
'And I hope your kneecap is broken! It'll serve you right for cutting my saddle cinch!'
Arlie hesitated, wet his lips nervously. 'About that cinch, Critch. I'll take the blame before I let Kay suffer for it. But… hell, you oughta know I wouldn't do nothin' as dumb as that! Maybe they don't have to hide me under a washtub to let the sun come up, but I'm sure too bright to cut a saddle cinch!'