King Blood Read online

  "Of course, I don't, dear." He gave her hand a paternal squeeze. "I'm a lawyer, remember? I know a fine young woman when I see her." He started to rise; hesitated. "By the way, I'm afraid I was pretty brusque when I first spoke to you. I—well, my wife passed away a couple of weeks ago, and..."

  "Oh, how terrible! I'm so sorry, Captain."

  "Thank you," he said, with simple sincerity, adding that he was even now returning from his wife's funeral in the east. "As I was about to say, however, I've noticed that I sometimes do become a little curt with people since her death, and if I did, in your case—"

  But he hadn't been! Not in the least teensiest bit, Captain!

  "Thank you, my dear," he said. "You're a dear, sweet girl."

  He left her, with a tip of his fine Fedora hat. Some twenty minutes later, after a time-killing stroll, he returned to the station.

  True to her promise, she had remained exactly where he had left her. He resumed his seat at her side, smilingly pointing out that she had proved his merits as a judge of honest people. She squirmed pleasurably at the compliment, ducking her head with a little giggle. She started to return the watch, but he affably declined it. After all, there was more room in her purse than there was in his pockets, and women were much better at taking care of things than men were.

  "Just don't see how you do it," he declared in assumed amazement. "Why, my wife can—" He broke off; turned his head for a moment as though to dispel a tear. Then, softly, "Isn't it strange? She was so much a part of me that I just can't believe she's gone."

  "Why, you poor thing!" she said; then abashed at her daring, "Oh, excuse me, Captain! I—I—"

  "Now, now, dear Anne. There's no rank between friends. Sorrow makes equals of us all."

  "Sorrow makes—I think that's the most beautiful thing I ever heard, Captain! So, uh, poetic kind of. D-do you like poetry, Captain?"

  Critch confessed that it was a weakness of his, and that he sometimes wrote it. "Perhaps you've heard one of my little efforts, 'Roses Are Red And Violets Are Blue.''

  "Oh, my goodness, yes! My goodness! Have you written any others, Captain?"

  Critch nodded indulgently, and gave her a couple of verses of burlesque-house pathos. She was so impressed, so awed, that only with an effort did he suppress the lurking imp within him and its insistent demand that he tell her about the old hermit named Dave, who had kept a dead whore in his cave.

  "Well, now..." He stretched his legs, glancing at the octagon-faced station clock. "A long wait until train time, isn't it? Well, over an hour yet. I think you and I shall just get us a good bite of dinner."

  She demurred. She really wasn't a bit hungry, and, uh, really she'd just rather stay where she was. Oh, no. It wasn't because of the money, but—

  "Of course, it isn't. You'll be my guest, naturally. Now, you just go over there'—nodding toward the ladies room—"and give yourself a good freshing up. You'll want to do that, I assume'—a kindly but critical look. "Travel does so smear up a person."

  She arose reluctantly, started to reach for her two heavy bags. Critch grandly waved her away from them.

  "I'll just check them through to your destination while you're gone. Did you know you could do that? Much safer than they would be with you, and you're saved a lot of trouble."

  "Well, uh, but—"

  "Yes? Like to get something out of them first?"

  "No, but—"

  But nothing. She had the watch, didn't she? That solid, gold, diamond-studded watch.

  "F-fine, Captain. Thanks very much. I'll hurry right back."

  "Oh, take your time, dear," Critch smilingly urged her. "Take your time. We'll be dining in a very nice place, and I want you to look your prettiest."

  She bobbed her head, moved away from him with her shyly stooped shoulders and timidly lowered face. Critch waited until she disappeared through the swinging doors of the restroom. Then, he carried her baggage out a side entrance, and down the street a few doors to a combination pawnshop-secondhand store.

  Critch had learned of the place from other professionals on the criminal circuit. Between the 'right' people, there was a ready exchange of such information. He had had no occasion to do business with the establishment's proprietor heretofore, but he had stopped by for a chat. And today the latter gestured Critch toward the back room, then joined him behind its curtained portals after a quick look up and down the street.

  "No one following you, huh? Well, let's take a look at it."

  The contents of the two bags were of a type with the oddly-assorted stuff which the girl had been wearing. The kind of things which only ignorant unworldliness would allow. Or perhaps they had been wished on her by well-meaning relatives. They weren't intrinsically shoddy; someone, if not her, had laid out some bucks for them. They just weren't suitable; a lot of everything, but not one good everyday outfit. Why, hell, there were even a couple of party gowns! Did she think Fort Sill was West Point?

  "Well..." The proprietor measured a gown against his own squatty body; shook his head dubiously. "I dunno about the rags, but the luggage ain't bad. Call it thirty?"

  "Call it forty."

  "Call me Santy Claus," said the proprietor, and he counted out the forty.

  And, meanwhile, in a stall of the women's restroom, Emma Allerton, alias Anne Anderson, stood naked from the waist up. Her shoulders thrown back, her abundant bosom rising and falling with the unaccustomed pleasure of deep breathing.

  Christ, what a relief! What a relief to get out of that harness for a while and straighten up!

  She stretched luxuriously, sucking her stomach in and out, pulling her chin in for a critical glance at her nakedness. 'Bet I know what you'd like to have, she told it. And her groin prickled at the thought.' Then, her gaze fell on her right breast, at the rough furrow of teeth marks where once had been the nipple. And she cursed in silent fury.

  The horny old bastard! Every time she saw that bub she got mad all over. Goddamn him! Goddamn her sister!

  It was really Sis's fault, the overbearing slut! Sis should have given the guy the hatchet long before. But she'd been having too much fun in the next room, so Emma-Annie had got her tit chomped.

  A hell of a sister, Sis was. But she'd paid for it, by Jesus. Oh, but she'd paid for it! Rather, Little Sis had paid herself, and just in time, too, from what she'd heard. The news hadn't hit the papers yet, but the grapevine had it that the law had either grabbed Sis or was just about to do it.

  Anne patted the thick money belt which cinched her waist, eyes bright with malice as she thought of her sister. Absently, she allowed a hand to stray over the mutilated breast, and in her mind it became another's hand, and her expression softened dreamily.

  Damn, it would be nice after all these weeks. Six weeks of running, crossing and crisscrossing the Midwest and Southwest, leaving a trail that was no trail, and then finally swinging down into the Territory. Six weeks of going around with her head ducked and her chest caved in, and looking like something the cat dug up.

  No sport in all that time. And none that was really worth having before then. Sis had always taken on the good-looking guys, and forced the clodhoppers on her. Not once had she ever gotten a crack at a guy even half as cute and handsome as Captain Crittenden.

  He remained in her mind as she reluctantly regarbed herself. Thinking what a damned shame it was that things were as bad as they were.

  If she hadn't claimed to be married, practically a new bride—

  If he hadn't just lost his wife—

  With a regretful little shake of her head, she finished dressing. She started to leave the stall, then sat down on the stool and crossed one leg over the other. Her shoes were high-topped and laced, in the style of the day. With a sharp twist of her hand, she removed the heel of one of them.

  It was hollow, and a tiny Derringer nestled within it. Reassured, she replaced the heel, smoothed out her skirt and left the stall. And once again her mind moved from business to pleasure.

  Capt
ain Crittenden.

  Was it really as unthinkable as it seemed?

  He was kind of dumb, in a cute way, and he would be vain like all men. So why shouldn't he suddenly find himself in the saddle, and why shouldn't she suddenly find herself playing horsie, without either of them—heaven forbid!—ever, ever meaning for it to happen?

  Smiling, he came swiftly toward her as she emerged from the restroom. Guiding her out of the station, he complimented her on her appearance, giving her various little pats and squeezes—amiably innocent actions which unerringly detected the money belt. With the same ostensible inadvertence, she nudged him with a breast and rubbed a buttock against his thigh.

  Arm in arm, Anne-Emma, professional murderess, and Critch-Captain Crittenden, arch scoundrel, moved companionably toward their date with destiny.

  Chapter Three

  In their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Old Ike's oldest son, Boz, grabbed the firm round breast of his Apache wife, Joshie—old Tepaha's grand-daughter—and twisted it cruelly. Twisting it harder and harder, gritting threats to rip it off of her. And the girl still remained coldly stoical. Silent, motionless; refusing to recognize the torture of her husband's presence by even the smallest moan or movement.

  At last, he desisted, shifting from brutality to a kind of argumentative pleading. Making a feeble attempt at caressing her in the pre-dawn darkness.

  "Aah, c'm on now, Joshie. Why'nt you admit it, huh? You warned him, didn't you? You told ol' Arlie that I was trying to get him."

  "Hah!" the girl spat out the word. "I your squaw. You think I tell on sonabitch husband?"

  "Well, how did he find out then, huh? How'd he figger it out if you didn't tell him?"

  "How he figger out skunk make bad stink?"

  "Why, you God damn—!"

  "Arlie smarter'n you, old Boz. Old Arlie plenty man."

  "Shit! You sayin' I ain't a man?"

  "I say it. You got no balls."

  Boz cursed, started to reach out for her again. Then knowing the uselessness of it, he angrily flopped over on his back.

  And in their bedroom at the King's Junction Hotel (which was also the King ranchhouse) Arlie grasped his wife, Kay—for King—who was also Tepaha's grand-daughter and Joshie's sister, and gave her naked bottom an admiring slap.

  "Now, that's an ass," he declared. "Gets any bigger you'll be shittin' in a washtub."

  "Ho!" Kay giggled happily. "I shit in your hand, old husband."

  "Now, God damn if you ain't a snotty ol' squaw!"

  "You like snotty ol' squaw?" She snuggled close to him, sneaking a small hand across his hard, flat belly. "You like ol' squaw's stuff?"

  "Well, now, I ain't so sure that I do. Maybe I just better take me a little sample..."

  After they had again separated their bodies, and lay contentedly side by side, Kay whispered in her husband's ear, nudging him with playful impatience when he did not immediately answer.

  "You do it, huh, ol' Arlie? You kill sonabitch Boz today?"

  "We-el' Arlie paused, teasing her. "Well, I reckon so. Figger I'll have me a plenty good chance today."

  "How you do it?"

  Arlie shrugged lazily, murmuring that he'd kind of have to wait and see. "But if I know that son-of-a-bitch, he's practically gonna do it for me."

  "Just you do it," Kay insisted; then, wifelike, "You too good-natured. Let people put things over on you."

  Arlie said he was going to put something over on her in about a moment. Kay persisted in her nagging.

  "You get Critch, too. He come, you kill him."

  "Critch? What the hell for?"

  "Hah! Same reason kill sonabitch, Boz."

  "Now, God damn," drawled Arlie, in admiring wonderment. "Ain't you the bloodthirsty ol' squaw! Don't even know whether Critch is comin', an' already you're after me to kill him."

  "Must make plans," Kay said smugly. "Must be ready."

  "Keep it up," Arlie warned her. "You just keep on talkin', an' I'll show you some plans. Danged good ones, too."

  "Ho! You not ready, old husband. Too soon."

  Arlie faced around to her, gave her bottom another smack. "Real sure of that, are you? Real, real sure?"

  "Well...Maybe you show me?"

  Behind the closed double-doors of the hotel ranchhouse bar room, Tepaha, the Apache, and Isaac Joshua King blustered and snarled at one another. Old Ike called Tepaha a woman with a peter. Old Tepaha declared that Ike had done treachery to a friend and brother.

  "Even a boast you have made of it!" the old Indian shouted. "You were warmed at Geronimo's fire. You smoked with him, and he called you friend and brother, and you smiled and called him like-wise. And then—" Tepaha raised his arm dramatically. "Then you—"

  "Silence!" Old Ike cut him off with an infuriated howl. "You twist truth into lies! I told you how it was! A hundred times, I told you! Why the hell don't you get the straight of it?"

  "Shit!" said Tepaha loudly. "Old Ike is old shit!"

  It was a favorite word of his; one that he found extremely useful (as did Ike). Depending on how, where and when it was used, it could be virtually a vocabulary by itself.

  "Goin' to tell you one more time," Old Ike said. "Ain't gonna tell it again, so by God you better listen..."

  "Shit!"

  "Will you hear me, old fool! The bluecoats had Geronimo in a cage there at Fort Sill. In a cage, by God, like a 'chongo' in a zoo. An' all the God damn' saddle-tramps an' nesters an' their God damn' families for miles around had come in to gawk an' poke fun at him. Well, by Christ, I didn't like it a damn bit, an' I let "em know it. I pushed my way through "em, knockin' a few of "em down, by God, an' I called Geronimo my friend and brother, like he was, o' course, an' I put my hand through the bars to shake with him. An' you know what that dirty 'chongo' Apache done?"

  '"Chongo,'' taunted Old Tepaha. "Apache monkey, you monkey, too. You Apache brother."

  "That God damn'—'shut up!'—that God damn' Geronimo grabbed my hand and bit it! So, by Christ, I just got me a-hold of the bastard's nose, an' I damn' near twisted if off'n him before the bluecoats butted in. An'—an' I ain't a damn' bit sorry, neither!"

  But he was sorry. He had acted instinctively, without stopping to think that Geronimo's eyes and ears were probably failing him, and he had judged Old Ike yet another enemy instead of his friend and brother.

  He was sorry as hell, Old Ike was. And Tepaha was sorry that he had raised the subject. He had done so out of friendship and pride—the same motives which had moved Old Ike to taunt and abuse him. For great shame had come to the families of Tepaha and King; a particularly degrading shame, since a member of each family had offended against a member of the other family. Boz was known to have abused his wife, Joshie. I.K.—Tepaha's grandson—had been caught stealing from his "Uncle," Old Ike.

  It is unforgivable to steal from family. From others, it is all right, even commendable. Though Old Ike's thinking, as regards the latter, was not quite so liberal as it once had been.

  At any rate, they had been shamed—and even now they waited to mete out stern punishment to the guilty ones—and out of their deep hurt they acted as they did. To divert one another. To boldly prove that they were above hurt. For it is insulting to offer pity to a man, and disgraceful to appear to be in need of it.

  Tepaha stirred the fire in the potbellied stove. Old Ike poured drinks for them and lit a cigar, and held the match for his friend.

  Though their brotherhood was by choice, rather than the accident of birth, a stranger might have thought otherwise despite their differences in coloring. For they had been together for so many years and in so many places, sharing the same thoughts and deeds, that, in their necessary adjustment to one another, each had borrowed of the other's mannerisms and expressions, and now they had come to look quite a little alike.

  Much of the time, even their talk was strikingly similar, Ike's alleged English even becoming a trifle broken. He was almost as fluent in Apache a
s Tepaha; also in idiomatic Spanish. And they spoke in both languages frequently—often sounding so much alike that it was hard to tell when one finished and the other began.

  Old Ike shaved his head regularly, while Tepaha's hair grew to the lobes of his ears; and he wore a beaded band around his forehead whereas Old Ike wore a sombrero. But both men were clothed in calf-hide jackets, and levis. And both were shod in blockheeled Spanish boots; and protruding from the right boot of each was the worn haft of a gleaming knife.

  As Old Ike sighed, unconsciously, Tepaha demanded another reading of the letters from crazy Osage lawyer. Brightening, Old Ike hauled the letters from his pocket, and both chuckled over them as they were read yet another time.

  "Damn' crazy Osage," Ike concluded. "Says right here that Critch is plenty fine fella, got plenty o' money. Then he tries to claim Critch stole a stinkin' fifty dollars from him! What kind of God damn' sense does that make?"

  "All Osage crazy," Tepaha nodded wisely. "Critch do right to steal money."

  "Well, I don't know as I'd say that, but..."

  He shook his head, lapsed back into silence, his mouth sagging. Tepaha requested another reading of the letters. Old Ike ignored him. Nor could he be baited into another quarrel.

  And, then, at last, when Tepaha was at his wits' end to help his friend, inspiration came to him. From far back in the all-but-forgotten past it came, and it proved highly effective in rousing Old Ike from his reverie.

  "Huh! What the hell did you say?" He glared beetle-browed at Tepaha. "What d'ya mean, I et him?"

  "I mean," said Tepaha, with simulated spitefulness. "I mean what I say. You eat Osage."

  "That's a God damn' lie! I never et no one, Indian or white! I don't hold with eatin' people!"

  "Eat "em, anyway. You eat—Wait!" He held up a hand, chopping off the incipient outburst from his friend. "Take yourself back many, many years. So many years, until that good time when we were young. Remember it, Old Ike—the night we saw Geronimo for the first time? The night we were brought into his lodge at lance-point? We had come up from 'Tejas' to 'okla homa,' the Land of the Red Man..."