King Blood (8 page)

_'Paw, poor?_ He's got some debts sure, but how come you figured he was poor?'

'Well, he never really owned any land. He had some under lease in the Strip, but most of it he just moved in on, and took.'

'An' he's still got it, too, little brother! Got just what he always had. Them land-openings didn't change a thing with Paw.'

Critch shook his head wonderingly. 'But how in the world…?'

'Let me tell you,' Arlie grinned, and he did so; relating a tale that was already familiar throughout much of the Southwest.

Arlie, Boz and Old Ike had all used their right to stake out homesteads of one-hundred-and-sixty acres. In addition, some fifth of Ike's lighter-skinned Apache followers wearing city clothes had staked out claims of similar size. Like the Kings, however, they had not made the Run, the race for homesteads, but had 'soonered' the land, putting their stakes down on territory which Old Ike had held from the start.

'You know what I mean, Critch? You savvy "sooner"?'

Critch nodded his understanding. A sooner was a person who slipped across the border ahead of the starter's gun. In years to come, it was to become an affectionate second-name for Oklahoma – that is, 'the Sooner state' – as was Jayhawk to become a nickname for Kansas and Cornhusker for Nebraska.

'O' course,' Arlie continued, 'there was a lot of fuss about it. But I reckon you know it'd take more'n fuss to move Paw, an' lucky for him he had the political pull to ride the storm through.'

'Good for him,' Critch murmured. 'But you've only accounted for a few thousand acres, Arlie. How did he recover the rest of his holdings?'

'With money,' Arlie shrugged. 'I mean, he bought up the homesteaders' claims. A lot of 'em didn't have the money to carry them through a bad year, an' had to sell to Paw. The others – well, they got kind of nervous with so many Indians livin' around 'em. Got the idea, somehow, that their scalps might wind up on a pole if they didn't sell. So – '

'I see,' Critch said. 'I think I get the picture.'

'Now, don't get no wrong ideas,' his brother protested. 'Maybe they had a leetle pressure put on 'em, but they all got a fair price for their claims. More'n they were worth in most cases. You wouldn't remember, bein' away so long, but a heap of the land out here just ain't fit for nothing but grazin'. Try to put a plow to it, an it'll blow away on you. Frankly' – he shook his head, troubledly, 'I wish Paw didn't have so danged much land. Wish we had less land, and more money to work it with. I tell you, Critch, I get so damned worried at times that…'

He shook his head again, his voice trailing off into silence. Then, his expression clearing, he said, well, to hell with it.

'You and me'll work things out together, little brother. I couldn't do anything with that God damned Boz, but now that I got him out of the way…'

'Uh – out of the way?' Critch said.

'I killed the son-of-a-bitch. Prodded him into makin' a try for me, and then I gutted him. I just had to do it, Critch. He'd've got me if I hadn't. There was a couple of times when the bastard would've killed me if I hadn't been watching sharp.'

'That sounds like Boz, all right,' Critch nodded. 'He was always mean and sneaky.' And he silently added to himself that the manner of Boz's death was also typical of Arlie. Boz had bitten off far more than he could chew in tying into the middle-brother. Despite Arlie's open countenance and bubbling good humor, he could be deadly hard when he had to be. More importantly, he was smart enough to get away with the results of his hardness – transferring the bee from his own back to his victim's.

As the train poked along through the prairie, Critch nodded and smiled as Arlie rambled on genially. Nodded and smiled without actually listening, slowly coming to a decision in his own mind.

He wasn't going back to King's Junction. With seventy-two thousand dollars in his poke, he didn't need to go back. It was sufficient to support him in luxury to a ripe old age, so he could do quite well without his inheritance from Old Ike. In fact, as Arlie painted the picture, the inheritance was more potential than actual. The King holdings were burdened with debt, and Ike's feudal manner of doing things made that debt doubly burdensome. He, Critch, could easily be a very old man before his potential wealth became a reality. And it was highly unlikely that Arlie would allow him to live to be an old man.

Arlie appeared to like him, and doubtless did. Still, he would regard Critch as a threat – just as he had regarded Boz as one. So…

_He'd be on his home ground, Critch thought. Home for him, and strange territory for me. I don't buck another man's game; I was a sucker to even think of it. Mr. Critchfield King will settle for what he's got, and stay healthy!_

At El Reno, Arlie dismissed the Indian youth with a few silver dollars and a guttural torrent of Apache. Then, grabbing up Critch's bags with his own, he tossed them onto the dray of the town's leading hotel.

'We'll register-in later,' he told his brother. 'Right now, we got to get over to the U.S. Marshal's office.'

'Marshal's office?' Critch blinked. 'What for?'

'So's I can report that little accident that happened to Boz, like I came here to do,' Arlie said. 'What's the matter with you, boy? Ain't you been listenin' to nothing I said?'

'Well, uh – But I've got some business to take care of, Arlie. Suppose I get it out of the way while you see the marshal, and we can – '

'Suppose,' Arlie cut in, 'you come along to the marshal's office with me like you already promised to do. Sort of give me your moral support, as the sayin' is.'

'But – but it's very important that I – '

'Might not be,' Arlie said firmly. 'No, sir, it might turn out a hell of a lot more important for you t'be introduced proper to the marshal. There's a flock of sharpers and high-binders floodin' into El Reno, and a dude-lookin' fella like you could get mistook for one of 'em. Yes, sir,' he added slowly, 'you could get mistook awfully easy, Critch. Wouldn't be at all surprised if you was picked up an' shook down before you'd gone a quarter-mile.'

Critch gave him a sharp look. But if there was a double meaning in his brother's words, a threat, there was nothing to indicate the fact in the latter's expression. Rather, Arlie seemed genuinely concerned for his welfare, anxious that his younger kinsman should get off on the right foot in these new surroundings.

So Critch smiled pleasantly, and told Arlie to lead the way. 'The marshal's office,' he said. 'I'll take care of my business later.' El Reno, the site of the Federal land lottery, rose from the prairie in a conglomerate mass of solid brick and rickety frame buildings, some of one-story and false front, others three or four floors in height; for this was both an old town, as time was measured in the Territory, and a new one. There were even some 'tent buildings' – structures made of canvas stretched over a framework of wood. And sprawling out over the gently rolling grassland, for almost as far as the eye could see, was a chaotic array of tents and shacks thrown up by the newcome settlers.

The dusty streets were choked with covered wagons and drays and buggies, through which saddle-worn horsemen patiently wended their weary way. Most of these last were out-of-work cowhands, uprooted and unwanted as the plough furrowed through their one-time domain of the Cherokee Strip, the Big Pasture and other Territorial lands. Some might still find jobs in Texas, or westward in the states-to-be of Wyoming and New Mexico. (Or perhaps as far north as North-western Nebraska and the Dakotas.) A few, out of hateful necessity, would manage to make the transformation from cowboy to clodhopper. Some would turn outlaw. Some would become peace officers, hunting down the very men they had once worked with and called friend. As for the remainder… well, who knew? What
does
happen to men who can find no other path for themselves than the one occupied by the juggernaut of an onrushing civilization? To quote from the sardonic philosophy of the times, they were caught ziggin' when they shoulda been zaggin'. They had played the red, and the black came up.

The sidewalks, which were even more jammed than the streets, were of plank and of various levels, according to the whim of the owner of the business establishment upon which they fronted. If he chose to have a porch, the walk rose by steps to become part of it; descending at the porch's end to the entrance level of the adjoining establishment.

'God damn,' said Arlie exultantly, as he lunged through the crowds. 'Didja ever see anything like this, little brother?'

'Like it,' Critch said a little breathlessly. 'But not so much of it.'

'A real piss-walloper, ain't she? A rip-roarin' son-of-a-bitch!'

'If it isn't,' Critch replied, 'it'll do until one comes along.'

Blanket Indians sat with their backs against building fronts, their legs innocently thrust straight out in front of them for the unwary passer-by to trip over. Sunbonneted, gingham clad settlers' wives rubbed shoulders with skimpily-dressed saloon girls. Cowboys brushed against clodhoppers. Indians, merchants, gamblers, drummers
(salesmen),
clerks, workmen, women of all ages and descriptions; the bountiful, the beautiful, the damned – all were jampacked together in a chaotic, colorful mass.

Drifting out through innumerable swinging-doors, came the aroma of beer, booze and free-lunch, and the muted roar of many sounds. The click of roulette wheels, the rattle of gambling chips; the tinny tinkling of pianos, boisterous shouts and laughter, feminine squeals of protest.

Despite the devil-may-care air of things, the free and-easy atmosphere, there was no sound of gunplay, no sign of brawling. For El Reno was very well policed – as Critch was soon to discover.

It happened as he was passing a saloon, trailing Arlie by a step or two. There was a sudden explosion of yells and curses, the scraping clatter of shattering wood. The whole building seemed to tremble with it. And then out through the swinging doors burst a mass of men, their rush carrying them out into the street and slamming Critch against a hitching post.

Apparently, they had done nothing serious – merely brawled, perhaps – for the two deputy marshals who followed them into the street dismissed them after administering a few judiciously vigorous shakes and slaps. Shaken and furious, Critch picked up his dust-smeared hat; straightened to find himself looking into a pair of amiable but steely eyes.

'Nice day,' the man greeted him pleasantly. 'Mind telling me who you are, mister?'

'You're God damned right I mind!' Critch snarled. 'Who the hell are you?'

'Name's Tilghman, Bill Tilghman.'

The name didn't immediately register on Critch; the fact that this was one of the West's most famous peace officers. He made a profanely filthy suggestion to the man – or rather he started to. The first word or so was barely out of his mouth, when the cold muzzle of a.45 jabbed into his stomach.

'Now, reach!' the officer said. 'Get those hands up!'

Critch got them up, looking around wildly for Arlie. They had become separated in the fracas, and now he could see him nowhere.

The two deputy marshals came back from the street; looked interestedly at Critch. 'What you got here, Bill?'

'Someone with some pretty bad manners, for one thing. Let's see what else he's got.'

'Sure thing.'

The two deputies moved in for a search. Then, just as one stopped to feel Critch's trousers and the other yanked his coat open…

'Hey, there, you fellas! What you doin' to my little brother?'

Arlie pushed through the crowd, dropped a protective arm around his shoulders. Almost faint with relief, Critch heard him say that, sure, this was his brother. Been away from home since he was a kid, but now he was comin' back to stay.

'Mr. Tilghman, this here is – '

'We've met,' Tilghman said, and he turned on his heel and walked away. Critch was introduced to the other two men, Deputy Marshals Heck Thomas and Chris Madsen, who returned his nervously effusive greetings with dry amusement.

'Well, let's see, now,' Arlie said. 'That's about all you fellas, ain't it? No one else that might take Critch for somethin' that he ain't?'

'There's still Jim,' Madsen said. 'He was headin' for the marshal's office the last I saw.'

'Good,' Arlie said. 'That's right where we're goin'.'

As they went on their way, he good-naturedly cursed Critch, inquiring how he had ever managed to live so long with such ostensibly offensive manners; shaking his head to Critch's explanation that the bad jolting he had gotten had caused him to lose his temper.

'Better watch where you lose it from now on, boy,' he said, and Critch meekly promised that he would.

They reached the Federal building, ascended to the marshal's headquarters on the second floor. In the outer office, a heavy-set young man with the profile of McKinley was laboriously filling out a warrant on a rickety typewriter. Arlie introduced him as Deputy Marshal Jim Thompson.

'Ol' Jim used t'be a school-teacher, Critch. His uncle Harry is the marshal here.'

'Neither fact,' Thompson shook hands, smiling, 'having anything to do with my present employment. Incidentally, my full name is James Sherman Thompson.'

'Now, don't that beat all!' Arlie exclaimed. 'Ain't hardly no one in the Territory that ain't a reb, but ol' Jim always mentions his middle name! Probably'll get him killed some day.'