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.'
'I doubt that,' said U.S. Marshal Harry Thompson. 'I doubt it very much.'
He stood in the doorway of his office, a tall distinguished-looking man with coal-black hair and eyes, who bore some resemblance to the now-retired outlaw, Frank James. He was well-spoken, immaculately dressed in spotless linen and black broadcloth. For a United States Marshal is a high government official, comparable in rank to a Federal Judge, and not the roughneck two-gun man of popular fiction.
He gave his nephew a look which sent that young man hurrying back to his typewriter, then courteously gestured the King brothers inside. He listened impassively, the tips of his fingers pressed together, as Arlie told of the killing of Boz. When Arlie had at last finished, with a nervous rush of words, the marshal remained silent for a long moment. Then, leaning forward casually, he plucked the knife from young King's boot-top.
'A genuine Bowie, isn't it?' he asked.
'Sure is, Marshal Harry. One that ol' Jim gave to Paw hisself.'
'So you told me,' the marshal nodded. 'And what did I tell you? About bringing weapons into my office, that is?'
'Gosh, Marshal Harry' Arlie ran a nervous finger around his collar. 'I plumb forgot, honest!'
'If you forget again,' Thompson said softly, 'I'm going to be angry with you.'
He flipped the knife suddenly. It landed point down, almost scraping Arlie's booted foot, the haft quivering with the force of the throw. Arlie tugged it out of the flooring, a little pallid beneath his tan. He shoved it as deep down into his boot as he could, making it as inconspicuous as possible.
'Now,' Thompson said, 'I have no doubt that your brother's killing took place exactly as you've told me. It was self-defense. I also have no doubt, however, that it could have been avoided.'
'But the son-of-a-bitch tried t'kill me, Marshal Harry! Been tryin' t'get me for a long time!'
'Was he? Why didn't you report the fact to me?'
'Because it wouldn't've done no good! I couldn't've proved nothin'!'
'You wouldn't have had to. I'm sure a warning from me would have stopped Boz's attempts.'
'But – but, god-dang it, Marshal -!'
'Mmm-hmm. That isn't the King way of doing things, is it?'
'No, it ain't, by God!'
'But it will be from now on,' Thompson said. 'Your father is too old to change, and it's immaterial that he should at his time of life. But you, Arlie, and you too, sir' – he included Critch in his glance – 'you two must mature with this country, come of age with it, or cease to be a part of it. I mean that most sincerely, gentlemen. There will be no more taking of the law into one's own hands at King's Junction. If there is, I'll see to it that the person responsible goes to the gallows. Now, before you leave…
He reached into his desk, took out a 'wanted' circular and passed it to Arlie, explaining that the woodcut pictures thereon had been drawn from descriptions of the criminals, and were probably inexact likenesses.
Arlie let out an appreciative, 'Whoeee!' as he glanced at the circular. Then, frowning with the effort, occasionally faltering over the words, he read its inscription aloud:
'Wanted for murder… Ten thousand dollars reward… Anne an' Eth, uh, Eth-el Anderson, al-alie, uh, a-lias Little Sis and Big Sis Anderson. Last seen near the town of Olathe, Kansas. Approach with caution, as subjects are known to have killed thirty – '
Arlie broke off, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Now, God damn, Marshal Harry! You ain't gonna tell me that these cute little ol' gals killed thirty people!'
'No,' Thompson agreed, 'the figure is incorrect. The bodies of seven more men have been discovered since that flyer was issued. Those two young women ran a roadhouse in Kansas. Any well-heeled male who stopped there was very apt to go no further. One of the sisters took him to bed, and the other one killed him.'
'Holy Jeez-ass! For some o' that it'd damn' near be worth it! But how come I ain't read nothin' about this in the papers?'
Marshal Thompson said that the story had been kept out of the newspapers with their cooperation. It was believed best to let the Anderson women think they were unwanted, meanwhile circularizing inns and other establishments serving the public.
'As we piece the facts together,' he continued, 'Anne – that's the younger one – skipped out on her sister, taking their combined loot with her. Ethel – the older, smarter and harder of the two – apparently is hot on Anne's trail. So if you should encounter one, the other probably isn't far behind.'
'Well, I'll be damned! An' you figure they're here in the Territory?'
'They could be. It would hardly seem a likely place for a fugitive to head for.'
Arlie promised to be on the watch for the murderous Andersons, and handed the circular to the brother.
Critch took it – and stared. *c*
_Why, the bitch had been on the train with them! She'd had to be! Might even have watched while Little Sis got the bone put to her! And the minute he'd stepped out to the platform, and Little Sis had entered the toilet_…
Ann, Little Sis, had known that her sister wouldn't listen to reason. With or without the money, Ethel was sure to kill her. So she'd jumped the train, and Big Sis had pursued her. And what had happened then…
'Yes, Mr. King?' said Marshal Thompson. 'Have you seen those women?'
Critch didn't answer him immediately. Nor did he look up. He was distrustful of his voice, fearful of what might be read from his expression. Not until he was in full control of himself and the marshal had spoken to him a second time, did he raise his eyes and speak.
'I'm not absolutely positive,' he said, his tone indicating a desire for absolute positiveness, 'but I think I may have seen the younger woman.'
'When and where?'
'Well… I'd say it had been within the last month. Just where, I have no idea. It might have been in the Dakotas, Texas, almost anywhere.'
'Texas or the Dakotas?' The marshal's brows went up. 'That's a lot of traveling for one month.'
'I enjoy travel,' Critch shrugged, 'and fortunately I can afford it.'
'Two good reasons for indulging in it,' Thompson nodded. 'Do you have a third?'
