King Blood

of gnats discovered him, began a gauzily insane dance in front of his eyes. Refusing to be dispelled or dodged, eventually taking refuge in his nostrils.

The experience left his eyes waterily itching, his nose maddeningly irritated. In the discomfort of the moment, he told himself that he didn't give a damn if Critch had broken his neck; it would save some hangman the job, since he was certainly long overdue for such a fracture. In the next moment, however, he was retracting the thought with superstition-born haste. He cared very much about Critch's welfare. Oh, yes; yes, indeed. No one could be more concerned for Critch than he. Nothing would gladden his heart so much as the sight of Critch, alive and in reasonably good condition.

Arlie scrubbed his scratchy nose, rubbed his reddened and itchy eyes. He raised his head slightly, looked toward the distant house. His heart executed a sudden skip-jump, and his broad face broke into a delighted grin.

Critch was stepping down from the door of the cabin, coming out into the yard. He was bent over a little, his movements somewhat stiff, and he limped. But he was certainly very, very far from being dead. He had certainly sustained no very serious injuries.

He limped to the horses with Joshie, waited while she mounted her animal and took the reins of his. He waved to her as she rode away, his horse galloping at her side. Then, he hoisted himself up into the door of the house, and disappeared within its shadow-dark interior.

Arlie lay amidst the weeds for a few moments longer. Debating the wisdom of looking in on his brother, and finally deciding against it. Critch would make no mention of the cut cinch, and he would forbid Joshie to. He dared not mention it, lest stern Old Ike drive him, Arlie, from the ranch – in which case, naturally, he would take the stolen money with him, permanently removing it from Critch's reach.

If Critch ever found out that the money was gone -! But never mind that; worry about it when the time came. All that mattered now was that Critch would make no mention of the attempt on his life. He intended to pass it off as an accident. And since an accident automatically cannot be anticipated, a call on him at this point would be awkward to say the least.

How embarrassing to ride miles out of your way to inquire into a man's injuries, when you could have no legitimate knowledge of those injuries. How embarrassing for both of you!

_Just wouldn't be right, Arlie thought virtuously._ And he began to creep back through the weeds, moving unerringly toward the _arroyo_ some half mile distant where his horse was tethered. Essentially a primitive, he could have traveled in this fashion for hours; the hunter who might momentarily become hunted. Instinctively; without conscious effort, his movements were virtually silent. And no telltale wake followed him through the weeds. Now and then his head poked up through the rank growth for reconnoitering, but this was done so quickly, in the fractional second of an eye's blink, that no one could have seen him. Or, rather, realized that they had seen him. At virtually the same instant, he was there and not there. Nothing more, apparently, than a flickering trick of sunlight and shadow.

But while he could not be seen, he saw. And unheard, he heard. So after some eight or ten minutes, he altered his direction, moving off at an approximate right angle to it. After perhaps another ten minutes, he again angled sharply to the right, now heading almost straight toward the house. There was an interval of a few minutes more, and then he came up immediately behind Ethel (Big Sis) Anderson.

She was crawling on her hands and knees, a position which drew her trousers tight over her posterior. Grinning, Arlie aimed a big forefinger at the cleft between her buttocks, and gave her a powerful goose.

Big Sis 'Yipped!' and reared upward, both hands grasping at the offended area. Arlie grabbed them, bound her wrists with his bandanna and flipped her over on her back. It was all done too swiftly for Ethel Anderson to follow; before she knew what was happening. One moment she had been creeping toward the cabin. A split second later she was trussed and helpless, and an outside lummox – one of the Kings, apparently – was sprawled on top of her.

He grinned down into her face, pawing roughly over her body until he had found the tightly rolled wad of bills – all the money she had in the world – and her.28 caliber pistol. He tucked the bills into his jacket pocket, and tossed the gun far into the weeds.

Meanwhile, Miss Anderson had considerably recovered her wits, and was much her normal brazen self. 'How about it, big boy?' she said, her eyes sensuously bold. 'As long as you're taking things, why not take me?'

'How I gonna take you?' said Arlie, with assumed idiocy. 'You mean I eat you, or somethin'?'

'Now you just might want to,' she murmured. 'Eat or do the next best thing. Have a look at those tits.'

He pulled her shirt open, studied the pink-tipped abundance that tumbled out. He allowed his mouth to open in wonderment; at last looked up with patently puzzled eyes.

'You only got two,' he said plaintively.

'I only – whaat?' said Ethel Anderson. 'How the hell many did you think I'd have?'

'Kinda depends on whether you're a cow or sow or a bitch. Now, I don't figure you for a cow; you're too fuckin' filthy to stay in the same barn with one. So I reckon you must be a sow or – '

'You smart aleck son-of-a-bitch!' snapped Ethel, and she spat full in his face.

Arlie grinned, letting the spittle slide down his jaw; making no move to wipe it away. 'You spit pretty good,' he said. 'Want to do it again?'

'You're damned right I do!' she said. And she did. Spitting repeatedly into his face until her mouth was dry, and she could spit no more.

Arlie asked if she was sure she was through; if not, she was to take her time and finish. Miss Anderson shook her head uneasily, attempted an apologetic smile. For one of the very few times in her life she was frightened. Frightened, terrified, rather, to a degree she had never known before. Arlie brushed his sleeve across his face, mopping up the spittle. He continued to grin at her, a meaningless empty grin. A grin that hinted of a bottomless pit, where lurked unspeakable horrors.

Miss Anderson tore her eyes away from the grin; gasped out that she was sorry. 'I mean it! I really am! If you'll just let me go, Mr – uh – Mr – '

'Name's King,' Arlie said. 'The fella you was sneakin' up on in yonder house is my brother, Critch. You, now, I reckon you must be the gal called Big Sis Anderson, and you're plenty wanted for murder.'

Big Sis hesitated. 'All right. But there's probably one thing you don't know. Your brother has the money I murdered to get. He stole it off my younger sister.'

'Mmm? And where's your sister now?'

'Well, I, uh… I'm not sure, exactly. But – '

'Never mind,' Arlie chuckled. 'Now I'll tell you something you don't know. I stole that money off'n Critch. Took every penny of it an' spent it.'

Miss Anderson nodded promptly; again said, 'All right, You're not going to turn me over to the law, are you? They'd make you dig up that money if you did.'

Arlie said, nope, he wasn't going to turn her in. The Kings weren't much for botherin' the law with their problems, sort of likin' to deal with 'em themselves. 'But you're kind of a problem I don't know how to handle. I mean, what the heck am I gonna do with you?'

'You don't have to do anything. Just lift yourself off of me, and I'll do the rest.'

'You mean you'll just leave? Not come around no more?'

'Why not? There's nothing here for me with the money gone.'

'Now, ain't you nice?' Arlie said. 'I tell you the money's gone, an' you take my word for it just like that. Makes me wonder how anyone as trustin' as you managed to get so much money to begin with.'

'Look!' Big Sis snapped. 'If you've got something to say, say it! Whether you have or haven't got the money it's the same difference. There's nothing I can do about it.'

'There ain't? Now I'd a thought you could do just plenty about it. You'd sure as hell try, anyways. You'd get the money back, or me'n brother Critch would get a hatchet in our heads. Reckon we'd get one irregardless, what with you kind of havin' the hatchet habit.'

Miss Anderson cursed bitterly and at length, declaring that he could believe anything he wished as long as he lifted his big ass off of her. 'I've told you the truth, God damn you! Now get up before you smother me.'

'No,' said Arlie.

'No? What do you mean no?'