In the meantime, and killing aside, Arlie must certainly be punished. He must be taught that an injury or an attempted injury to his brother would bring prompt and painful retaliation.
Critch sat up in the bunk, gazed thoughtfully around the darkening room. Then, his eyes lighting, he arose and went over to the stove; reached a hand under it. The hand closed over a metallic object, and he drew it out. Stood hefting a heavy steel poker.
_Nice, he thought. Very nice, indeed._ And loosening his belt, he slid the poker down his trouser leg. He refastened the belt, took several tentative steps. He could only walk stiff-legged, naturally, but that was all right. Even without the poker, his movements tended to stiffness.
He returned to the bunk. Lay back down again. The darkness became almost absolute, and he closed his eyes. And within minutes was fast asleep.
Several hours later he awakened to the distant rattle of wagon wheels. He sat up slightly to glance out of the window, and he saw the bobbing glimmer of a lantern. He stayed where he was for a time, watching the lantern draw closer, listening to the sound of the wheels grow louder. Then, at a faint
'Here!' he shouted. 'All ready and waiting.'
'Good! Be right with you!' Arlie shouted back. And he soon was.
He leaped down from the wagon seat, came forward with anxious offers of assistance. Critch accepted it, directing it so as to conceal the presence of the poker and to place his brother in line for a hard kick as the latter hoisted him into the rear of the wagon.
'Yeeow!' yelled Arlie, clutching at his groin. 'Watch what you're doin', God damn it!'
'Oh, did I kick you?' Critch asked innocently. 'I'm terribly sorry, Arlie.'
'Well, you sure as hell -! Ah, to hell with it,' Arlie said, and he rounded the wagon, and climbed up in the seat. 'Make yourself comfortable on them quilts,' he said grumpily, as they started off. 'Got grub an' a jug of coffee there somewhere, if you want it.'
Critch thanked him warmly. He again expressed regret for the kick, vocally hoping that it had not landed on his brother's balls. 'I know how much that can hurt,' he went on. 'Why, when that saddle came down on top of me today, I thought my nuts had been crushed.'
Arlie cleared his throat noisily. He popped the reins over the horses' backs, sending them forward with a leap.
'Uh, how you suppose it happened?' he said, finally. 'Cinch bust on you?'
'It must have. Anyone who cut it would have to be a real lowdown, rotten, bastardly, mother-jumping son- of-a-bitch – wouldn't he? And I don't know of anyone like that around here – do you?'
'Uh, er, looky,' grunted Arlie. 'Why don't you eat some of that grub?'
Critch said he believed he would, at that, and locating the lunch basket, he began to eat. (He also found the pepper shaker, and loosened the lid on it.) Between mouthfuls of food and coffee, he continued to muse profanely, lewdly and loudly re the type of person – if it were possible for such a creature to exist – who would cut a man's saddle cinch.
'You know what, Arlie? I think anyone who would do a thing like that would screw a skunk in the ass, and then eat its – '
'Shut up!' howled Arlie. 'You hear me, _shut up!'_
'Shut up?' said Critch. 'Now, why should I, anyway?'
Arlie turned around, yelling because, that was why! 'Because if you open your stinkin' mouth one more time, I'll –
'What's the matter? You don't like pepper?' said Critch, and began to roar with laughter. 'Suppose you try a little dose of this.'
He stood up in the jolting wagon, raised the steel poker high. He brought it down with all his might, at the very moment the wagon hit a rock and bounced upward. Arlie lurched backwards, the poker almost scraping the tip of his nose. Blinded, he clawed the air frantically, seeking something to cling to. He found it, the poker, that is, just as Critch raised it for another swing. Just as the wagon again bounced high for a second time.
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,
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.
