King Blood

Thompson replied that it had seemed to be satisfactorily suspended at his last inspection. Then, shook his head amazedly as he looked the young Indian up and down.

'My God, I.K.! How can anyone manage to get so many grease spots on him?'

'Ho, ho,' I.K. said, companionably nudging him with an elbow. 'Don' kid me, kid. I a chicken inspector.' Then, after taking a cautious look around, 'You got 'em tied up, huh? Haul 'em to station like God damn hogs?'

The marshal said, no, he did not have the King brothers tied up. And, no – replying to the youth's next question – neither had he shot their asses off. I.K. gaped at him; profanely professed puzzlement and displeasure.

'What kinda shit you make, ol' Harry? That Critch have seventy-two thousand dollars he steal – '

'That he probably stole,' the marshal interjected. 'But there's no way of proving that he did.'

'Sure, there is way! If money not stolen, how come he not make 'plaint to you when Arlie make me steal from him? You ask him, ol' Harry. Watch sonofbitch squirm.' I.K. nodded firmly, giving Thompson a speculative look. 'Maybe I better be marshal. Show you how to do job.'

Thompson said equably that maybe he had. As preparation for it, he suggested that the young Indian first learn how to tell the truth – or how to lie a hell of a lot better.

'Critch insists that he gave the money to Arlie, and Arlie agrees that he did. Since they are not proven thieves, and you're an admitted one – and a liar as well – '

I.K. ripped out an indignant curse. 'I never tell lie, by God! Name me one God damn time I lie!'

'Just now, for one. And yesterday afternoon when you had the section-crew foreman send me that telegram.' The marshal looked at him sternly. 'You could have caused some very serious trouble by doing that, I.K. Fortunately, I got a later telegram from a constable down the line, identifying the man who actually did the killing.'

'Act'ly did it?' I.K. exploded. 'What you mean, act'ly? Ol' Arlie kill her – same damn woman you show me picture of! Stab her to death with knife!'

'No,' said Thompson. 'No.'

'Well… I quite some way off. Maybe so make mistake. I see Critch stab her, and t'ink was Arlie.'

'No. You saw nothing of the kind, because neither of them killed her.'

'By God, yes! Yes, yes, yes!'

The marshal said, by God, no! No, no, no! 'The woman was killed last night by a farmer named Gutzman. She'd been living with him for the past three weeks. Apparently, she suddenly went out of her mind, and he had to kill her in self-defense.'

'But – but – ' I.K. was suddenly struck by inspiration. 'Hokay, was maybe like this. Ol' Arlie or Critch stab her like I say, partly kill her, then ol' Gutzman – '

'Finished her off?' Thompson shook his head. 'No, I.K. She wasn't stabbed, or even scratched. Her only wound was in the head, where Gutzman hit her with a hatchet.'

'But, by God – '

The youth's mouth opened and closed helplessly. He gestured wildly, pounding his fist in his palm. Again he tried to speak, and again was helpless. At last, he gave up. Fatalistically accepted the paradox of having seen what he could not have seen.

'By God,' he said, looking across the railroad tracks and beyond, into the endless expanse of the King ranch. 'I guess I screw things up good, I betcha.'

'Ah, well,' Marshal Thompson said, 'we all make mistakes. The point is to learn from them, and do better in the future.'

'Ho, boy, some future I got!' said I.K. glumly. 'I stay 'round here, ol' grandfather an' ol' uncle cut my God damn balls off.'

The marshal said that it seemed wise, under the circumstances, for the youth not to stay there. 'Now, you seem to be basically a bright young man. Just the fellow I need for a job in my office…'

'Hey, is God damn fine, Marshal Harry!' I.K. exclaimed. 'I wear big badge, shoot people's ass off, yes?'

'We-el, no, not exactly. You'd be my chief broom-and-mop deputy. Have full charge of keeping all the offices clean. It doesn't sound like much of a job, perhaps,' the marshal went on. 'But it would pay you enough to live on, and give you an opportunity to go to school.'

'Humph!' said I.K. 'School!'

'Yes, school,' Thompson said. 'You need it, I.K. Without schooling, an education, I see a very unhappy life for you in Oklahoma.'

I.K. grunted, gave the marshal a sardonic look. For the first time, his voice took on an edge. 'I tell you 'bout Indian in Oklahoma, ol' marshal. What kinda life we gonna lead. Like you say, I smart young fella, so I tell you…'

'Yes?'

'No. All I tell you is, I know plenty already. How to gamble, get drunk, screw women. Is all I need to know.'

'How about lying?'

'Lying?'

'You heard me,' Thompson said sternly. 'You don't lie worth a damn, now do you? Why, I've caught you in two lies this morning, and I wasn't even trying.'

'But, dammit, was not -!' I.K. caught himself; fatalistically gulped down his denial. 'Hokay,' he sighed. 'Maybe not lie so damn good. Ol' Critch an' Arlie maybe lie one hell of a lot better, no shit.'

'Well, then.' The marshal spread his hands. 'Well, then, my young friend?'

'Well… I learn how to lie good in school?'

'Now, where else would you learn?' Thompson said equably.

'I learn from first-class liar books? Books full of God damn lies?'

'See for yourself,' Thompson shrugged.

'By God, I do it! We shake on it, Marshal Harry!'

He thrust out a grime-smeared palm.

Thompson looked down at it, diplomatically substituted a cigar for his own hand.

'Smoke up,' he said, striking and holding a match. 'To your glorious future as the biggest liar in Oklahoma.'

I.K. exhaled a great cloud of smoke. Gave him a shrewdly knowing grin.

'Don't kid me, kid,' he said. 'I a chicken inspector.' *d*

It was well before daylight when old Ike King, after an uneasily restless night, wearily pushed himself up from his bed and began to dress. The month was August and the night had been a scorcher, yet he could not fault the heat for his inability to sleep. Why, hell, heat had never bothered him no more than cold. Not really bothered him, that is, until maybe the last year or so. So, obviously, something else was making him feel as he did.

A feeling that old fires had begun to blaze in his stomach; that his lungs were all but choked on the fumes from them.

A feeling that his heart, despite its increasingly heavy pounding, might stop beating at any moment.

He finished dressing, sat down on the bed for a time to rest. He got to his feet again, trudged to the door and went out into the hall.

He and Tepaha met at the stairs, and they descended to the bar room together. Over stiff drinks, they grunted and grumbled at one another, and Tepaha revealed that he also had slept badly. Unlike Ike, however, he had pinpointed the cause.

It was the kitchen squaws. Old age had made them slovenly and careless, so that the best of food became botched in their hands. Consequently, there was such an uproar in a man's guts after eating that the thunder of it made sleep impossible. And he was indeed lucky to be wakeful, since he otherwise might die of the squaws' evil messes.

Ike said he was full of shit.

'Critch's been eatin' their cookin' for six months, ain't he? A swell young fella that ain't never et in nothin' but the finest places. He says the food's fine, an' I reckon he knows more than a stupid old bastard like you.'