King Blood

Never any more for Critch. After this, there would never be anything. Nothing that would make him draw back, or prod tellingly at his conscience.

_'You see how it is, Critch? You see?'_

I see.

_'Beat that yellow ass, boy! Pound that pretty tail!'_

Critch took the belt. *b*

Mr. Isaac Joshua King,

King Junction,

Oklahoma Territory.

Dear Sir:

This is to urge you to ignore the highly complimentary letter anent your son, Critchfield, which I wrote you earlier today, as I have since found that my endorsement of him was wholly unwarranted. These are the circumstances:

_While having refreshments with your son, I suddenly discovered that my wallet was missing. With apparent generosity he paid our bill with a ten-dollar banknote, and I thought no more of the incident until several hours later – after I had written my first letter to you – when I was called upon by the proprietor of the establishment we had visited. He had the ten-dollar banknote, a worthless wildcat, with him. Since it had been spent by a companion of mine, though a stranger to him, he wished me to make good on it (which, of course, I did)._

Now, sir, I remember this particular banknote well. I had carried it in my wallet for a long time, more or less as a souvenir, and I had marked it in a distinctive fashion as a reminder that I was not to spend it. There could not possibly be two such bills with two such markings. Under the circumstances, there cannot be the slightest doubt that your son, Critchfield, stole my wallet.

I don't know how or when he did it. Nor do I know why such a prepossessing young man, who is obviously not in the slightest need of money, would stoop to thievery. Yet the damning truth is clear, and there can be no denying it.

With sincere regrets,

Washington Dying Horse

Attorney-at-law *c*

It was almost noon, of the fourth day after the theft, and Critch was still in Tulsa. A deadly inertia had gripped him, one born of funk and the fear of failure, and he could not move himself to do what he must do.

He paced the floor of his cheap hotel room, the cheapest which the smallest claim to fastidiousness had allowed him to take. Desperately, he slammed the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. Taking out his billfold, he again recounted its contents.

Not enough, he thought ruefully, returning the wallet to his pocket. Rather, there was barely enough for the basics of his plan. By the time he paid his modest hotel bill and bought his ticket to King's Junction, he would be just about broke. Maybe a few dollars left over for food and a few drinks along the way, but no more than that. He'd be broke when he reached the junction. Which simply meant that the trip would be wasted. For he'd won only half the battle in his acceptance by Attorney Dying Horse.

Old Ike King was the one who had to be convinced. Old Ike, with his thousands upon thousands of valuable acres and the untold wealth that went with them.

Ike King would accept no one as his heir who was not completely worthy – worthy by his standards. And those standards would be extremely rigid where Critch was concerned. He was under a very big cloud, was Critch. The old man would have him identified with his wife's faithlessness and treachery. Only success, money – concrete proof that he had risen far above this evil disadvantage – would satisfy Ike.

_Or maybe not, Critch thought hopefully. Maybe I'm being too hard on him. After all, I haven't seen him in thirteen years. So maybe_…

Maybe nothing. The fact that he'd been away for thirteen years was the trouble. Old Ike hadn't been able to keep tabs on him, as he had with his sons Arlington and Bosworth. Arlie, who was a year older than Critch, and Boz, who was a year older than Arlie, had remained with their father all these years. Working on his vast holdings, unquestioningly doing his bidding. And they'd damned well managed to please him – to prove their right to be his heirs – or Old Ike would have kicked them out. He, Critch, on the other hand…

Critch grinned wryly, his mind sliding off on a tangent as he thought of the high-sounding names.

_Critchfield, Arlington and Bosworth._ His mother had copied them from the hotel register. As stupid as she was, it was a damned good thing that there'd been no travelers named Screwingwell or Fartsinajug!

His moth – he jerked his thoughts away from her. Brought them back to his two brothers.

Arlie and Boz. They'd have to be killed, of course. All of something was infinitely better than a third. And he could never be sure of even a third as long as his brothers lived. The old man might draw unflattering comparisons between them and him. He just might decide to disinherit the youngest son. On the other hand, if only that youngest son were alive, with no one else to inherit…

Yes, Arlie and Boz would have to go. He would have to kill them. And murdering Boz, at least, would be a positive pleasure. A mean bastard, that Boz. Senselessly mean. Always twisting your arms or bending back your fingers or jabbing you with a stick. Any damned thing to hear you holler. Old Ike had caught him skinning a live kitten one day, and he'd had the kitten cooked for Boz's supper. And he'd made him eat it, too. Old Ike would give him a crack with a horsewhip every time he'd stopped eating; never letting up on his son until he'd begun vomiting blood. But that still didn't let Boz off the hook. He was allowed to stop eating, but only for that night. He got cat for breakfast the next morning and every meal after that – no other food, by God – until he'd eaten every damned bit of it.

And even that didn't change Boz a bit. He'd gotten sneakier, harder to catch in his nastiness, but he was meaner than ever.

Critch had acquired the learning and maturity of mind to understand why Boz was as he was. He'd never forgiven his brother, but he did understand him. As the oldest son, he'd caught the full force of his father's sternness, excruciatingly dulling it with his hide and making it bearable for his younger brothers. As the oldest, more had been demanded of him. When he couldn't deliver, promptly and perfectly, Old Ike had landed on him. So, inevitably, Boz had turned mean. Helpless against his father's wrath, Boz had turned his own rage against other helpless things.

As for Arlington – Arlie – well, his demise would genuinely trouble Critch (though not enough to keep him from bringing it off). Most middle-children get relatively little attention, as compared with a family's youngest and oldest, suffering neither spoiling nor strictness. Thus, they develop as a benign nature dictates they should – giving happiness to get it, being pleasing to be pleased – and they usually turn out well.

Arlie was hard and tough, as any son of Old Ike would have to be. But along with it he was good-natured and helpful. A nice guy. Or so Critch thought of him…

Now, Critch jumped up from the bed with a curse. Angrily telling himself that it was time to get moving.

He had to do something – something, by God! – and he had to do it now. Lifting his two expensive bags to the bed, he impatiently sorted through them, inventorying the expensive suits and shirts, and all the other accoutrements of a well-heeled gentleman.

He finished his assay; stood frowning, his eyes narrowed in thought. A lot of valuable stuff, but it wouldn't bring much at a second-hand store. Wouldn't do to sell it, anyway, since, as much as money, he needed the appearance. Once a man lost his front, he couldn't operate.

There was one thing, now. The watch. The impressively embossed watch, with its studding of sparkling stones, which bore a famous and honored name.

Critch lifted it from his Gladstone and held it up for examination. A watch like that was worth five hundred dollars – as any fool could see. Rather, it would have been worth five hundred, if it had been the gold that it appeared to be, and if the apparent diamonds had been real, and if the brand name had been genuine instead of counterfeit.

The trouble with selling a thing like this was that (1) you had to claim ownership, and (2) a professional estimate of its value was invariably called for. Oh, of course, you could probably unload it on someone for a quick double sawbuck. But expert fakery like this was costly, and turning it for a twenty would be little more than a matter of swapping dollars.