by Jim Thompson
Ray's eyes blazed. The belt whipped up and down, up and down, furiously raining blows upon the ever-hungering flesh. And, silently, the door to the adjoining room opened, and Critch looked in on them.
He moved instinctively, without a split-second's thought. A simple reaction to Ray's action. Hurling himself between this man and his mother; automatically stopping what had to be stopped, as the blink of an eyelid stops a probing. Because it must. Because there is great loss if it is not.
And then, looking up at Ray, a little frightened by what he had done. Frightened and apologetic. Yet still driven by an inbred urge, he struck feebly at his idol, causing the man to fall back a step.
"Y-you can't do that," he quavered. "You don't...y-you can't—mustn't hit a woman."
The voice was his, but the words, the age-long injunction, at least, were his father's. A she, girl or woman, could not be hit. It might make her titties rot or screw-up her innards (which were plenty screwed-up to begin with, and not like the good guts of a man). 'I ever catch you hittin' another gal, boy, I'll yank off your pecker an' flog you t' death with it.' The Apache, Tehapa, Old Ike's oldest and dearest friend, had endorsed the tabu against the hitting of shes, although he had privately added a qualification. It was bad medicine to beat woman (just as it was bad to beat young children, when their peters and pussies were still inside them and might be injured thereby). But there 'were' occasions when it was not only well but necessary to 'kill' a woman. This was so, and all wise men knew it.
And now, Critch looked up at Ray fearfully and apologetically. But stubbornly, with a sense of righteousness. "You can't, Ray," he stammered. "I'm s-sorry, but you mustn't."
"No?" Ray smiled, cocking a quizzical brow. "Now, why is that, hmmm?"
"Because!"
"Yes? Why because?"
"You know. Because it's—it's—"
Critch couldn't find the words to explain. Given time, he might have conjured them from the shadows of the past, but he was not given time.
His mother was suddenly behind him, knotting furious fingers in his hair. Giving him a twirling yank that sent him staggering across the room to come up solidly against the wall.
He slid down the wall, sat down on the floor with a small thud. A little dizzily he stared at the hate-filled face of his mother. And words came to him from the mouth of that face, a torrent of filth from the whore's vocabulary.
Mothersuckin' turd, grannygobbler, jismeater, screwing little shit. "What d'ya mean, huh? Hah? What d'ya mean hittin' Ray? I'll learn you, yuh bastard! Beat the fuckin' piss out of yuh!"
She started toward him, hesitated; sidled an approval-seeking glance at Ray. His face was expressionless, and she humbly lifted his hand and tried to kiss it.
He pulled it away from her. Crossing the room to Critch, he held the hand down to him. Hesitantly, Critch took it and was helped to his feet, his eyes shifting between his mother and Ray. Between woman and man. Scowling whore and smiling gentleman.
"You see how it is, Critch? You try to help her, and you see what happens? You see? You see what happens?"
Critch stared at the woman. She stared back at him stolidly, scornfully. And then her expression changed, and then it changed again. And again and again and again, as its owner sought to adjust and sort out, and find some verity that could be lived with. And at last finding only what there was to be found, all that there ever is for anyone, be it gold or base-metal or merely dross. But inevitably acceptable, in any case, because that is all there is and there is no more.
She accepted it as she had at the beginning. A worst that was still the best. Eyes narrowed sensuously, painted mouth parted with promise, she lay back down on the bed and rolled over on her stomach.
"Critch?" Ray held out the belt, smiling. "It's all right, Critch."
Critch looked at the belt. He looked at the woman on the bed, and back again. Numbly; frozen. His emotions locked on dead-center in this endless moment in time. They caught there, caught between the irresistible force of heredity and the immovable object of circumstance. How can one move, when there is no place to move to?
As if from a great distance, a sound came to his ears. A faint creak, a fainter slithering. Terrified, fighting with everything that was in him, Critch struggled to hold his gaze steady, to keep it from moving to the bed. Yet little by little, that something that was at the very core of his being crumbled and gave way, and silently screaming he went over the precipice.
The sleazily revealing nightgown was slowly sliding upward. Slowly, so slowly, like the faulty curtain on a play.
First, there was only the hint of a shadowy cleft. Then, with a small jerk, a definite glimpse of it; the beginning of a cleavage which widened gradually as the gown slid higher and higher. Now, twin hillocks of softness; sand-colored, swelling and flaring, and curving in to the tiny waist. Now, the shadowy canyon shallowing between those hillocks; tapering, as they curved, into the faintest of indentations, and disappearing entirely at the dimpled base of her spine...
No more then.
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.
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
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 woul
d 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.
The watch couldn't be sold, then. It was his one bet, but he could attempt no scheme with it which might bring trouble. Too much was at stake, and he was simply too funky to face trouble.
What he needed was a fool, a prize Grade-A chump. One who could be cashed in fast and heavily. And in a way which could not possibly bring a kickback.
Where was one most likely to find such a fool? What was the way whereby said fool could be safely cashed in?
Critch's scowl of concentration suddenly disappeared, and a slow smile spread over his handsome face.
She had come in on the train from the north some thirty minutes ago. A young woman, judging by what he could glimpse through her filmy half veil. He couldn't see much of her face; and her clothes, odds and ends of ill-fitting stuff, pretty well concealed her body. But whether she was attractive or well-shaped didn't matter. In all the things that did matter, she seemed to fit the bill.
A fool traveling alone. A fool with a couple of pretty nice bags. Getting off the train from the north, she'd come into the station with timidity-slumped shoulders, and glanced around with quick shyness. Then she'd retired to a bench well away from everyone else, and she'd been sitting there ever since. Head ducked, hands clenched in her lap. So frightened and nervous by these strange surroundings that she'd probably jump if you said boo to her.
She hadn't traveled far: wasn't sufficiently rumpled and smoke-smeared to have come from any great distance. But her manner and the two heavy bags indicated that she had some distance to go. Critch felt the train-ticket nestled in an inner pocket of his tailored coat, wondering if he could possibly be as lucky as the signs seemed to indicate.
He'd bought the ticket, intending to cash it in if he had to, to the army-base town of Lawton. Buying it at an excursion rate and getting it much cheaper than the fare to King's Junction, which was a shorter distance away. Now, if this scared-to-death little skirt was also going to Lawton—
Well, it didn't matter too much either way. She was obviously a fool who could be cashed in for something.
Critch straightened his shoulders. He came briskly out of the shadowed recess from which he had been studying her, looked sharply around the waiting room in the manner of a man seeking someone, then allowed himself to see her. She seemed to make herself smaller under his stare. Frowning, keeping his eyes fixed on her shrinking figure, Critch strode across the waiting room and sat down next to her.
"May I see your ticket?" he said firmly.
"W-wha—" A frightened gasp from behind the veil. "W-why—what—?"
"Your ticket please! Let me see it."
He held out his hand. She fumbled open her purse, allowing him a quick look at the comfortable roll of bills inside, and almost snatched out the ticket.
Critch took it, and examined it at length. His pulse quickening a little as he saw its destination.
Lawton—Fort Si
ll. A soldier's wife or prospective bride, or kin. And she'd never been there before, obviously, or she wouldn't be so nervous about it.
"Going to Fort Sill, eh?" He handed back the ticket. "Is that your home?"
"N-no, sir. It's Kan—I mean, Missouri."
"Yes?"—very sharply.
"M-Missouri. Kansas City, Missouri."
She gave him the street address; then, with a frightened little rush, told him her name. Anderson, Anne Anderson. And she was the wife of Private John Anderson, and they'd been married when he was home on furlough, and now she was going to join him, and—and—
"Now, now, dear..." Smiling warmly, he cut her off. "I'm Captain Crittenden, base legal officer at the post. Perhaps you've heard your husband speak of me? Well, at any rate, I had to establish who you were and be sure you were an honest person, because..."
Because of this valuable watch he'd found at the entrance to the depot. (A beauty, wasn't it? Solid gold, with diamonds.) The station agent didn't look very reliable to him. Probably say he was going to turn the watch over to the rightful owner, and never do it—and how could he, the Captain, be sure it was done after he'd gone on his way? He'd made a few inquiries on his own without any luck, and now he had business up in town for a few minutes. So as long as she was going to be here, anyway, would she mind keeping the watch in case the owner showed up?
"Oh, no! I mean, oh, yes, of course, I'll do it!" She was almost tearful with relief at the abrupt warming of his attitude. "I'll stay right here! That's a promise, Captain, and you can depend on it! I—I mean, you don't need to worry—"
