by Jim Thompson
"And," the marshal nodded his understanding, "that's all you need to do, to shine the light of recognition upon a world of strangers. I doubt that there lives a man with soul so dead that he doesn't pray for deliverance from anonymity."
His nephew's blue eyes lighted up with appreciation; he threw back his head and laughed, a laugh so utterly ingenuous and wholesomely good-humored as to warm the marshal's pragmatist's heart.
"Jim," he said. "Dammit all, Jim...!"
"Yes, sir?"
Marshal Thompson hesitated, started to speak, shook his head. After a time, he said, "Getting back to the subject of the Kiowa-Caddo-Comanche country, I think the sooner you're down there the better. My friends will give you all possible assistance. With their help, your peace officer's experience and your talent for making friends, you should be a shoo-in for sheriff when the county government is set up."
"Sheriff?" His nephew was disappointed. "I'm qualified to practise law. Why not county attorney?"
"Two reasons. You're qualified to practise law, but you've never practised. And an experienced and popular young lawyer, Al Jennings, wants the job."
"Oh," said the deputy flatly. "Oh."
"You don't like Al? Too many freckles for you?"
Deputy Thompson frowned, brushing the jest aside. "I can't trust him somehow. He seems, well, too personally involved with his clients. Too intrigued with them. You can't spend much time with him without his talking about how smart such and such a criminal is, or how much "easy money" he got away with."
"Mmm. So?"
"Well...I mean, look at it this way. We both know former outlaws, men who held up banks and robbed trains, who became peace officers. It seems possible, then, that a peace officer—a county attorney—could turn outlaw. Be a bank-robber or hold-up man."
"A grim prospect for Al," Marshal Thompson said gravely. "But a unique experience for you. You'll be about the first sheriff in history to arrest his county attorney."
Young Thompson grinned half-heartedly. Murmured that the unhappy precedent could be avoided if he became county judge, instead of sheriff. His uncle advised him that the judgeship was already nailed down by a mutual friend who was also an experienced jurist. The deputy expressed dismay.
"He's just not qualified, Uncle Harry. I don't know how he's managed to stay on the bench this long. Why, I've repeatedly heard him advise juries that a reasonable doubt is a doubt you can give a reason for!"
"Well? What's wrong with that?"
"He'll find out if he ever comes up against a truly gifted attorney. Someone like Temple Houston. It's a reversible error. Anyone ever convicted in his court will get a new trial for the asking."
The marshal grunted noncommittally; then, his memory stirred, he chuckled, stating that nothing which Temple Houston could do would greatly surprise him.
"I remember a case of his years ago. A dance-hall chippy who'd swindled a bank for practically all its assets. Well, the evidence was all against her; Temple hardly bothered to put on a defense. But, of course, he hadn't thrown in the towel. Ordinarily, this woman dressed to show everything north and south of her navel, but Temple kept her dressed in a sunbonnet and an old mother-hubbard. And when it came time for his summation to the jury, well," Thompson laughed, "I wish you could have been there, Jim. I can't remember everything he said, only the concluding words as he pointed from this chippy to the witnesses for the prosecution. "Who are you going to believe, gentlemen of the jury? I ask you, who are you going to believe—this poor old woman, who stands on the crumbling precipice of eternity, or that blood-sucking octopus with its tentacles in Wall Street and its teeth in the throat of our tortured citizenry—'The First Territorial Bank of Pumpkin Wells, Oklahoma!"' The jury brought in a not guilty verdict without leaving the box."
Deputy Thompson chuckled appreciatively. The marshal recalled another Temple Houston incident.
"It was late in the afternoon, and Temple had been looking pretty wan all day. Right in the middle of cross-examining a witness, he turned to the judge and asked for a thirty-minute adjournment. His honor naturally wanted to know the reason for the request. Temple said it was to preserve the dignity of the court. "I have such a terrible hangover, sir, that only a few quick drinks will save me from flying apart, creating such an unholy mess in these hallowed precincts that even the Blind Goddess must become aware of it, and, lifting her robes, flee in terror."
"Well, his honor pursed his lips judiciously, and glanced at the county attorney. "What say the people?" he asked.
""May it please the court," the prosecutor said, "the people's concern for the dignity of the court is second only to our sympathy and admiration for our illustrious opponent-at-law. We will be happy to concur in his request for a recess, and even happier to join him for a drink."
""So will I," the judge said. "Adjournment granted." The three of them went across to the saloon together, and—"
"Uncle Harry," said Deputy Thompson, ''Uncle Harry.''
"...and then they—Well, what is it?" Marshal Thompson frowned grumpily. "You interrupted a very good story."
"I'm sorry. I just wanted to say that I'll be very happy to take the job as sheriff. It should be an excellent stepping-stone to higher office."
"Stepping-stone? It's an important job in itself."
"I'm sure you're right, sir. And I'd certainly give it my undivided attention as long as I held it. But—"
"I know, I know," the marshal gestured irritably. "You aspire to higher office. The very highest in the country, correct? Now, don't sit there looking lofty. And, for God's sake, don't tell me that any man can be president!"
"Why not, Uncle Harry?" His nephew was honestly puzzled.
"I'll ask you a question. What is the male population of the United States, and how many of those males may simultaneously occupy the office of president?"
"Well...there can only be one president at a time, of course, but—"
"Correct, only one, despite the fact that there must be many, many others equally well qualified among the multi-million population of males. You worry me, Jim," Marshal Thompson shook his head troubledly. "I'm afraid my favorite niece-in-law, your dear mother, did you a serious disservice in your childhood. She should have taught you more arithmetic, and dwelt less on the fact that Abe Lincoln was her fourth cousin."
'"Second' cousin. After all he would hardly have performed the marriage ceremony for a mere fourth cousin."
"Second cousin, eh? And Mr. Lincoln married her to your father? Interesting, very interesting. There seems to have been a remarkable improvement in your mother's memory, or mine has abandoned me completely."
"After I serve as sheriff," said Deputy Thompson firmly, "I shall run for Congress."
"Oh, shut up," said his uncle.
"You introduced the subject of politics, sir. I was trying to discuss the murder of the Anderson woman, Little Sis, that is—"
"How do we know it was Little Sis? How do we know she was murdered?"
"Well...of course, we can't make positive identification. But it would certainly seem a safe assumption that the dead woman was she, and that—"
"We can assume that, yes. We can also assume that she was murdered by her older sister. Little Sis jumped the train when she discovered that Big Sis was following her. The latter went right out the window after Little Sis, who she thought was carrying the loot from their many murders—'and she may have been carrying it, Jim.' Big Sis may have gotten it all back from her before beating her to death."
"But Little Sis couldn't have had the money! Critchfield King had stolen it from her!"
"Did he?"
"Of course, he did! And Arlington King stole it from him."
"Did he?"
"Yes, certainly! You know he must have, Uncle Harry! Why—why, everything points to the fact that—"
"It points to it, in our minds. Which way it would point in the minds of a jury is something else again, as you should know better than I. Or didn't you tell me you were a q
ualified attorney? No, Jim," the marshal averred firmly. "We have no evidence to go on at all, at this point. Not one whit of proof. We can assume certain things, and I think our assumptions may be correct. Whether we can prove it or not depends on Big Sis."
"On 'her?' How?"
"Quite simply. Assuming that Big Sis was on the train with her sister and Critch King, she must have gotten a good look at Critch. Enough to recognize him if she ever saw him again. Also, she may have found out who he was from someone on the train. Or, if he was using his right name, she could have gotten it from Little Sis before pounding her to death. In other words, assuming that Critch did steal the money, Big Sis will probably try to get it back from him."
Deputy Thompson leaned forward excitedly. "You think she's still in the area, then? Why don't we organize a search party and hunt her down?"
"Hunt exactly where? She could be any place within a fifty mile area. We could possibly dig her up if we had enough time and money, but that would still leave this job half done. Critch King—and, Arlie, too, perhaps—is guilty of being an accessory. The only way we can get him, or them, is through her."
"I see," the deputy nodded. "You'll keep a watch on Critch, and when she tries to make contact with him..."
"Right," the marshal said. "Right, Jim. And now as your relative and friend, I again implore you to drop your preposterous political aspirations."
"Sorry," his nephew said shortly. "I see nothing preposterous about them."
"But you 'must!' Territorial Oklahoma is governed by appointed Republicans. The state, however, will be Democratic. It's geographically southern, and the settlers are mainly southern, so it will go into the Democratic column. You can overcome that handicap as a candidate for local office, sheriff, that is. You'll have the opportunity to meet people at first hand, to get to know them and become friends with them. And that's all you need to do. But if you run for Congress or the Senate, where it's largely a matter of speech-making and impersonal contact..." He broke off, studying his nephew's adamant expression. "I know what I'm talking about, Jim. It's my business to know these things. I can even tell you who your opponent would most likely be in a congressional race."
"Very interesting," said the deputy.
"His name is Gore. Keep it in mind, you'll be hearing it for years to come. He's a southerner, a gentleman and a scholar. He's also blind—which will get him a huge sympathy vote, even though he doesn't need it or want it. Don't tangle with him, Jim. He'll beat your pants off if you do."
"I doubt that, sir."
"Do you," Marshal Thompson asked, "doubt the existence of the word, nephewcide?"
"I don't think I've ever heard of it, sir."
"Hmmm," said his uncle ominously. "Hmmm."
Author's note: After three terms as sheriff of Caddo County, Oklahoma, James Sherman Thompson ran for Congress against Mr. Gore. Thompson's three-car campaign train carried a banner on each car, the three spelling out his full name. The brass band accompanying the train played 'Marching Through Georgia' at each stop. Inevitably, Thompson suffered a smashing defeat, one which, by association, reflected disastrously upon his uncle. Recovering from the debacle after several years, they were powerful political figures in Oklahoma for almost two decades. And several towns in the state bore some form of the family name; for example', Jimtomson.'
The fictional Anderson sisters had their real-life counterpart in the Bender family, operators of a murder-for-money roadhouse in southern Kansas. Like Big Sis and Little Sis, the Benders are said to have fled into Oklahoma Territory, successfully eluding a pursuing posse and eventually becoming highly respected citizens of the new state. According to another story, however, the posse lied in reporting that the family had escaped. Actually (or so the story goes) the Benders were caught and killed by their pursuers, who then appropriated their ill-gotten wealth for themselves.
The anecdotes concerning attorney Temple Houston are basically true. A reasonable doubt is not, of course, "a doubt that you can give a reason for'. In so advising juries, the judge in question (we mercifully omit his name) committed a reversible error—one which secured new trials for approximately half the Territorial prison population.
Al Jennings, first county attorney of Caddo County, Oklahoma, ended a most promising political career, by turning outlaw. He showed little aptitude for his new vocation—the entire loot from one train robbery consisted of a bunch of bananas—and other hootowlers jeered his wild tales of gun-battles with lawmen. (His one battle seems actually to have been with a low-hanging tree branch, which knocked out several front teeth.) In a more enlightened era, Jennings might have received the psychiatric treatment which his erratic behavior so clearly dictated. In early day Oklahoma, however, prison was the one place for criminals. And the freckle-splotched former attorney 'was' a criminal, by his own admission if nothing else. While in prison, Jennings gained a sad sort of fame by recounting his "exploits' to a widely read writer. In actuality, the one man seriously hurt or deprived by Jennings would seem to be Jennings himself.
The King ranch, and the town of King's Junction, with its various appurtenances and enterprises, are strictly the product of the author's imagination. Completely fictional, also, are the people who populate the town and ranch, including the Kings themselves. Anyone even vaguely familiar with Oklahoma history will know that such places and people did not and could not exist. Anyone not thus familiar will have to accept their non-existence on the word of the author, the son of James Sherman Thompson.
Aching in every bone, Critch lay on a bunk in the abandoned farmhouse, his mattress a pile of grain sacks, his covering the blanket from his horse. He didn't seem to have broken anything, though how he had escaped a fractured neck was miraculous. Joshie bent over him, gently brushing the hair back from his forehead, asking anxiously if he was sure he was all right.
"I'll live." Critch managed a smile. "Nothing worse than a bad jolting. I just hope you didn't hurt yourself in lugging me in here."
"Ho!" Joshie dismissed the notion. "I God damn plenty strong squaw. Strong like hell, by God!"
He smiled at her, laughed softly. She looked away abashedly, eyes downcast. Very carefully, spacing the words out, she said, "I...am...very...sorry. I...do...not...talk...good."
"Joshie," said Critch, "Joshie, dear, I like the way you talk. I wouldn't change a word of it for the world."
"You—you really mean?" Her wide-wide eyes searched his face. "No shit?"
"No shit," he said warmly. "I like everything about you."
He meant it. For a momentary eternity he had been dead; he had met death face to face, and the look and smell of her had terrified him.
And now, mercifully, thanks to luck and Joshie's prompt ministrations, he had been brought back into life. Joshie had intervened as death clutched at him. Joshie would provide whatever was needed to complete his rescue.
'Like' her? Like was hardly the word. He would have loved her if she had been half a ton in weight, with a face as homely as a mud fence.
Smiling, he held out his arms to her: one of the few entirely sincere acts of his misspent life. He drew her face down against his, feeling the soft breasts press upon his chest, feeling the wild pounding of her heart. With incredible gentleness—so gently that he was hardly aware of it—she slid a leg across his body, then drew up the other leg. And was at last in the bunk with him; was lying on top of him.
Unwillingly, he tried to protest, and found her mouth covering his. The protest died in his throat; and she raised her body slightly, one of her small quick hands busying itself with her trousers. The hand finished its task, gave a single swift pull at the fly of his levis. Then, she had settled down upon him again, the small soft-hard body pressing harder and harder. It began to jerk, in epileptic rhythm, delicately fitting itself into and around his own body. And her lips whispered frantically, ecstatically pouring out a stumbling stream of innocent lewdness.
'And the soft moistness caressing his crotch. And the bared buttocks fi
lling his hands. And—'
"Holy God!" He let out a yell. "What the hell is this?"
He gave her a shove, almost yelling again at the sharp stabs of pain which the action induced. Joshie flew out of the bunk, stumbling in her lowered trousers and sat down hard on the floor.
She came to her feet, slowly pulling her pants up and fastening them; frowning at him more in wonder than in anger.
"Why you do, ol' Critch? You say you like me."
'"Why?' Why, God damn it—" He caught himself. "Well, I do like you, Joshie. I mean it, I like you very much. That's why I couldn't let you do this."
"Is 'why?"'
"Of course. When a man likes and respects a girl as much as I do you, well, uh, he doesn't do that to her. Or let her do it to herself."
"No?" Her head tilted puzzledly to one side. "He only fock girl he don't like?"
"Uh, well, no, I don't mean that exactly. You see, uh—" he hesitated. "You see, it's like this, Joshie. Nice girls aren't supposed to have relations with a man unless they're married to him."
"No want relations. Just fock. Anyway, maybe so sometime we get married, I betcha."
"Well, uh, yes. Maybe we will sometime. But—"
"Sure t'ing," said Joshie with utmost certitude. "King blood got to mix with blood of Tepaha. Is way it is."
Critch wet his lips, nervously; mumbled that what she said was undoubtedly true. But marriage was something that lay in their future; just how far he was unprepared to say, since they had grown up in different worlds and he needed time to adjust to this one. Also—
"Also, make no God damn difference," Joshie declared firmly. "We gonna get married. Now we what you call engage', so is all right to fock."
"Dammit, Joshie!" Critch started to rise from the bunk, then flopped back with a groan. "I—didn't you hear your grandfather this morning? He said you shouldn't say such words."
"Huh-uh, did not. He say should only be used between man "n' woman. Anyway, don't want to say words "bout it; just want to do it."
