Free King Blood by Jim Thompson

'Well? What are you waiting for, man? I want to get cleaned up before we arrive in King's Junction.'
    The conductor took the checks and the money, his dull face registering confusion. Then, in sudden alarm, he tried to thrust them back at Critch.
    _'King's Junction?'_ he said. 'Mister, we passed King's Junction fifteen-twenty minutes ago!'
    'You passed it!' Critch said with a fine show of incredulity. 'After all my instructions to your man in Tulsa, you carried me past the Junction!'
    'B-but – but I called it out. Maybe you didn't hear me, but – '
    'I left instructions that I be called personally! Incidentally, King is the name. Critchfield King.'
    'But no one told me nothin' about – King?' said the conductor. 'Did you say – are you any relation to – to – '
    'I am. Isaac Joshua King is my father. You've heard the name, I imagine?'
    The conductor nodded miserably. Had he ever heard of him! Everyone connected with the railroad, from president to porter, had heard of Old Ike King and dreaded incurring his wrath. Not so long before, when the railroad had been somewhat slow in paying for a couple of runover cows, Old Ike had had a train log-chained to its tracks; delaying it some six hours until a division superintendent could arrive by special train to apologize and make a payment in person.
    Ike King was a law unto himself. As the personal friend of at least one president of the United States – a man who had visited the Junction and hunted with him – the laws governing ordinary mortals seemed simply not to apply to him.
    So now the conductor cringed and mumbled repeated apologies as Critch berated him. Never guessing the young man's real reason for the tirade. Forgetting his suspicions, the mystery of the shattered window and the missing woman, as Critch mercilessly bawled him out.
    ' – a disgrace. This railroad and everyone connected with it! Talk about your slow trains through Arkansas! I could have crawled faster than this thing travels!'
    'Well, y'see, this is a local, Mr. King. Has to stop at every wide place in the road. Now we got an express that – '
    'I'll bet! Probably has a top speed of twelve miles an hour!'
    'No, sir. It can hit twenty-twenty-five, if the grade's right. But – '
    'Oh, forget it. Who cares?' said Critch, with exaggerated weariness. 'You've carried me past my stop. Now, I assume you're going to tell me that you don't have a drawing room available.'
    The conductor nodded unhappily. 'Did have one until a little spell ago. If I'd known – ' He broke off, beaming with sudden delight. 'Your brother! Now how the heck could I have forgot?'
    'My brother?' Critch frowned. 'What about him?'
    'I mean, he's the one that got the last stateroom! You can share it with him!' *b*
    Arlie greeted Critch enthusiastically, enveloping him in a bearhug which the latter could have well done without in view of the money he was carrying. At last releasing himself, Critch shot a questioning glance at the young Indian who lolled on one of the room's upholstered benches – an Apache youth with a bandaged hand and citified clothes. Arlie said that they could talk openly, since the young man knew barely a dozen words of English.
    'Gonna make it damned hard for him in El Reno,' he added. 'But he had to have a fling at city life, so Paw told him to take off.'
    'I see,' Critch smiled, and he attempted to introduce himself. But through lack of usage, the Apache language had become virtually so much Greek to him. And it was left to Arlie to perform the introductions. He did so at some length, the youth apparently being rather stupid and having to ask numerous questions. Finally, however, the Indian grunted in understanding, and grinned a hopeful question at Critch.
    'Whiskey?' he said.
    'Why, yes,' Critch smiled. 'I have a – '
    'But he ain't getting it,' Arlie declared. 'The son-of-a-bitch ain't gettin' no more until we hit El Reno. Hear me, I.K.' – he spat out another fluent stream of Apache. 'No more.'
    The