King Blood

Tulsa knew just what to do about the Crazy Snake rebellion, the last of the Indian uprisings. She knew just what to do – and she did it – when race riots threatened to destroy the city. She…

But that is getting ahead of the story. Moving back a couple of hundred years to Auguste Choteau and his men:

Their 'firmness' with the residents of _tulsa lochopocas_ was repaid with interest. The Frenchmen were, in fact, forced to flee for their lives; heading their long boats on up the Arkansas, and thence into and up the Mississippi, along whose shores, in an uninviting stretch of mudflats, they at last established their permanent settlement, duly naming it after their patron saint.

It became a large and prosperous city, even as they had predicted. A city which Critch had often visited to his advantage. Now, at the end of his second day in Tulsa, with his wallet empty and the place where he carried it sore from a Tulsan's kicking, Critch cursed the foolish fate that had guided him here instead of to the friendly metropolis of Auguste Choteau's founding, the city of St. Louis.

In fact, Tulsa had so unnerved him that he was even fearful of responding to the small box-notice in the local newspaper. A boldface-type announcement that Critchfield King, youngest son of Isaac Joshua King, should immediately present himself at the offices of Judge Washington Dying Horse, attorney-at-law. *c*

It took a night of hunger and sleeplessness, a very long night without money for food or room, to change his fearfulness to fatalism and the conclusion that life could dip him in no sourer pickle than he was already in. In the morning, then, after shaving and tidying up at the railroad station, he at last presented himself at Judge Dying Horse's office.

They faced each other across the attorney's deal desk. Critch smiling equably, his manicured hands resting on the fake-gold head of his cane; the lawyer studying him out of dark and deep-set eyes, his bronzed face expressionless. Critch knew this waiting technique. The simple trick of it was to wait, forcing one's opponent – and the world was made up of opponents – to tip his hand.

At last the deep-set eyes surrendered to a blink, and their owner spoke. 'So you're Critchfield King, and you're twenty-three years old.'

'I am and I am,' Critch smiled, 'and you're Judge Washington, uh – I don't believe I've encountered the name before, sir? Cherokee, isn't it?'

It was gross flattery; the Cherokees were highly cultured, the most advanced of the Five Civilized Tribes. The attorney flatly rejected the compliment.

'The judge is honorary, Mr. King, and the name is Osage. One of the un-civilized tribes. Uncivilizable in the opinion of the United States government. That's why we were allocated this particular area of Oklahoma, one that ostensibly was only good for fishing and hunting rather than farming.'

'So?' Critch made subtle alterations in his smile. 'So you're plain Mr. Dying Horse, Osage lawyer, and you wanted to see me, Critchfield King, youngest son of Isaac Joshua King. Why?'

'I want you,' frowned the Osage, 'to tell me about yourself from the time you fled your father's bed and board with your mother and her lover – '

'I didn't flee it,' Critch lied. 'They abducted me.'

'That's likely; you were only ten. Now tell me all about yourself – what you've done, what you've become – from the age of ten to the present.'

'Why?'

'Why not?'

'Because there isn't much good to tell. Suppose you had been dominated by a professional criminal and a mother who was a whore and worse for the better part of your life. How much would you have to be proud of?'

'Well…' Attorney Dying Horse nodded grudgingly. 'But your mother herself ran away from this man. Chance – Raymond Chance – after a few years.'

'She did. Which left me completely under his control.'

'Didn't it occur to you to run away also?'

'It did, and I did.' Another lie, but it had all the earmarks of truth. 'Unfortunately, I didn't have my mother's, uh, resources for survival. It wasn't until a few years ago that I was finally able to make it.'

'Mmm. And since then?'

'A number of things. Bartender. Steamboat steward. Hotel clerk. Salesman…' The truth here; half the truth. He had had all those occupations, and many more, but only as springboards, entrees, to devious enterprise. 'I've spent most of my time lately in speculation.'

'Cotton?'

'What else?'

Dying Horse gave him a slow totting up: the expensive suit and hat; the handmade boots and spotless linen. A fine-looking, well-spoken young man. One who was almost too handsome; too plausible. Indian instinct whispered that here was a man neither to be liked nor trusted, yet he did like him and he did trust him.

'You seem to have done well at speculating, Mr. King.'

'I've made a living.'

'Such transactions are hard to trace.'

'Impossible, I'd say.'

'In fact,' the attorney persisted doggedly, 'I doubt that any part of your story could be checked on for truth and veracity.'

'I doubt it, too. And?'

The Osage sighed; laughed a little irritably. Instinct gave way to the compelling charm and personality of Critch King's (when he cared to use it), and abruptly he slammed his desk with an emphatic bronzed hand.

'And, Mr. King,' he said, coming to his feet, 'I think we should continue this discussion over drinks.'

In the private room of one of Tulsa's fancier saloons, an establishment with carpeted floors and crystal chandeliers, the lawyer poured whiskey for them and held a match to Critch King's cigar. He took a delicate taste of the liquor, studying his young guest over the brim of his glass. Critch was interestedly examining a framed document which hung on the wall – a handwritten testimonial to the saloon, signed by Washington Irving.

'You know _A Tour of the Prairies,_ Mr. King?'

'I thought I did until I saw this.' Critch nodded at the document. 'I didn't know Mr. Irving was ever in the Tulsa area.'

Dying Horse chuckled approvingly; agreed that the point was certainly moot. 'But we've had the printing arts, and the arts and craftsmen associated with them, in Eastern Oklahoma for a very long time. George Creekmore's newspaper was possibly the first major periodical west of the Mississippi.'

'A Cherokee language newspaper,' Critch nodded. 'Then this testimonial is probably a forgery?'

'Mmm. Done by a tramp journeyman with a small talent and a large thirst. Like the etching over there, for example.'

Critch arose and walked over to the far wall. He took a long look at the drawing which hung there, a picture of an Indian mounted on a pony, their heads bowed dispiritedly as they stared down the face of a cliff.

'No – ' with a shake of his head, Critch sat back down at their table. 'I'd have to disagree with you there, sir. That's a genuine Remington if I ever saw one.'

'You're a good judge of art, Mr. King!'

'Thank you, sir.'

'You're a remarkable young man, all around. How anyone could have overcome the handicaps you must have suffered to become a gentleman and a scholar…!'

Critch murmured appreciation for the lawyer's good opinion, modestly pointing out that hardship often brought out the best in a man. 'When a man's got no one to help him, he simply has to try harder. At least, that's the way I've always seen it. If a man truly wants to make something of himself, he can do it, regardless of birth and background!'

Dying Horse looked into his guest's innocently earnest young face, his heart warming as it seldom did to a white man. _Regardless of birth._ Now here was understanding for you! Here was a man who knew what it was to suffer and struggle against unbearable odds.