Gutzman mistook her weariness for boredom. Thus, fearful as always of losing her, he had humbly apologized for being poor company – for having so little to offer – and promised to relieve the monotony by taking her on a sightseeing trip.
'Not for more than a day it vould be, because of der animals. But ve could – '
'Oh, hell, Gutzy,' Ethel yawned. 'What's there to see around here?'
'Veil – veil, dere is, uh – '
'Yah?'
'Vell, hu – ' Gutzman suddenly brightened, remembering. 'Not so far to der vest, dere is dis very fonny place. It is owned by an old man, a vite man – a beeg ranch, almost a whole county it iss, mit a little town. But dis vite man, only Indians he has to vork for him. Hundreds of vild Indians.'
'Honey,' Ethel said. 'I wouldn't walk across the street to watch an Indian screw himself in the ear.'
'Iss fonny place,' Gutzman insisted. 'Dis old vite man, badt poys, he has. Oh, dey are very mean, dis old man's sons. Already, vun of dem has killed his brother. And now anudder son has come home, so – so, uh, vell – '
'That's funny, all right,' Ethel said. 'I'm weak from laughter.'
'Iss called the Junction,' Gutzman mumbled. 'King's Junction. Der sons are – '
'King!' Ethel exclaimed, suddenly coming alive. 'Critchfield King!'
Gutzman stared at her in the moonlight. At last nodded, frowning suspiciously. 'Yah, dere is a poy named Critchfield. How you know?'
'I guessed it, you potbellied horse's ass!' Ethel laughed gaily. 'I'm the best God damned little guesser in the world.'
'But – guess you could not!'
'I just did, Gutzy. Iss so – yah?'
'No! You lie to me!'
Ethel looked at him coldly. She said, all right, if that was the way he wanted it. 'But if that is the way you want it, Gutzy, you've just lost a bedmate. I'm moving out on you!'
'But – but, liebchick. All I vant iss – '
'All you want,' Ethel said, 'is someone to screw all night, and listen to you all day, yah? And that's what I give you, yah? So if you want me to keep on giving it to you, Gutzy, you'd better pop to. When I tell you something, you'd God damned well better believe it, get me? You do it, or you'll be talking to yourself and skinning your dingus through a knothole.'
'But – but – '
'No buts. You see that thing up there in the sky? You think that's a moon? Well, it's not, Gutzy. It's a solid-gold pisspot. The angels use it whenever they have to take a leak. Iss right, yah?'
Gutzman gulped painfully. He wet his lips, looking at the soft swelling of her breasts as she breathed; at the rich thighs, suggestively spread over the saddle.
'Well?' Ethel said. 'Do you believe me or not? How about it? Are you going to have me or a knothole?'
Gutzman nodded feebly, his voice a mere whisper. 'Yah. I believe.'
'Believe what?'
'Iss – iss no moon. Only solidt-gold pisspot.'
'Good boy,' Ethel smiled approvingly. 'Now, we understand each other.'
'And now you are mine, Greta? Alvays, you vill be mine?'
'Always,' Ethel promised. 'As long as you live…' *b*
His head buried in his hands, Critch sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, grimly wishing that he could bury Arlie's head (preferably in cement, and after severing it from his body), if for no other reason than to stop his brother's endless sympathizing. It was bad enough to have lost the seventy-two thousand dollars. But to have to listen to the woeful mourning of the man who had stolen it from him – well, that was too damned much to bear!
Arlie had been leaving him with sympathy for hours. Ever since he had carried Critch up to his room, and brought him back into consciousness. And how understanding, how forgiving, he had been over Critch's earlier attempt to slug him!
_Now, don't you fret none, little brother. Mighta done the same thing myself. Fella loses a lot o' money, he just naturally strikes out at anything near him._
Critch reached down to the floor for the whiskey bottle; momentarily drowned out Arlie's voice in a long, gurgling drink.
'Not for more than a day it vould be, because of der animals. But ve could – '
'Oh, hell, Gutzy,' Ethel yawned. 'What's there to see around here?'
'Veil – veil, dere is, uh – '
'Yah?'
'Vell, hu – ' Gutzman suddenly brightened, remembering. 'Not so far to der vest, dere is dis very fonny place. It is owned by an old man, a vite man – a beeg ranch, almost a whole county it iss, mit a little town. But dis vite man, only Indians he has to vork for him. Hundreds of vild Indians.'
'Honey,' Ethel said. 'I wouldn't walk across the street to watch an Indian screw himself in the ear.'
'Iss fonny place,' Gutzman insisted. 'Dis old vite man, badt poys, he has. Oh, dey are very mean, dis old man's sons. Already, vun of dem has killed his brother. And now anudder son has come home, so – so, uh, vell – '
'That's funny, all right,' Ethel said. 'I'm weak from laughter.'
'Iss called the Junction,' Gutzman mumbled. 'King's Junction. Der sons are – '
'King!' Ethel exclaimed, suddenly coming alive. 'Critchfield King!'
Gutzman stared at her in the moonlight. At last nodded, frowning suspiciously. 'Yah, dere is a poy named Critchfield. How you know?'
'I guessed it, you potbellied horse's ass!' Ethel laughed gaily. 'I'm the best God damned little guesser in the world.'
'But – guess you could not!'
'I just did, Gutzy. Iss so – yah?'
'No! You lie to me!'
Ethel looked at him coldly. She said, all right, if that was the way he wanted it. 'But if that is the way you want it, Gutzy, you've just lost a bedmate. I'm moving out on you!'
'But – but, liebchick. All I vant iss – '
'All you want,' Ethel said, 'is someone to screw all night, and listen to you all day, yah? And that's what I give you, yah? So if you want me to keep on giving it to you, Gutzy, you'd better pop to. When I tell you something, you'd God damned well better believe it, get me? You do it, or you'll be talking to yourself and skinning your dingus through a knothole.'
'But – but – '
'No buts. You see that thing up there in the sky? You think that's a moon? Well, it's not, Gutzy. It's a solid-gold pisspot. The angels use it whenever they have to take a leak. Iss right, yah?'
Gutzman gulped painfully. He wet his lips, looking at the soft swelling of her breasts as she breathed; at the rich thighs, suggestively spread over the saddle.
'Well?' Ethel said. 'Do you believe me or not? How about it? Are you going to have me or a knothole?'
Gutzman nodded feebly, his voice a mere whisper. 'Yah. I believe.'
'Believe what?'
'Iss – iss no moon. Only solidt-gold pisspot.'
'Good boy,' Ethel smiled approvingly. 'Now, we understand each other.'
'And now you are mine, Greta? Alvays, you vill be mine?'
'Always,' Ethel promised. 'As long as you live…' *b*
His head buried in his hands, Critch sat on the edge of the bed in his hotel room, grimly wishing that he could bury Arlie's head (preferably in cement, and after severing it from his body), if for no other reason than to stop his brother's endless sympathizing. It was bad enough to have lost the seventy-two thousand dollars. But to have to listen to the woeful mourning of the man who had stolen it from him – well, that was too damned much to bear!
Arlie had been leaving him with sympathy for hours. Ever since he had carried Critch up to his room, and brought him back into consciousness. And how understanding, how forgiving, he had been over Critch's earlier attempt to slug him!
_Now, don't you fret none, little brother. Mighta done the same thing myself. Fella loses a lot o' money, he just naturally strikes out at anything near him._
Critch reached down to the floor for the whiskey bottle; momentarily drowned out Arlie's voice in a long, gurgling drink.
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