Suddenly, his booted foot struck something soft. Longarm stopped in his tracks and grimaced. He knelt, holding the Winchester with his right hand gripping the stock and his index finger through the trigger guard. He reached out with his left hand and touched cloth. Moving his hand over the fabric, he found some buttons and decided it was a shirt. The man wearing it didn’t move.
Then Longarm touched something wet and sticky and knew all too well what it was. His fingertips explored the stain, and his hand drew back involuntarily when he touched rapidly cooling flesh. He had felt the deep gash in the man’s throat.
Somebody had carved this poor bastard a new smile.
Longarm figured he knew who the dead man was. From the style of the shirt, the dead man was dressed cowboy, and that meant he was Randall rather than Ghote. That explained where one of the missing guards was, but Longarm was still left with plenty of questions. Who had killed Randall, and why? Where was Ghote?
The murderer must have struck smoothly and quietly, Longarm thought, to have carried out his deadly mission without disturbing the night life around the camp. This killing, at least, couldn’t be laid at the feet of the Brazos Devil.
Longarm straightened and backed away from the body. It was time to roust the others and try to find some answers.
He turned and started toward the dimly burning fire, but he had taken only a couple of steps when a soft voice said, “Marshal Long? What are you doing out here?”
Longarm stiffened and brought up the barrel of the Winchester. He eased off on the pressure just as he was about to pull the trigger of the rifle. “Damn it, Ghote!” he snapped. “That’s a good way to get yourself killed!”
“What is wrong, Marshal?” asked the Hindu servant. Longarm could see the white turban wrapped around his head now. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was,” Longarm said. He didn’t explain what had awakened him. “I woke up and saw you and Randall weren’t anywhere around, so I got up to look for you. You shouldn’t go off and leave the camp unguarded.”
Ghote’s voice was puzzled as he said, “But the one called Randall was here when I left.”
“Where’d you go?”
“I thought I heard a noise, on the bluff over the river. I went to look. Randall stayed behind to watch the camp. But when I returned after finding nothing, I saw that not only was Randall gone, but you were too.”
Longarm jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Randall’s back there in the woods—with his throat cut. You wouldn’t know anything about that would you, Ghote?”
The little Hindu drew himself up stiffly. “I have not neglected my duty, and I am not a killer.”
“We’ll see about that,” Longarm said, his voice cold and hard. “Come on.”
Ghote didn’t say anything else, but Longarm could almost feel the anger and dislike radiating from the man. He herded Ghote back to the fire and ordered, “Throw some more wood on there. You shouldn’t have let it burn down so low.”
Ghote complied while Longarm thought about what had happened. Everything could have occurred just as Ghote said. But the servant could be lying, might be trying to cover up his part in Randall’s death by claiming that he had been investigating some mysterious noise.
Longarm knew from experience how quietly Ghote could move, and he had been instinctively suspicious of the man from the first.
Of course, Mitch Rainey was still out there somewhere too. Longarm wouldn’t have put it past Rainey to lure the cowboy out of camp some way, then slit his throat. The fugitive outlaw could be trying to eliminate the party one by one.
About the only people Longarm could truly rule out as SUSpects in Randall’s murder were himself and Lady Beechmuir, since they had been otherwise occupied when somebody was whittling on Randall’s neck.
“Wake up, folks,” Longarm said, raising his voice. Ghote had the fire burning brighter now, the flames leaping higher as the crackling noise from the burning branches also increased. “Everybody wake up, we got trouble.”
Benjamin Thorp came floundering up out of his blankets with his six-gun in his hand. “What the hell!” he exclaimed. “What’s wrong, Long?”
Catamount Jack and Lucy Vermilion also emerged from their buffalo robes, snatching up their Sharps carbines as they did so. “Catch sight o’ that Brazos Devil varmint, Marshal?” asked the old mountain man.
Nearby, Lord Beechmuir was emerging from the tent gripping a British Army pistol. The Sikh, Absalom Singh, was on his feet as well, holding that short, curved sword of his as if he was ready to chop up anything that represented a threat. Helene didn’t come out of the tent, but Longarm wasn’t worried about her. He knew she wouldn’t be able to tell him anything he didn’t already know. “We got trouble,” Longarm repeated. “Randall’s dead. Somebody cut his throat.”
“The hell you say!” Thorp burst out. “Where is he?”
“Back yonder in the woods a ways. I didn’t strike a match to look at him, but I’d guess it happened pretty recent-like. Anybody hear anything unusual in the past few minutes?”
“Only you waking us up,” grunted Thorp.
“I’m afraid I’m quite a sound sleeper, Marshal. Practically have to set off some dynamite to disturb my slumber, eh?” Booth shook his head. He looked at the Sikh. “Singh, what about you or Ghote?”
“I heard nothing,” Singh replied, “and I sleep lightly, your lordship.”
Ghote said, “The marshal has already questioned me. I know nothing about this matter.”
“I sleep about like his lordship over there,” Catamount Jack put in. “Less’n there’s some trouble, a bobcat could screech in my ear ‘thout wakin’ me up. How ‘bout you, Lucy?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Lucy said.
“Well, that’s everybody heard from except Lady Beechmuir,” Longarm said.
“Surely you don’t think my wife had anything to do with killing that poor man?” said Booth.
Longarm shook his head. “Nope, I don’t. That’s what I was about to say. So what we got on our hands is a killer who goes about his work mighty quiet-like.” He bent over and lifted one of the branches from the fire. “We’d better take a look at Randall, but I don’t reckon there’ll be anything we can do for him.”
Longarm was right about that. By the light of the makeshift torch, he and Thorp and Catamount Jack went to check on the body, leaving Lucy, Booth, and the two servants to watch the camp. Longarm was a little nervous about leaving Lucy around Ghote, since he wasn’t convinced of the little Hindu’s innocence—not by a long shot—but he didn’t think Ghote would try anything now that the whole camp was awake.
Helene came out of the tent as Longarm and his two companions started into the woods. The lawman glanced back and noted that she looked disheveled but wide awake. He wondered if she’d gone back to sleep after her visit to his bedroll.
The corpse in the woods belonged to the cowboy called Randall, all right. Thorp cursed as the light from the torch revealed the man’s bloodless face, which was frozen in a rictus of pain. Randall’s throat was cut almost from ear to ear.
“Damn it, who’d do a thing like this?” Thorp demanded.
“It wasn’t the Brazos Devil,” Longarm said. “Not unless he’s started acting mighty different than before.”
“No, I don’t blame that monster for this.” Thorp looked at Longarm. “But that escaped prisoner of yours, that outlaw Rainey, might have done it.”
Longarm nodded. “The same thought occurred to me.” He didn’t say anything about his suspicions of Ghote. He was going to keep those to himself for the time being.
Thorp heaved a sigh and shook his head. “I don’t reckon any of us will get much more sleep tonight,” he said.