Longarm looked down at the body and nodded. He figured that was a safe bet.
Chapter 15
Morning couldn’t come too soon for the members of the group. They were a sleepy-eyed bunch, Longarm saw as he knelt beside the fire and poured himself a cup of coffee. His own eyes felt gritty in their sockets, and there was a painful yoke of weariness across his shoulders. His head had started to throb again too under the bandage wrapped around it. He had to be careful about settling his Stetson on his head.
The Arbuckle’s, brewed strong and black, helped considerably. Thorp was handling the cooking chores this morning, and he was frying up a mess of bacon and making johnnycakes. He was a fair trail cook, Longarm judged, especially for somebody who had branched out into banking and gotten so successful that he sometimes wore town suits.
Catamount Jack and Lucy were both up and about, as were the two servants, but Lord and Lady Beechmuir had not yet emerged from their tent as the sun started peeking over the trees. Randall was there too, wrapped in a piece of canvas, his body a grim reminder of what had happened during the night. As soon as breakfast was over, they would bury him, then resume the search for the Brazos Devil. That seemed to be the only thing they could do.
“You going to keep on riding with us, Marshal?” Thorp asked as they ate.
Longarm nodded. “I’ve got to find Rainey,” he said, “and sticking with you seems to be as good a way as any of covering the ground around here.”
“Me an’ my gal will partner up with you too,” said Catamount Jack. “Leastways, if you’re willin’, and as long as it’s understood we get that ree-ward if one of us brings down the critter.”
“Of course,” Thorp said with a nod. “My agreement with Lord Beechmuir made it clear that he gets the money only if he kills or captures the beast.”
Longarm swallowed some food, chased it down with another swig of coffee, and said, “I’ve been thinking about that, Mr. Thorp. Seems to me you’d want to take the Brazos Devil alive. Otherwise how will you find out what happened to your wife?”
“That’s true, Marshal,” the rancher admitted. “But dealing with a monster like the Brazos Devil … well, it may not be possible to capture the creature.” Thorp’s tone was as bleak and cold as a frozen river as he added, “Besides, I’m enough of a realist to know how unlikely it is Emmaline is still alive.”
Longarm was a little sorry he had pushed the man into that admission. For weeks, Thorp had been clinging to the belief—the hope—that his wife might be alive. Now, he was evidently coming to grips with the truth of what a far-fetched notion that really was.
Before the discussion could continue, the entrance flap of the tent was pushed back and Lord Beechmuir emerged. His distinguished, bearded face was set in angry lines as he stalked toward the others. Helene came hurrying out of the tent behind him. She caught up to him and reached for his arm, saying, “John, please don’t.”
Booth shrugged her off, ignoring her entreaty. As Lord Beechmuir came toward him, Longarm stood up. A blind man could have seen that something was wrong, and Longarm had a sinking feeling that he knew what the trouble might be.
He was going to try to be reasonable about this anyway. He said, “Mornin’, your lordship. What’s-“
Lord Beechmuir slapped him.
Longarm’s head jerked to the side, as much in surprise as anything else. The slap wasn’t much of a blow, but it was completely unexpected. Longarm’s hands clenched into fists, and every instinct in his body cried out for him to plant a nice hard punch right in the middle of the pompous Englishman’s face. With an effort that sent a tiny shudder through him, Longarm controlled that impulse.
“What the hell was that for?” he grated.
“I think you know quite well what it was for, sir,” Booth said stiffly.
“Please, John,” Helene said. “There’s no need-“
Booth swung toward her for a moment, fixing her with a cold glare that made her fall silent. As his wife stepped back away from him, he turned toward Longarm again and said, “You have disgraced my honor, Marshal Long, and I demand satisfaction.”
Longarm glanced at Lady Beechmuir, wondering how Booth could have found out what happened the night before if he had truly been sleeping as soundly as he’d claimed. Someone must have told him about his wife’s visit to Longarm’s bedroll, and the most likely person to have done that … was Helene herself.
Just for an instant Longarm saw maliciousness flashing in her eyes, and knew the truth. He had rejected her twice, and this was her way of getting back at him.
He looked at Booth again and said, “I swear I never did anything on purpose to offend you, Lord Beechmuir. I don’t take kindly to being slapped neither, so I’ll thank you not to do it again.”
“I don’t give a damn what you take kindly to, Marshal,” Booth said with scathing sarcasm. “You made improper advances toward my wife, and I demand satisfaction.”
That was the second time he’d said that, Longarm thought, but this just wasn’t the time or place for such foolishness. Besides, from what Booth had said, Helene hadn’t told him the whole truth. To a stiff-necked Englishman, “improper advances” could be something as minor as a little innocent flirting. Longarm didn’t think it was likely Helene had told her husband about crawling into his bedroll and giving him a fancy French lesson. She hadn’t had to go that far to get Booth all worked up.
“What’s this all about?” Thorp asked angrily. “We came out here to find the Brazos Devil, damn it, not to squabble among ourselves.”
Lucy Vermilion was giving Longarm a hard look too, and he didn’t want her getting riled up about this. He said bluntly to Lord Beechmuir, “Look, nothing happened between your Wife and me. You’d better just let this go right now while you still can.”
“Nothing?” Helene gasped. “Why, Custis, you call the things you said to me nothing?”
Lucy sauntered closer to Longarm. “Just what did you say to her ladyship, Marshal?” she asked.
Longarm grimaced, but otherwise ignored Lucy’s question. This was a hell of a way to start a morning after a bad night. He was plumb out of patience. He started to turn away from Lord Beechmuir, saying, “If you don’t want me riding with you anymore, that’s just fine by me.”
“By God, sir!” Booth burst out. “How dare you turn your back on me!” He grabbed Longarm’s shoulder and spun the lawman around. “I demand satisfaction!” Once again, his open hand cracked across Longarm’s face in a sharp slap.
That was more than Longarm could take. He didn’t waste any more time thinking about it. He just sank his left fist in the middle of Lord Beechmuir’s noble belly, then shot a hard right cross to the man’s jaw when he bent over in pain.
Helene let out a cry of dismay—or maybe deep down it was satisfaction—as her husband went stumbling backward from the blow.
Longarm didn’t have a chance to appreciate the effect of the one-two combination. Before he even had time to draw a breath, something slammed into him from the side and he went down. He crashed against the ground near the fire, close enough to feel the heat from the flames on his face. Then he felt something as cold as the fire was hot, and it was pressing against the soft flesh of his throat. He looked up to see the bearded face of the Sikh glowering down fiercely at him. Singh had the point of that short, curved sword prodding Longarm’s throat as he knelt beside the lawman.
The unmistakable metallic click of a gun being cocked sounded. Lucy Vermilion’s voice cracked tautly across the clearing. “Better tell that fella who works for you to put away his pig-sticker, Lord Beechmuir, or this Sharps’ll blow his head right off in about two seconds.”
For a nerve-wracking beat of time, John Booth said nothing. Then, grudgingly, he ordered, “Put the sword away, Singh, and let Marshal Long up.”