Singh’s lips drew back from his teeth. “If you ever touch my master again,” he grated at Longarm, “I will gut you like a pig.” He took the razor-sharp blade away from Longarm’s neck, leaving a faint red mark behind where it had pricked the skin.
Longarm sat up as Singh straightened and backed off. He put his fingers to his neck, looked at the spot of blood on one of his fingertips, then said to the Sikh, “And if you ever pull a knife on me again, old son, you better use it in a hurry, because otherwise I’ll gun you without even worrying about it.”
“For God’s sake,” Thorp said hotly, “this isn’t getting us anywhere.”
“And we won’t be going anywhere until my honor has been satisfied,” Lord Beechmuir declared. He was standing and glaring at Longarm as he lightly rubbed his jaw. A bruise and a little swelling had already popped up from the punch Longarm had landed there.
Lucy eased down the hammer of her Sharps and lowered the powerful buffalo gun. She held out a hand to Longarm, who after a second’s hesitation took it and let her help him to his feet. “Thanks,” he grunted. “And not just for helping me UP.”
She nodded. They both knew what he meant.
“I thought you were an honorable man, Marshal Long,” Booth went on. “What are you going to do about this?”
Longarm heaved a tired, disgusted sigh. “Just what the hell is it you want?”
Booth’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “There’s only one way to settle something like this. A duel.”
Helene said, “John, no!”
Longarm chuckled humorlessly. “I thought it was just Frenchmen and Prussians who get so worked up that they have to fight duels.”
“I know that we English have a reputation for being rather cold,” Booth snapped, “but I assure you that our blood can burn as hotly as that of any other nationality. I’ve challenged you, Long, so the choice of weapons is yours. I should warn you, however, that I’m a crack shot with a pistol and was also the fencing champion at Eton for three consecutive years.”
Longarm didn’t bother pointing out that he had swapped lead with some pretty fair shootists himself, in situations where the only competition was to see who would live and who would die. He said, “I don’t want to fight a duel with you, Booth, but I reckon if that’s the only thing that’ll suit you, I don’t have much choice.”
Lord Beechmuir’s chin lifted. “You admit that you acted improperly toward my wife then?”
“I don’t admit anything except that you’re a bullheaded jackass … your lordship.” It was Longarm’s turn to let his voice drip with sarcasm.
“This is insane!” exclaimed Thorp. “We have to get on the trail of the Brazos Devil again.”
Longarm turned to Thorp and assured him, “This won’t take long.”
“I should say not,” Booth put in. “Well, Marshal, what about it? Name your weapon. Pistols? Sabers?”
“Neither,” Longarm said, holding up his clenched fists. “You look like you’re in pretty fair shape. I pick bare knuckles.”
The Sikh practically snarled and took a half-step forward, but Booth put out a hand to restrain him. “No, that’s perfectly all right, Singh,” he said. “The marshal is a few years younger than me, but I’m still perfectly capable of giving him a sound thrashing.”
“We’ll see about that,” Longarm said curtly.
Thorp threw his hands in the air, shook his head, and turned away muttering disgustedly. Catamount Jack came over to Longarm and clapped a hand on his back, almost staggering the younger man. “Don’t see as you had much choice, son. Try not to whup that Englisher too bad.”
Longarm hoped he could just defeat Lord Beechmuir and get it over with quickly. He wasn’t so sure, though, when he saw Booth taking off his shirt. The English nobleman’s arms and torso were surprisingly muscular. Booth was older, as he had said, but it looked like he could give a good account of himself in a scuffle. Longarm left his own shirt on but took off his gunbelt, handing it to Catamount Jack.
“Aren’t we even going to bury poor Randall first?” Thorp asked scornfully. “Not that I want to delay your duel or any thing …”
Longarm looked at Lord Beechmuir. “The burying won’t take long. All right with you if we wait?”
Booth nodded. “Of course. I can thrash you just as well half an hour from now.”
Longarm let that one pass. He got a shovel from one of the packs, as did Thorp. They found a good spot on a hillside not far away. Catamount Jack followed and took the shovel from Longarm. “I’ll handle this, son,” he said. “You just save your strength for the tussle you got comin’.”
It didn’t take long for Thorp and the old mountain man to dig the grave. Booth left his shirt off, but draped one of the fancy buckskin jackets around his shoulders against the chill of an early autumn morning. Helene retreated to the tent and didn’t watch as Thorp and Catamount Jack carefully lowered Randall’s canvas-wrapped corpse into the hole in the ground.
This burial, just like Benson’s the day before, reminded Longarm too much of awakening when Rainey and Lloyd were shoveling dirt down on him. That seemed a lot longer in the past than just a few days ago, but the memory was still all too vivid for Longarm’s taste. He never wanted to experience anything like that again.
Thorp said a few words over the grave; then he and Catamount Jack filled it up again. It wasn’t much of a spot for a man to wind up, but according to Thorp, Randall hadn’t had any family, so Longarm supposed this was as good a place as any.
“All right,” Booth said impatiently when the burying was over, “let’s get on with it.” He strode down the hill toward the camp without looking back to see if the others were following him.
Lucy Vermilion fell in step beside Longarm. “You shouldn’t be fightin’ like this,” she said in a quiet voice. “Your head just got kissed by a bullet yesterday. If that fella goes to poundin’ on it, no tellin’ what’ll happen. You might get hurt real bad, Custis.”
“Then I just won’t let him hit me in the head,” Longarm said with a smile. He sounded considerably more confident than he felt.
“You be careful,” Lucy cautioned. “Don’t let him get you down. I reckon a fella like that might try to stomp you.”
Longarm figured Lucy might be right. He didn’t intend to let that happen.
Singh had accompanied the others to Randall’s burial site, but Ghote had stayed behind with Helene. The little Hindu was just emerging from the tent when the rest of the group reached the camp. Booth asked sharply, “Is my wife all right?”
“Her ladyship is distraught,” Ghote replied, his voice as smooth as ever. “She does not wish to witness this combat.”
“Well, that’s her choice, I suppose.” Booth’s tone was gruff. “Still and all, it’s her honor I’m fightin’ for. I’ll just pop in and see her for a moment.”
Ghote looked as if he didn’t think that was a very good idea, but he folded his arms and moved out of Lord Beechmuir’s way. Booth was in the tent for only a minute, and when he came back out his face was mottled with anger. “She’s passed out,” he said. “You’ve been giving her that bloody medicine again, haven’t you, Ghote.”
That accusation took Longarm somewhat by surprise. He had figured Lord Beechmuir knew nothing about his wife’s fondness for whatever was in the bottle Ghote carried around. Evidently Beechmuir was aware of what was going on but didn’t like it.
Ghote shrugged, unperturbed by his master’s anger, and said quietly, “I serve her ladyship as well yourself, your lordship.”
“Well, I’m tellin’ you not to give her any more, do you hear me? Next thing you know, she’ll be sneakin’ off to some damned opium den like a bloody Chinaman.”
The “medicine” was probably laudanum, Longarm decided. That was how many opium addictions got started. Helene wasn’t going to be happy when she found out that her husband had forbidden Ghote to continue supplying her.