She stood there in a tiny clearing talking to Randamar Ghote. As Longarm watched, the little Indian servant reached inside his tunic and brought out a small bottle. “Your medicine, milady,” he murmured as he handed the bottle to Helene.
She lifted it to her mouth and took a delicate sip, then shuddered and gave the bottle back to Ghote. “Thank you, Randamar,” she said fervently. “I simply do not know what I would do without you to help me.”
“It is my pleasure, milady,” Ghote purred as he put away the bottle of medicine. Longarm’s frown deepened. He wasn’t sure how Ghote had managed to get down here in this grove of trees without being noticed, but he had already figured out how good Ghote was about sneaking around. The fella reminded Longarm of a Comanche during the time of the stalking moon: always around when you least expected him. This business about the medicine bothered Longarm too. What sort of illness ailed Lady Beechmuir? he wondered. She had certainly seemed healthy enough when she was trying to seduce him the night before.
He didn’t have time to ponder the questions, because Helene and Ghote were leaving now, slipping out of the trees in somewhat different directions. Ghote would circle back to the camp around the hill, Longarm figured. That was probably how he had reached the trees in the first place. Longarm let them get a head start, then straightened to follow Lady Beechmuir.
He had only gone about a dozen feet when there was a faint rustling sound behind him. Before he could even start to turn around, an arm corded with muscle looped around his neck and clamped across his throat. He felt the pinprick of a knife’s point underneath his jaw.
“Why do you spy on my mistress?” a deep voice asked.
Longarm stood still. He knew better than to commence thrashing around with a knife at his throat. The pressure on his neck eased enough for him to say, “Take it easy, old son. I’m not spying on anybody.”
“Then what are you doing here?” the Sikh hissed in perfectly good English.
“What do you think I was doing?” Longarm didn’t know how long Singh had been watching him, but he knew that if he hemmed and hawed the knife-wielding warrior sure wouldn’t believe him. “I came down here in the trees to take a leak.”
“To relieve yourself, you mean?”
“That’s right. So I’ll thank you to let me go and get that pig-sticker away from my neck.”
Longarm tried to sound suitably offended. Singh hesitated for a moment longer; then the pressure on Longarm’s throat went away entirely, along with the knife. Singh stepped back and said, “When I saw you come into the trees, I thought you might intrude on her ladyship. My apologies, Marshal.”
Longarm rubbed his throat briefly and nodded to the Sikh. “Didn’t know you spoke our lingo so good. Hell, I wasn’t even sure you could talk at all.”
“I am a half-caste. My mother was British, and I was educated at the university known as Oxford. If I say little, it is because I have little to say.”
“Most folks should be that smart,” Longarm muttered. “Apology accepted, Singh. I don’t reckon I can blame you for looking out for her ladyship. That’s part of your job, after all.”
Singh nodded curtly. “I will go back to the others.”
“I’ll be along directly,” Longarm said. “Got to finish what I came down here for.”
Singh nodded again and faded back into the trees, rapidly disappearing. He reminded Longarm once again of an Indian—the war-paint kind—just like his fellow servant Ghote. They were as lightfooted a pair as Longarm had ever run across, and he suspected that in a fight Singh would be more trouble than an armful of wildcats. He just hoped he and the Sikh wouldn’t wind up on opposite sides before this hunt was over.
Since he hadn’t picked up Rainey’s trail again, Longarm decided he might as well continue riding with Thorp’s party. Once all the fancy trappings from lunch had been stowed away, they mounted up and rode northwest, generally following the course of the Brazos. The river was about a quarter of a mile to their right most of the time. Some of the landscape began to look familiar, and Longarm realized it wasn’t far from here that he had finally met up with Rainey and Lloyd. The spot where Rainey had seen whatever spooked him so bad was also nearby. Longarm spoke up, saying as much to Thorp and Lord Beechmuir.
“Excellent!” Booth exclaimed. “I wanted to see that spot, as you know, Marshal. The tracks you saw may still be there.”
“They should be,” Longarm said. “Hasn’t been any rain since then.”
They rode on, angling more toward the river now. They were making their way through one of the many stands of oak that covered the landscape when Singh suddenly spurred ahead of the others and held up a hand.
“Halt!” Lord Beechmuir said. “The Sikh has seen something.”
So had Longarm. There was a dark shape on the ground about fifty yards ahead of them, on the edge of a small gully. At first Longarm wasn’t sure what it was, but then he realized it was a body of some sort. Not human, though; it was too big for that.
“My God,” Helene breathed. “What is it?”
“It’s dead, whatever it is,” snapped Thorp. “Come on.”
Booth turned to his wife. “My dear, you stay here with Ghote and Benjamin’s men. The Sikh will come with us.”
Helene nodded, agreeing to stay back. Longarm and Thorp were already spurring forward. Booth and Singh rapidly caught up with them.
The ground around the body was darkly stained where blood had soaked into it. That was another way they knew the corpse didn’t belong to a human being. No one had that much blood in his body. But a horse did, and as Longarm and the others drew closer to the grisly site, he could make out some dimly equine outlines. The horse had been ripped to pieces, though, so much so that it was barely recognizable.
“Good Lord!” Booth said as they reined in. A thick cloud of flies rose from the body of the horse and buzzed away angrily. “What could have done such a thing?”
