“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.
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-“
