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.”
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.”
