“Come on,” Slocum said, taking her by the arm. “We’ll tell the marshal and get to the bottom of this.”

  “I never thought of that,” Darlene said in a choked voice. “I’m glad I came to you.”

  Slocum’s mind turned and tumbled as they walked down the middle of the street hunting for the marshal’s office. Hugh might have blundered into the elephant pen and been trampled, but it obviously had happened immediately after someone had called him away from Darlene. That person obviously hadn’t stuck around after the elephant did a dance on Hugh’s body, which made Slocum mighty suspicious.

  “Marshal!” Slocum called out to a weedy-looking man with a dull silver badge pinned on his vest who was sneaking from the office. He looked as if he might have just robbed the place and wanted to escape without being seen. The lawman turned and looked as if he could spit.

  “Whadya want?”

  “There’s been a death out at the Indian maharajah’s camp,” Slocum said.

  “People die all the time,” the marshal said. “Ain’t no concern o’ mine. Undertaker’s down the street a ways. Doniphan’s his name. Digger Doniphan we call ’im here in town.”

  “We’re not looking to bury him, not right away,” Slocum said. “I think he was murdered.”

  Darlene sobbed a bit harder, and the marshal got the look of a trapped rat. His eyes darted back and forth as if he were hunting for some escape route, only to have Slocum block his retreat.

  “What makes ya say a thing like that?”

  “Let’s go out to the Indian’s camp and see firsthand.”

  “I got work to do here in town,” the marshal said.

  “Look, Marshal . . .” Slocum waited until the man got the idea and gave him his name. Slocum felt as if he had pried a fleck of gold from drossy rock.

  “Rothbottom,” the marshal said reluctantly.

  “All right, Marshal Rothbottom,” Slocum said, his voice taking on an edge. “I’ll tend to this matter myself. Might be since you’re so busy, you’d want to deputize me so whatever I do is done all legal-like.”

  “Why’d I go and do a damfool thing like that? I don’t know you from Adam.”

  Slocum moved enough to show the worn butt of his Colt Navy.

  “I’m going to find out if Hugh died from an accident or if someone murdered him, like I’m thinking. If I don’t ride with a badge on my vest, then I do what I need to do on my own. Hugh Malley was a good friend.”

  Rothbottom swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny throat like a cork float on a fishing line.

  “I’ll git my horse.” The marshal hurried off without another word.

  “What a terrible law officer,” Darlene said. She wadded up the handkerchief in her hand, as if she had her fingers wrapped around Rothbottom’s throat. Again Slocum found himself sympathizing with the woman, but he knew that force would never get the lawman out to the maharajah’s campsite, no matter how satisfying it might be to have his fingers curled around that bony neck.

  “Don’t expect much from him,” Slocum said. He guided Darlene back to the stables. As much as he wanted to protect her from further pain, he had to be sure she pointed out everything in the camp accurately. Slocum figured the marshal would cut and run at the first sign of anything not matching from one telling to the next, and having Darlene there to explain what she had seen stopped the lawman from taking that easy course.

  They caught up with Marshal Rothbottom less than a mile down the road. The lawman wasn’t making too good a pace, but Slocum found it interesting that Rothbottom knew where the maharajah’s camp was and headed straight for it. Nobody else in town seemed to have any idea where the fancy-dressed Indian prince had camped—and they certainly had not known what was causing the odd noises trumpeting through the Grand Tetons and destroying their peaceful slumber.

  “How long has the maharajah been in these parts?” Slocum asked.

  “Dunno.” Rothbottom shrugged narrow shoulders and made a point of staring straight ahead, never meeting Slocum’s steely green gaze. As they rode, Slocum sized up the man and found him wanting. The six-shooter riding in the lawman’s holster had flecks of rust showing on the metal. The gun would probably blow up from lack of cleaning if he ever tried using it. Worse than this was the marshal’s general slovenliness. On the trail a man got mighty dusty and baths might be a week or two apart. That was one reason to go to town—other than saloons and bottles of whiskey and nice cool beers. A bath now and again might even be good for a body. But apparently Rothbottom and soap were distant strangers.

  “There’s the maharajah,” cried Darlene, standing in the stirrups. Her dress fluttered about revealing her ankles and calves, but she was oblivious to such immodesty. She focused completely on the prince and the tight knot of burly men with him. In daylight, Ali appeared even larger than Slocum had thought, towering over his prince by half a head. Ali’s shoulders were an ax-handle wide and he stood silently, his dark eyes missing nothing and his powerful arms crossed on his chest.

  Slocum saw the twin daggers sheathed at Ali’s waist and reckoned the man could use them, in spite of their decorative jeweled hilts.

  “Prince,” Darlene called, almost falling from horseback in her rush to find out about her sweetheart’s death. “The elephant! It stomped on Hugh, Hugh Malley, and—”

  “Silence,” the maharajah ordered, holding up a mahogany brown hand. No trace of emotion flickered on his face. Slocum decided the prince would be a ferocious card player with such a poker-faced expression.

  “What brings you out to my humble encampment, Marshal?” The maharajah bowed slightly in the direction of the skinny lawman.

  “This here lady thinks her man got stomped on by yer elephant. That so?”

  “Alas, Marshal, it is so. A tragic accident. He was unaccustomed to dealing with such a large creature, and my pet was startled by an unknown man’s presence. Perhaps Mr. Malley thought to, what do you call it? Count coup!”

  “That’s what the Sioux do,” Slocum said. The maharajah pretended to confuse Indian war behavior with what a white man might do, thinking it would insult or infuriate him. Slocum had a gut-level feeling that everything said and done was for his benefit, not for the marshal and certainly not for Darlene because of the way the Indian prince had dismissed her earlier questions. “Hugh was called over to the pen by one of your men.”

  “Which one?” demanded the marshal. “Point the varmint out, and I’ll ast him a question ’er two.”

  Slocum looked at Darlene but knew the answer before he saw her crestfallen expression. She had already told him that she had no idea which of the men in camp had summoned Hugh. It might even have been the maharajah himself.

  “She doesn’t know,” Slocum said, answering for her. Darlene had passed the point where shock possessed her and was now moving on to a building rage that her man had been killed.

  “Then there is no point in continuing this inquiry, is there, Marshal?” The maharajah made a shooing motion with his hand and sent his retainers—all but Ali—scuttling away like crabs.

  “Don’t reckon there is,” Rothbottom said. “You want to lug the body on back to Hoback Junction or plant him out here? Like I said, Doniphan’s Funeral Parlor’s the best we got in town. Only one, truth be told.”

  Slocum wondered if the marshal got a kickback from each body referred but he said nothing. The marshal grumbled a mite about coming this far for nothing, then touched the brim of his hat politely in the direction of the maharajah and rode off.

  “You are free to claim the body,” the prince said, “but the condition is rather horrifying to anyone of a gentler persuasion.” For the first time, the maharajah made a small bow in Darlene’s direction.

  “I’ll see to it. Where’s the elephant that trampled him?”

  “Ah, my mahout has taken the animal in question to the lake to bathe.”

  “Mahout?”

  The prince sneered slightly at Slocum’s lack of understanding.

  “The keeper, trainer, perhaps you might even say rider? No, driver. All of those terms apply.”

  “Is he the one who called for Hugh to go to the pen?” asked Slocum.

  “I know nothing of this. It was a tragic accident and nothing more.” The prince cast a sharp look at Slocum, as if accusing him of trying to ensnare with words. That was exactly what Slocum had tried to do, but the maharajah was a slippery character.

  Slocum and Darlene rode to where the elephant had been penned. Before they got there Slocum saw the tracks left by the massive beast leading in the direction of the lake, as the prince had said. Slocum wondered if it would be worth the effort to follow the elephant and its mahout, as the maharajah had called him, to the lake. By now any trace of Hugh would be washed away. Slocum wasn’t sure what he could have expected to see other than an elephant’s bloody foot.

  “There’s the pen,” he said, pointing to a large, muddy section of the meadow where the elephant had been kept. “There’s Hugh.” Slocum went cold inside when he saw how the elephant had completely crushed his friend. The chest was a gory ruin, but Hugh’s face haunted Slocum the most. It was untouched but had the most incredible mask of pain etched on it Slocum had seen this side of an Apache torture session.

  “I . . . I’ll see to it, John.” Darlene looked at him disconsolately. “There’s nothing that can be done, is there? The marshal isn’t inclined to even ask questions. How do you prove the maharajah knew anything about it?” Tears flowed freely now. “There’s nothing to gainsay what the prince said about it being an accident.”

  Slocum knew Darlene was right. But he refused to let the matter drop.

  “Get Hugh back to town. That Doniphan fellow, the undertaker Rothbottom mentioned, ought to do as well as any. I want to turn over a few damp rocks to see what crawls out from under them.”

  “You will be back, John? For Hugh’s service?”

  He nodded. What else could he do or say?

  Slocum helped the woman wrap Hugh Malley’s body in a blanket, then sling it belly-down over the back of a horse from a nearby corral. Slocum didn’t bother asking if they could borrow the horse. He suspected the maharajah would consider it worthwhile if all the payment they required to drop inquiries into Hugh’s death was the price of a single horse.

  “Go on back, Darlene,” Slocum said. “I’ve got a prince to track down.”

  Darlene slowly walked away, leading the horse with Hugh’s body across it. Slocum mounted and picked up the maharajah’s trail to see how the prince spent his days. It might mean nothing, but Slocum wasn’t so sure.

  5

  The trail to the lake showed huge hoofprints. The elephant. Slocum picked up the pace when he found the maharajah’s ornate wagon parked alongside the lake, abandoned. The prince had ridden from his camp to the lake in his fancy-ass wagon, which carried more luxuries than most hotels Slocum had seen west of Denver. A quick glance inside showed it had been left intentionally. Everything was placed precisely, as if a servant had made a final effort to leave it perfectly.

  Footprints in the soft earth showed where at least four people had left the wagon and gone to mount horses. Slocum frowned, trying to figure out what was going on. Small footprints might belong to the woman accompanying the maharajah. Lakshmi she had said her name was. But Slocum could not figure out who rode the horses and if any of the party rode the elephant. He remembered the traveling circuses he had seen. The rider had perched on the head just behind the elephant’s ears, using his knees and feet to kick and steer. One rider Slocum had seen also carried a pole with a hook on the end of it to poke and prod the big beast. It had seemed incredible to Slocum that this was all it took to control the elephant, but the rider—mahout, the prince had named him—didn’t even use a bridle or saddle.

  Following the tracks was about the simplest thing Slocum had done in ages. The elephant’s big footprints were easily the size of a dinner plate. Larger. The immense weight crushed down grass and dirt. As that thought crossed Slocum’s mind, he turned a bit colder inside. Such immense weight had also crushed his friend to death. As he rode, Slocum wondered how Darlene was doing. It would take her considerable time to get Hugh’s body back to Hoback Junction since she was walking alongside her horse with its grisly burden. He couldn’t see her doing the logical thing by mounting behind the body and letting the horse get both of them back to town. She wouldn’t want to even touch the corpse.

  The valley opened and turned eastward onto a broad prairie. Slocum pulled his hat brim down to shield his eyes and scanned the terrain for some sign of the maharajah’s party. Such a large group accompanied by an immense gray elephant could not have vanished as surely as they had.

  Slocum continued along the trail but had to work harder now that the knee-high grass began hiding the trail. They had mashed down the grass as they passed through, but it was remarkable how quickly they had come this way. It was as if the maharajah had rushed to this spot for some reason.

  A ravine cut across the prairie in the sudden fashion found on the plains. The ground ran directly to the edge, dropped off precipitously, and stretched straight as an arrow eastward. The spring runoff coupled with sudden summer rains shot thousands of gallons of water through here in the blink of an eye.

  The gravelly arroyo was dry now. Slocum stood on the bank trying to figure out what had happened. Two of the maharajah’s party had ridden down into the ravine for some reason. Their tracks disappeared within a few yards, but he thought they had continued traveling east. The remainder of the horses and the elephant had followed the bank. Slocum wiped sweat from his face, then continued to follow the tracks.

  Death came as fast as a lightning strike.

  Slocum had ridden out onto a barren plain when he heard the unmistakable thunder of buffaloes stampeding. He swung about and spotted the dust cloud off to his right but couldn’t tell how large the herd was or where he might find sanctuary. He knew better than to get into the ravine. His roan, with its still tender leg, could never cross the rocky-bottomed stream in time. Backtrack? Gallop ahead and test the horse’s leg? He had to get a better look at the herd’s direction before choosing. Guess wrong and he would die.

  Slocum knew he couldn’t wait too long. The dust cloud obscured the lead buffalo and the sound frightened his horse. Slocum fought to keep the roan from bucking and running. It was as likely to choose wrong as he was.

  “Go!” Slocum cried, raking the horse’s flanks with his spurs when he caught sight of the buffalo at the head of the herd. He got the roan running at an angle, surging forward in the direction the maharajah had already taken. With a bit of luck, Slocum would reach the edge of the herd and slip away with little danger—if the herd wasn’t too large. The buffalo hunters in earlier years had decimated the herds but the buffalo had come back, although not in as great a number.

  Head down, racing the wind, Slocum headed across the prairie. His horse’s nostrils flared and whites showed around its eyes. Fear lent speed to the roan, and for a brief instant Slocum thought they were going to make it. Then the horse’s leg gave way, sending Slocum somersaulting forward. He hit the ground hard, rolled and staggered to his feet, only to lose his balance and crash down hard.

  Scrambling, he came to hands and knees, then heaved up, toes digging into the ground to sprint back to the roan. His horse had stepped in a prairie-dog hole. White bone showed through the flesh. Slocum drew his six-shooter but didn’t put the horse out of its frightened misery. The buffalo herd would do that fast enough.

  Slocum raised his six-gun, knowing the .36 caliber bullet had no chance at all of bringing down the buffaloes charging toward him, not when hunters used .50 caliber Sharps and had to be superb marksmen. But he couldn’t outrun the edge of the herd on foot and was damned if he would simply stand and be kicked to death without putting up some fight.

  He fired at the trio of buffaloes that had broken off from the main herd and were racing toward him. He was lucky in one respect. The mass of heaving, snorting, thundering beasts would pass to his right. But what was the difference being trampled by hundreds or only three? They had seen him and in their own frightened run came straight for him.

  Slocum saw a long spark blast off one buffalo’s horn where his feeble bullet had hit it. In its fear, the buffalo never noticed and plunged on. Slocum stood his ground, firing methodically.

  Then he blinked in surprise. The buffalo tumbled to the ground. The one beside it crashed into its hump and fell amid great bellowing. Slocum looked at his Colt Navy and shook his head. It wasn’t possible to bring down a buffalo with a handgun. He looked back and saw the third buffalo drop to its knees, then somersault forward because of its great speed. Its body flopped onto the ground and lay twitching.

  Slocum had not fired at this buffalo. He was out of ammo.

  He heard a new sound over the dwindling roar of the buffalo herd. An elephant crashed through the grass. Slocum turned and saw the huge gray beast emerge from a cloud of brown dust. Riding atop it was the mahout, balanced on the neck immediately behind the ears as Slocum had seen years before. But a large fringed canopy had been added. In this ornate box sat two men, one with a large rifle resting on the edge. Slocum saw the setting sunlight glint off the barrel as the maharajah raised it and silently, arrogantly, acknowledged Slocum’s existence.

  As the elephant approached, Slocum took the time to reload his six-shooter. He knew now what had spooked the buffalo and caused the stampede that had almost taken his life. The Indian prince was out hunting. From the direction where the herd had begun its mad charge across the prairie rode the rest of the man’s party.

  The four riders had acted as beaters to get the herd into motion.

  “Mr. Slocum, how odd to find you out on the Wyoming grassland at this time of day,” the maharajah called. He said something in Hindi. The mahout brought the elephant to a bouncing halt a few yards away, then forced the elephant to its knees so the maharajah could dismount. As the prince did so, he handed his rifle to Ali, who also had been in the elaborately decorated box strapped onto the elephant’s back.