“. . . not so,” came the voice floating on the still air. Slocum wiggled forward on his belly to see Valande and Gasim. From the way they stood almost nose to nose, Gasim was Valande’s superior and was berating him for some infraction.

  The conversation, if it had ever been in English, turned back to Hindi. All Slocum had to go on was the way the two men stood and the tone of their voices. Valande had done something woefully wrong and was getting chewed out for it.

  This added to his knowledge of who was in charge in the maharajah’s camp. The Indian prince was at the top of the heap, but Gasim was further up the ladder than Lakshmi’s servant. From the terse replies Valande made, he had little to report and this did not set well with Gasim.

  Slocum slipped back knowing he wasn’t going to learn anything eavesdropping. Ali might outrank Gasim, but not by much. Ali’s power probably came from being the maharajah’s personal servant rather than his elephant driver.

  Deciding not to try to beat the two servants back to camp, Slocum found a comfortable niche in the rock and waited. Ten minutes later Valande hurried away, shoulders slumping and his stride that of a defeated man. Less than five minutes after he had vanished into the tall grass on his way back to camp, Gasim followed. His head was held high and, although Slocum could not see his face, he was confident in his stride.

  Long after Gasim disappeared, heading for the elephant pen, Slocum sat and thought as he sucked on a long blade of grass. He could not see that the maharajah had much to do with Hugh’s death but Gasim had to know what had happened. If anyone controlled the huge beast well enough to get it to trample a man, it was Gasim. And Valande might be a part of the plot.

  For two cents, Slocum would have strung up the entire lot of them, but he had to be sure he missed nothing. He wanted to know what had happened and who was responsible for Hugh Malley’s crushing murder.

  Knowing that he would be missed in camp if he lingered too long, Slocum slid from his cranny in the rocks and returned to camp by a route that made it appear he had been off on the prairie rather than up in the rocks. Men who met secretly like Valande and Gasim had to be up to something suspicious. It took less than twenty minutes to reach the spot where he had pitched his camp and sink down to think a bit more on what he had seen.

  “Mr. Slocum, are you ready for a hunt?”

  Slocum straightened from pretending to clean his gear to see the maharajah, resplendent in a black velvet jacket chased with gold threads in curious patterns. Behind him stood Ali, a heavy rifle held in the crook of his arm.

  “What are we hunting? More buffalo?”

  “I have bagged enough of those shaggy beasts. While there is some thrill, hunting Cape buffalo is more challenging.”

  “What’s a Cape buffalo?” asked Slocum.

  The maharajah laughed his superior laugh and said, “A large black monster that roams southern Africa. It is quite sporting to kill one.”

  “Only used one shot,” Ali chimed in.

  The maharajah made his chopping hand motion to silence his servant, but Slocum saw the man was secretly pleased that his marksmanship was noted and appreciated.

  “We shall hunt for these wild cats you call pumas or cougars.”

  “Mountain lion,” said Slocum. “They go by a lot of different names.”

  “We shall see if they are a match for the tiger.”

  “You going to take along a big company?” asked Slocum. “Cougars turn wary if they hear a lot of men coming.”

  “No beaters?” Ali seemed disappointed.

  “Mr. Slocum is the expert on these wild beasts. Very well,” the prince said, slapping his thigh as he came to a decision. “Get Gasim. We shall hunt from the back of the elephant.”

  Slocum started to point out that a handful of men could spook a mountain lion enough to send it running for the timberline. An elephant would chase any self-respecting mountain lion into the next county. As fierce as the cougars could be, they avoided humans through long and painful experience. In earlier days when only mountain men prowled the slopes of the Grand Tetons the cats might have been more prone to attack, but they had learned when more and more men came to settle the land that avoidance was better than attack. Eat one small child and packs of hunters pursued until the killer cat was run to ground, gunned down and skinned.

  “They’re scarce critters,” Slocum said. “We might not spot one the first day.”

  “Then we prepare for many days. However long it takes. Tell Gasim,” ordered the maharajah. Ali bowed slightly, took a step backward and then turned to leave.

  “You will not shoot, Mr. Slocum. Only I will hunt this mountain lion. It is to be mine and mine alone.”

  Slocum nodded. He had no quarrel with any mountain lion in these parts. From the abundance of game he had seen, any cat was likely to be fat and sassy but probably not stupid. It might be necessary to track one to its lair.

  “Let the hunt begin!” The maharajah whistled as Gasim brought the lumbering elephant to a spot a few yards distant, then forced it to kneel so the prince could mount and settle himself into the small box on the animal’s back. Slocum took a few minutes to saddle his powerful white stallion and almost five to catch up with the maharajah.

  Slocum saw that the elephant’s stride was long, powerful and ate the distance like a simple repast. If he was going to scout, he had to remain in front of the elephant. He trotted alongside and called up to the prince.

  “There’s a canyon a few miles ahead. I’ll scout the left branch since it leads higher into the mountains. You might wait at the junction until I see if I’ve found anything.”

  The maharajah called down something Slocum didn’t catch over the steady clopping of the elephant’s hooves and the rattle of his own horse’s shoes against a rocky patch. He figured it didn’t matter, waved and galloped ahead.

  Less than ten minutes later, he slowed to a walk and enjoyed the country the best he could. It was lovely this time of year, but then Slocum found the mountains to be endlessly fascinating in any season. He rode to the junction of the intersecting canyons and cut left. Ahead stretched a U-shaped valley with plenty of hilly sections on either side to accommodate a small pride of mountain lions. He remembered this country from an earlier trip through the Grand Tetons and focused his attention on one spot in particular near a stream where four game trails ended.

  Slocum hobbled his horse a hundred yards away, then sat in the crook of a tree to watch and wait. Deer came along with a few smaller animals but it wasn’t until an hour before sundown that the cougar silently padded up to the stream and sniffed about for dinner. Other animals had left some time earlier. The cat drank its fill, then slipped into afternoon shadows on the far side of the stream.

  Slocum had found his quarry.

  He jumped from his tree limb and worked the hobbles off his stallion, mounted and headed back to fetch the maharajah. Slocum hadn’t gone a half-mile when he spotted the tall, lumbering elephant coming toward him. At first Slocum thought something was wrong. Then he saw the maharajah leaning out, his rifle swinging this way and that as he hunted for his cougar.

  Gasim used a hooked pole to prod and his knees to steer the huge elephant up the middle of the valley while Ali rode a prancing horse some distance behind, as if to make sure no one sneaked up on the maharajah.

  Slocum watched in disgust as the elephant came up.

  “Why didn’t you wait where I told you? You could have frightened off the cougar,” Slocum said.

  “I am a maharajah. I do not wait,” said the prince, glaring at Slocum. “Have you found the prey?”

  “There’s a stream about a mile in that direction,” Slocum said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Wait! Don’t go charging there. The cougar left, heading deeper into the valley.”

  The maharajah craned his neck as he studied the lay of the land in that direction. From his vantage, he could probably see a couple miles farther than Slocum.

  “There is a trail ahead. A game trail, but it leads into the hills to the left.”

  Slocum hadn’t known that but was unwilling to let the prince know.

  “That’s why they call them mountain lions,” he said. “You might have to go after the cat on foot.”

  “That’s no fit way for a prince to hunt,” Ali said. The swarthy man glowered at Slocum.

  “This puma is not as ferocious as a tiger,” the maharajah said. “I will ride up here. There is more skill required shooting from the howdah on the back of an elephant.”

  Slocum didn’t see that as very sporting but kept his peace. He wheeled his horse about and trotted off up the valley, angling toward the left wall to find the trail the maharajah had spotted from elephant-back. Here and there the mountain lion had stepped onto muddy ground and left a big paw print. Slocum had gotten a look at the cat but hadn’t realized it was this large. From the size of the paw, it might be eight feet long.

  “This way,” Slocum called. He knew such loud voices would spook the cougar and send it along its way. Hunting any animal for the thrill of simply killing it wasn’t something Slocum cottoned to much. Eat it, fine. Shoot it to keep it from killing livestock, fine. There wasn’t any point in stuffing it or putting its head on a wall. If you needed its hide to keep warm, fine. There were any number of reasons to kill an animal, but the maharajah’s desire to bag something he hadn’t already killed wasn’t too high on Slocum’s list.

  Let the cougar get away. Some rancher might regret this later in the winter when the cat went after a lamb or calf, but that was someone else’s trouble.

  The elephant lumbered past as the prince spotted his quarry and leaned far to one side of the box to get a good shot. Slocum and Ali jockeyed to get to the side so they could catch sight of the cougar.

  “Watch out!” Slocum’s warning came too late. The elephant passed by a rock. A tawny flash showed itself suddenly as the cougar pounced. Talons flashed and its powerful jaws opened to clamp fierce teeth on the elephant’s side. The teeth failed to penetrate but the mountain lion slid down, leaving behind bloody tracks from its claws.

  The elephant trumpeted in pain and shook all over. Slocum saw Gasim fighting to keep his seat, but the way the elephant tossed its head about made it impossible to remain in control. The mahout went flying through the air. But the real problem came as the elephant fought to swing about and defend itself against the cougar. Short tusks of yellowed ivory raked at the cougar and caused the cat to dance away.

  All this jerking about loosened the strap holding the maharajah’s box. Slocum saw it begin to tilt precariously. Then the prince went flying as the elephant trumpeted its attack and charged forward. The cougar snarled, pawed at the huge, angry, wounded beast and then raced off into the woods where the elephant wasn’t likely to follow.

  Slocum sat astride his nervous horse, staring at the carnage.

  Then things got even more confused. The wounded elephant tossed its massive head, bellowed in triumph at chasing away its enemy and trotted off, back into the valley.

  “I’ll take care of the maharajah,” Slocum shouted to Ali. “Stop that elephant.”

  To his surprise, the servant obeyed without question. Slocum jumped to the ground and ran to the prince’s side. The man lay in a pile of torn jacket and ripped, baggy trousers that soaked up the blood leaking from a nasty gash on his leg.

  “I am well,” the maharajah said, rolling over. He winced and pressed his hand into his leg. “A wound.” As if marveling at such a condition, he lifted his hand and stared at his own blood. “I am wounded in battle with a savage mountain lion!”

  Slocum was so angry he could spit.

  “Press a cloth against that cut and you’ll survive,” he said. Slocum looked around for the mahout but didn’t see Gasim. “I’ll find your elephant driver.”

  “Ah, Gasim, yes, go fetch him. He must be punished for causing such a calamity.”

  Slocum stalked off, then slowed and eyed the ground suspiciously. Cougar tracks. He looked around. The mountain lion that had attacked the elephant had run into the woods a hundred yards away. Then he stared at the ground in front of him. Definite cougar tracks, but these paw prints were smaller.

  “Two cats,” he cried. Slocum whipped out his six-shooter and ran forward, shouting at the top of his lungs. He saw where Gasim had been thrown down a rocky incline to come to rest at an awkward angle. Gnawing on one arm was a smaller mountain lion—the female he had seen drinking at the stream.

  Slocum fired in the air and forced the mountain lion to back away, growling deep in its throat. Gasim’s blood dripped from its jowls. The cat let out a feral growl, then bolted into rocks farther down the hill, leaving behind its supper.

  “Gasim,” came the maharajah’s deriding voice. “You made one mistake too many. You fool, you stupid fool.”

  Slocum’s grip on his Colt Navy tightened as he considered shooting the maharajah where he stood. All that stopped him was Ali returning with the elephant.

  9

  “Your Highness!”

  Slocum turned to see Ali returning with the elephant. The maharajah immediately went to stand in front of the wounded animal. Slocum thought that was about the dumbest thing he had ever seen since the powerful elephant could trample the man and never notice.

  Like it had Hugh Malley.

  “We must go immediately. It’s too dangerous for you to remain here,” said Ali.

  “Nonsense. I have hunted tigers. This mountain lion has its charm.”

  Slocum looked at the bloody marks on the elephant’s side and wondered where the appeal was for the Indian potentate. An animal this large wasn’t in danger of dying, but the mountain lion’s dirty claws might infect the bleeding wounds—or even cause the elephant to go berserk with pain. That would give the maharajah a real hunt. He could shoot his own elephant.

  “Return to camp, sir,” Ali said. Slocum saw true concern in the man’s dark eyes.

  “You do not order me, Ali,” the prince said coldly. “I will return to the camp because it is what I must do.” The maharajah looked at his dirtied, torn clothing and the gash on his leg that still bled sluggishly. “I need Lakshmi to tend my injuries.”

  “At once, Highness!”

  “I’ll ride your horse,” the maharajah decided. “Tend the elephant since Mr. Slocum is not likely to be capable of such, uh, wrangling they call it.”

  Slocum sensed an oblique insult but the prince was right. He could tend a herd of cattle, stop a stampede, do things with horses that the Indian prince could only dream of, but getting a wounded elephant back to its pen was not a chore he wanted.

  Slocum and the maharajah mounted as Ali began pushing and shouting at the elephant to get it moving. He had to trot when the beast decided to set the pace just a tad faster than a man could walk, but Ali made no complaint.

  “I must bag a mountain lion,” the maharajah told Slocum as they rode side by side. “It is a wily adversary, more than I expected from any creature on the North American continent. I am pleased.”

  “You’re pleased?” Slocum shook his head. “You lost your elephant driver and got banged up and you’re pleased?”

  “Gasim!” cried the maharajah. “I forgot about him when Ali brought the elephant. We must not leave him where he fell.” The prince jerked on the reins and turned his horse to return.

  “You need to get your leg bandaged,” Slocum said. “I’ll fetch the body.”

  “He is my servant. I will do what is necessary to see that his body is not defiled.”

  Slocum looked at the man and wondered what the hell that meant. He wasn’t going to violate the corpse and resented the implication that he would.

  “He must be tended properly and the body returned to India,” the maharajah said, seeing Slocum’s anger. “Religious ritual must be performed to ease his soul on its journey.”

  “The Celestials render the flesh off the body and send bones back to China,” Slocum said. That had never made much sense to him, either, but shipping bones was a better choice than getting an entire body ready for a month-long trip to India. Slocum was more inclined to bury the dead where they fell.

  “The Chinese,” the maharajah said with distaste. “They covet my land of Rajasthan and will invade someday. How can we stop those faceless, numberless hordes?”

  Slocum was more worried about retrieving Gasim’s body than some potential invasion of a land he couldn’t even locate on a map. Two mountain lions still prowled the area and one had a taste for human flesh. It took close to ten minutes to reach the top of the incline where Gasim had been thrown by the rampaging elephant. Slocum drew rein and frowned as he studied the rocky slope.

  “I don’t know where the body is,” Slocum said. “This is the spot where he took a tumble.” Slocum pointed to the cut-up ground, dislodged rocks and even some flecks of blood on rocks a few feet down the slope. Whether the blood came from Gasim or the elephant, Slocum didn’t know. But this was the spot where the mahout had fallen.

  Now Gasim’s body was gone.

  “The mountain lion might have dragged off the body,” Slocum said.

  “Then we track it and save what portion of the body that we can,” the maharajah said.

  “I’ll do it. You don’t have a rifle.”

  “I’ll take yours. You have your sidearm.”

  Slocum bristled at the notion of the prince using his Winchester, but it made sense. Slocum knew the man was an expert marksman after seeing how he bagged one buffalo after another during the stampede. Two guns were certainly better than one when it came to a bringing down man-eating cougars, but it still didn’t set well with him. He pulled the rifle from the saddle scabbard and passed it to the maharajah.

  “A light rifle, hardly worth carrying,” the maharajah said as he examined the Winchester. “Good enough for rabbits, perhaps, but nothing more demanding.”

  Slocum dismounted and made his way downhill without answering. That rifle had saved his life more than once. It wasn’t a Sharps .50 or the heavy caliber rifle the maharajah favored for hunting, but it could bring down a deer—or a man.