Slipping and sliding on the loose gravel, Slocum reached the spot where the cougar had savaged Gasim. Blood had spattered everywhere. But farther downhill Slocum saw something that made him cautious. He drew his six-shooter and looked around, every sense alert for trouble.

  “The mountain lion?” called the maharajah. “Do you see it?”

  “Quiet,” Slocum said. “Gasim wasn’t dragged off by the cougar. His body was taken by Indians.”

  “Of course it was. We are Indians,” the maharajah said sarcastically.

  “Crow,” Slocum said. “He was taken by Crow Indians, and I don’t think he’s dead. There’s too much blood. Dead men don’t bleed.”

  “I shall join you.” Before Slocum could wave back the prince, he crashed and slid noisily to stand beside Slocum. His dark eyes worked over the land and he slowly nodded. “You are right.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Slocum said dryly. He had already spotted the tracks leading away down a draw, which took a sharp bend and hid anything in its gravelly bottom. The Crow might be laying in ambush a dozen yards off.

  “Why do you call these natives ‘Crow’? When those who captured Gasim might be other tribes? Is there something in these tracks that identifies them?”

  Slocum cursed under his breath since he didn’t want to yammer endlessly.

  “I ran into Crow hunters earlier. I assume these tracks were made by them or others in their party.”

  “But you do not know.”

  “Quiet,” Slocum snapped. He cocked his head to one side and listened hard. The wind had picked up a little and whispered through distant leaves, making it hard for him to pick out the sounds mingled with those he needed to decipher most. Turning slowly, Slocum could hear the faint conversation.

  “There,” Slocum said softly. “The Crow are over there.”

  “How is it you know they are Crow?” The maharajah refused to let the matter drop. It didn’t matter which Indians had taken Gasim. The result would be the same. The maharajah’s elephant driver would end up with his scalp lifted if they were hostile. Even if they weren’t, the Indians might mistreat the wounded man enough to kill him. Slocum doubted they had seen anyone with that exact skin color, even Mexicans coming this far north to trade. That curiosity might be enough to keep Gasim alive a bit longer.

  “Follow close behind,” Slocum said. “I doubt they have sentries out, but splitting up will double our chance of being spotted.”

  “What is happening?” The maharajah tipped his head to one side as he finally heard what Slocum already had. “Are they performing strange heathen rites?”

  “They want his scalp for their belts,” Slocum said, not wanting any talk at all as he approached the camp. Walking quickly and silently, he went directly along the bank of the arroyo until he got to the wooded area where he heard distinct voices.

  Slocum was within a dozen paces of the copse when shadows broke off from two trunks and stepped into the fading afternoon light. He looked down the barrels of two leveled rifles in the capable hands of Crow warriors.

  One let out a shrill whistle and brought four other braves running. Slocum put up his hands so they wouldn’t shoot.

  “I would speak with your chief,” Slocum said. His Crow was spotty at best so he stuck with English. The men obviously understood because they whispered among themselves.

  “Come.” The nearest brave motioned for Slocum to head toward their campsite. Slocum glanced over his shoulder but didn’t see the maharajah. He heaved a sigh of relief. There was no telling what kind of trouble the prince might get them into. Slocum’s best chance of getting out with his own scalp—and Gasim still alive—lay in palavering with the party’s leader. The brave might not be a chief but Slocum knew he had to treat him as such.

  He stepped into the clearing where two small fires sputtered. The evening meal was yet to be prepared because the Crows were too interested in their captive. Gasim was tied to a nearby pine tree, his hands behind him. His eyelids fluttered, and he hardly recognized Slocum. But he was alive.

  Slocum hoped they’d all be able to brag about that when morning came.

  “I greet the great chief of the Crows,” Slocum said, holding out his hand. A brave beside him made a grab for his six-shooter, but Slocum moved too fast, sidestepping so the man missed.

  “Kill him,” spoke a young buck. He looked like a stripling compared to some of the others, but his voice carried the sharp edge of command that set him apart. He might not be a chief—yet—but there was no question that he was in charge of what looked to be a hunting party.

  “Does a chief give such careless orders? I thought better of the Crow and their leaders.” Slocum took a calculated risk and spat into the fire. His spittle sizzled and a thin column of steam rose.

  The Crow shot to his feet, his hand flashing to a knife sheathed at his side. Slocum couldn’t help noticing that the jeweled hilt was identical to the one on Gasim’s blade. The Indians had already begun divvying up their prisoner’s belongings.

  “You mock me!”

  “Yes,” Slocum said. “I thought I spoke to a great chief with wisdom. Am I wrong?”

  “No,” the brave said, scowling.

  “What will you trade for your prisoner?” Slocum indicated Gasim. For the first time since coming into camp, he thought they might get out wearing their hair. Then Gasim’s eyes went wide and he struggled, but he wasn’t looking at Slocum.

  A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed the worst. Slocum saw the maharajah strut into camp as if he owned it. He didn’t even have the Winchester leveled at the Crow braves but carried it over his shoulder like a soldier on parade.

  Gasim rattled off a long burst of Hindi, but the maharajah ignored his servant as he came to a spot a few paces away from where Slocum stood by the fire.

  “Primitives, the lot of them,” the maharajah said.

  “Primitives who’ll scalp you if you get them mad,” said Slocum. “And maybe they’ll scalp you even if you don’t piss them off.”

  The Crows stared at the prince, one even coming close enough to run his fingers over the maharajah’s fancy velvet jacket. The threads caught the firelight and turned to liquid gold. That first touch was tentative, almost fearful, but the next was bolder. Soon, all the Crows were running their hands over the jacket.

  “A mighty chief like you should have a coat like that,” Slocum said to the young buck leading the hunting party. “It is yours. A gift from another mighty chief.”

  The maharajah looked a bit surprised.

  “Give him your coat,” Slocum said. “Don’t argue.”

  Slocum had to give the prince his due. The man was quick enough to understand the situation so that he shucked out of the jacket and even held it for the Crow brave to slip into. To Slocum’s surprise, the jacket might have been tailored for the Crow. It fit perfectly.

  “A fine gift to show friendship between our people.”

  “His skin and his,” said the Indian, rudely pointing to Gasim and then to the maharajah, “are the same. Not like the white man’s flesh.”

  “I am from a far-off land,” the maharajah said. Slocum shook his head slightly. He didn’t want the prince mucking up the exchange. It had gone well so far. The Crow turned around and around, fascinated by the way the light reflected off the golden threads in the jacket.

  “He would take his brother back to this far-off land,” Slocum said. “We will trade for the one you have tied up.”

  “Pants,” the Crow said suddenly. “I want.” He pointed to the maharajah’s baggy trousers.

  Slocum was afraid this would be a problem, but the maharajah agilely shucked off the pants and handed them to the brave, adding a small bow that was not lost on any of the Crows. They hooted and hollered and looked on top of the world. Slocum hoped they weren’t also interested in taking the maharajah’s silk underwear.

  “You are a mighty chief and mighty chiefs keep their word. Release your prisoner,” Slocum said. The brave made a gesture identical to that used so familiarly by the maharajah. Two braves hurried to Gasim’s side and cut the ropes holding his hands. Slocum was pleased to see that the mahout had enough strength to get to his feet and unsteadily walk over to them. To support him now would jinx the deal.

  “Come to our camp,” Slocum said graciously since he wasn’t giving away anything that belonged to him, “and we will give you many more gifts, gifts worthy of a great Crow chief.”

  Slocum silenced the maharajah with a look, but the man seemed pleased at the notion of the Crows coming to his camp.

  The Crow nodded once, then crossed his arms over his chest. Slocum saw how the brave’s fingers continued to stroke over the intricate patterns formed by the threads on the jacket. Gasim struggled to walk but the mahout left the Crow camp on his own. When they reached the spot where Slocum and the maharajah had left their horses, Gasim reached the limits of his strength and collapsed.

  “Put him on your horse,” the maharajah said in his usual imperious tone. “He cannot walk in this condition.”

  “He’s lost a lot of blood,” Slocum said. A quick examination showed Gasim’s wounds were clotted over but serious enough to require him to stay in bed for a week or more. Even then, his injuries might not heal properly since the mountain lion had ripped away part of the muscles in his upper arm.

  The maharajah had already ridden off, head high in spite of his semiclothed state. Slocum settled Gasim and then mounted, steadying the man. The powerful stallion hardly noticed the extra weight as they trotted to catch up. Slocum would have joshed anyone else about returning to camp in only baggy underwear but decided the maharajah was not the joking type.

  They reached the camp around midnight. To Slocum’s surprise everyone was still awake, probably alert for the return of their master. Lakshmi’s eyes went wide when she saw Gasim, then she quickly averted her face when the prince dismounted. They exchanged quick bursts of Hindi, but the woman never looked at the partially clad man, as if it was forbidden. Slocum began to wonder what the relationship was between Lakshmi and the maharajah. If they were married, seeing him in such dishabille wouldn’t be that unusual.

  Lakshmi bowed deeply and backed away from the maharajah. Ali held open the tent flap for his master, then vanished inside after him.

  “I need some help with Gasim,” called Slocum. To his surprise, Lakshmi hurried over. She did not seem uncomfortable at the sight of so much dried blood.

  “He is nearly dead,” she said, as if accusing Slocum of being responsible for Gasim’s condition.

  “We got him away from a party of Crow hunters. They took a fancy to him because of the color of his skin. They might be Indians, but they don’t see folks from India in these parts.”

  “This wound is from an animal bite.” Lakshmi’s fingers expertly probed Gasim’s shoulder and biceps.

  “A mountain lion mauled him. Are you a nurse?”

  “I am trained in many disciplines,” Lakshmi said. She looked at him and those impenetrable ebony eyes took on a spark of fire, just for a moment. Or was Slocum reading something that wasn’t there? She hurriedly summoned servants and ordered them to take Gasim to a tent.

  Lakshmi turned to Slocum and started to speak when the maharajah returned, fully dressed once more.

  “You have performed a great service, Mr. Slocum. While you lost us the mountain lion, you saved our favorite mahout. Take this as a token of our thanks.” The prince held out a small box.

  Slocum took it and opened the lid. For a moment he was not sure what he was looking at. Lakshmi gasped and muttered under her breath, “Such a fine diamond!”

  “Thanks,” Slocum said. “I’m glad that Gasim is getting the medical help he needs.”

  He stared at the large rock inside the box as the maharajah left, trailing Ali and Lakshmi. He had seen diamonds before but never one the size of a large pebble. It had to be worth a fortune. Slocum looked around but he stood alone in the middle of the maharajah’s camp, as if everyone else had simply evaporated. He tucked the box into his pocket and tugged on his stallion’s reins, getting it moving toward where he had pitched his camp. He might not be any closer to figuring out who killed Hugh Malley but he was a sight richer, thanks to the maharajah’s reward for saving Gasim.

  10

  With the huge diamond rubbing against his chest as it bounced around in his shirt pocket as he rode, Slocum headed into Hoback Junction to see Darlene. The constant reminder of the diamond told him he was rich when he sold it—and that he wasn’t likely to figure out what killed Hugh Malley if he got the money and rode on. Had the fancy diamond been a bribe so Slocum would do just that? The miner was dead and was hardly more than a faint memory in the maharajah’s camp. If the prince had ordered Hugh’s murder, it was unlikely Slocum could get any of the servants to fess up. It was even less likely he could get Gasim or Ali to speak of his friend’s death.

  Slocum laughed ruefully. The one most likely to confess was the elephant, and Slocum didn’t speak the animal’s language. Not like he did horses, He patted the neck of the powerful white stallion the maharajah had given him and sobered a mite. Was he willing to forget Hugh and how he had died because the prince had bought him off? Slocum touched the diamond and wondered if that hunk of gemstone meant as much to him as getting this fine horse.

  The maharajah was a clever man and obviously knew everyone’s price. Slocum hardened at the thought of being bribed and not even knowing it. Resolve grew until he came to a decision. He wasn’t going to give up on finding who had killed Hugh and why. It might have been that Hugh had seen something people in the camp wanted to keep secret. That would be a good road for Slocum to begin traveling once he returned from town.

  The day was hot and only a feeble breeze blew across the Wyoming prairie, but the Grand Tetons rising to his back reassured him. He was in the middle of hills and only saw the grasslands because of the direction he rode. Given a few more days, he would solve the mystery of who killed Hugh and why, then be on his way to the upper slopes of the mountains where it was cool and peaceful and there wasn’t nary an elephant to be heard trumpeting.

  Hoback Junction seemed particularly empty for midday, but Slocum paid scant attention as he looked around for a jeweler’s store. The closest he came was next door to the land and assay office. A big sign outside listed all the items of precious metal that would be purchased “for a fair price” inside. Diamonds weren’t listed, but Slocum had confidence that he could get enough money for the rock to keep him from sleeping in the stables.

  He went into the shop and looked around. His nose wrinkled at the pungent stench of spilled chemicals. The chemist, decked out in a heavy canvas apron and thick gutta-percha gloves, looked up.

  “What kin I do fer ya?” He didn’t sound too eager to leave his experiment. A bluish liquid in a clear Mason jar awaited a twisted hunk of metal the man held in clamps just above the surface.

  “Go on, finish whatever you’re doing. I’m in no particular hurry,” Slocum said. The chemist grumbled, then dropped the bit of metal into the blue acid.

  “Aqua regia,” the chemist said. “Dissolves damn near anything. Got me a good silver ore sample here. But you don’t wanna hear that, do ya?”

  “What can you give me for this?” Slocum drew out the diamond in its box and lifted the lid to expose it to the faint light slanting through the solitary window in the shop.

  “I declare,” the chemist said, picking up the diamond and peering at it closely. “This real?”

  “Reckon so,” Slocum said.

  “You got it from that India fella, din’t ya?” The chemist took the stone to the dirty window and dragged it across the surface with a screech that put Slocum’s teeth on edge. A shiny cut in the glass testified to the diamond’s authenticity, not that Slocum had doubted for a moment that the maharajah would give him a worthless hunk of glass.

  “What’ll you give me for it?”

  “Ten,” the chemist said, dropping it on the counter.

  “Ten thousand?” Slocum’s eyes widened.

  “Ten dollars. I ain’t got no market fer that thing. Nuthin’ I kin do to break it up into smaller hunks, though I heard tell of diamond cutters doin’ that.”

  “Ten dollars?” Slocum was getting angry. “It’s worth more than that!”

  “Not to me, not to nobody in Hoback Junction. You want top dollar fer it, you take it to New Orleans or maybe St. Louis. Don’t think you could get more ’n five hundred for it in Frisco, ’less it caught the eye of one of them high-priced whores.” The chemist chuckled at a private joke. Slocum asked what was so funny. “Well,” said the chemist, “I was thinkin’ you could give that to the best lookin’ whore in all of Frisco and get yerself laid for the next twenny years. I’ll give you fifty for it!”

  Slocum tucked the diamond back into its box and left without another word. He hadn’t expected this. If the man had offered a few hundred, Slocum would have been inclined to accept, but fifty dollars was a tiny fraction of what it was worth. As he walked, his ire settled. The chemist was right. Who in Hoback Junction, Wyoming, wanted such a fabulous precious stone? Most of the women, the ones who had any jewelry at all, wore rhinestones and were happy for that speck of flash.

  The diamond might be worth more than the land under the entire town but did him no good if he couldn’t find anyone interested in buying it.

  Slocum went to the hotel and asked after Darlene, only to find that she had taken a clerking job at the general store. He went to the store and looked around. It was empty.

  “Hello? Anybody around?” he called. From the back of the store he heard movement and went to see. A young boy, hardly thirteen, played like a cat with a mouse he had trapped in a cracker box.

  “Where is everyone?” asked Slocum. The boy jumped like he had been stuck with a pin.

  “Sorry, mister. Didn’t hear you come in. My pa left me in charge since he and the rest have ridden out to take care of things.”

  “What are you talking about?” Slocum had the feeling he wouldn’t like what he heard. Hoback Junction seemed unnaturally empty right now.