Mister Slaughter Part 15

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, "that you have to pay for my mistake. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. But listen to me, Hudson. I'm going after Slaughter, and I'm going to bring him back. Before G.o.d, I can't live knowing what I've let loose. Can you hear me, Hudson?" He clasped his friend's shoulder more tightly. "Can you hear?"

"I hear," said another voice.

Matthew turned around.

Behind him and just to one side stood Walker In Two Worlds.

They stared at each other for a moment, as the fire crackled and blue flames curled.

Walker held up his right hand, in which was gripped the silver watch.

"I like this." His eyes were full of shadow. "I'm sure it was very expensive, in your land." He stepped forward and put the fingers of his left hand under Greathouse's nostrils. "Still alive. I think he must must be a very strong man." be a very strong man."

"Do they think he'll live?" Matthew motioned with a lift of his chin toward the two women, who stood watching from the far wall.

Walker spoke to them, and one answered. "She says it's too early to tell, but it's a good sign that his soul has decided to stay in his body, at least for now." He looked down upon Greathouse's placid face. "Sleeping well, it seems to me. They gave him some strong medicine. He shouldn't wake again before tomorrow."

"Can they give me me something?" Matthew asked. "For my hands and feet. Maybe also to keep me going." something?" Matthew asked. "For my hands and feet. Maybe also to keep me going."

"They do medicine, not " Walker probed his memory for the right word. "Miracles," he said. "You need food and sleep." He spoke once more to the women, and was answered again by the same one. "She says they can put a poultice on your hands and feet and bind them up, yes, but it won't take away all the pain."

"Just so I can walk."

"You won't be doing any walking today today. Better to let them work on you, and rest until morning." He nodded toward Greathouse. "Is this man your brother?"

"In a manner of speaking," Matthew replied, "I'd say he is."

"But you betrayed him? And now you seek to make things right?"

Matthew didn't know how much of his confession Walker had heard, but obviously the Indian had caught some of it. "Yes."

"And the man called Slaughter? If I refuse to track him for you, will you still go?"

"I will. He's going to have a long headstart, but he has no shoes. The first thing he's going to do is try to get a pair of boots." Matthew had already given this some thought. Would Slaughter try to get the wagon backed up on the road above Fort Laurens? It would be a hard job for one man. He might try to unharness the horses, but those old nags weren't going to hold a rider. Matthew recalled, with chilling clarity, Slaughter's comment to Reverend Burton: Looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you Looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you?

Matthew thought that was going to be Slaughter's first destination, but where he would go after that was anyone's guess. Matthew could only hope that Slaughter took just the boots, and left Burton and Tom in one piece.

"You may never find him," Walker said. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know I'll never find him if I don't try."

Walker stared into Matthew's eyes for a time, until Matthew uncomfortably felt as if the Indian was gauging the territory of his very soul. "True enough," said Walker. He spoke to the medicine sisters, who acknowledged him by going about business that involved pouring some of the contents-different kinds of tree bark and berries, it appeared to Matthew-from a few of the jars out into a bowl and then grinding the mixture with a pestle made from an animal's bone. "Do you like fish?" Walker asked, and when Matthew nodded he said, "Come on then, there's always some on the coals at " He paused as he put together the correct translation. "Happy River Turtle's house."

As they progressed through the village, Matthew noted that most gave Walker a wide berth, and some averted their faces or clasped their hands over nose or mouth as if to avoid a bad smell. Women picked up children at their approach, and hurried away. A few braves motioned angrily at them, their attention directed specifically to Walker, but Walker paid no heed to his critics and actually laughed harshly in the face of one who came up close enough to spray them with spittle.

"Don't mind them," Walker explained. "This is a show they put on."

Matthew had to ask the question, though he didn't know how to phrase it. So he simply asked it as best he could: "How are you insane?"

Walker looked at the watch as they continued on, and rubbed its silver back with his palm. "I know too much," he answered.

Happy River Turtle indeed must have a fine reputation as a cook, Matthew thought, for there was a crowd around the longhouse he and Walker were approaching. There was an outside fire burning at the center of a communal eating area. It was almost a festive atmosphere, of people drinking from clay cups and hollowed-out gourds and taking from the fire roasted meat and fish on sharpened sticks. It shouldn't have surprised him, he mused, because it was time for the midday meal here just as in New York. He didn't see that any payment was being made for the culinary items, but maybe it was simply on the basis of share-and-share-alike, or that some system of bartering was happening beyond Matthew's understanding. In any case, Walker waded into the throng-which parted for him, and became more sullen until he had pa.s.sed through-and then returned bearing a stick on which sizzled large chunks of charred white-fleshed fish along with pieces of tomato and peppers. Matthew reasoned they were to share the item, so there was enough to go around.

Matthew sat on the ground to eat the portion that Walker gave him, for his legs were giving out. He felt exhaustion coming upon him, slowly and steadily; it was a process he could not halt, no matter how steadfast his will. As he ate, he couldn't help but go over in his mind again and again the events of the morning. When he could tear his thoughts away from Greathouse's precarious situation and his concerns about Reverend Burton and Tom, he found himself pondering the trick safebox. How had Slaughter managed to rig such a thing? Some kind of explosive device had been concealed in it, yes, but how had the thing worked? And all the time Slaughter had been pretending to fear for his life he'd known that box was in its hole, protected from the damp by all the straw, ready to go off in Greathouse's face. Had Slaughter primed the thing over two years ago, and left it waiting like a bomb? But for what reason? His fear that Indians might dig it up? Slaughter couldn't have known he wouldn't be back to his cabin that day he was captured, so perhaps the box was was primed to go off when and if an Indian tried to open it. But what had been inside to make it explode? Matthew wished he could get a look at it, just to satisfy his curiosity. primed to go off when and if an Indian tried to open it. But what had been inside to make it explode? Matthew wished he could get a look at it, just to satisfy his curiosity.

His hands were stiffening up. He finished his food, grateful to get something in his stomach, and then struggled to his feet again. Walker remained a few yards away, crouched on his haunches as he ate. No one had dared to come anywhere near either of them. Matthew watched Walker as the Indian stared out impa.s.sively toward the other villagers. Insane? Because he knew knew too much? Matthew noted that Walker kept firm hold of the watch, and gazed at it every so often. In admiration, or for some other reason? It was hard to tell. Equally hard to tell was whether Walker had decided to help him or not. If not, then Matthew was on his own, but he had to keep going. Tomorrow morning he would set out, no matter what. First to the reverend's house, and then? too much? Matthew noted that Walker kept firm hold of the watch, and gazed at it every so often. In admiration, or for some other reason? It was hard to tell. Equally hard to tell was whether Walker had decided to help him or not. If not, then Matthew was on his own, but he had to keep going. Tomorrow morning he would set out, no matter what. First to the reverend's house, and then?

He wasn't sure. Would Slaughter head back for the Philadelphia Pike, or toward the nearest settlement, which would be the trading post at Belvedere? It seemed to Matthew that once Slaughter got boots on his feet his next item he'd try to get was a horse that could carry him at a reasonable speed. If that happened, the chance of catching up with him became even less likely.

Matthew felt that if he closed his eyes for just a second and reopened them, all this might fade away and reveal itself to be nought but a bad dream brought on by the experience-long ago, it seemed now-at the c.o.c.k'a'tail tavern. Here stands the celebrity of New York! he thought bitterly. Look how well he's dressed, and how fine a figure he makes! He lowered his head. All that could go to h.e.l.l, he thought. The only thing that was important now-the only thing that both taunted and compelled him-was seeing Tyranthus Slaughter back in chains.

He was aware of a movement to his left.

When he looked up, the young Indian girl who was holding a wooden cup full of water instinctively stepped back, like a frightened doe. But she only retreated one pace, and then held her ground because, after all, it was was her ground. her ground.

Her dark eyes shone as if pools of some exotic amalgam of ebony and silver. Her long black hair was a midnight stream, flowing over the warm brown stones of her shoulders. In her lovely, full-lipped face and steady gaze Matthew saw something ancient and indescribable, as if the hundreds of ancestors who had hunted and farmed this land, had raised children here, had died and returned to the earth, were there behind her eyes, studying him. She was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, but timeless. She wore the deerskins, beads and ornaments her mother had worn, and her mother's mother, and on back into the mists before London's first citizen had built a fire on the edge of the Thames. He felt flowing out from her like a spirit force the dignity of great age, but also the curiosity of a child who never aged.

She said something softly, like a church bell heard at a great distance. Then she came forward and offered him the cup, and he took it and soothed his thirst.

Step by step she backed away, calmly watching him, until at last she turned around and was gone among her people.

"Matthew Corbett," said Walker In Two Worlds, standing at his side. "Come with me now."

In his state of increasing weariness, his mind beginning to fill up with fog, Matthew followed Walker back to the house of the medicine sisters. Within, the two women were prepared for him. They washed his hands with warm water from a pot over the fire, dried them and applied a red powder to his raw palms that made him grit his teeth and almost shout from the pain, but he was determined not to make a fool of himself. Next they coated his palms with a brown, sticky liquid that smelled of pine sap, and was as cooling as the pain had been hot. Pieces of white cloth were bound around his hands, followed by strips of leather that were knotted and secured so that he in essence found himself wearing fingerless gloves.

The sisters were chattering at him, wanting him to do something he couldn't understand, and Walker had not entered the dwelling with him so he was all at sea. Then one of the women overturned a large wooden pot in a corner and plopped herself down on it, motioning Matthew to follow her example. As he sat on the makes.h.i.+ft chair, the medicine sisters removed his-Greathouse's-boots and treated his damaged feet in the same fas.h.i.+on, with powder and pine sap liquid. Then they repeated the process of the pieces of cloth and also the binding of his feet with the leather strips, knotted and secured across the top of the foot. He started to stand up but they grasped his shoulders and wouldn't allow it. A nasty-looking black elixir was poured from a long-necked clay jar into a fist-sized cup and put to his mouth. He had no choice but to drink it, and though it smelled like wet dirt it tasted surprisingly sweet, like musky fermented grapes or berries. They wouldn't let him stop until he'd finished it all, after which he was light-headed and his tongue felt coated with fur. At the bottom of the cup was a residue of what appeared to be pure black river mud.

"Here," said Walker, as he came into the house. "These should fit you." He held out for Matthew a pair of moccasins. They were by no means new, but looked to be st.u.r.dy enough.

Matthew took them and tried them on. They did fit, quite comfortably.

"Sleep in those tonight," Walker told him. "Get used to them. Those English boots aren't any good for travelling."

"Thank you. Where will I sleep?"

"Outside my house, on the ground. I'll give you a blanket. You ought to get used to sleeping on the ground, too. Besides," he said, "my demons come in the night."

Matthew nodded, deciding it was far better to sleep on the ground than witness a visitation of Walker's demons, whatever they were.

"We'll eat well tonight," Walker continued. "But you'll be wanting to sleep early, with all that " He hesitated. "There's no English word for what you just drank, but the sisters know what they're doing. We'll leave at dawn, and we'll be travelling light and fast. That is, as fast as you you can move." can move."

"We?"

"You'll never find that man by yourself," Walker said. "I told you I liked the watch." He was still holding it, Matthew saw.

"All right." Either the drink was about to overpower him, or it was the sense of relief. "I thank you again."

"Thank me after he's caught. Which, as you English would say, is tomorrow's business."

Matthew stood up in his new footwear. He approached the beaverskin hammock where Greathouse lay silent, eyes closed, in his wrapping.

He remembered something Greathouse had spoken to him, that morning at Sally Almond's.

I can't be with you all the time, and I'd hate for your gravestone to have the year 1702 marked on it.

"I as well," Matthew said quietly. But it was equally important-vitally important-to stop Slaughter from filling up any more graves. He prayed he would be in time, and that when the time came he would be strong enough-and smart enough, having crawled back from that deepest pit in h.e.l.l set aside for men who think themselves so very smart-to be more than a match for a monster.

But, as the Indian and the English said, that was tomorrow's business.

Seventeen.

Up on the road ahead of them was the wagon. One of the horses was missing, while the other stood with head hanging and shoulders slumped, forlorn in its solitude and unable to reach any leaf or stem of edible vegetation.

Matthew followed Walker up the hillside. It was still the dim light of early morning, the clouds thick overhead, and the air smelling again of approaching rain. Walker had already pointed out the clear prints of Slaughter's bare feet. "He's carrying something heavy," Walker had said, and Matthew had nodded, knowing it was the explosive safebox.

The missing horse made Matthew's guts twist. He'd thought that surely neither of those old swaybacked nags would have carried a rider. And, anyway, how fast could the horse go, even if whipped by a stick? Still, for Slaughter to have a horse meant he could give his legs and lungs a rest, which was a definite advantage over his trackers-or at least one one of them. of them.

At the first rooster's crow this morning, the wet nose of a dog sniffing his face had brought Matthew up from his sleep beside Walker's dwelling. His hands and feet were sore, his left shoulder badly bruised; if he'd awakened in such condition in New York, he might have lain in bed until midday and then staggered out to see a doctor, but in this country he thought that such injuries amounted to a splinter in the finger. Not a half-minute after Matthew had pushed aside his blanket and tested the strength of his legs, Walker In Two Worlds had emerged from the shelter. Today the Indian was wearing, along with his usual garb of deerskin loincloth, leggings, and moccasins, a dark green cloak tied at the throat. Fixed to Walker's scalplock with leather cords was an arrangement of feathers dyed dark green and indigo. Around his right shoulder was a leather sheath, decorated with the beaded images of various animals, securing his bow, and around the left his quiver of a dozen or so arrows. A knife hung in a holder from a fringed belt around his narrow waist, along with a small rawhide bag that Matthew thought probably contained a supply of dried meat. What Matthew took as spirit symbols-swirls and lightning bolts-had been painted in black on Walker's cheeks, his forehead, and across his chin. His eyes had been blackened, and made to resemble the glittering danger of tarpit pools. As Greathouse might have said, Walker was ready for bear.

Matthew, in contrast, realized he was as dangerous-looking as a sugar cookie, in his dirty white s.h.i.+rt and cravat, his dark burgundy-red breeches and waistcoat missing half its b.u.t.tons, and the tatters of his stockings, which bared his calves and ankles down to the moccasins. He was in need of a shave and his dirty hair and gritty scalp might have scared the bristles off a brush. That, he thought, was as fearsome as he would be this day, for though he pushed himself onward following the silent Walker out of the village he felt his courage was made up of tinfoil and could be crumpled by any child's fist.

They were trailed from the village by several young braves who seemed to be jeering at Walker, making fun of his perceived insanity perhaps, but Walker paid them no heed. After a while the young men tired of their game and turned back, and the two travelers were left alone. Walker moved fast, without speaking or looking left or right, but with his eyes fixed ahead and his shoulders slightly lowered. He had a strange rolling gait that Matthew had seen other Indians use: the "fox walk" was what the leatherstockings in New York, the fur traders and rough-edged men who had experience with the tribes, called it. Very soon it was a ch.o.r.e for Matthew to keep up, and when Walker seemed to realize he was so far ahead they were about to lose sight of each other the Indian slowed his pace to what was probably for him a crawl.

Last night Matthew had slept soundly on the earth, beneath a tan-colored blanket, until he'd been awakened in the stillness. Why he'd been awakened he didn't know. A few Indians were sitting around the embers of a nearby fire, talking quietly as the members of any community might converse, but their voices did not carry. No, it was something else that had disturbed Matthew, and he lay with his eyes open, listening.

In a moment he heard it: a keening cry, barely audible at first, then becoming louder and stronger, ending with either a strangled rush of breath or a sob. Again the cry rose up, and this time Matthew saw the men around the fire glance back at Walker's house, for the tortured wailing was surely coming from within. The cry went on for a few seconds longer, then quietened once more. Twice again it rose and fell, now more of a hoa.r.s.e moan than a cry. Matthew felt the flesh crawl on the back of his neck; Walker's demons had come, and they were sparing him no mercy. Whatever insanity Walker believed he possessed-or that possessed him-on this night he was its prisoner.

The men around the fire went to their own houses. The embers darkened and cooled. Matthew at last fell asleep again, with the blanket up to his chin. In the morning, when Walker had emerged, nothing was spoken about the visitation of demons, and for once in his life Matthew had known to ask no questions.

The wagon was ahead, where it had been left. The single horse, seeing the men coming, lifted its head and gave an exhausted whinny.

Walker reached the animal. He put a rea.s.suring hand on its flank. "Is this what Slaughter was carrying?" he asked Matthew, and nodded toward the back of the wagon.

And there it was. The safebox, its lid open, sitting right there next to the chains. Matthew went to it and saw that it was empty of valuables: no coins, no jewels, nothing. But within it was a rectangular compartment that immediately drew his interest, for he recognized the flintlock mechanism of a pistol that had been tripped by a rachet-like device and caused to ignite a powder charge. The walls of the compartment were black with the powder's ignition, which had blown smoke and sparks through the keyhole. Of additional interest was a small square of iron and a piece of metal that resembled a miniature hammer. Matthew saw, with admiration at the skill and trickery of this ruse, that the little hammer had been under some kind of tension and, upon being released by the rachet, had made the sound approximating a gunshot when it struck the iron plate. It was an elaborate way to foil a robbery, but certainly would have worked to scare off an overly-curious Indian or two. Still, the thing was a puzzle. How would its owner get into it without setting off the charge? And who had made it?

He tilted it up to look at the bottom, searching for a maker's mark. His reward for that supposition was not just a mark, but a name and place of origin, burned into the wood by a piece of redhot iron used as a quill.

It read O. Quisenhunt, Phila O. Quisenhunt, Phila. And was followed by a number: 6 6.

"I think he left something else," Walker said, and knelt down beside the wagon. He held up a muddy ring, fas.h.i.+oned of gold and inset with a small red gemstone. "And another." This find was an elegant silver brooch, studded with four black stones. Walker continued to search the ground, while Matthew came to the realization that in transferring his stolen items and coins from the safebox, Slaughter had dropped at least two things. And what had he transferred them to? Matthew recalled that Slaughter's clothing had had no pockets. He looked beneath the wagon's seat, and saw that his small bag of personal belongings was gone, along with his water flask. His razor and shaving soap had been in the bag. And now, horribly, the razor belonged to a man who could devise more use for it than grooming.

"Take these." Walker had found two more items: a silver ring with intricate engraving and a necklace of grayish-blue pearls that would be very beautiful when they were cleaned up. As Matthew took the four pieces of jewelry from Walker's outstretched hand, he remembered Slaughter posing the question What is a string of pearls selling for these days What is a string of pearls selling for these days? He put the pieces into his waistcoat pocket, as it was clear Walker had no interest in them and it was foolish to leave them lying about. Walker made another survey of the ground around the wagon, then he stood up and began unharnessing the horse. Matthew helped him, finding it difficult to look the Indian full in the face because, in truth, all that paint made Walker himself appear to be demonic, some sort of forest specter whose purpose was to stab fear into an English heart. Matthew figured that was the reason for it: if he was the one being tracked, one glimpse at that fierce visage and Matthew would have given up his flight as hopeless.

Whether that would work when-and if-they found Slaughter was another question.

When the horse was freed, it made a direct line to the nearest vegetation and began to eat. Walker was already climbing the road, and Matthew hurried after him.

They found the second horse chewing weeds at the top of the hill. Walker had only one comment to make as they pa.s.sed the animal and continued on: "Slaughter has discovered he's not up to riding a horse without a saddle."

Matthew got up alongside Walker and forced himself to keep pace. How long he could maintain this, he had no idea. Even so, it was evident Walker was not moving as fast as he was able. "Why are you helping me?" Matthew managed to ask, his lungs starting to burn.

"I told you. I like the watch."

"I don't think that's all of it."

"I would save your breath, if I were you." Walker glanced quickly sideways at Matthew. "Did you know that my father, in his youth, could run one hundred of your English miles in a day? And that after a night's sleep, he could get up at dawn and run one hundred more? Those were the old days of the strong men, before you people came. Before you brought what it is you have brought."

"What exactly " Matthew was having trouble talking and keeping his breath. "Have we brought?"

"The future," said Walker, and then he broke into a loping trot that Matthew tried to match but could not. In a few seconds Walker had pulled away, heading downhill. Matthew doggedly followed, as fast as he could manage on sore feet and aching legs but no faster.

Soon Matthew came to the split in the road that led to Belvedere. Walker was down on his haunches, examining the ground. The Indian gave Matthew time to catch his breath, and then he said, "Bare feet going this way." He pointed in the direction of New Unity. "Boots coming back, and going this this way." His finger aimed toward Belvedere. He stood up, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Matthew. "He's going to the trading post. There was money in that box?" way." His finger aimed toward Belvedere. He stood up, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Matthew. "He's going to the trading post. There was money in that box?"

"Yes."

"He wants to buy a horse. The boot tracks were made yesterday, about midday. He's walking quickly, with a long stride. He might have reached Belvedere by late afternoon or early evening. If he bought a horse, he's gone."

"Unless he stayed in Belvedere to rest."

"He may have," Walker said. "We won't know until we get there."

Matthew was looking along the road that led to Reverend Burton's cabin. "I have to go that that way first," he said, his voice hollow. way first," he said, his voice hollow.

"For what reason?"

"I know," Matthew answered, "where Slaughter got the boots." And he set off, again moving as quickly as he was able. Walker caught up within a few strides, and stayed a distance off to his right.

Rain began to fall quietly through the trees. Red and yellow leaves drifted down. As Matthew reached Reverend Burton's house, he saw that the door was open, sagging inward on its hinges. He went up the steps to the porch, where he couldn't help but note splotches of dark red on the planks. Then he walked through the door, and into the world of Tyranthus Slaughter.

It was a place of blood and brutality. Matthew abruptly stopped, for he'd heard first the greedy buzzing of flies. The reverend's body lay on its back amid splintered furniture, both boots gone, the hands outstretched, palms upward. A pool of blood surrounded the head, and there the flies were feasting. The face was covered by the heavy Good Book, which had been opened about to the middle. Matthew stepped forward, slowly, and saw upon the Bible's back a smear of mud from the bare foot that had pressed it down.

And there was Tom.

The boy was on his knees, near the fireplace. Half his face was a black bruise. His nostrils were crusted with blood, his lower lip ripped open, a razor slash across his left cheekbone. His dark brown s.h.i.+rt was torn open to the waist, his pale chest scored with razor cuts. He looked up at Matthew with eyes sunken into swollen slits.

He was holding James in both arms, at about chest-height. The dog lay on its right side. Matthew saw that it was breathing shallowly. It was bleeding from the mouth and nose and its visible eye had rolled back into its head.

When Walker came into the house, Tom gave a start and dropped the dog a few inches. What could only be called a scream of agony came from James' mouth, and instantly Tom lifted the dog up again to chest-height. Gradually, its piercing cries subsided.

"He's with me," Matthew said to Tom, as the boy gave an involuntary s.h.i.+ver; his voice sounded unrecognizable to him, the voice of someone speaking beyond the door through which he'd just walked.

Tom just stared blankly at him.