Mister Slaughter Part 23

"Something moved," Matthew whispered, his voice raw. He started to point and thought better of it. "Ahead to the left."

Walker aimed his arrow toward that point, and when the Indian took his next step Matthew felt his guts twinge until it was evident there would be no more bursts from the brush. Matthew stayed alongside him, as they advanced among huge trees. In another moment Matthew was aware of a faint and hazy lumination on all sides: the green glow from dozens of mushrooms on the forest floor, or of fungus attached to rotting wood.

Matthew kept alert for any further movement. Walker stopped again and seemed to be sniffing the air. There was a long pause, during which Matthew thought his teeth might break, he was clenching them so hard. Walker whispered, with a hint of urgency, "He's close." A shape suddenly rose from a crouch through the thicket in front of them, but even as Walker let his arrow fly the shape flattened out once more and merged with the dark. There came the thunk thunk of the arrowhead hitting a tree. Walker reached back, took a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it. of the arrowhead hitting a tree. Walker reached back, took a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it.

Matthew saw, to the left again, another fleeting motion. Whether it was part of a shoulder, or a back, or a head, he couldn't tell. It was just there one instant and the next not. The bowstring sang and the second arrow sped away. No cry of pain followed. There was only the silence and the stillness. Walker readied a third arrow. The Indian moved forward, the bow drawn and the arrow seeking a target. Matthew lifted his pistol and c.o.c.ked the striker; it made a jarringly loud click click. He followed Walker, staying just off his right shoulder.

With two more paces, the world blew up.

Sparks flew from low down on the ground, about ten feet in front of Walker. In the blinding flash of the powder igniting, Matthew saw Walker fire his third arrow into the light, and then the sound of the gunshot cracked his ears. As Walker staggered back, Matthew pulled his pistol's trigger and fired into the billowing smoke, his eyes dazzled by first Slaughter's shot and then his own. Another voluminous gout of smoke whirled up, rank with the potent smell of gunpowder, and he felt Walker collide with his shoulder and nearly knock him sprawling.

Matthew went down on his knees. Walker had fallen to the ground somewhere behind him. And now, as Matthew's head reeled and his eyes seemed to pulse with white-hot cores of flame, he realized he had to get his gun loaded again, for there was no way to know if Slaughter had been hit or not. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears he heard Lark shouting from the camp: "Matthew! Matthew Matthew!"

He got the shooter's bag off his shoulder and shut his eyes, for they were useless. His fingers would have to see for him. They found the powderhorn, a lead ball and a cloth patch.

"Matthew!" Lark screamed.

He poured the powder, pulled the ramrod from its socket and rammed down the patch and ball. Opened the flashpan. Shook powder into the pan. Closed it. What was he forgetting? Something vital. The ramrod. Still in the barrel. If he lost it, the pistol would be reduced to a club. He removed the ramrod from the barrel and- A shot fired from his right. The ball hissed past his ear. Slaughter might be wounded, but he was still able enough to quick-load a pistol in the dark.

Matthew opened his blind eyes, which saw nothing but flowing curtains of light, and fired at the sound of Slaughter's shot. He heard the ball smack into a treetrunk; he thought, crazily, that Greathouse would have kicked his tail for firing too hastily and too high. Then Matthew's next thought was that even though Slaughter was also shooting blind he had to move, lest Slaughter pinpoint his own position from the sound. Grabbing the shooter's bag and holding the pistol like G.o.d's own gift, he got on his belly and crawled to the right over dead leaves, roots and luminous mushrooms.

He got his back against a tree and, eyes closed, started the loading process again. Halfway done, he was shaken by the crack crack of another shot from somewhere in front of him, but where the ball went he didn't know. All he cared was that he wasn't hit. Flashpan primed? Ramrod out? Yes. He aimed into the night, pulled the trigger, and the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d bullpup gun failed to fire. of another shot from somewhere in front of him, but where the ball went he didn't know. All he cared was that he wasn't hit. Flashpan primed? Ramrod out? Yes. He aimed into the night, pulled the trigger, and the little b.a.s.t.a.r.d bullpup gun failed to fire.

He thumbed the striker back, his hand trembling. Could be any d.a.m.ned thing gone wrong. Flint misaligned. Touch-hole blocked. Maybe not enough powder in the pan. He opened the pan, feeling his way, and shook more powder into it from the horn.

"Matthew! Matthew, answer me!" Lark was pleading, near panic. Beyond her voice, he could hear the sound of Faith wailing like a child about to be whipped.

He opened his eyes. Through the mist and dazzle he saw a shower of red sparks fly up from the underbrush maybe twenty feet away. He heard the report an instant before the ball knocked splinters from the treetrunk a foot above his head; then it was his turn, and when he pulled the trigger this time the Dovehart Special fired into Slaughter's hiding-place with a spectacular display of flaming comets and smoke that might have choked London.

In the aftermath of the shot, Matthew set to work reloading. His industry was sped by sheer terror, for Slaughter's last try had been much too close. Was Slaughter wounded? Dead? There was no telling. He got the pistol ready, c.o.c.ked the striker, and waited for Slaughter's next move, if the man could move at all.

He heard a cras.h.i.+ng through the woods. In what direction, it was hard to tell. The smoke was still thick and his eyesight still feeble. Was Slaughter repositioning himself for another attack? Getting around behind him? He almost called out to the man, but for what purpose? To tell him to give himself up? He thought that Slaughter might be arrow-pierced and pistol-shot, but as long as the monster had breath, teeth and claws he was not going to surrender. He waited, his heart pounding, the gun aimed into the night, and he would not let himself think about what had happened to Walker. "Matthew!" Lark called again, but he was too afraid to answer.

A period of time went by-two minutes? three?-during which Matthew thought he might either vomit or pa.s.s out. He did neither, but he was hard-pressed to want to move a muscle from where he sat, with the protection of the treetrunk at his back. "Stand up," someone said at last, from the dark. It was Walker's voice, calm and steady. Matthew didn't move; he thought he must have been made delirious by the gunpowder fumes, or his ears weren't quite back to normal. "Up," Walker's voice repeated. "He's gone." Matthew was too dazed to respond to the specter; he could see nothing, though thankfully the bright whorls of gunfire had faded away. A hand grasped his left arm. It was solid enough. "Stand up up. He's gone. Toward the camp." The last three words knocked sense into him. He shouldered his shooter's bag and tried to stand, but everything seemed to be gone from the knees down. "I thought you were shot," Matthew said.

"Listen," Walker insisted. "Do you hear the women anymore?"

Matthew did not. This time his effort at getting to his feet was successful. "Lark!" he shouted. There was no answer. Then, again, and louder: " Lark Lark!"

Slaughter, he thought. Slaughter had crept up to them in the dark, while he was sitting against the tree protecting his back, and cut their throats with razor or knife. "Lark!" he cried out, and his voice broke.

"Follow me," said Walker.

Matthew took hold of Walker's cloak and stumbled after him. His nostrils felt nearly singed by the scent of the powder, but he caught another odor drifting in the smoky air. He knew what it was: the coppery smell of blood. "Are you hurt?"

"Yes," Walker said, and now his voice had tightened. "Be silent." But just a distance further on, Walker suddenly stopped. "I'm going to have to rest here."

"Where are you hurt?"

"I've been shot in the left side. I can feel the edge of a broken rib in the hole. Ay-yuh!" It was an Indian's exclamation of disgust.

"Sit down. Can you?"

"I can. But can I get back up again?"

Matthew felt crazed; he feared he was going to crack like an overheated pot, and mad laughter would bubble out. Walker badly injured. Maybe both Lark and her mother lying dead. Was Slaughter waiting for them, hiding among the trees with his pistol? Where was the clearing from here? He thought it was ahead about fifteen yards and maybe another ten or so to the left, but it was through rough thicket.

"I'm going in first," he decided.

"Go slowly. If the women are dead, there's nothing you can do. Take a step then stop and listen. And I mean listen listen, Matthew. He may be hurt, too. If he is, you might hear him breathing. All right?"

"Yes."

"If you hear see or smell anything that makes the flesh on the back of your neck crawl you crouch down and wait wait. Until you know what it is. However long that takes."

"Are you trying to teach me how to be an Indian?"

"I'm not a very good teacher. I was impatient tonight. Too much English in me after all." Walker leaned back against a tree, and Matthew saw his shape slide to the ground. "If you live through the next half hour will you come back for me?"

"I will," Matthew said.

"I won't go anywhere, then." He sounded weak and tired, which frightened Matthew almost more than the idea of braving Mister Slaughter's murderous skills again tonight.

But pistol in hand, Matthew turned away from Walker. His mouth set in a grim line, he advanced quietly through the woods, his mind steeled against what he feared to discover.

Twenty-Four.

The sun came up, on a morning clear and cool. Birds sang in the trees. A pa.s.sing breeze stirred the limbs and brought down a shower of autumn-burnt leaves, and Matthew picked up an arrow and saw on its b.l.o.o.d.y point a piece of skin matted with hair.

Slaughter at least had been given a new part across his scalp last night. Good Good, Matthew thought. On his inspection of the scene of battle this morning, he'd found the two other arrows Walker had launched, but only this one showed damage. There was some blood spattered on the leaves, but not enough to indicate that Slaughter had been hit by a lead ball. His legs were still working, that was for certain. Whatever Slaughter was up to by taking Lark and Faith from the camp, he might not be hobbled but he was surely hurting.

Matthew picked up Walker's bow where the Indian had dropped it in the dark after the ball had hit him. He could see where the mushrooms and weeds had been crushed by crawling bodies. And, more interestingly, he could see the edge of a ravine about forty feet away, falling down onto jagged rocks and a small stream; they could have all tumbled into it last night, and their bones lay together moldering into dust. Lying dead next to Tyranthus Slaughter for all eternity was not in Matthew's plans.

He followed the blood trail, as Walker had instructed. They'd known Slaughter was hurt from the blood they'd found in the clearing at first light. Either ball or arrow grazed him, Walker had said. But only a flesh wound.

Matthew saw where Slaughter had torn through the thicket like a mad bull. Drops and splatters of blood on the forest floor led Matthew onward into an area of slender pines. He stopped, looking closely at what appeared to be the b.l.o.o.d.y impressions of two fingers and the thumb of a left hand against one of the pine trunks. Slaughter had briefly paused here either to get his bearings or make a decision about what he intended to do. Obviously, he'd made a quick decision and carried it out with military efficiency. After all, hadn't he said he'd been a soldier?

But why why, Matthew wondered as he'd already wondered several times this morning, hadn't Lark cried out? Or tried to fight him? Well, of course she knew what he was capable of, and what was she going to fight him with? In hindsight, they should have left her the knife, or at least wakened her and told her to take Faith and move out of the clearing, or hidden them somewhere, or But they'd never expected Slaughter to get past past them. To slip into the camp in the dark, and-wounded or not-make quick work of forcing Lark and her mother into the woods. Going to the southwest, Walker had said after he'd found the trail. Don't need an Indian to follow this one, he'd told Matthew. The stuck pig is still bleeding. them. To slip into the camp in the dark, and-wounded or not-make quick work of forcing Lark and her mother into the woods. Going to the southwest, Walker had said after he'd found the trail. Don't need an Indian to follow this one, he'd told Matthew. The stuck pig is still bleeding.

Matthew left the blood-smeared pine and continued walking along the path Slaughter had taken to the clearing. There were some thorns and thicket, but his boots had stomped through them. Matthew imagined what might have happened last night, when Lark had heard someone coming, had called his name-when he'd been too afraid to reply, for fear of Slaughter getting off a shot at the sound of his voice-and been answered by a quiet whisper up close to her ear, and maybe the hot barrel of the pistol up under her throat. Now tell your dear mother we are going to a safe place, or tell her we're going to play hide-a-seek, or any d.a.m.ned f.u.c.king thing, but know I will kill her first if you scream. I don't want to hear any noise from either of you. Just take her hand, and walk ahead of me. That way. Go. Now tell your dear mother we are going to a safe place, or tell her we're going to play hide-a-seek, or any d.a.m.ned f.u.c.king thing, but know I will kill her first if you scream. I don't want to hear any noise from either of you. Just take her hand, and walk ahead of me. That way. Go.

Matthew wondered if Slaughter had told Lark that there was no hope for the two women if she resisted, but that he might let them go once they got a distance away. Would Lark have believed that, after what had happened at her house? Or might she have seized upon it, as a way to survive? Maybe she thought she could talk him out of killing them. Maybe perhaps possibly who could know?

I myself have been a soldier, Slaughter had said. It seemed to Matthew that he'd certainly been well-trained in combat, in addition to his natural apt.i.tude for killing. Slaughter elevated murder to the realm of art. He could plan an escape days-weeks?-in advance, plot his moves like a chess master, travel overland like an Indian, confidently stalk the dark like a cat, and shake off the pain of a nasty wound to fix his mind upon his purpose. He was skilled with pistols, knives and razors. He was utterly ruthless and ice-cold, and he possessed, as Walker had said, "a killer's eye in the back of his head".

A soldier? Maybe so. But it sounded more to Matthew as if Slaughter had been trained to be an a.s.sa.s.sin. For that job he seemed to be exceptionally capable.

His job? Oh, that: Between jobs, but going back into the business of settling accounts.

What did that mean mean?

Whatever it was, Matthew knew it wasn't good, and likely meant someone was going to pay with his or her life.

Matthew had his own account to settle. When he emerged from the woods, he saw that Walker was still sitting against a tree on the far side of the clearing, next to the ashes of last night's fire that had soothed Faith to sleep. Matthew felt the same hammerblow to the gut he'd taken at first light, upon seeing the b.l.o.o.d.y hole in the Indian's side.

Walker's eyes were closed, his face uplifted toward the warmth of the early sun. But even in the short time that Matthew had left him, to visit the battleground and find Walker's bow, the Indian seemed more frail, the facial bones more defined. His flesh was as gray as a gravestone. The bandage that Matthew had made from his cravat-the same cravat that had been utilized for the mercy killing of Tom's dog-was tied around the lower part of Walker's chest. It was dark with blood on the left side.

Walker opened his eyes and watched as Matthew approached. "Do I look that terrible?" he asked, reading Matthew's expression. And he answered his own question: "Death has been called many things, but never handsome handsome."

"I'm going to get you out of here."

Walker smiled thinly. His eyes held the glint of inescapable pain. "No, you are not. If you wish to become an Indian, the first thing you have to do " He had to stop speaking, as he silently battled his internal agony. "Have to do," he repeated. "Is accept reality."

Matthew could find no reply. He'd already seen, in his inspection of the wound, that the ball had splintered at least one rib and driven deep into the organs. Where it had come to rest in all that carnage could not be determined. It was miraculous, he thought, that Walker was even able to talk, much less move. Walker had taken a handful of moss, pine bark, and broken-up green pine needles and pushed it into the hole, and then he'd said, Bind it up Bind it up.

"Is there nothing you can do?" Matthew asked.

"No." It was firm and final, spoken without regret: the Indian way. "You'd better eat something, then we'll go."

Matthew ate a piece of the dried meat and drank some water from the flask that Lark had left behind. Everything tasted like the smell of gunsmoke, which permeated his hair, skin and clothes.

"The women are going to slow him down," Walker said as he again lifted his face into the sunlight. "So is his wound. They're leaving a trail any Englishman could follow." He winced, and waited for the pain to pa.s.s. "You know why he took them."

Matthew did. "He needed something to trade."

"For you," Walker said.

Matthew agreed: "For me."

"You know him well. I think he must know you well, too." Walker s.h.i.+fted his position a few inches and pressed his hand against the bandage. "He's not sure if he hit you last night. He knows if you're not too wounded to move you'll be coming after him. So: your life for the women. He's just seeking the right place."

"Where might it be?"

"Somewhere that limits your choices," said Walker. "He'll know it when he finds it. Until then, we follow."

Matthew offered him water, but Walker shook his head; he had also previously refused the food. "Listen," Matthew said, as he corked the flask. "I want you to know I thank you for doing this for me. For coming all this way, and " He let the rest of it go. "You didn't have to."

"I've already told you. I wanted the watch."

"Is that all of it?"

Walker paused; maybe he'd been about to say yes yes, Matthew thought. But now, with the hole in his side and his life leaking away, Walker decided to speak honestly. "Not all," he said. "When I first agreed yes, it was just the watch. The what would be the word? The novelty novelty of it. And the idea that life is a circle. Things come back to you, when you least expect it." He was quiet, gathering his strength again. "Then," he continued, "when I saw what Slaughter did at the reverend's house I knew what of it. And the idea that life is a circle. Things come back to you, when you least expect it." He was quiet, gathering his strength again. "Then," he continued, "when I saw what Slaughter did at the reverend's house I knew what you you were. What you were. What you are are."

"What is that?"

"My chance," said Walker, looking into Matthew's eyes, "to walk the Sky Road."

Matthew said nothing.

"Though I am insane and taunted by demons confused in my mind," he went on, "I may be accepted home by the Great Spirits if I can help you catch this mad wolf. This creature who cannot be endured, among civilized men. The Great Spirits don't see red skin, or white. They see only the war between good and evil, which makes the world what it is. And they charge us to be their weapons. Their strength strength. They charge us to be their arrows, and fly true." He nodded, with the sun on his face. "You have given me my chance to fly true," he said. "But first we have to catch the monster. We have to pull his teeth." He coughed, spat dark blood onto the ground beside him and studied it. "Not good," he said, with a slight frown. "We have much to do before I become the spirits willing a walker in three three worlds. Will you help me up?" worlds. Will you help me up?"

Matthew did. When Walker was steady, he asked for his bow to be returned to its sheath and the sheath slung across his shoulder, along with the quiver of arrows. He had his knife in its fringed belt and his rawhide bag of dried meat, which was nearly gone. On his face the black paint was smeared, the spirit symbols blurred by rain, sweat, and circ.u.mstance. He had lost a few feathers, but he was ready.

Matthew put the loaded pistol and the waterflask into his shooter's bag and the bag's strap over his shoulder. He looked at his black tricorn, which lay on the ground where he'd left it last night. He decided he didn't want it anymore, since two snakes had worn it. Then he was ready too. He offered his shoulder for Walker to lean against, but the Indian didn't even grace that gesture with a glance; Walker went on, slowly at first, as if over hot coals, but then with his hand positioned firmly against the b.l.o.o.d.y bandage he set off at a decent speed following the red spots and splatters that marked Slaughter's trail.

The sun continued its ascent. Within an hour, Matthew noted that Walker's pace had slowed dramatically and the Indian was limping on his left leg. When Matthew again offered to give support, Walker shook his head. His face was ashen, and glistened with sweat.

Walker was right about the trail being easy to follow. Though the blood spots had stopped, there was clear evidence of the pa.s.sage of three people. The ground cover showed a plent.i.tude of broken twigs and crushed weeds, and at one point Matthew stopped to examine an area under some pines that indicated dead needles had been brushed aside for someone to sit down. He could envision Lark's hand, trying to make her mother comfortable even on this march of terror. They might have rested here until daybreak. In the thicket nearby he found a few ragged pieces of blue cloth, trimmed with yellow, and held them up for Walker to see.

"The mother's ap.r.o.n," Walker said; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot. "Made himself a bandage."

They kept going. With the pa.s.sage of another hour, Walker did not resist when Matthew put an arm around him to keep him upright. Every so often Walker spat blood upon the ground, and now his knees were weak and Matthew knew he couldn't go on much longer.

They were moving through an area of large white boulders shaded by yellow elms when Matthew noted Walker kept looking over his shoulder. By now the Indian was all but stumbling, and he had begun to half-mutter, half-sing a strange rhythm in his own language.

"Matthew," Walker whispered, his eyes heavy-lidded. "Stop here."

Matthew instantly obeyed, and helped him sit against one of the boulders. Walker's hand came up and grasped the front of Matthew's jacket.

"Someone behind us," he said.

"Behind us?" Matthew looked back along the trail they'd come, but saw only trees, brush and rocks. A spear of panic pierced him; was it possible Slaughter had circled around? us?" Matthew looked back along the trail they'd come, but saw only trees, brush and rocks. A spear of panic pierced him; was it possible Slaughter had circled around?

"Following," Walker said thickly. b.l.o.o.d.y foam had collected in the corners of his mouth. "I saw him twice. Very fast."

"Saw who?"

"Death," came the answer. "He is near, but he stays back."

Matthew again fixed his gaze along the trail, and focused on detecting the slightest movement-human or otherwise-among the trees. There was nothing. He crouched beside Walker, who was breathing raggedly and holding his side as if to keep his organs from spilling out. "I'm going to go ahead," he said quietly. "You stay here and-"

"Die?" Through his delirium, Walker gave him a savage, fearsome grin. "Not yet. I'm not ready. Help me."

"You can't go any further."

"I'll say when I'm done. Not yet."

Again Matthew helped him to his feet. They pa.s.sed through the jumble of boulders and found, just on the other side, a narrow but obviously well-used track that came up an incline from the right and led off into the forest on the left. Whether it was another Indian trail or a pathway used by fur trappers, Matthew didn't know. Fresh boot and shoe marks in the dirt showed that Slaughter was continuing his relentless advance to reach Philadelphia, with captives or not, and had gone left in the southerly direction.

In another few minutes, during which Matthew feared Walker was surely at the end of his strength, they came out of the forest and faced a new obstacle.

Before them was a ravine, about thirty feet in width. When Matthew stood at the edge and looked down, he saw gray rocks fifty feet below, and that same stream meandering on its way to the nearest river. A rope bridge had been strung across the ravine, but it was history; though it was still tied to its supports on this side, it had been cut away on the other, and now hung useless.