Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Don't speak," Greathouse hissed. "Don't do any damned thing I don't like." His voice trembled, not from fear but from loss of control, which Matthew had realized was paramount to his nature.

  Slaughter obeyed; his face was expressionless, betraying nothing.

  It took a minute for Greathouse to compose himself, but still he kept hold of the prisoner's shirt and beard. "Yes, we're going to walk. Yes, I'm going to have to unlock your irons. But you want that, don't you? Is that what you'd hoped would happen, all along?"

  Slaughter said not a word, honoring Greathouse's first command.

  "I'd warrant it's still over a mile," Matthew said, looking down the long descent.

  "You be quiet, too. Just let me think."

  A bad sign, Matthew thought. The man of action, reduced to thinking.

  "How heavy's the safebox?" was the next question directed at Slaughter. When the prisoner didn't reply, Greathouse twisted his beard. "Now you can speak."

  No discomfort registered in Slaughter's eyes. Matthew thought he must have a supreme mental control over pain. "One man can carry it."

  "All right, then. But you'd better know that I'll have the pistol on you all the way there, and by God if you do something-anything-I don't like I'll blow your kneecap off. Do you understand that?"

  "I hear what you're saying, sir. But why should I do anything you don't like, as I wish to be quits with you two even more than you wish to see my backside."

  Greathouse held him for a few seconds more, to emphasize who had power over whom, and then let him go. He reached for the key in his pocket and unlocked the manacles and leg irons, even as Matthew watched with the growing anxiety of a job ill-done.

  Slaughter rubbed his wrists. "If you please, sir," he said in a silken voice, "would you throw that key over the drop?"

  Greathouse shook his head, the key clenched in his fist.

  "Ah, here's the problem, then, and I knew we must come to it." A faint, maddening half-smile surfaced on Slaughter's mouth. "It's a matter of trust, isn't it? I'm trusting you-the both of you-to do as you've promised, even though you were let off so lightly by that simpleton of a pastor. Why should I take you to the safebox, unless there's at least-at least-a display from you that I shall not end up in irons again once you have the treasure?" He gave a passing scowl of irritation when Greathouse didn't respond, and diverted his attention to Matthew. "Tell him, young sir, that I'm not going anywhere if he doesn't throw the key over."

  "We'll be sitting here for a long time then, won't we?" Greathouse said.

  "Yes," replied Slaughter. "We will be."

  The two men stared at each other, neither one moving. Suddenly, in a blur of motion, Greathouse reached out to grasp Slaughter's beard again; yet, before the hand could get there, Slaughter intercepted it with his own, the dirty fingers with their sharp ragged nails seizing Greathouse's wrist with remarkable and-for Matthew-unsettling strength.

  Slaughter said, quite calmly, "You forget yourself, sir. We are no longer captors and prisoner. We are now partners."

  "The hell you say!"

  "The hell," came the answer, "I do say." He freed Greathouse's wrist, with an air of annoyance. "If I'm to walk you down to the fort, I want an assurance that I will not be walked back up and returned to those irons. You vowed you'd release me, and not kill me. I take you at your word. Now show me I can trust you by throwing the key over."

  Greathouse looked to Matthew for guidance, and for the first time Matthew saw in the other man's eyes an expression of helplessness. It was a terrible thing to witness, this chink in a knight's armor. Yet Matthew knew his own tarnished tin had gotten them into this predicament.

  "Damn it," Greathouse said, to the world. He took a long breath, let it out between gritted teeth, and then he reared his arm back to throw.

  "On second thought!" Slaughter held his hand out, palm up, before Greathouse. "I should like to cast it myself." His eyes were heavy-lidded. "And, by the by, I do believe you moved the key to your other hand just before your last attempt at beard-twisting. I think it's in your coat pocket by now, there on the left side."

  Greathouse lowered his head. When he looked up again, he was wearing a bemused-if petulant-smile. "As you said back at the hospital, never blame the wind for wishing to blow."

  "True enough. However, I've polished off several men who tried to blow their wind in my direction. The key, please?" He wriggled his repugnant fingers.

  "I suppose you'll want the gun next?" Greathouse took the key from his coat pocket on the left side and dropped it into Slaughter's palm.

  "Not necessary. I trust you not to shoot me, at least until you have the safebox. Besides, wet weather is no friend to gunpowder." Slaughter threw the key over; there was a faint metallic tink as it hit a treetrunk far below. Then, rid of this obstacle to the life of a titled scoundrel, he grinned like a king. "Now! Shall we be off, gentlemen?" Disregarding Matthew, who had brought the pistol's barrel out from beneath his cloak as a presentment of threat, Slaughter got down off the wagon. His feet pressed into the mud, and he began to walk jauntily along the treacherous road into the valley of Fort Laurens.

  Greathouse started to get down as well.

  Matthew felt a pressure in his throat, as if he were being throttled. It was his confession, he realized. His confession, all balled up word tangled with word. He reached out and grasped the other man's sleeve. "Hudson," he said, sounding near choked.

  Greathouse looked at him, the thick gray eyebrows ascending.

  "Listen," Matthew went on. "We don't have to go down there. There's something I need to-"

  "Coming, sirs?" Slaughter called, waiting twenty yards further along.

  "Easy, easy." Greathouse's voice was muted. "I can handle him, Matthew. Don't worry. The key to the irons is still in my pocket. He threw the key to my room at the boarding house." Greathouse angled his face toward Slaughter. "We're coming!" he replied, and he clambered off the wagon to the mucky earth.

  Matthew watched him follow Slaughter along the descending track. Wet weather is no friend to gunpowder. True enough. The pistol he was holding might be useless, if the time came to pull that trigger. He wished Greathouse had brought a sword; those worked well enough, shine or rain. He had to get out of the wagon and face what was ahead, had to push his guilt into his guts where his courage used to be. Had he actually begun believing those air-woven tales of his own stellar celebrity in the Earwig? Had he fallen so far, since summer?

  Greathouse stopped to wait for him, and just beyond Greathouse also stopped Slaughter, who was if anything a well-mannered killer.

  When Matthew's boots pushed into the mud, he half-expected the earth to open up for him, and for him to slide down and down into the thick dark where a new winter's fireplace had been lit for his comfort in Hell.

  He walked on, carrying his invisible irons that made prisoners of even the richest men.

  Thirteen

  Walking only a few yards behind Greathouse, Matthew twice almost spoke out about Professor Fell's money, but both times an inner voice interrupted to say You heard him, didn't you? He said, Don't worry. The great one has spoken, and the great one will bash your head in if you tell him now, at this sorry moment, that there already exists enough money to buy Zed's freedom. So do yourself a favor, and keep your mouth shut.

  The mean little drizzle was still coming down. They were walking through tendrils of fog, which didn't help Matthew's state of mind. The tendrils slowly shifted around them, as if drawing them deeper, and Matthew was made to think of the red wax octopus on the paper seal, and its eight tentacles stretched out to seize the world.

  Through the fog at the bottom of the road there appeared a dark green wall about fifteen feet in height, splotched here and there with colors of wine red and pale yellow. At first Matthew thought it was just a particularly dense section of the forest, but a dozen yards closer and he could see individual black treetrunks, sharpened by axes at the top, and the spider's web of vines and creeper
s that had reached out from the wilderness to lay claim to the remains of Fort Laurens. It was a dead place, and utterly silent. The road curved slightly to the left, and entered the fort through the jagged, black-burnt opening where the main gate must have stood. Something suddenly crashed through the woods on their right, a heavy dark shape that caused even Slaughter to stop in his muddy tracks, but whatever it was-stag or wild boar, perhaps-it kept going into the thick underbrush and disappeared.

  "Give me the gun," Greathouse said, and Matthew was relieved to hand it over. Just ahead of them, Slaughter had started on again, but Greathouse called to him, "Wait!" and the barefoot beast of barbershop butchery obeyed as meekly as a lamb.

  It was apparent, as they neared the fort, that fire had done a nasty turn on the Dutchmen. Large sections of the treetrunk wall had burned away, the ravages of flame still to be seen beneath the mesh of nature even after three decades. What must have been a guardhouse, up on the right front corner, was a mass of tangled timbers held together by black vines, its witch's hat of a roof fallen down and overhanging the wall at an angle that defied gravity. Matthew noted gunports here and there, wide enough for the snouts of blunderbuss shotguns to deliver loads of gravel, nails, or glass as well as lead balls. It was clear, however, that the Indian hatchet and the bowstring had decided this particular battle, and he wondered how many hundreds of arrowheads would still be found in the logs. Or, indeed, how many skeletons might lie beyond the broken walls.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Slaughter had stopped before the hole where the gate had been. He put his hands on his hips and admired the place as if he were already an earl, and this his madman's castle. "We found it from an old map. Just the sort of refuge where a couple of hardworking highwaymen might rest for a few days and count their gold among the safety of the forgotten dead." He grinned broadly at his new partners. "Shall we enter?"

  "After you." Greathouse motioned with the pistol.

  "Must you still wave that thing around? I thought we were past that." Slaughter suddenly frowned and clutched at his gut. "Oh, dear," he said. "I've been holding my shit in respect for you gentlemen, but I really must let it go now. Pardon me." He started walking off to the left, down into a small gulley full of brush and leaves.

  "Where do you think you're going?" Greathouse took a step toward him.

  "I told you." Slaughter flashed a baleful look at them. "Do you want to hold my hand?" He descended into the gulley, mindless of the gun, and then he pulled his breeches down to expose a large white rump the sight of which instantly made Greathouse and Matthew avert their eyes.

  "Stay where we can see you!" Greathouse commanded, even as he walked away a few paces. The sound of cursing, grunting and straining that issued up from Slaughter's place of excretion was truly horrific. Matthew could see the very top of Slaughter's head, but no further down did he wish to witness. At last the hobble-gobble ceased, there came the noise of a handful of leaves being gathered and, presumably, used, and then Slaughter walked back up with his gray breeches in place and the long tail of his gray shirt flagging.

  "Thank you," Slaughter said. "I'm ready now."

  "You first," Greathouse directed. "And slowly."

  Slaughter entered the dead fort, with Greathouse a few feet behind and Matthew following.

  Within the walls were the ruins of a small town. What had been horsepaths between log buildings were weeded up and littered with debris like broken barrels and shards of pottery. Fires had gnawed most of the interior structures down to the tindersticks. An overturned wagon attested to the violence that had visited this place, as well as the shutters that had been hacked away from the windowframes of the few remaining cabins. Doors had been torn from their hinges and thrown aside. Once inside the walls, the Indians had taken their task of destruction from house to house, and Matthew doubted that very many of the settlers had lived to see the next hour.

  Matthew saw no skeletons in the wreckage of Fort Laurens, for which he was grateful. Either the Indians had carried off the corpses, or more Dutchmen had come later to claim their brethren. Still, this was a gloomy place, and the imagination could quickly stir up the embers of ghosts from the piles of cold ashes.

  There was one good element in this picture: the drizzle had changed to a light spit, though the sky remained low and leaden. A whisper of chill wind blew from the west, with the promise that autumn's days were numbered.

  Greathouse and Matthew followed Slaughter deeper into the center of the ruins. Matthew recoiled when he almost stepped on the head of a small ceramic doll, its blue-painted eyes staring up from the weeds and its body already crushed to powder. In another moment they came upon a few intact log cabins and two other structures-a barn and small warehouse, they appeared to be-arranged in a circle around a common area that held a stone well with a peaked roof above it. Both the barn and warehouse had suffered fire damage but were still standing, more or less; the cabins were in various stages of collapse. Slaughter took course for the one cabin that at least had a whole roof, and Matthew realized they had reached the highwayman's hideaway.

  "Hold it!" Greathouse said before Slaughter could pass through the opening where a door used to stand. Slaughter stopped on the threshold and waited for them, his mouth twisted to one side with what might have been irritation. "Your pleasure, sir. Do you wish to go in first, to make sure I'm not leading you onto a floor that will collapse beneath you?" Greathouse peered in, as did Matthew. The place was dark, even with the shutters ripped from the windows. Not much could be seen inside. "Go ahead, then," Greathouse said, with a directional thrust of the pistol, and Slaughter's bare feet left muddy prints across the floorboards.

  Inside, the one large room was grim and austere, and certainly had been so even on the day of its construction. But Slaughter and Rattison had evidently made it a home, of sorts. On the floor were two piles of straw, similar to James' bedding, but these big enough for men. A fireplace of rough stones held a mound of ash and some pieces of charred wood, and lying next to the hearth were pots and pans, indicating that at least one of the ruffians could play at cooking. There were two battered chairs, and a leather trunk between them that must have served as a table. A pair of woolen blankets were folded and stacked in a corner on the floor, showing that someone had a penchant for neatness even in the midst of decay. Both Greathouse and Matthew quickly noted that leaning over by the fireplace was a long wooden shovel with an edge of iron on its business point.

  It was toward this implement that Slaughter intended to go, until Greathouse said sharply, "Wait!" When Slaughter paid no heed, Greathouse's thumb pulled the pistol's striker to full-cock.

  Slaughter stopped, his hand outstretched to touch the shovel. "I do presume you want the safebox. Yes? If so, this will be needed."

  Greathouse kept the pistol aimed. A little muscle had begun twitching in his jaw. "All right, then. Get to it."

  Slaughter walked to one of the piles of bedding straw, which he shoved aside with his foot. Matthew surmised that Slaughter might not have trusted Rattison to the full extent of comradeship, and had been sleeping atop the treasure. Slaughter thrust the shovel downward and used it to pry up a short board, which he then put to one side. Three more boards were lifted and also removed. Then Slaughter stepped back and said with an exaggerated bow, "Sirs, your fortune awaits."

  Cautiously, watchful of the shovel in Slaughter's grip, Greathouse and Matthew came forward to look down into the hole. They saw, simply, a square of straw.

  "It's underneath," Slaughter explained. "Do you wish to dig, or shall I?"

  "You," Greathouse answered. "But if any of that goes in our faces "

  "A man with a pistol, afraid of a little hay." Slaughter smiled sadly. "What is this world coming to?" Then he began to dig into the straw and very carefully placed it on the floor next to the hole.

  "You surely went to great pains to keep this secured," Matthew said, as he watched Slaughter work. His heart was beating harder. When the safebox came up, there wou
ld remain the challenge of getting a very unwilling prisoner back up the hill to the wagon. "I suspect you didn't trust Rattison as much as you might have liked?"

  "I don't trust anyone. Whether I like them or not." Bits of straw whirled up into the gray gloom. "But I was most concerned about the Indians. They're still around; I've seen them, poking about. It wouldn't do for them to find a safebox full of golden trinkets just standing-" The shovel's iron tip thunked into something solid. "Ah! Not buried too deeply, you see, but deeply enough. Take this." He held the shovel out toward Matthew, who paused long enough to glance quickly at Greathouse. A nod of assent was given, and Matthew took charge of the shovel.

  Slaughter knelt down. With two hands he cleared away the last layer of straw, and then he brought up an object wrapped in what appeared to be a dirty burlap bag. Moving slowly, for it seemed the object had some weight to it, he removed the bag and let it drop to the floor. "Here," he said, with obvious pride. "The result of our accord."

  It was an ordinary box about six inches deep, fashioned of lustrous dark wood. He turned it so that they might see its two brass latches, one set vertically on either side of a keyhole. "I'll open it for you," Slaughter said quickly, and put a finger against one of the latches.

  "Not so fast." Greathouse's voice was strained. He still held the pistol, aimed now just to the right of Slaughter's body. "It has a keyhole. Where's the key?"

  "Not necessary. It's unlocked, I assure you."

  "Seems a natural thing, to have locked it before you buried it. I would have."

  "Sir." Slaughter smiled again, as if at a poor fool. "It's a safebox, not a snake. It's not going to bite you."

  "I've learned through experience, Mister Slaughter, that a box can bite. Especially if concealed within it is a throwing knife, or a pistol. And wet weather may be no friend to gunpowder, but I'd say that box has stayed dry enough nested in the bag and all that straw. Was that the intent? Is a gun in there?"