Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  His left elbow hit something. Twisting in that direction, his hands found the wall, and scrabbling across it his fingers discovered the shovel, which had sunk iron-tip first and was leaning there as if ready to be used by the gravedigger. Except in this case, Matthew hoped, it might offer a reprieve from the boneyard.

  He seized the shovel, pushed off from the bottom and rose quickly upward.

  As he broke the surface, gasped for breath and shook the water from his face, he saw that Greathouse was now only hanging on with one hand. In this state of emergency, Matthew's senses had become keen-raw, it might be said-and he knew exactly what he needed to locate. He found a suitable crevice between rocks a few inches above the waterline, and, holding the shovel at a downward angle over his head, thrust the iron tip into it. Then he brought the handle sharply down, which effectively jammed the shovel between the walls, the shovel being longer than the well's diameter. He grasped the shovel at its midpoint with both hands, to test its strength, and it held firm. Now there was something for Greathouse to grip onto, if he could be compelled to fight for survival just a little longer.

  Matthew grasped Greathouse's free hand and guided it to the shovel, where he was gratified to see the man's fingers clench hold. Now if Greathouse's weight just didn't break the shaft at its midpoint or dislodge it, but it was do or die. He said, "Come on, come on," as if speaking to a child, and Greathouse allowed Matthew to guide his other hand to the makeshift land-anchor. The shovel didn't budge, nor did it snap in two. Greathouse hung from it, his face upturned toward the light.

  It was a tentative victory, at best. Matthew took hold of the rope floating about them. The bucket had filled and gone under, but the wooden rod, easily as thick as a small log and about three feet in length, was still afloat. He immediately gave up any idea of untying the rope from the rod, as a dollop of tar had been used to seal the knot. He had no choice; if he was to carry the rope to the top and tie it to the beams that supported the peaked roof above, which would be the only way to bring Greathouse up, he also would have to bear the rod. If he could get out, himself.

  Treading water, he looped the rope twice around his chest and under his arms. "Hudson!" he said. "Can you hold on?"

  There was no answer, but Greathouse gave a low, gutteral grunt and that was enough for Matthew.

  "I'm going to climb up." He had purposefully left out the words try to. Failure at this meant the end of them. "Hold on," he urged, as much for Greathouse as for his own resolve. Then he pressed his feet against both sides of the well, his toes seeking purchase among the rocks, and at the same time planted his palms rigidly outward to secure a grip by the force of friction. He pulled himself out of the water, slowly, inch by inch, and began crawling up the center like a spider dragging its own web.

  He got about six feet up when his right foot slipped, his raw hands scraped across the stones, and he fell into the water again, perilously close to coming down on Greathouse and the shovel. There was nothing to be done but start anew, as quickly as he could before some more rational part of his mind told him it was impossible.

  This time he didn't make it quite six feet before he slipped and fell, and his palms left blood on the stones. He treaded water for a moment, working his hands open and shut, and then he pushed upward yet again.

  Slowly, slowly, the spider ascended. Palm pressing here, palm pressing there, right foot gripping a small outcrop of stone while the left foot sought a place to apply pressure, and all the time the tension of muscles could not be relaxed, for it was tension that gave the spider its balance. Upward and upward, carrying the rope that itself was pulled at by the water below, and then a few seconds to rest, but always keeping the muscles of splayed arms and legs taut. Upward once more, palms and feet pressing, moving, finding new purchase where the edge of a stone might be only a half-inch wide yet felt under his flesh like the edge of an axe.

  Matthew lost his grip and fell again.

  He scraped down three feet before he could right himself. This time he could not suppress a cry of anguish, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the wave of pain had crashed over him. In the echo of his own mortality he dared to look down. Greathouse was still hanging onto the shovel, about ten feet below him. He had half the distance yet to go.

  As he continued upward, his arms and legs starting to tremble beyond his control, he thought very clearly of Berry Grigsby. Of when he'd fallen in Chapel's vineyard, with the hawks and the killers coming after them, how Berry-herself disheveled, terrified and bloodied-had shouted Get up! and paused in her own flight to help him to his feet, if only by nearly kicking him upright. He could use her kick, about now.

  He intended to see her again. He desired it greatly. In fact, he intended to invite her to a dance at the first opportunity, if he lived through this. He'd never been much of a dancer, but damned if he wouldn't dance the floor to woodshavings. If he lived through this.

  His right palm lost its grip and he scraped down another few feet before he checked the drop. What was pain, after all? A little thing to hold behind the teeth, and shed a tear or two over. Nothing more than that.

  You just don't accept it yet.

  He shut his mind to that voice, which threatened to weaken and destroy him. Slaughter might be physically gone, yet enough of him remained to finish the task of murder.

  The spider stretched out arms and legs and continued up, not pretty, not graceful, but determined to survive.

  Matthew lifted his head and saw, as if through a fog, the top of the well about two feet above. He had to be careful here, very careful, for this was where disaster lurked. He commanded himself not to reach for the top prematurely, or let his knees go slack. It was the hardest, most cruel distance he had ever travelled in his life. Then, with agonizing effort, his heart pounding and his strained muscles jumping and quivering, he was up. His fingers grasped the edge and he pulled himself over and let out a half-cry of pain, half-shout of victory as he fell to the ground.

  But there was no time to rest. He staggered up, his stockings in tatters and his feet bloody, and peered into the well. "Hudson!" he shouted. "I've made it!" The man's face was downcast, though he was still clinging to the shovel. Were his mouth and nose underwater? "Hudson! Do you hear?" Matthew got the rope off himself and hauled up the wooden rod, which had been hanging several feet below him. He started feverishly coiling the rope around one of the beams that supported the peaked roof, and that was when he heard a chuckling noise at his back.

  Whirling around, the breath freezing in his lungs for fear that Slaughter was about to swoop upon him and complete the day's work, Matthew saw three Indians sitting cross-legged on the ground less than ten yards away.

  They were not chuckling, but talking. At least, Matthew surmised it was their language. One had leaned toward another and was speaking and nodding, and now that he saw Matthew looking at him he put his hand up over his mouth as if to guard his words. The one who'd been spoken to shrugged and shook items from a bead-decorated pouch onto the ground. They looked to be mollusk shells, from the river. The Indian with the chuckling tongue now made a noise that was definitely a laugh, and scooped up the shells to put into his own similarly-adorned pouch. The third Indian, frowning fitfully, also poured some shells on the ground, which the happy deerstalker seemed delighted to claim as his own.

  It appeared, Matthew thought, that a wager had just been won.

  They were all barechested, but wearing deerskin loincloths, leggings and moccasins. The Indian sitting in the center, the winner of the shell game, looked to be much older than the two on either side, who might have been near Matthew's age. The elder man was tattooed with blue wave-like designs on his face, chest and arms and wore a metal ring in his nose, whereas the others-his sons, perhaps?-were not so heavily nor intricately adorned. The two younger men were shaved bald but for a scalplock that hung down behind the head, and on the scalplocks were fixed with leather cords a burst of three or four turkey feathers dyed in different hues of red, blu
e and green. The elder warrior wore a feathered cap of sorts, which had a number of turkey feathers splayed out on either side with a central larger eagle feather standing up straight as if to signify order out of chaos. On the ground beside them lay their bows and arrow quivers. The Indians were lean and sinewy, not an ounce of English fat upon them. They regarded Matthew with their long-nosed, narrow faces like aristocrats of the forest wondering what the cat had just dragged in.

  "Help me!" Matthew said, and motioned toward the well. "My friend's been hurt!" Of course that got no response. Matthew tried French, as he knew from experience that many Indians had learned the language-or a pidgin form of it, passed from generation to generation-from Jesuit and Sulpician missionaries. "Aidez-moi! Mon ami est blesse!"

  Still there was no reaction.

  "Mon ami est blesse!" Matthew repeated, with greater emphasis on the French word for injured. He added, as a measure of urgency, " S'il vous plait!" But it was clear the Indians did not know that language, as they continued to sit and regard him as if Matthew were speaking to stone statues. Matthew couldn't wait; whatever they intended to do, that was their own business. He set about finishing the job of tying the rope to the beam, and then he peered over and shouted, "Hudson! I'm coming back down!" He grasped hold of the rope with his bloody palms, and just as he was about to swing over the edge a pair of hands that felt like iron covered with flesh caught his shoulders and moved him aside as if he had the weight of a griddlecake.

  The three Indians looked down upon Greathouse, who had neither moved nor responded to Matthew's shout. Before Matthew could speak again, the elder man said something to the others in a more serious tone of voice-a phrase that sounded to Matthew's uneducated ear like huh huhcha pak-and without hesitation one of the young men grasped the rope and descended into the well so fast he was nearly a blur. He got down into the water beside Greathouse and smacked him on the back of the head with an open hand, and when Greathouse stirred and gave out a muffled half-groan, half-curse, the young Indian called up with what was certainly a word but was heard by Matthew as an exuberant whoop.

  Another command spoken by the elder, this one a stacatto rat-a-tat not unlike the sound of a snare drum, and the young man in the well grasped Greathouse around the chest with one arm while holding onto the rope with the other and, amazingly, began to pull him up. If Matthew hadn't been witness to such physical strength, he never would have believed it. To act as safeguard, the second young man swung over on the rope, and as the overhead beam creaked and cracked he clambered down to meet the two men coming up. Greathouse was not entirely dead weight; he was feebly trying to use his hands and feet on the stones, but Matthew thought he was probably so dazed he imagined he was being flown to Heaven by an unlikely pair of angels.

  They got Greathouse out of the well with an ease that made Matthew consider himself to be of a fiber so weak he could barely stand against the force of gravity, which in truth was how he felt. The elder Indian spoke again-heh ke shakka tey, it sounded to Matthew-accompanied by a gripping motion of his right hand and at once one of the sinewy braves heaved Greathouse up and put him across his right shoulder like a side of mutton. Hi, hi! the elder said, and pulled Greathouse's boots off. He emptied out the water and tossed them to the ground at Matthew's feet. Then, with a short sharp command from the elder that sounded like a spat-out tut! the young men began running in the opposite direction from which Matthew had entered the fort. The one carrying Greathouse seemed only a little burdened by the heavy weight, and in a few seconds the Indians had vanished amid the ruins.

  The elder clapped his hands to get Matthew's attention, and pointed at the boots. Matthew understood; if he was going to travel, he had to have something on his feet. As he pulled the boots on and found them on the large size but thankfully useable, he noted that his tricorn was gone, and so were the safebox and pistol.

  The Indian had scooped up the three bows and quivers and put them around his shoulders. No sooner had Matthew gotten the second boot on did the Indian turn and began running in the direction the others had gone. Matthew realized he was expected to follow, or not, as he pleased, but that he would have to keep up regardless of his condition. He set off running after the elder, each stride a little explosion of pain all the way up to his knees.

  The Indian ran without a backward glance, going between the burned remnants of cabins that perhaps had been torched by his own father. The other two and Greathouse were already out of sight. Matthew stumbled and staggered and kept upright by sheer willpower, which even so was not a bottomless commodity. He saw the elder leave the fort through another gaping vine-edged aperture in the wall, and then the man was gone into the dripping woods. Matthew continued after him, following what appeared to be a narrow trail into an otherwise impenetrable wilderness. Massive trees stood about, their branches interlocked seventy feet above the earth. Creepers as thick as anchor ropes hung down, it seemed, from the clouds. Dead leaves spun around Matthew in a chill breeze, and a judgment of crows flew past directing at him their silent appraisal. He felt an oppression upon him like the thumb of God. It was not just that Greathouse was gravely wounded, very likely near death. It was also that Slaughter had been loosed upon the world, and Matthew's silence-yes, and greed, call it what it was-had aided the monster's escape.

  How could he live with that?

  He was breathing hard after only three or four minutes, his legs leaden, the blood roaring in his head. It was impossible to see any of the Indians ahead of him for the thick foliage, and they were probably by now a half-mile in front. He was still running as fast as he was able, which was really not saying much, as he was hobbled by pain. But he kept going, marking the strides by how much they hurt. He must have lost his concentration, or his legs simply gave out, for suddenly he was off-balance and staggering and the stagger turned into a stumble that ended in a sprawl, his face skidding into wet leaves on the ground.

  Matthew sat up, shaking his head to clear it of a gray haze. He saw a quick movement. There stood the elder Indian on the trail twenty or thirty feet away, seemingly appeared from among the trees. Up, the man motioned with his hands. Matthew nodded and got to his feet, a task that had a degree of suffering even Job might have appreciated. As soon as Matthew was up, the Indian turned away and began running again, and was out of sight before Matthew could get started.

  Alternately running, limping and staggering, Matthew came out of the forest into a wide field of shoulder-high brown grass. Ahead of him, across the field a hundred yards or so, was a wall of cut logs similar to the wall of Fort Laurens, yet this one was in sturdy condition. A little pall of blue smoke hung in the air above it. As Matthew continued on, he heard from the field around him the cries of invisible sentinels, some mimicking the barking of dogs and others the cawing of crows. In another moment he knew that he was being accompanied, for he caught glimpses of the dark shapes of Indians loping along on either side of him amid the high grass. They barked and cawed and otherwise made high-pitched noises one to another, and Matthew thought there might have been five or six braves on either side. He might have been fearful at this presentation, but as he had no choice than to go forward, since certainly Greathouse had been brought this way, he dared not slow down nor show himself as anything less than able.

  That was still fresh in his mind when the two braves coming up behind him at lightning speed grasped his arms, picked him up between them and carried him onward across the field with hardly a pause.

  He was taken through an open gate. Surrounded on all sides by tattooed and feather-capped warriors, he was rushed across a bare dirt yard where small dogs, pigs and goats scattered out of the procession's path. Women with long glossy black hair, wearing leather skirts and waistcoat-like blouses decorated with brightly-colored beads and baubles, came forward chattering and calling out, most of them carrying or pulling young children, to see the new arrival. Some of the men had to holler and shove to keep the women away, as it appeared curiosity was as strong here
as it might be toward a Japanese walking on Dock Street in New York. To their credit, the women shoved and hollered back, stating their rights in no uncertain terms. Children cried, dogs barked under Matthew's boots, which hung several inches off the ground, and goats ran wildly about butting anybody who got in the way. If Matthew had not been so desperate for Greathouse's life, this would have been the first act of a comic play, yet he feared the final act must surely be a tragedy. Through the feathered, tattooed and bangled throng Matthew caught sight of the dwellings that he knew the Indians called their "longhouses", which were huge wooden barrel-roofed structures covered in sheets of bark. Some of these were well over a hundred feet long and twenty feet or so tall, and from openings in their roofs emanated the blue smoke of communal fires.

  Matthew found himself directed toward one of the largest of the longhouses, and with a jumping and shouting mass of Indians at his back he was carried through curtains made of animal skins that covered its doorway. When his escorts abruptly halted and let him go he fell to his knees in the dirt.

  The light was dim in here, the air smelling of pinewood smoke. The communal fire burned low, a pit of seething red embers. Suddenly a renewed shouting and calling in the Indian language erupted around him, and through the gloom Matthew saw first the glint of eyes. Converging on him from all sides, edging forward closer and closer, was a mob of men, women and children numbering too many to count. He was truly in another world now, as much as a being from another planet. Fear was driven deep into him at the sight of this multitude, but he had to stand up and assert himself, for in his experience Indians respected courage above all. But where was Greathouse? Here or in some other place? The mass of natives were ringing him, and some were daring to reach out as if to pluck at his clothes.