Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  Matthew hauled himself to his feet, and shouted forcefully, "Listen!"

  His voice immediately silenced all others. The nearest Indians drew back, their eyes wide. Children scampered away to hide behind the legs of their mothers, and even the fiercest-looking braves stood motionless at the sound of a white man's tongue.

  "Where's my friend?" Matthew called out. "Ecouter! Ou es'tmon ami?" He got no answer. He looked around at the staring faces. "Does anyone here speak English?" he demanded, as frustration got the better of him.

  The silence stretched. And then from the back of the crowd came a single high-pitched voice chattering something that sounded like ha aka nu eeeegish!

  In the next instant the place erupted into a storm of hilarity, and the laughter that burst forth might have lifted the roof up and whirled it away had it not been so securely fixed.

  In this tumult of noise Matthew knew he was being mocked, that no one here spoke either English or French, and while he was standing at the center of a joke Greathouse was likely dying. Courage or not, tears sprang to his eyes, and as the Indians began to dance and caper around him and their laughter soared up with the smoke Matthew feared all was lost.

  Fifteen

  "Stop it!" Matthew shouted, as the merry carnival of Indians continued to careen around him. His face reddened with anger. He knew a little of the Dutch language from his work as a magistrate's clerk, so in desperation he tried that as well: "Einde het!"

  It made no difference, but only brought forth a fresh uproar of laughter. A brave of diminutive size suddenly leaped out of the throng and landed to Matthew's left, and as this buckskinned comedian began to swell up his cheeks and hop about while emulating the deep croaking of a bullfrog Matthew thought the audience was going to holler the place down on their heads. Such croaking, Matthew reasoned, must be what the white man's language sounded like to their ears. At any other time he might have found this of interest, but right now it was just maddening.

  In the midst of all this, Matthew was aware of an approaching figure. He was aware of it for the reason that the mob was parting to let this figure through, and where the mob did not part quickly enough a pair of big hands found purchase and threw Indians left and right. Then a kick was given to the butt of the human bullfrog that launched him toward the nearest lilypad, and a massive buckskin-dressed woman with long gray-streaked hair and necklaces of animal teeth around her throat stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at Matthew. He had no idea what was about to happen, but in spite of what he really wanted to do-which was fall to his knees and beg for mercy-he stood his ground and even managed to thrust out his chin in an actor's show of defiance.

  The big woman looked him over from head to feet, made a noise deep in her throat like a bear's grumble, and then turned upon the crowd. If anyone were still laughing and shouting, her voice in the next instant made certain all other mouths were shut. Matthew thought this woman could knock a door down by hollering at it. The other Indians simply shut up, and some of the young braves even plopped themselves on the ground in a display of obedience, their heads and shoulders bent forward as if the woman's words were whipstrikes. Matthew had no earthly idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was lighting the devil's own fire in their earholes. If anyone moved during this tirade, her black eyes found them and the offender shrank back like a trembling dog.

  When she was done browbeating her own people, she turned her attention to Matthew again and just stared at him as if to crumble him to dust. After a length of time in which he failed to disintegrate, the woman shouted out what was obviously a command of some kind, for here came forward a fearsome-looking brave decorated with jagged red and blue tattoos on his cheeks, chin, arms and legs. The man got right up into Matthew's face, said, "E'glish folla," and turned around to walk out. Matthew did exactly as he was told, having to pass by the large Indian woman who made a noise like spit sizzling in a frypan, which he presumed summed up her opinion of himself and his countrymen.

  Outside, another mass of Indians waited for him, along with their animals. Shouts and what might only be termed catcalls started up, but were quickly stopped by his escort, who began to give them as much a tirade as the woman had delivered, and this one punctuated by slaps to his own chest and the pounding of his fist against his palm. Whatever was said, it was delivered with authority, for no sooner had the brave finished speaking did everyone turn away and go about their regular business as if Matthew had suddenly ceased to exist. "Folla, folla!" the brave told him, and motioned him on. Matthew went like a ghost through the village. He caught the eyes of a few children and young women examining him, and a brown dog ran up barking furiously until the brave hollered out and a small boy scurried over to clamp his hand over the dog's muzzle, but otherwise Matthew's progress was undisturbed.

  It was a huge place, containing one longhouse after another. Matthew counted thirty-four of them, of varying sizes. He figured the largest few might each house a hundred Indians. Women were busy caring for infants and young children, and there were shed-like structures where men were working at such tasks as building birch-bark canoes, chopping wood, and sharpening knives and spearheads. In fact, the industry he saw around him-the weaving of baskets and blankets, the molding of clay pots and the scraping of animal skins stretched taut in wooden frames-and the sheer number of villagers made Matthew think this must be the tribe's New York. Toward the rear of the village, the back wall was open to reveal a large lake that might have been part of the Raritan river system, and alongside it a cornfield, an orchard on the hillside and other rows of vegetable fields. Truly, it was a world unto itself. "My friend," Matthew said to his escort, who walked briskly ahead. "The man who was hurt. Where is he?"

  No answer was offered, therefore Matthew had to be satisfied with silence. At length they came to a smaller bark-covered dwelling set off by itself near what Matthew thought must be the village's eastern wall, and here the brave planted his palm in the air in a motion that Matthew took to mean stand still. A little knot of children who'd been following at a distance crept forward a few more yards and then also stood still, watching intently. The brave shouted something in his language toward the dwelling's doorway, which was covered with a deerskin. Smoke was rising from the hole on the roof, indicating that someone was home, but no one emerged. The brave picked up a long stick from the ground, edged forward close enough to pull the deerskin aside with the stick, and then repeated his shout, which sounded not unlike a rough command.

  Abruptly a brown hand shot out, grasped the stick and wrenched it away from the brave, causing the man and the group of children to turn around and flee as if they'd seen the hand of the Devil emerge from that dark interior. Matthew's first desire was also to run, but he stood by himself, waiting, as he'd already met Satan this day and a lesser devil was no match for Slaughter.

  An Indian came out from behind the deerskin, and stared at Matthew with eyes like pieces of black flint. He was about as tall as Matthew, and maybe only three or four years older, though age was hard to determine among native people. He was bald but for a scalplock, in their fashion, yet he wore neither feathers nor that cap-like head covering Matthew had seen some of the others wearing. He bore no tattoos on his face, but his neck and bare chest under an open buckskin waistcoat were well-marked with blue scratches and scribblings that looked more like self-inflicted torture than any kind of symbolism. On his arms at wrists and just above the elbows were blue tattooed rings. He was slimly-built, even on the gaunt side, for every rib showed and there was a troubled darkness around his eyes. He wore the customary loincloth, leggings and moccasins, and around his neck hung a small carved wooden totem of some kind on a leather cord. It appeared to Matthew to be the representation of a man with two heads.

  The Indian cast his gaze in the direction the others had gone. His profile was hawklike, his face high-cheekboned and his expression sullen. Then he regarded Matthew once more, and he said in a clear voice, "English."

  "Yes
!" Matthew was relieved to hear the word spoken almost as if by a native of New York.

  "Are you what all the noise is about?"

  "I am. My friend's been hurt. Can you help me find him?"

  "Is he here?"

  "Yes, but where I don't know."

  "Hm," the man said. His black eyebrows lifted. "Hurt how?"

  "Stabbed. In the back."

  "Your hands." The Indian motioned with his stick. "They don't look too good."

  "It's my friend I'm worried about," Matthew replied.

  "Then, he must be a true friend, because I would imagine you are in some pain. What happened?"

  "Never mind that. I just want to know where he is. His name's Hudson Greathouse."

  "All right." The Indian nodded. "If he's here, he'll be with the medicine sisters."

  "Take me there."

  "No," came the reply, "I will not. The medicine sisters don't like to be bothered when they're working," he explained to his visitor's look of dismay. "It's best to leave them alone. Do you have a name?"

  "Matthew Corbett."

  "Do you wish to come into my house and have some tea, Matthew Corbett?"

  "Tea?"

  "A nasty habit I picked up in London," said the Indian. He tossed the stick back to the ground and pulled the deerskin aside. "Come in. It's poor manners to refuse a formal invitation." He waited as Matthew tried to decide what kind of bizarre dream he was having, and how soon he might awaken from it. Matthew was beginning to be aware of all the pain that was flooding in upon him, from rope-burned hands and stone-slashed feet. His bruised left shoulder felt like a dead weight. Among these sensations was an overwhelming weariness, coupled with a forlorn grief. If not for him, Greathouse would not be dying, or already dead. If not for him, Slaughter would not have been set loose, and this might have been the worst of it. But he had to lay that aside now and put his attention on the moment, for that was how he had to survive what was ahead.

  "Thank you," Matthew said, and he walked into the Indian's shelter.

  Inside, the small bits of wood in the central firepit burned low. Arranged around the dwelling were items of everyday life: a sleeping pallet, a wooden rack holding blankets, animal skins and some items of clothing, a few wooden bowls and clay drinking cups, a bark water pail and other necessities. Matthew took note of several spears, two bows and a quiver of arrows leaning against a wall. The man would have to be a hunter, certainly, or he could not survive. But why was he living alone here, with no evidence of a wife and children?

  Matthew's question was answered, in a way, when the Indian sat down cross-legged before the fire, poured some black liquid from a wooden pot into two small clay cups, and asked in a quiet voice, "You're not afraid of insanity, are you?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Insanity," said the Indian. "I am insane."

  "No," Matthew answered, if a bit warily. "I'm not afraid."

  "Ah, that's good, then." One of the cups was offered, and Matthew accepted it. "Everyone else here is afraid. That's why I'm an " He paused, his high forehead creasing as he searched for a word. "Outcast," he went on. "Or nearly so. It won't be very long before I am, because I'm getting worse. Go ahead, drink. As they say in your land, cheer up." He lifted the cup in semblance of a toast, then put it to his lips and downed the liquid.

  Matthew also drank, but before he got more than a swallow down his throat he thought his knees might give way, for though it was certainly English tea it was the strongest, most bitter brew he'd ever dared to imbibe. He thought there must be some fishheads and bear balls in this drink. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes shot forth tears, and he held the offending cup almost at arm's-length.

  "No sugar, I'm sorry," said the Indian. "Isn't it suitable?"

  Matthew coughed again, explosively. Still, for all the bitter taste, he felt a little charge course through his veins, as if one ingredient of this particular tea might be gunpowder. He said hoarsely, "It's all right."

  "I trade for it at the post in Belvedere." The Indian poured another cup and drank from it. "Is it what you recall from your land?"

  "I was born here," Matthew said, when he could trust his tongue again.

  "Ah. So I was. We might as well be brothers, shouldn't we?"

  Matthew didn't know how to respond to that, so he took another small sip of the furniture polish. "What's your name?" he asked.

  The Indian spoke something that sounded like a ghostly wind blowing through a winter forest. "In your language," he said, "that would be Walker In Two Worlds."

  "You speak English very well."

  "Thank you. It's not an easy tongue to learn. I still have difficulties. But I'm the best speaker here, and that is why I'm allowed to stay." He smiled tightly, which on his drawn and haunted face resembled a grimace. "I became insane in London. You see?"

  Matthew didn't, but he chose not to press the point. He bent down and put the cup beside the fire. Not too close, though, for fear of explosion. "I need to find my friend."

  "You need something on those hands. You won't be able to use them tomorrow."

  "My friend," Matthew repeated. "If he dies " He let go of the sentence.

  But the stern black eyes of Walker In Two Worlds were fixed upon him, and would not let him go free so easily. "If he dies, what?"

  "If he dies," Matthew answered, "I'm to blame."

  "Are you? How?"

  "We were taking a prisoner from Westerwicke to New York. A very dangerous man, named Slaughter. Because of me something I did or didn't do Slaughter hurt my friend and got away." Matthew ran a hand through his hair, barely feeling the twinge of raw flesh. "He's a killer. There's no telling what he'll do out there."

  Walker In Two Worlds nodded, his face now devoid of expression. "Tell me, then. Who do you grieve for most? Yourself, for your mistake; your friend, for his injury; or the others?"

  "The others? What others?"

  "The innocent others," Walker said, "you fear this man Slaughter is going to kill."

  And there it was. The central truth, the essence of Matthew's anguish, perceived by a man who in New York might be called a savage. For Matthew had realized, on the way from Fort Laurens to the village, that Greathouse's death would be only the first of many at the hands of Slaughter. He cursed his stupidity and greed; he cursed his smallness, and his vanity. He cursed the black leather bag, with its red wax seal of an octopus, and he cursed the gold that had shone so brightly in his eyes that day at the Chapel estate. He felt as if he'd stepped into a trap that had been set out for him just as surely as if Professor Fell had planned it so. Such traps, he thought, were easy enough to step into, but hell was paid to get out.

  He realized, also, that he was going to have to settle his own debt with Satan, if he was ever to get out of this.

  He found himself staring at Walker's hunting tools: the sharp-tipped spears, the bows and the quiver of arrows.

  "Are you a good hunter?" Matthew asked.

  "I keep myself fed, and I what is the word contribute my part."

  Matthew nodded. Then he swung his gaze back to meet Walker's. "Have you ever hunted a man?"

  "A man," Walker repeated, tonelessly.

  "Have you? Or, to the point could you?"

  Walker looked into the small flickering fire. "It is not could that matters, but would. I could, but I would not. And you could not, for before the sun rises again your pain will make you forget that idea."

  "My hands are all right."

  "I was talking about your legs. I saw that you limped as you came in."

  "My feet are cut a little bit, but that's no matter."

  Again the tight smile that was a grimace distorted the Indian's face. "Oh, you Englishmen! Forever fighting everything around you, even your own spirits and vessels. You don't know when to cut the rope before it strangles you, or how to avoid the quicksand pool that lies in plain sight. You seek to bend everything to your way, even if it destroys you. To win, even if winning leads to your death. Haven't you had enou
gh death for one day, Matthew Corbett?"

  "I'm not dead. And I don't plan on dying anytime soon."

  "Neither do I. But I suspect the man you wish to hunt would not wish to be captured, and has grown a killer's eye in the back of his head. Besides that, you don't even know what direction he's gone."

  "That's why I need you," Matthew said. "Someone who can follow tracks."

  Walker put a hand to his face and shook his head, as if this were such a ridiculous idea he didn't want to shame Matthew by revealing his expression of either mirth or derision.

  Matthew felt his own resolve start to flag, yet he had to make another effort. "I have to get him back. Do you understand that? God knows what he'll do out there, and whatever blood he spills will be on my soul. Are you listening?"

  "Listening," Walker said behind his hand, "but not hearing very well."

  "Then hear this. I have money. Not with me, but I can get it for you. Gold coins. Eighty pounds worth. If you help me find Slaughter and bring him back, you can have it all."

  Walker said nothing for awhile. Then he grunted and lowered his hand. He looked up at Matthew with narrowed eyes, as one might regard the most foolish of fools. "Eighty pounds," he said. "That would be quite a lot of money, would it not? It would make me the richest insane man in this village. What should I spend it on, then? Let me think. I'll buy the moon, and bring her down to earth so she might sing me to sleep at night. No, no; I should buy the sun, so that I should always have a warm-hearted brother to light my way. Or I might buy the wind, or the water, or the earth underfoot. I might buy a whole new self, and wear English clothes as I parade up and down the streets of your great town. No, I have it! I shall buy time itself, the river of days and nights, and I shall command it to carry me backwards in my canoe until I reach the moment I was taken from my people across the dark divide to your land and became insane. Ah! Now we have an agreement, Matthew Corbett, if you might promise me that eighty pounds of gold will return me to sanity, and how I used to think, and what I used to know was true. Because that is all I desire in this world, and without sanity there is one walk I can never make, and that is upon the Sky Road when I die. So did you bring the paper and quill to sign this agreement, or shall it be written on the smoke?" He held a palm toward the firepit, and the smoke there swirled between his fingers as it rose upward toward the roof hole.