Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  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 Cock'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 Hell, 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 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 makeshift chair, the medicine sisters removed his-Greathouse's-boots and treated his damaged feet in the same fashion, 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 sturdy 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 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 Hell 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 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 shirt and cravat, his dark burgundy-red breeches and waistcoat missing half its buttons, 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 chore 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 hoarse 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 reassuring 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. And was followed by a number: 6.

  "I think he left something else," Walker said, and knelt down beside the wagon. He held up a muddy ring, fashioned 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? 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 passed 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 way." His finger aimed toward Belvedere. He stood up, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Matthew. "He's going to the tra
ding 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 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 shirt was torn open to the waist, his pale chest scored with razor cuts. He looked up at Matthew with eyes sunken into swollen slits.