Which meant Slaughter must have had experience quick-loading pistols. Matthew had heard from Greathouse, during his own firearms training, that a real expert could eye-measure the powder, pour it down, ram the ball and cloth patch, prime the pan and fire a shot within fifteen seconds. Of course the faster the process was done, the more chance there was for a mistake, which meant a misfire or even an explosion, rendering both the pistol and the hand useless pieces of junk.
Walker continued along the stream, moving the arrow’s point to follow his line of sight. But in another moment he lowered the bow, climbed up upon the right bank, and motioned for the others to come ahead.
“He came out here. The mark is very fresh, maybe an hour old.” Walker showed Matthew an area of crushed weeds and among them the impression of a bootheel. When he located two more, he said, “Going this way,” and pointed to the southeast. “Moving slowly. His legs are tired and he ate too much.” He stood up and returned the arrow to its quiver and the bow to its sheath. “Is the woman all right?”
Faith didn’t speak, though her mouth was moving as if reciting a childhood conversation. Her eyes were glazed over, her face slack. Though her body was here, her mind was far distant.
Lark said, “She can keep going.”
Walker looked up through the trees toward the sun. “About two hours of light left. Can we pick up our pace?” He had directed this question to Matthew.
“I don’t think so.”
“All right, then.” There was no reason for argument; things were as they were. “If possible, we should be silent from here on. We don’t want him to hear us as we get closer. I’m going to go ahead a distance, but not so far that I can’t see you. If you’re getting too much off the track, I’ll correct you.” With that pronouncement, Walker trotted quietly away into the woods, nimbly leaping gnarled roots and ducking under low-hanging branches.
Matthew had never bargained to be a pioneer, but he’d learned that many things in this life were thrust upon you whether you wanted them or not. He had not a clue about how to follow Walker’s trail. A disturbance of leaves and a crushed weed spoke volumes to the Indian, but withheld from him even a short story. Walker was out of sight now, and the forest seemed vast and darker. Still, Matthew could only do as he was instructed; he started off in what he hoped was Walker’s path, and behind him followed his army of two.
“Careful here,” Matthew said, as softly as was practical, to warn them of a place where the ground abruptly sloped into a hollow full of tangled vines and roots before it rose up again. Lark nodded; Faith was still absent, but she clung to Lark’s hand and let herself be guided.
“Who are you?” Lark asked, coming up beside him. “A constable?”
“In a way. I’m…a problem-solver. In New York.”
“What kind of problems?”
“This kind,” he replied. He motioned toward a patch of thorns that blocked their way, so they had to change course a few degrees. They walked for a while in silence, as Walker had directed, but Matthew found himself compelled to speak again. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You had nothing to do with it.” She paused, and Matthew thought she might be able to sense the bitter anger that suddenly seemed to be, like one of Slaughter’s claw-nailed hands, closing around his throat. “Did you?”
Matthew didn’t reply. But he knew he would have to, eventually; if not here, then somewhere else, for he could not let himself wander a path that had no end.
“I am responsible for his escape,” Matthew said.
He felt Lark staring at him. He kept his head down, in pretense of examining the way ahead for pitfalls. Lark said nothing else. Soon he’d either picked up his pace or she had drifted back, he wasn’t sure which, but he might as well have been a solitary traveller.
They came out of the forest into a small clearing. Matthew was pleased with his sense of direction, because Walker was kneeling down under a group of oaks at the clearing’s edge only a few yards away. Before them rose another hill, easily twice the height of the one they’d climbed when leaving the Lindsay house.
Matthew, Lark and Faith approached the Indian. They were almost beside him when Matthew caught from the corner of his eye a sharp glint of glass or metal catching the sun. He looked up the hillside, toward the top where the trees grew thick.
“He’s up there,” Walker whispered, motioning them to remain under the trees. “Taking a look around with his spyglass.”
Matthew crouched against an oak’s trunk and scanned the hilltop. The reflection did not repeat itself. “Do you think he’s seen us?”
“I don’t know.”
They waited. Slaughter might have moved to a different spot, and be watching them even now, or he might have made a single quick pass across the clearing. In any case, they couldn’t stay here forever.
After about three minutes during which both he and Matthew intently watched for any sign of movement and saw none, Walker got to his feet. “I want to get up there as fast as we can. You help the girl. And if you see anything, call out.”
“All right.”
Walker found the trail that Slaughter had already broken through the underbrush, but it was an arduous climb. At one point Faith nearly collapsed and had to sit down, still without a word, and Lark sat beside her and rubbed her legs until she could stand once more. Walker stayed with them, crouched on the ground and alert for movement, his bow drawn and an arrow ready to fly. Matthew’s own legs were killing him; the muscles in his calves felt as if they were about to rip through the skin.
It took more than half-an-hour to reach the top. There was no sign of Slaughter, except for the bootmarks that Walker easily found. It appeared to Walker that Slaughter had clambered up onto the rocks, laid flat and from there aimed the spyglass down.
And not far from where Walker deduced that Slaughter had done so, Matthew’s black tricorn lay on a smooth gray boulder amid the pines. Likely left behind, Matthew thought, in Slaughter’s haste to put distance between them.
Matthew approached his hat. He reached out to pick it up.
Walker’s bow stopped the arm from its intent.
“Wait,” Walker told him. “Step back.”
“What’re you—”
“Back,” Walker repeated, and this time Matthew obeyed.
The Indian stretched his own arm out and used the bow’s narrow end to tilt the tricorn up. As Walker lifted it, the snake that was coiled underneath began to give its warning rattle. Fangs struck at the bow. Walker swept the rattler off the boulder onto the ground where it slithered away.
“Bite you,” said Faith, in her dazed and dreamlike voice. “Ol’ Scratch.”
Lark stood beside Matthew, and Matthew suddenly realized she had grasped his hand because his fingers were about to be broken.
“I would say,” Walker remarked, “that Slaughter has seen us. Do you agree with that, Matthew?”
“Yes.”
“That’s probably not a good thing.”
“No,” Matthew said.
“He’s left clear tracks. Still moving slowly. The hill wore him out.”
“I think we’re all worn out.”
Walker nodded. “I think you may be right.” He regarded the sun again, which was turning red in a cloudless sky as it dropped toward the west. “We need to make camp before dark. Find someplace…as safe as possible.”
“Not here!” Lark objected. “Not in rattlesnake country!”
“Miss,” said Walker, with weary authority, “it’s all rattlesnake country.” He looked at Matthew, who had been kneading the blood back into his fingers since Lark had released him. “You can get your hat now.”
They went on about two hundred more yards before Walker said the place would do for the night. It was a grassy clearing atop a small hillock, surrounded by huge oaks. They found as much comfort as was possible on the ground. Walker gave Matthew a portion of the dried meat and some for himself. Faith sat staring at nothing when Lark offered her a piece of ham
and some cornbread; she reacted by clamping her hand over her mouth when Lark tried to push a bit of the ham between her lips. Then Faith curled herself up into a ball at the base of an oak and refused to respond to Lark’s entreaties to eat. His meal done, Walker promptly climbed up into a tree and sat amid the branches while the sun went down, painting the western sky vivid red edged with purple. “No need to waste this.” Lark offered Matthew what her mother had rejected. “Do you want it?”
“I’ll take the cornbread, thank you.” He was delighted to get something that reminded him of happier suppers at home. “You ought to eat the ham yourself.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
“That may be so, but hungry or not you ought to eat it anyway.” He chewed on the cornbread, which was absolutely delicious, and watched as she looked at the ham in her palm as if it had been cut from the haunch of a gigantic rat. Then, overcoming her revulsion for what the last family meal had been, she followed his suggestion, after which she promptly got up, rushed away into the thicket and vomited.
Matthew stood up, retrieved the waterflask from her canvas bag and took it to her. She was sitting on her knees, having crawled a distance away from her stomach’s refusal. Without looking at him she accepted the flask, uncorked it, took a drink, swished the water around in her mouth and spat it out. She took a longer drink, corked the flask again and handed it back.
“Pardon me,” Lark said, pushing the hair out of her eyes.
Matthew said nothing, but sat down a few feet away. He took off his tricorn, which he doubted he would be wearing much anyway, since his scalp prickled underneath it. Lark was a pretty girl, he thought. Very young, and fresh-faced. Or had been. He wished he had seen her yesterday. He wished so many things. But wishing seemed a waste of time, out here. He looked up and saw in the darkening sky the first few stars in the east. He wondered who might be looking at them in New York. Berry? Effrem Owles? Zed? Even Lord Cornbury, on his evening walk?
He wondered if he would ever get back there. He wondered if Greathouse was still alive, and at that point he had to stop wondering for that, too, was folly.
“How are you responsible?” Lark asked.
Matthew knew what she meant. He knew his statement had been working at her, ever since he’d spoken it. “If it weren’t for me—my actions—Slaughter would now be in the gaol at New York.”
“You let him go?”
“No, not so directly. But I…remained silent about something when I should have spoken. I forgot my job, and I in essence betrayed a friend. That silence…when you know you should speak up, but you don’t…that’s the killer.”
“You’re saying you made a mistake?”
A mistake. It sounded so small when she said it. So inconsequential. “I did,” he answered. “A mistake that I shall be turning over and over in my head for the rest of my life.”
She shifted her position, sitting down and pulling her knees up toward her chin, her hands hooked together. “That could be a very long time.”
“I hope,” Matthew replied, and found that he could still smile, if only briefly.
Lark was quiet for awhile. A flock of birds flew across Matthew’s line of sight, winging home before full darkness fell. “My mother,” Lark said. She couldn’t continue, and had to wait. “My mother,” she tried again, “was a very good woman. A well-educated woman, and very kind, to everyone.” She drew in a long breath and slowly, almost painfully, released it. “I don’t think she’s coming back.”
“You don’t know that. She may be better in the morning.”
“You mean when her head clears? If it clears? I mean, she can never go back to what she used to be. Neither one of us can. Ever. And I guess…you can’t, either.”
“That’s right,” Matthew said.
“My father always said…there were only two directions in life. Up or down. He was always talking about how good the land was, and how good God was to us. He said…no matter how hard things got, all you had to do to touch God in this country was to reach up. Just try to meet God as much as you can, I guess is what he meant. Just try. I suppose that’s the best anyone can do, is try.” Now Lark managed a tight smile, but it quickly slipped away. “I used to sit on his knee and listen to him, and I believed everything he said. Reach up, reach up, he said. Just try, is what he was telling me. And don’t give up, because then you never meet God. But I suppose I stopped listening to all that, when I was too old to sit on his knee anymore. I thought it was just…something you told a child, when the harvest went bad and the going got rough. But it was for him, and my mother, as much as it was for me. He never quit trying. Neither did she. Trying to reach up.”
In the last of the light Matthew saw the glint of her tears, and then how they slowly coursed down her cheeks one after the other. But her face remained tragically serene.
“I’m going to get him,” Matthew promised. “Tomorrow.”
“How? I’ve seen what he can do. What he will do. How are you going to get him?”
“One arrow,” said Walker In Two Worlds, who was standing only a few feet away; he had come upon them in total silence. “That’s all I need to put him down. If I can get close enough, and get a clear shot, it’s done.”
Matthew said, “I don’t want him dead. I want him taken back, to stand trial in England.”
“In England?” Walker frowned. “Trial or not, I’d say he’s earned the hangman’s noose here first. Then they can take him over and hang him again, as they please. But don’t worry, I’ll be sure to spare him for the rope, if you think he’s worth the knot.”
Matthew was about to reply that he himself thought Slaughter wasn’t worth a cupful of drool, but that higher powers across the ocean wanted him before the docket; he was interrupted in the formation of this reply when there came a shrill cry from Faith Lindsay. At once Lark was up and tearing through the thicket toward her mother, with Walker and Matthew close behind.
Faith was sitting up, clinging to the trunk of the tree beside her; she cried out again, a sound of utter, mindless terror, before Lark could kneel down and comfort her. Matthew turned his back, wishing to give them at least a little privacy, and walked a distance away. Now that the sun was just a purple blush to the west, the air was chill but not uncomfortably cold; the cloaks would do for the mother and daughter. He looked up at a sky filled with stars. On any other night he would have thought this an absolutely beautiful view, and he might have wandered out along the harbor—possibly with Berry at his side, if she’d liked to go—and taken it all in, but tonight the darkness was not his friend.
“You need to sleep.” Walker was standing behind him. Matthew immediately heard the edge of tension in the Indian’s voice. “While you can.”
Matthew gave words to his suspicion:
“Do you think he’s coming tonight?”
“If I told you I did, would it help you sleep any better?”
“No.”
“The fact is, he’s not far away. He knows we’ll catch up with him tomorrow. It’s likely his spyglass has already shown him that his gift did not make the proper impression. So…if I were of a mind to murder someone, I would strike before dawn.”
“We’d best both stand guard then.”
“You need sleep,” Walker repeated. “He’s sleeping too, you can count on it. If he’s coming, it will be when he’s rested and ready. But make sure, before you sleep, that your pistol is loaded, and that it’s near at hand.”
“All right.”
“May I ask you something?” Lark had left her mother, and was approaching. Her question had been directed to Walker. “Can you make us a fire? She’s afraid of the dark.”
“I’m afraid of the light.”
“A small fire,” Lark persisted. “Please. It doesn’t have to last very long, just so I can get her to sleep.”
Walker pondered the request. He looked at the woman sitting against the tree with the dark brown cloak wrapped around her, her eyes swollen and vacant, her mouth slack.
He drew his knife from its sheath. “A small fire,” he agreed.
Walker was true to his word. With the knife he dug a shallow hole next to Faith, filled it with a fistful of tinder, and struck a spark. A few broken-up sticks were added. The fire that resulted was little more than a warming glow, but it served its purpose. Lark sat beside her mother and smoothed her hair as Faith stared into the flames.
Matthew found his own place to sleep, under the stars. Walker had disappeared; whether into the tree branches again or out into the woods, Matthew didn’t know. He prepared his pistol, first by pouring gunpowder down the muzzle. Next he took a lead ball from his shooter’s bag, placed it against one of the cloth patches Dovehart had sold him and, using the small ramrod that was actually secured in the pistol just underneath the barrel, rammed the patch and ball home. He returned the ramrod to its place. The final step would be to prime the flashpan, but that would be done in advance of actually using the weapon. He stretched out, hearing his backbone crack, and put the gun at his right side, just under his fingertips.
He heard Lark speaking to her mother.
“Do you believe in God?”
There was only silence.
“Say it for me, Faith. Come on, as we say every night.”
The silence stretched. Then, in a hoarse and ragged voice, Faith the little girl asked, “Will we get to Mrs. Janepenny’s tomorrow?”
“We will.”
“I don’t like this way.”
“It’s the way we have to go. Now, try to relax. Close your eyes. That’s right, very good. We need to speak it, the same here as we do at home. All right? Do you believe in God?”
Only silence. And then, faintly: “Yes, Momma.”
“Do you believe that we need fear no darkness, for He lights our way?”
“Yes, Momma.”
“Do you believe in the promise of Heaven?”
“Yes, Momma.”
“So do I. Now go to sleep.”
Matthew was having his own problems. How to bid sleep come on, knowing that when Slaughter crept to their camp it would be with intent to murder, and his victim of choice would be a certain problem-solver from New York who, having escaped one rattler, was the prime target for another. Matthew remembered asking Slaughter at their first meeting why he’d decided to try to kill Mariah at the red barn behind the hospital instead of running for freedom, and Slaughter had answered I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. It seemed to Matthew that perhaps the hatred of people and desire for murder in Slaughter even overwhelmed his common sense. Just as some men were willing slaves to any number of vices, against all possible reason, so Slaughter was devoted to the extinction of human life. Or, more likely, he simply saw the opportunity to kill and took it, no matter what. Matthew closed his eyes. And opened them again. He was tired enough, but his nerves were jangling. He put his fingers against the pistol’s handle. Suddenly being a magistrate’s clerk seemed not such a bad occupation. He recalled Nathaniel Powers saying to him, at City Hall in midsummer after the magistrate had released Matthew from his duties in order to enter the employ of the Herrald Agency, I think your education is just beginning.
Mister Slaughter Page 29