Mister Slaughter

by Robert R. McCammon

  “Follow me,” said Walker.

  Matthew took hold of Walker’s cloak and stumbled after him. His nostrils felt nearly singed by the scent of the powder, but he caught another odor drifting in the smoky air. He knew what it was: the coppery smell of blood. “Are you hurt?”

  “Yes,” Walker said, and now his voice had tightened. “Be silent.” But just a distance further on, Walker suddenly stopped. “I’m going to have to rest here.”

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “I’ve been shot in the left side. I can feel…the edge of a broken rib…in the hole. Ay-yuh!” It was an Indian’s exclamation of disgust.

  “Sit down. Can you?”

  “I can. But…can I get back up again?”

  Matthew felt crazed; he feared he was going to crack like an overheated pot, and mad laughter would bubble out. Walker badly injured. Maybe both Lark and her mother lying dead. Was Slaughter waiting for them, hiding among the trees with his pistol? Where was the clearing from here? He thought it was ahead about fifteen yards and maybe another ten or so to the left, but it was through rough thicket.

  “I’m going in first,” he decided.

  “Go slowly. If the women are dead, there’s nothing you can do. Take a step…then stop…and listen. And I mean listen, Matthew. He may be hurt, too. If he is, you might hear him breathing. All right?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you hear…see…or smell…anything that makes the flesh…on the back of your neck crawl…you crouch down and wait. Until you know what it is. However long that takes.”

  “Are you trying to teach me how to be an Indian?”

  “I’m not a very good teacher. I was impatient tonight. Too much English in me…after all.” Walker leaned back against a tree, and Matthew saw his shape slide to the ground. “If you live…through the next…half hour…will you come back for me?”

  “I will,” Matthew said.

  “I won’t go anywhere, then.” He sounded weak and tired, which frightened Matthew almost more than the idea of braving Mister Slaughter’s murderous skills again tonight.

  But pistol in hand, Matthew turned away from Walker. His mouth set in a grim line, he advanced quietly through the woods, his mind steeled against what he feared to discover.

  Twenty-Four

  THE sun came up, on a morning clear and cool. Birds sang in the trees. A passing breeze stirred the limbs and brought down a shower of autumn-burnt leaves, and Matthew picked up an arrow and saw on its bloody point a piece of skin matted with hair.

  Slaughter at least had been given a new part across his scalp last night. Good, Matthew thought. On his inspection of the scene of battle this morning, he’d found the two other arrows Walker had launched, but only this one showed damage. There was some blood spattered on the leaves, but not enough to indicate that Slaughter had been hit by a lead ball. His legs were still working, that was for certain. Whatever Slaughter was up to by taking Lark and Faith from the camp, he might not be hobbled but he was surely hurting.

  Matthew picked up Walker’s bow where the Indian had dropped it in the dark after the ball had hit him. He could see where the mushrooms and weeds had been crushed by crawling bodies. And, more interestingly, he could see the edge of a ravine about forty feet away, falling down onto jagged rocks and a small stream; they could have all tumbled into it last night, and their bones lay together moldering into dust. Lying dead next to Tyranthus Slaughter for all eternity was not in Matthew’s plans.

  He followed the blood trail, as Walker had instructed. They’d known Slaughter was hurt from the blood they’d found in the clearing at first light. Either ball or arrow grazed him, Walker had said. But only a flesh wound.

  Matthew saw where Slaughter had torn through the thicket like a mad bull. Drops and splatters of blood on the forest floor led Matthew onward into an area of slender pines. He stopped, looking closely at what appeared to be the bloody impressions of two fingers and the thumb of a left hand against one of the pine trunks. Slaughter had briefly paused here either to get his bearings or make a decision about what he intended to do. Obviously, he’d made a quick decision and carried it out with military efficiency. After all, hadn’t he said he’d been a soldier?

  But why, Matthew wondered as he’d already wondered several times this morning, hadn’t Lark cried out? Or tried to fight him? Well, of course she knew what he was capable of, and what was she going to fight him with? In hindsight, they should have left her the knife, or at least wakened her and told her to take Faith and move out of the clearing, or hidden them somewhere, or…

  But they’d never expected Slaughter to get past them. To slip into the camp in the dark, and—wounded or not—make quick work of forcing Lark and her mother into the woods. Going to the southwest, Walker had said after he’d found the trail. Don’t need an Indian to follow this one, he’d told Matthew. The stuck pig is still bleeding.

  Matthew left the blood-smeared pine and continued walking along the path Slaughter had taken to the clearing. There were some thorns and thicket, but his boots had stomped through them. Matthew imagined what might have happened last night, when Lark had heard someone coming, had called his name—when he’d been too afraid to reply, for fear of Slaughter getting off a shot at the sound of his voice—and been answered by a quiet whisper up close to her ear, and maybe the hot barrel of the pistol up under her throat. Now tell your dear mother we are going to a safe place, or tell her we’re going to play hide-a-seek, or any damned fucking thing, but know I will kill her first if you scream. I don’t want to hear any noise from either of you. Just take her hand, and walk ahead of me. That way. Go.

  Matthew wondered if Slaughter had told Lark that there was no hope for the two women if she resisted, but that he might let them go once they got a distance away. Would Lark have believed that, after what had happened at her house? Or might she have seized upon it, as a way to survive? Maybe she thought she could talk him out of killing them. Maybe…perhaps…possibly…who could know?

  I myself have been a soldier, Slaughter had said. It seemed to Matthew that he’d certainly been well-trained in combat, in addition to his natural aptitude for killing. Slaughter elevated murder to the realm of art. He could plan an escape days—weeks?—in advance, plot his moves like a chess master, travel overland like an Indian, confidently stalk the dark like a cat, and shake off the pain of a nasty wound to fix his mind upon his purpose. He was skilled with pistols, knives and razors. He was utterly ruthless and ice-cold, and he possessed, as Walker had said, “a killer’s eye in the back of his head”.

  A soldier? Maybe so. But it sounded more to Matthew as if Slaughter had been trained to be an assassin. For that job he seemed to be exceptionally capable.

  His job? Oh, that: Between jobs, but going back into the business of settling accounts.

  What did that mean?

  Whatever it was, Matthew knew it wasn’t good, and likely meant someone was going to pay with his or her life.

  Matthew had his own account to settle. When he emerged from the woods, he saw that Walker was still sitting against a tree on the far side of the clearing, next to the ashes of last night’s fire that had soothed Faith to sleep. Matthew felt the same hammerblow to the gut he’d taken at first light, upon seeing the bloody hole in the Indian’s side.

  Walker’s eyes were closed, his face uplifted toward the warmth of the early sun. But even in the short time that Matthew had left him, to visit the battleground and find Walker’s bow, the Indian seemed more frail, the facial bones more defined. His flesh was as gray as a gravestone. The bandage that Matthew had made from his cravat—the same cravat that had been utilized for the mercy killing of Tom’s dog—was tied around the lower part of Walker’s chest. It was dark with blood on the left side.

  Walker opened his eyes and watched as Matthew approached. “Do I look that terrible?” he asked, reading Matthew’s expression. And he answered his own question: “Death has been called many things, but never handsome.”

/>   “I’m going to get you out of here.”

  Walker smiled thinly. His eyes held the glint of inescapable pain. “No, you are not. If you wish to become an Indian, the first thing you have to do…” He had to stop speaking, as he silently battled his internal agony. “Have to do,” he repeated. “Is accept reality.”

  Matthew could find no reply. He’d already seen, in his inspection of the wound, that the ball had splintered at least one rib and driven deep into the organs. Where it had come to rest in all that carnage could not be determined. It was miraculous, he thought, that Walker was even able to talk, much less move. Walker had taken a handful of moss, pine bark, and broken-up green pine needles and pushed it into the hole, and then he’d said, Bind it up.

  “Is there nothing you can do?” Matthew asked.

  “No.” It was firm and final, spoken without regret: the Indian way. “You’d better eat something, then we’ll go.”

  Matthew ate a piece of the dried meat and drank some water from the flask that Lark had left behind. Everything tasted like the smell of gunsmoke, which permeated his hair, skin and clothes.

  “The women are going to slow him down,” Walker said as he again lifted his face into the sunlight. “So is his wound. They’re leaving a trail any Englishman could follow.” He winced, and waited for the pain to pass. “You know…why he took them.”

  Matthew did. “He needed something to trade.”

  “For you,” Walker said.

  Matthew agreed: “For me.”

  “You know him well. I think he must know you well, too.” Walker shifted his position a few inches and pressed his hand against the bandage. “He’s not sure if he hit you last night. He knows if you’re not too wounded to move…you’ll be coming after him. So: your life for the women. He’s just seeking the right place.”

  “Where might it be?”

  “Somewhere…that limits your choices,” said Walker. “He’ll know it when he finds it. Until then, we follow.”

  Matthew offered him water, but Walker shook his head; he had also previously refused the food. “Listen,” Matthew said, as he corked the flask. “I want you to know…I thank you for doing this for me. For coming all this way, and…” He let the rest of it go. “You didn’t have to.”

  “I’ve already told you. I wanted the watch.”

  “Is that all of it?”

  Walker paused; maybe he’d been about to say yes, Matthew thought. But now, with the hole in his side and his life leaking away, Walker decided to speak honestly. “Not all,” he said. “When I first agreed…yes, it was just the watch. The…what would be the word? The novelty of it. And the idea that…life is a circle. Things come back to you, when you least expect it.” He was quiet, gathering his strength again. “Then,” he continued, “when I saw…what Slaughter did at the reverend’s house…I knew what you were. What you are.”

  “What is that?”

  “My chance,” said Walker, looking into Matthew’s eyes, “to walk the Sky Road.”

  Matthew said nothing.

  “Though I am insane…and taunted by demons…confused in my mind,” he went on, “I may be accepted home by the Great Spirits…if I can help you catch this mad wolf. This creature…who can not be endured, among civilized men. The Great Spirits don’t see red skin, or white. They see only the war between good and evil, which makes the world what it is. And they charge us to be their weapons. Their strength. They charge us…to be their arrows, and fly true.” He nodded, with the sun on his face. “You have given me my chance to fly true,” he said. “But first…we have to catch the monster. We have to pull his teeth.” He coughed, spat dark blood onto the ground beside him and studied it. “Not good,” he said, with a slight frown. “We have much to do before I become…the spirits willing…a walker in three worlds. Will you help me up?”

  Matthew did. When Walker was steady, he asked for his bow to be returned to its sheath and the sheath slung across his shoulder, along with the quiver of arrows. He had his knife in its fringed belt and his rawhide bag of dried meat, which was nearly gone. On his face the black paint was smeared, the spirit symbols blurred by rain, sweat, and circumstance. He had lost a few feathers, but he was ready.

  Matthew put the loaded pistol and the waterflask into his shooter’s bag and the bag’s strap over his shoulder. He looked at his black tricorn, which lay on the ground where he’d left it last night. He decided he didn’t want it anymore, since two snakes had worn it. Then he was ready too. He offered his shoulder for Walker to lean against, but the Indian didn’t even grace that gesture with a glance; Walker went on, slowly at first, as if over hot coals, but then with his hand positioned firmly against the bloody bandage he set off at a decent speed following the red spots and splatters that marked Slaughter’s trail.

  The sun continued its ascent. Within an hour, Matthew noted that Walker’s pace had slowed dramatically and the Indian was limping on his left leg. When Matthew again offered to give support, Walker shook his head. His face was ashen, and glistened with sweat.

  Walker was right about the trail being easy to follow. Though the blood spots had stopped, there was clear evidence of the passage of three people. The ground cover showed a plentitude of broken twigs and crushed weeds, and at one point Matthew stopped to examine an area under some pines that indicated dead needles had been brushed aside for someone to sit down. He could envision Lark’s hand, trying to make her mother comfortable even on this march of terror. They might have rested here until daybreak. In the thicket nearby he found a few ragged pieces of blue cloth, trimmed with yellow, and held them up for Walker to see.

  “The mother’s apron,” Walker said; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot. “Made himself…a bandage.”

  They kept going. With the passage of another hour, Walker did not resist when Matthew put an arm around him to keep him upright. Every so often Walker spat blood upon the ground, and now his knees were weak and Matthew knew he couldn’t go on much longer.

  They were moving through an area of large white boulders shaded by yellow elms when Matthew noted Walker kept looking over his shoulder. By now the Indian was all but stumbling, and he had begun to half-mutter, half-sing a strange rhythm in his own language.

  “Matthew,” Walker whispered, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Stop here.”

  Matthew instantly obeyed, and helped him sit against one of the boulders. Walker’s hand came up and grasped the front of Matthew’s jacket.

  “Someone behind us,” he said.

  “Behind us?” Matthew looked back along the trail they’d come, but saw only trees, brush and rocks. A spear of panic pierced him; was it possible Slaughter had circled around?

  “Following,” Walker said thickly. Bloody foam had collected in the corners of his mouth. “I saw him…twice. Very fast.”

  “Saw who?”

  “Death,” came the answer. “He is near, but…he stays back.”

  Matthew again fixed his gaze along the trail, and focused on detecting the slightest movement—human or otherwise—among the trees. There was nothing. He crouched beside Walker, who was breathing raggedly and holding his side as if to keep his organs from spilling out. “I’m going to go ahead,” he said quietly. “You stay here and—”

  “Die?” Through his delirium, Walker gave him a savage, fearsome grin. “Not yet. I’m not ready. Help me.”

  “You can’t go any further.”

  “I’ll say…when I’m done. Not yet.”

  Again Matthew helped him to his feet. They passed through the jumble of boulders and found, just on the other side, a narrow but obviously well-used track that came up an incline from the right and led off into the forest on the left. Whether it was another Indian trail or a pathway used by fur trappers, Matthew didn’t know. Fresh boot and shoe marks in the dirt showed that Slaughter was continuing his relentless advance to reach Philadelphia, with captives or not, and had gone left in the southerly direction.

  In another few minutes, during which Matthew fear
ed Walker was surely at the end of his strength, they came out of the forest and faced a new obstacle.

  Before them was a ravine, about thirty feet in width. When Matthew stood at the edge and looked down, he saw gray rocks fifty feet below, and that same stream meandering on its way to the nearest river. A rope bridge had been strung across the ravine, but it was history; though it was still tied to its supports on this side, it had been cut away on the other, and now hung useless.

  Matthew cursed under his breath. It was certainly Slaughter’s work. How far would they have to go to find another way? The answer was quick in coming, for when Matthew looked to the right he saw, at a distance of forty or so yards, a massive dead oak that had been felled in some turbulent windstorm, its roots wrenched up from the earth on this side and its branches entangled in the foliage on the other.

  Though Walker’s vision was fading, it was still strong enough for him to judge the situation. “Careful,” he whispered. “This is the place.”

  Matthew knew it was. Slaughter had made sure of that by destroying the bridge. He opened his shooter’s bag and withdrew his still-loaded pistol.

  “I can’t…get across that,” Walker said, “unless I grow…wings.”

  “Come on,” Matthew told him. “Hold onto me.” They pushed through the underbrush and vines alongside the ravine, as rays of the sun streamed down through the trees. Birds chirped and sang overhead. Matthew was thinking furiously while watching the thicket on the far side. Crossing by way of that tree would be precarious for him; would it be impossible for Walker? Maybe another rope bridge could be found across, but how far might that be? A mile or more? If at all?

  Matthew thought maybe…maybe…they both could sit on the trunk and pull themselves over. They could go slowly. As slowly as it took. But…if this was the place, then Slaughter had to be somewhere nearby with the women, maybe watching them right now. The longer it took to cross, the longer either one of them would be a target for Slaughter’s pistol, and he knew which one of them would be the first man shot.