Mister Slaughter (37 page)

"You'll be all right. Can you lean on me?"

"Yes'm, thank you."

Matthew saw Lark lower her head and quickly squeeze her eyes shut. He said, "Faith, let me help you," and took her weight against his shoulder so Lark could keep her own balance.

"Thank you, sir," said the child, whose parents should be ever so proud of her manners. "It just hurts a little bit now." She gave him a sideways glance. "Water's
cold
."

"Yes, it is."

"Mr. Shayne?"

Matthew replied, "Yes?"

"How come you to visit us today? I thought you went to London."

"Well, you thought correctly. But I'm here now."

"Did you like London?"

"It's a very large city," Matthew said.

"I'd like to go someday. Momma and Daddy say we will. Just yesterday. We were sitting at the table and—"

Matthew felt the shock go through her. Felt her seize up and tremble, as if her heart was about to burst. She stopped moving and stood very still, while the current pulled at her dress and decorated it with dead leaves. Matthew did not wish to look at her face; he was tensed and ready for the scream.

"Faith?" Lark's voice was miraculously steady and as calm as the underwater stones. "Dear?" She put her arm around the woman. "We have to keep going. Come on." She glanced at Matthew, because still Faith would not be moved. "Tell her we have to keep going, Mr. Shayne."

Matthew said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, "Mind your mother, now. Like a good girl."

And Faith Burgess, if anything, was a good girl. In another few seconds she came back to them, and she breathed deeply of the crisp air and rubbed the back of her neck and picked up the hem of her dress to view her scraped right knee. She did not speak, for perhaps somewhere in her mind the shadow of Faith Lindsay knew that things were best left unsaid, untouched and unremembered. She went on, silently, between Lark and Matthew.

Matthew saw that Walker had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow, and was aiming it into the woods as he waded forward. The Indian had obviously seen something he didn't like, or else he expected that Slaughter might choose this place as a shooting gallery.
I do know pistols
,
sir, as well as I know razors
, Slaughter had said to Greathouse. And another statement Matthew recalled Slaughter making:
I know the look of
captains, because I myself have been a soldier
.

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.