Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  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 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.

  Walker knew also. "Here," he said wearily. "Let me sit down. Here."

  Matthew eased him to a sitting position on the ground, leaning against the oak near its base where the gnarled roots had burst forth.

  "My bow. My quiver," Walker said. "Put them next to me."

  Matthew did as he asked, and then he knelt beside the Indian. "Can I " He had to stop, and begin again. "Can I do anything for you?"

  "You can go on. Quickly. With great care, Matthew. With eyes always open in all directions."

  "All right," Matthew said.

  "Hear me." Some strength had returned to the ragged husk of Walker's voice; he was a valiant brave, right to the end. "I will die but I shall not perish. I charge you to be my arrow. And if you if you ever get back to my village tell my father I might have been insane but I was a true son." His bloody hand came up and pressed Matthew's arm. "Will you?"

  Matthew nodded. "I will," he answered.

  Walker gave a half-smile. His eyes slid shut. Then he abruptly opened them again, as if he'd remembered something vitally important. "Do you want the watch back?"

  "Oh, what a sad and stirring sight!" came the mocking voice, from the other side of the ravine.

  Matthew felt Walker's hand fall away from him as he stood up and turned to face Tyranthus Slaughter, who had emerged from the woods. In his right hand Slaughter was holding his pistol; in the hand sinister was gripped the cord he had made from Faith's apron, which served to bind the women's wrists one to another. The bandage he had also cut from the cloth was tied around his head, and Matthew noted with satisfaction the dark splotch of blood on the left side just above the ear, which was itself crusted with gore. Slaughter kept the women in front of him as a shield. Even so, Matthew noted that Slaughter's clothing had improved: brown breeches, white stockings, a gray shirt and a beige coat. The strap of a brown canvas haversack slung diagonally across his chest. He knew whose boots were on the killer's feet.

  "That red bastard got me," Slaughter said. "Just a nick, though. Be right as rain in a few days." He grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth which appeared larger now that he was clean-shaven. "Matthew, Matthew, Matthew!" He made a clucking noise with his tongue and rested the pistol's barrel on Lark's shoulder. "Keep that gun down by your side, now. Don't touch the striker. Tell me: what am I going to do with you?"

  Matthew made a quick examination of Lark and Faith, who stood tethered by the killer's cord. Faith had left this world; she stood with her face downcast, her hair in her eyes. Her mouth was moving, perhaps repeating in her mind over and over some moment of childhood that sustained her even on this black morning. Like a child, also, she looked to have tripped and fallen on their journey here, for her nose and chin were both skinned and bloodied and dead leaves clung to the front of her dress.

  Lark's eyes, though swollen red and surrounded by dark hollows, still held the shine of intelligence. She had been recently slapped, for a handprint showed on her left cheek. Matthew saw the vivid scratches where Slaughter's fingernails had caught her. She stared silently across the divide at him, and lifted her chin as a way to tell him she was yet all there in the mind.

  "Well," Matthew said, as easily as he could with Slaughter's pistol aimed in his general direction, "you can drop your gun, untie the ladies, crawl across this oak like the slug you are and give yourself up, for I am arresting you in the name of New York, both town and colony, the Queen's Constable, the Queen herself, and the country of England. How does that sound?"

  His intention had been for Slaughter to lose his temper, blow himself up like a bullfrog, and take a shot; the distance between them-near forty feet, from where Matthew was standing at the oak's roots-would severely test the flintlock's accuracy, and Matthew thought that if push came to shove he could get off his own prayerful shot and scramble across that damned tree before Slaughter could reload. He hoped.

  But alas, it was not to be. Slaughter just laughed; the slow tolling of funeral bells freighted the air. "You are worthy," he said, when his laughter was done. He didn't say worthy of what, but Matthew suspected he meant worthy of a slow, excruciating execution.

  "Lark?" Matthew spoke to the girl, but kept his eyes on Slaughter's trigger finger. "Are you all right?"

  "Never been better," Slaughter said. "A little piece of custard pie, this one is." His arm moved, and now the pistol's barrel played with her locks of blonde hair. "Want the leftovers?"

  Matthew felt the slow boil of rage in his guts. Taunting me to lose my temper and take the first shot, he thought. As Walker had said, You know him well. I think he must know you well, too.

  "Matthew?" Lark's voice was steady; she had not given up, she had not broken. She was, he thought, an incredibly strong girl. If they got out of this, he would take both of them to New York, find care for her mother and what? Somehow erase all this horror from Lark's mind? "I want you to know," she went on, "that I my mother and I we're-"

  "Blah de blah blah," Slaughter interrupted. "Is he dead?"

  Matthew looked down at Walker. The Indian lay motionless, gray-faced, his eyes open but seeing nothing. A trickle of blood had leaked from his mouth. "Yes," Matthew answered.

  "Throw the body over," Slaughter said.

  Matthew stared across at the other man. "You come do it."

  "I gave you an order, young sir."

  "I'm not in your army." He offered a purposefully-mocking smile. "I'm surprised at you! A stalwart soldier, afraid of a dead Indian? He was my friend, Slaughter; I'm not throwing him over like a grainsack."

  Slaughter paused; he worked his tongue in and out of his cheeks, and then he said brightly, "Leave him for the buzzards then, I don't give a shit. The business at hand, Matthew, concerns your coming across that tree. When you set foot on this side, and I blow your brains out, the two little squats go free. My word of honor. And as I told you, I never lie to men who are not fools. You, sir, have proven yourself to be no fool. Stupid, yes, but a fool no. Therefore, I do not lie."

  "I appreciate the compliment. But being no fool, I should have to ask after my departure from this earthly realm
, how long will they remain free?"

  "Ahhhhh," said Slaughter, and grinned again. "Ouch! You're making my head hurt."

  "Your truths are lies, Slaughter," Matthew told him. "You know I'm going to follow you, wherever you go. You know I'm not going to stop." His heart was beating hard at this presumption that he would still be alive in the next few minutes. "If you give yourself up, here and now, I promise-"

  "That the fucking noose doesn't cause me to shit in my pants?" Slaughter had nearly roared it, making Faith jump and give a muffled little child's cry. "That I get a garland of red roses upon my fucking grave?" His face had also bloomed rose-red, so much so that small creepers of blood began to appear at his nostrils. In his rage he had swollen up again, all huge shoulders and massive monster's chest, spittle upon his lips and the red lamp of murder in the pond-ice eyes. "You idiot! You charlatan of a constable! What can you promise me?"

  Matthew was silent until the tirade had passed. Then he said, "I promise that I will endeavor to buy you a title before you are hanged, and that it will be so marked on your stone." Katherine Herrald would have special connections; maybe she could be talked into arranging it.

  Slaughter's face froze, his mouth half-open. Slowly, very slowly, his expression began to thaw. "Well said," he allowed. "The one thing I so devoutly wish, given to me what? an hour before I swing? And possibly marked on a black brick at the ass-end of Hammer's Alley? Oh but it's impossible, Matthew, bless your heart; you see, even if I was fool enough to give myself up, as you put it, I wouldn't live to cross the Atlantic."

  "And why might that be?"

  "I have," he said, "a very strict employer."

  Matthew frowned, puzzled by that statement. Employer? He was about to ask who that was when Slaughter thumbed his pistol to full-cock and held it against the side of Lark's head.

  "You will throw your gun over," Slaughter directed, staring cold-eyed and remorseless at his enemy. "Now, young sir, or I shall have to scorch some blonde hair."

  Matthew had no doubt it would be done. Though Slaughter couldn't reload again before Matthew got across the log, that would be no help for Lark. His bullpup was useless at this range. He could refuse and then what? No, he had to get closer to Slaughter. Try to make the man take a shot. He threw the gun into the ravine.

  "The shooter's bag, too. Let's not be hiding anything I don't know about." When it was gone, Slaughter lowered the gun but kept it aimed between Matthew and the girl. "Sensible. Now we shall see what sort of a true-blue knight you really are. Come across the tree, like a good lad."

  "Matthew!" Lark called, but he didn't look at her.

  "Hush," Slaughter said. "Let him do what he must."

  Matthew slowly climbed up on the oak and, sitting on it, began to slide himself forward. It was a very long way down, upon the treacherous rocks. His throat was dry; his mouth had no spit in it. He heard himself breathing like a bellows while his mind raced to figure how to save their lives. If he could make Slaughter fire a shot before he got too much closer but the distance was narrowing, and he might just have to leap at Slaughter and take his chances that the ball would not kill him outright. For this Englishman, time did not stop nor stand still. "A little faster, if you please," Slaughter said. "Don't mind your breeches, where you're going they'll give you a fresh pair with your name sewn across the bum, I'm sure."

  Onward Matthew pushed himself, and now he was nearly halfway across. His legs were dangling over. He thought how much he'd hate it if he lost one of his moccasins. The sweat had beaded on his face; it ran in rivulets under his shirt.

  "I will make it quick. That I would do for any worthy opponent. Right in the back of the head. Candle snuffed, the end. I'll do the same for them as well."

  "Matthew!" Lark called, and when he looked at her he saw she had grasped her mother's hand. A strange kind of light gleamed in her eyes. Madness? Determination? "Just try, is all I ask."

  "Oh, he's trying all right," Slaughter replied. "He's trying to think how to get out of this. Can't you see his eyes going 'round and 'round?" He moved out from behind the women and motioned with the pistol's barrel. "Come, come!"

  "My mother and I are already dead, Matthew," said Lark. And of Faith she asked the question, "Do you believe in God?"

  Yes, Momma. Had it been spoken, or had Matthew only imagined it?

  "Do you believe that we need fear no darkness, for He lights our way?"

  Yes, Momma.

  "Stop that nonsense!" Slaughter said.

  "Do you believe in the promise of Heaven?" Lark asked.

  Did Faith answer, or not? Yes, Momma.

  "So do I," said the girl.

  With one quick, strong, sure movement she tore the cord out of Slaughter's hand.

  Making a leap forward, Lark threw herself and her mother over the edge.

  They fell silently.

  Matthew saw them hit the rocks like two dolls all dressed up in lace.

  He had a shout in his throat, but it lodged there like a stone. His eyes filled with tears.

  Slaughter peered over the edge. He scratched his chin with the pistol's barrel.

  "Women!" he said with an air of disgust, and then he took the gun in a two-handed grip, held it at arm's length toward Matthew, and pulled the trigger.

  Twenty-Five

  In the brief delay between the flare of the flashpan and the ball leaving the gun, Matthew gripped hold of a broken stub where a branch had been and flattened himself against the trunk. At almost the same time, he was aware of something going past his shoulder on the left side; he heard a high-pitched zip, and his ear tingled in the disturbance of air.

  The gun cracked. Matthew heard the ball tear through foliage on the other side of the ravine. He looked up to see the shaft of an arrow still vibrating in the meat of Slaughter's upper right shoulder. Slaughter too was regarding it with an expression of curiosity, the pistol's smoking barrel uptilted where the arrow's force had altered his aim.

  Then Matthew looked over his shoulder to see that Walker had slowly and painfully, inch by inch, angled his body to get a shot. The bow fell from the Indian's hand. He remained sitting upright, supported by the mass of roots behind him. His eyes were open, unblinking, and now truly focused on something beyond Matthew's world.

  Slaughter crashed away through the woods. Matthew was torn for an instant about what to do; he scrambled back across the tree to Walker's side, and there he found that the last breath had been drawn, the last bit of strength spent, the last measure of will used up.

  My finest scene was a death sprawl, Walker had said, in which I lay motionless at center stage for three minutes with my eyes open.

  But the damnable part of it was that Matthew had thought Walker was already dead. Jonathan Redskin the Savage Adam the Lucifer of the New World

  They had all left the stage.

  Matthew took Walker's knife. Something came over him that was a resolve greater than courage; he knew he was likely to die today, and possibly in the next few minutes, but it didn't matter. He was ready for that. His mind shut off to anything and everything but chasing Slaughter down, and he stood up, half-ran and half-jumped along the tree without looking at the bodies below, and then he was in the woods sprinting at full speed along the path Slaughter had just trampled.

  Beyond the ravine, the land sloped sharply downward. Matthew tore through low-hanging pine branches and flinched as vines whipped his face. His eyes darted back and forth. He jumped a mass of tangled roots, landed off-balance and felt a twinge of pain along his right ankle, but it didn't slow him a stride. He kept going, and then through the next group of trees he saw Slaughter running on the decline below him, bursting his way through the foliage like any wounded wild beast might.

  Slaughter ran without a backwards glance. Matthew saw him fumbling with the haversack as he fled. Trying to load the pistol while moving? He didn't think even a killer of Slaughter's experience could do that; more likely he was getting everything he needed to hand, and looking for a
secure place to stop, pour the powder and ram the ball.

  Matthew had to get to him first.

  Pine needles slid under his feet. One slip here and he would be on his face. Ahead of him, Slaughter's foot caught on something and he staggered, nearly falling before he crashed off a birch tree and righted himself. Still they ran downhill, Matthew steadily closing the distance, and then Matthew heard above his own harsh breathing the noise of water rushing over stones.

  Ahead, down at the bottom of this hill where the trees stood thick and colored vivid scarlet, Matthew saw a fast-moving stream. It ran to the left, between rocky banks, and turned the wheel of a watermill, a vine-covered wooden structure with a brown peaked roof. Through the trees Matthew caught the quick glimpse of a village maybe a quarter-mile distant and further below: small houses, white church, smoking chimneys. One of the villages on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

  Slaughter made for the watermill. This time he dared a glance to judge Matthew's progress, and with a bound he was up the mill's three stone steps. He whirled around, facing his pursuer. Matthew saw the powderhorn come out of the bag. Saw Slaughter's arm moving in a blur to seat the patch and ball. Saw the gleam of the ramrod as it slid from the socket.

  Matthew felt vines grab at his ankles. He tore free, and was racing toward the steps when he saw the ramrod go down into the barrel.

  Ramrod out. Powder in the flashpan. Flashpan snapped shut.

  I'm not going to get there, he thought.

  Gun swiveling toward him. Thumb on striker.

  Striker going back.

  Firing position.

  The gun was in Matthew's face, and he saw the striker fall as he was jumping forward up the steps, pushing with every ounce of strength in his legs, the knife in his hand already streaking out.

  He heard the click of the flint and the hiss of the sparks. Smoke enveloped him, but before the gun fired and the ball came out the pistol was deflected, because Matthew had chopped an arm into Slaughter's wrist and stabbed at his ribs. But just that fast Slaughter had already sideslipped; he caught Matthew's arm to prevent the knife from biting, and their backward momentum took them crashing through the door.