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 travellers 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 trading 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.
He was holding James in both arms, at about chest-height. The dog lay on its right side. Matthew saw that it was breathing shallowly. It was bleeding from the mouth and nose and its visible eye had rolled back into its head.
When Walker came into the house, Tom gave a start and dropped the dog a few inches. What could only be called a scream of agony came from James’ mouth, and instantly Tom lifted the dog up again to chest-height. Gradually, its piercing cries subsided.
“He’s with me,” Matthew said to Tom, as the boy gave an involuntary shiver; his voice sounded unrecognizable to him, the voice of someone speaking beyond the door through which he’d just walked.
Tom just stared blankly at him.
Walker eased forward. He leaned down and lifted the Bible.
“He’s dead,” Tom said. A spool of bloody saliva unravelled from his mouth over his injured lip and down his chin. His voice was listless, matter-of-fact. “I touched him. He’s dead.”
Matthew could not bring himself to look at the reverend’s face, but he saw how bad it was by looking at Walker’s. If an Indian could ever go pale, this one did. Matthew saw an incomprehension in Walker’s eyes, a statement of horror that was made more terrible because it was silent. A muscle jumped in Walker’s jaw, and then the Indian put aside the Bible and gazed upward—not to Heaven, but at the sleeping loft. He climbed up the ladder.
“That man came back,” Tom said. “That man. This mornin’.” He shook his head. “Yesterday. Knocked the door down. He was on us…’fore we could move.”
Walker returned with a thin blue blanket, which he used to wrap around the misshapen mass that had been John Burton’s face and head.
James gave another sharp cry, and Tom adjusted his arms because they’d begun to drift down. “I think…” Tom swallowed, either thick saliva or blood. “I think James’…back is broke. That man brought a chair down on him. Right ’cross his back. There wasn’t anythin’…could be done.”
“How long have you been sitting there?” Matthew asked.
“All night,” he said. “I can’t…I can’t put James down. Y’see? I think his back is broke. He cries so much.”
Walker stood over the corpse. Flies were spinning in the air, and the place smelled of blood and a darker sour odor of death. “No human,” he said, “could do this.”
“What?” Matthew hadn’t understood him; his own mind felt mired in the mud of corruption. He stared at a hayfork that leaned against the wall near the door.
“No human could do this,” Walker repeated. “Not any human I’ve ever met.”
James shrieked again. Tom lifted his arms. Matthew wondered how many times he’d done that over the course of the long night to keep the dog’s body evenly supported; the boy’s arms must feel like they were about to tear loose from the sockets.
“His back is broke,” Tom said. “But I’ve got him. I’ve got him, all right.” He looked up at Matthew, and gave a dazed, battered half-smile that made fresh blood drool from his mouth. “He’s my friend.”
Matthew felt the Indian staring at him. He avoided it, and ran the back of a hand across his mouth. Tom’s eyes were closed, perhaps also avoiding what he must certainly know should be done.
“Belvedere,” Walker said quietly. “It won’t come to us.”
“Shhhhh,” Tom told the dog, as it whimpered. The sound became a low groaning noise. “I’ve got you,” he said, his eyes still closed, and possibly more tightly shut than a few seconds before. “I’ve got you.”
Walker said to Matthew, “Give me your neckcloth.” The cravat, he meant. Matthew’s brain was fogged. He heard a blood-gorged fly buzz past his ear and felt another graze his right eyebrow. He unknotted the cravat, removed it from around his throat and gave it to the Indian, who tore from it a long strip and handed the rest of it back. Walker twisted the cloth for strength and began to wrap the ends of the strip around each hand. When Walker took a forward step, the boy’s eyes opened.
“No,” Tom said. Walker stopped.
“He’s my dog. My friend.” The boy lifted his arms again, and now winced at the supreme effort of holding them steady. “I’ll do it…if you’ll hold him so he don’t hurt.”
“All right,” said the Indian.
Walker unwound the strangler’s cloth from his hands and lay it across Tom’s left shoulder, and then he knelt down before Tom and held out his arms like a cradle to accept the suffering animal.
James cried out terribly as the exchange was made, but Tom said, “Shhhhh, shhhhh,” and perhaps the dog e
ven in its pain understood the sound of deeper agony in its companion’s voice. Then James whimpered a little bit, and Walker said, “I have him.”
“Thank you, sir,” answered Tom in a distant, dreamlike tone, as he began to wrap the cloth between his own hands, which Matthew saw bore razor cuts.
Matthew stepped back. Tom eased the taut cloth around James’ neck, trying to be tender. James began to whimper again. Its pink tongue came out to lick at the air. Tom leaned forward and kissed his dog on the head, and then very quickly he crisscrossed one hand over the other and fresh blood and mucous blew from his nostrils as he did what he had to do, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth grinding down into the wound of his lower lip.
Matthew looked at his feet. His moccasins stood in the pool of the reverend’s blood. The indignant flies swarmed and spun. Matthew backstepped, hit the remnants of a broken chair, and almost fell. He righted himself, swayed unsteadily, felt sickness roil in a hot wave in his stomach. He had seen murder before, yes, and brutal murder at that; but Slaughter’s work had been done with so much pleasure.
“Don’t shame yourself,” he heard Walker tell him, and he knew that not only were his eyes swimming, but that his face must have been as white as his cravat had been only yesterday morning.
Slowly, his eyes still downcast, Matthew busied himself with winding the cravat around his throat again. After all, it had been very expensive. It was the mark of a gentleman, and what every young man of merit wore in New York. He carefully knotted it and pushed its ends down under the neck of his dirty shirt. Then he stood very still, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. Tom turned away from Walker. He went to a bucket of water on the floor that had survived the violence, got down on his knees with the slow pained grace of an old man and began to wash the blood from his nostrils.
“His tracks head to Belvedere,” Walker said, speaking to the boy. A small black-haired carcass with a brown snout lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, as if sleeping there after a day fully done. “We intend to catch him, if he hasn’t already gotten himself a horse.”
Mister Slaughter Page 22
