Mister Slaughter (39 page)

"Crouch down," Walker whispered, close to his ear.

He obeyed. Walker got on his knees, tilted his head and leaned forward, almost placing his ear upon the ground. The Indian stayed in that posture as if frozen, while Matthew scanned back and forth across the dark.

It was very quiet at first. Just a hint of sound, before it became a sound.

Dead leaves being crunched underfoot, almost directly ahead.

The sound ceased, so quickly Matthew wasn't sure he'd heard it or not.

Walker remained still.

The back of Matthew's neck crawled. If that was indeed Slaughter out there, and not just any noctural animal, he was moving as cautiously as they were. It called to Matthew's mind the unsettling supposition that Slaughter might have
known
they would be here, and he was listening for them as well.

The noise did not repeat itself. Walker waited a moment more, and then he silently and smoothly rose to his feet.

He took one step forward and stopped. Then one step, again, and stopped. His head went from side to side, the arrow ready for a target. Matthew eased up next to him, wincing as a small stick broke under his right heel.

Walker once more remained motionless, and Matthew with him. They listened, in the silence.

Matthew could only hear his heartbeat and the roaring of blood in his veins. If any of that got any louder, he would be deafened.

And now . . . now . . . ahead again, but nearer . . . was that the noise of a boot scraping across a stone? Or had it been a pistol's striker being drawn to full-cock?

Walker's elbow was planted firmly in the center of Matthew's chest. The message was clear:
Wait
.

Moving his head in small increments, Matthew looked back and forth across the woods. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Then, frighteningly and horribly, there came from the direction of camp a woman's cry. It was sharp and sudden, and became the noise of Faith calling for her mother. Matthew realized she had awakened in the dark, with all the terror it unlocked in her fragmented mind. In a few seconds the sound of her voice faded, as Faith had either drifted off again or Lark had been able to comfort her.

Walker's elbow moved from Matthew's chest. Slowly, carefully, Walker took a single step.

Something abruptly burst from the brush beneath the Indian's foot. Matthew, who thought his hair had just turned white, had the sense of a small dark shape scurrying off. Its clatter through the leaves sounded like a herd of deer, though the creature had probably been a rabbit or a woodchuck. Walker stood as solid as a rock, but Matthew was left trembling and instinctively felt at his crotch for any leakage there. Fortunately, he was still wearing dry breeches.

But was there a shape ahead of them, through the slanting blue and black bones of the night, that Matthew saw moving? Just a glimpse, and then gone . . . if it had ever been there?

"Something moved," Matthew whispered, his voice raw. He started to point and thought better of it. "Ahead . . . to the left."

Walker aimed his arrow toward that point, and when the Indian took his next step Matthew felt his guts twinge until it was evident there would be no more bursts from the brush. Matthew stayed alongside him, as they advanced among huge trees. In another moment Matthew was aware of a faint and hazy lumination on all sides: the green glow from dozens of mushrooms on the forest floor, or of fungus attached to rotting wood.

Matthew kept alert for any further movement. Walker stopped again and seemed to be sniffing the air. There was a long pause, during which Matthew thought his teeth might break, he was clenching them so hard. Walker whispered, with a hint of urgency, "He's close." A shape suddenly rose from a crouch through the thicket in front of them, but even as Walker let his arrow fly the shape flattened out once more and merged with the dark. There came the
thunk
of the arrowhead hitting a tree. Walker reached back, took a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it.

Matthew saw, to the left again, another fleeting motion. Whether it was part of a shoulder, or a back, or a head, he couldn't tell. It was just there one instant and the next not. The bowstring sang and the second arrow sped away. No cry of pain followed. There was only the silence and the stillness. Walker readied a third arrow. The Indian moved forward, the bow drawn and the arrow seeking a target. Matthew lifted his pistol and cocked the striker; it made a jarringly loud
click
. He followed Walker, staying just off his right shoulder.

With two more paces, the world blew up.

Sparks flew from low down on the ground, about ten feet in front of Walker. In the blinding flash of the powder igniting, Matthew saw Walker fire his third arrow into the light, and then the sound of the gunshot cracked his ears. As Walker staggered back, Matthew pulled his pistol's trigger and fired into the billowing smoke, his eyes dazzled by first Slaughter's shot and then his own. Another voluminous gout of smoke whirled up, rank with the potent smell of gunpowder, and he felt Walker collide with his shoulder and nearly knock him sprawling.

Matthew went down on his knees. Walker had fallen to the ground somewhere behind him. And now, as Matthew's head reeled and his eyes seemed to pulse with white-hot cores of flame, he realized he had to get his gun loaded again, for there was no way to know if Slaughter had been hit or not. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears he heard Lark shouting from the camp: "Matthew!
Matthew
!"

He got the shooter's bag off his shoulder and shut his eyes, for they were useless. His fingers would have to see for him. They found the powderhorn, a lead ball and a cloth patch.

"Matthew!" Lark screamed.

He poured the powder, pulled the ramrod from its socket and rammed down the patch and ball. Opened the flashpan. Shook powder into the pan. Closed it. What was he forgetting? Something vital. The ramrod. Still in the barrel. If he lost it, the pistol would be reduced to a club. He removed the ramrod from the barrel and—

A shot fired from his right. The ball hissed past his ear. Slaughter might be wounded, but he was still able enough to quick-load a pistol in the dark.

Matthew opened his blind eyes, which saw nothing but flowing curtains of light, and fired at the sound of Slaughter's shot. He heard the ball smack into a treetrunk; he thought, crazily, that Greathouse would have kicked his tail for firing too hastily and too high. Then Matthew's next thought was that even though Slaughter was also shooting blind he had to move, lest Slaughter pinpoint his own position from the sound. Grabbing the shooter's bag and holding the pistol like God's own gift, he got on his belly and crawled to the right over dead leaves, roots and luminous mushrooms.

He got his back against a tree and, eyes closed, started the loading process again. Halfway done, he was shaken by the
crack
of another shot from somewhere in front of him, but where the ball went he didn't know. All he cared was that he wasn't hit. Flashpan primed? Ramrod out? Yes. He aimed into the night, pulled the trigger, and the little bastard bullpup gun failed to fire.

He thumbed the striker back, his hand trembling. Could be any damned thing gone wrong. Flint misaligned. Touch-hole blocked. Maybe not enough powder in the pan. He opened the pan, feeling his way, and shook more powder into it from the horn.

"Matthew! Matthew, answer me!" Lark was pleading, near panic. Beyond her voice, he could hear the sound of Faith wailing like a child about to be whipped.

He opened his eyes. Through the mist and dazzle he saw a shower of red sparks fly up from the underbrush maybe twenty feet away. He heard the report an instant before the ball knocked splinters from the treetrunk a foot above his head; then it was his turn, and when he pulled the trigger this time the Dovehart Special fired into Slaughter's hiding-place with a spectacular display of flaming comets and smoke that might have choked London.

In the aftermath of the shot, Matthew set to work reloading. His industry was sped by sheer terror, for Slaughter's last try had been much too close. Was Slaughter wounded? Dead? There was no telling. He got the pistol ready, cocked the striker, and waited for Slaughter's next move, if the man could move at all.

He heard a crashing through the woods. In what direction, it was hard to tell. The smoke was still thick and his eyesight still feeble. Was Slaughter repositioning himself for another attack? Getting around behind him? He almost called out to the man, but for what purpose? To tell him to give himself up? He thought that Slaughter might be arrow-pierced and pistol-shot, but as long as the monster had breath, teeth and claws he was not going to surrender. He waited, his heart pounding, the gun aimed into the night, and he would not let himself think about what had happened to Walker. "Matthew!" Lark called again, but he was too afraid to answer.

A period of time went by—two minutes? three?—during which Matthew thought he might either vomit or pass out. He did neither, but he was hard-pressed to want to move a muscle from where he sat, with the protection of the treetrunk at his back. "Stand up," someone said at last, from the dark. It was Walker's voice, calm and steady. Matthew didn't move; he thought he must have been made delirious by the gunpowder fumes, or his ears weren't quite back to normal. "Up," Walker's voice repeated. "He's gone." Matthew was too dazed to respond to the specter; he could see nothing, though thankfully the bright whorls of gunfire had faded away. A hand grasped his left arm. It was solid enough. "Stand
up
. He's gone. Toward the camp." The last three words knocked sense into him. He shouldered his shooter's bag and tried to stand, but everything seemed to be gone from the knees down. "I thought you were shot," Matthew said.

"
Listen
," Walker insisted. "Do you hear the women anymore?"

Matthew did not. This time his effort at getting to his feet was successful. "
Lark
!" he shouted. There was no answer. Then, again, and louder: "
Lark
!"

Slaughter, he thought. Slaughter had crept up to them in the dark, while he was sitting against the tree protecting his back, and cut their throats with razor or knife. "
Lark
!" he cried out, and his voice broke.

"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.

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?