Mister Slaughter (27 page)

"
Listen
," Greathouse whispered. When Matthew looked at him again, he saw that Greathouse wore the crooked hint of a smile. "Something . . . amusing. The work I was doing. For Lillehorne. Hired me to find out . . . if his wife, the Princess . . . is having . . . " Once more he hesitated, and winced at a passing thrust of pain. "Sexual relations . . . with the new doctor in town."

"Dr. Mallory?"

"Yes. Him."

Matthew knew that Jason Mallory and his wife Rebecca had come to New York from Boston about a month ago, and set up residence at the north end of Nassau Street. Mallory was in his late thirties and as handsome as his black-haired wife was beautiful. He doubted that the good doctor would wish to dally with the needle-nosed, frankly unattractive Maude Lillehorne when his own lady was so comely.

"Told me . . . Princess sees him . . . three times a week," Greathouse went on. "Says . . . she comes home . . . in a
sweat
. Red-faced, and . . . trembly. Can you imagine it?"

"No, I can't."

"Won't tell Lillehorne . . .
why
she goes. Just that . . . that she
needs
him." A savage little grin moved across Greathouse's mouth, which Matthew took to be a good sign. "And listen . . . the thing is . . . " He couldn't speak for awhile, until he'd recovered some strength and breath. "There are . . . four other . . . wives. Seeing Mallory. For unknown reasons. He must be . . . hell of a ram." Greathouse shook his head, as much as he was able. "Me . . . I'd like to ram
his
wife."

Greathouse then lapsed into silence, and the grin slowly faded. His eyes closed and Matthew thought he'd drifted to sleep, but then he said in a barely audible voice, "God, I'm tired."

"You're going to be all right," Matthew told him. "It'll take time, but at least . . . you'll have another interesting story to tell." And then he leaned closer to Greathouse's ear, and he said, "I'm to blame for this."

Greathouse said, "
What
?" His eyes were still shut, his mouth slack.

"I've caused all this. I wanted to tell you, but . . . I was afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?" The voice was almost gone.

"Of what you'd think of me." Matthew's heart was beating harder; even with Greathouse in this condition, it was difficult to get the words out. "I've deceived you. When I went to the Chapel estate that day I found the tunnel . . . I also . . . found some money."

"
Money
," Greathouse whispered.

"Eighty pounds worth of gold coins, hidden in a lockbox made to pass as a book. The money is in my house, right now. It's enough . . . more than enough . . . to buy Zed's freedom. I didn't tell you, because . . . " The moment of truth had at long last arrived, and its fruit tasted bitter indeed. "Because I wanted all of it," he went on, his face as agonized as Greathouse's now was peaceful. "I found it, and I thought it should be mine. Every last penny of it. When we turned off the pike, I should have told you. I
wanted
to, but . . . I thought, maybe we could get Slaughter's money. I thought we could trick him as you said, and everything would be all right.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, "that you have to pay for my mistake. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. But listen to me, Hudson. I'm going after Slaughter, and I'm going to bring him back. Before God, I can't live knowing what I've let loose. Can you hear me, Hudson?" He clasped his friend's shoulder more tightly. "Can you hear?"

"I hear," said another voice.

Matthew turned around.

Behind him and just to one side stood Walker In Two Worlds.

They stared at each other for a moment, as the fire crackled and blue flames curled.

Walker held up his right hand, in which was gripped the silver watch.

"I like this." His eyes were full of shadow. "I'm sure it was very expensive, in your land." He stepped forward and put the fingers of his left hand under Greathouse's nostrils. "Still alive. I think he
must
be a very strong man."

"Do they think he'll live?" Matthew motioned with a lift of his chin toward the two women, who stood watching from the far wall.

Walker spoke to them, and one answered. "She says it's too early to tell, but it's a good sign that his soul has decided to stay in his body, at least for now." He looked down upon Greathouse's placid face. "Sleeping well, it seems to me. They gave him some strong medicine. He shouldn't wake again before tomorrow."

"Can they give
me
something?" Matthew asked. "For my hands and feet. Maybe also to keep me going."

"They do medicine, not . . . " Walker probed his memory for the right word. "Miracles," he said. "You need food and sleep." He spoke once more to the women, and was answered again by the same one. "She says they can put a poultice on your hands and feet and bind them up, yes, but it won't take away all the pain."

"Just so I can walk."

"You won't be doing any walking
today
. Better to let them work on you, and rest until morning." He nodded toward Greathouse. "Is this man your brother?"

"In a manner of speaking," Matthew replied, "I'd say he is."

"But you betrayed him? And now you seek to make things right?"

Matthew didn't know how much of his confession Walker had heard, but obviously the Indian had caught some of it. "Yes."

"And the man called Slaughter? If I refuse to track him for you, will you still go?"

"I will. He's going to have a long headstart, but he has no shoes. The first thing he's going to do is try to get a pair of boots." Matthew had already given this some thought. Would Slaughter try to get the wagon backed up on the road above Fort Laurens? It would be a hard job for one man. He might try to unharness the horses, but those old nags weren't going to hold a rider. Matthew recalled, with chilling clarity, Slaughter's comment to Reverend Burton:
Looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you
?

Matthew thought that was going to be Slaughter's first destination, but where he would go after that was anyone's guess. Matthew could only hope that Slaughter took just the boots, and left Burton and Tom in one piece.

"You may never find him," Walker said. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know I'll never find him if I don't try."

Walker stared into Matthew's eyes for a time, until Matthew uncomfortably felt as if the Indian was gauging the territory of his very soul. "True enough," said Walker. He spoke to the medicine sisters, who acknowledged him by going about business that involved pouring some of the contents—different kinds of tree bark and berries, it appeared to Matthew—from a few of the jars out into a bowl and then grinding the mixture with a pestle made from an animal's bone. "Do you like fish?" Walker asked, and when Matthew nodded he said, "Come on then, there's always some on the coals at . . . " He paused as he put together the correct translation. "Happy River Turtle's house."

As they progressed through the village, Matthew noted that most gave Walker a wide berth, and some averted their faces or clasped their hands over nose or mouth as if to avoid a bad smell. Women picked up children at their approach, and hurried away. A few braves motioned angrily at them, their attention directed specifically to Walker, but Walker paid no heed to his critics and actually laughed harshly in the face of one who came up close enough to spray them with spittle.

"Don't mind them," Walker explained. "This is a show they put on."

Matthew had to ask the question, though he didn't know how to phrase it. So he simply asked it as best he could: "How are you insane?"

Walker looked at the watch as they continued on, and rubbed its silver back with his palm. "I know too much," he answered.

Happy River Turtle indeed must have a fine reputation as a cook, Matthew thought, for there was a crowd around the longhouse he and Walker were approaching. There was an outside fire burning at the center of a communal eating area. It was almost a festive atmosphere, of people drinking from clay cups and hollowed-out gourds and taking from the fire roasted meat and fish on sharpened sticks. It shouldn't have surprised him, he mused, because it was time for the midday meal here just as in New York. He didn't see that any payment was being made for the culinary items, but maybe it was simply on the basis of share-and-share-alike, or that some system of bartering was happening beyond Matthew's understanding. In any case, Walker waded into the throng—which parted for him, and became more sullen until he had passed through—and then returned bearing a stick on which sizzled large chunks of charred white-fleshed fish along with pieces of tomato and peppers. Matthew reasoned they were to share the item, so there was enough to go around.

Matthew sat on the ground to eat the portion that Walker gave him, for his legs were giving out. He felt exhaustion coming upon him, slowly and steadily; it was a process he could not halt, no matter how steadfast his will. As he ate, he couldn't help but go over in his mind again and again the events of the morning. When he could tear his thoughts away from Greathouse's precarious situation and his concerns about Reverend Burton and Tom, he found himself pondering the trick safebox. How had Slaughter managed to rig such a thing? Some kind of explosive device had been concealed in it, yes, but how had the thing worked? And all the time Slaughter had been pretending to fear for his life he'd known that box was in its hole, protected from the damp by all the straw, ready to go off in Greathouse's face. Had Slaughter primed the thing over two years ago, and left it waiting like a bomb? But for what reason? His fear that Indians might dig it up? Slaughter couldn't have known he wouldn't be back to his cabin that day he was captured, so perhaps the box
was
primed to go off when and if an Indian tried to open it. But what had been inside to make it explode? Matthew wished he could get a look at it, just to satisfy his curiosity.

His hands were stiffening up. He finished his food, grateful to get something in his stomach, and then struggled to his feet again. Walker remained a few yards away, crouched on his haunches as he ate. No one had dared to come anywhere near either of them. Matthew watched Walker as the Indian stared out impassively toward the other villagers. Insane? Because he
knew
too much? Matthew noted that Walker kept firm hold of the watch, and gazed at it every so often. In admiration, or for some other reason? It was hard to tell. Equally hard to tell was whether Walker had decided to help him or not. If not, then Matthew was on his own, but he had to keep going. Tomorrow morning he would set out, no matter what. First to the reverend's house, and then . . . ?

He wasn't sure. Would Slaughter head back for the Philadelphia Pike, or toward the nearest settlement, which would be the trading post at Belvedere? It seemed to Matthew that once Slaughter got boots on his feet his next item he'd try to get was a horse that could carry him at a reasonable speed. If that happened, the chance of catching up with him became even less likely.

Matthew felt that if he closed his eyes for just a second and reopened them, all this might fade away and reveal itself to be nought but a bad dream brought on by the experience—long ago, it seemed now—at the Cock'a'tail tavern. Here stands the celebrity of New York! he thought bitterly. Look how well he's dressed, and how fine a figure he makes! He lowered his head. All that could go to Hell, he thought. The only thing that was important now—the only thing that both taunted and compelled him—was seeing Tyranthus Slaughter back in chains.

He was aware of a movement to his left.

When he looked up, the young Indian girl who was holding a wooden cup full of water instinctively stepped back, like a frightened doe. But she only retreated one pace, and then held her ground because, after all, it
was
her ground.

Her dark eyes shone as if pools of some exotic amalgam of ebony and silver. Her long black hair was a midnight stream, flowing over the warm brown stones of her shoulders. In her lovely, full-lipped face and steady gaze Matthew saw something ancient and indescribable, as if the hundreds of ancestors who had hunted and farmed this land, had raised children here, had died and returned to the earth, were there behind her eyes, studying him. She was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, but timeless. She wore the deerskins, beads and ornaments her mother had worn, and her mother's mother, and on back into the mists before London's first citizen had built a fire on the edge of the Thames. He felt flowing out from her like a spirit force the dignity of great age, but also the curiosity of a child who never aged.

She said something softly, like a church bell heard at a great distance. Then she came forward and offered him the cup, and he took it and soothed his thirst.

Step by step she backed away, calmly watching him, until at last she turned around and was gone among her people.

"Matthew Corbett," said Walker In Two Worlds, standing at his side. "Come with me now."

In his state of increasing weariness, his mind beginning to fill up with fog, Matthew followed Walker back to the house of the medicine sisters. Within, the two women were prepared for him. They washed his hands with warm water from a pot over the fire, dried them and applied a red powder to his raw palms that made him grit his teeth and almost shout from the pain, but he was determined not to make a fool of himself. Next they coated his palms with a brown, sticky liquid that smelled of pine sap, and was as cooling as the pain had been hot. Pieces of white cloth were bound around his hands, followed by strips of leather that were knotted and secured so that he in essence found himself wearing fingerless gloves.

The sisters were chattering at him, wanting him to do something he couldn't understand, and Walker had not entered the dwelling with him so he was all at sea. Then one of the women overturned a large wooden pot in a corner and plopped herself down on it, motioning Matthew to follow her example. As he sat on the makeshift chair, the medicine sisters removed his—Greathouse's—boots and treated his damaged feet in the same fashion, with powder and pine sap liquid. Then they repeated the process of the pieces of cloth and also the binding of his feet with the leather strips, knotted and secured across the top of the foot. He started to stand up but they grasped his shoulders and wouldn't allow it. A nasty-looking black elixir was poured from a long-necked clay jar into a fist-sized cup and put to his mouth. He had no choice but to drink it, and though it smelled like wet dirt it tasted surprisingly sweet, like musky fermented grapes or berries. They wouldn't let him stop until he'd finished it all, after which he was light-headed and his tongue felt coated with fur. At the bottom of the cup was a residue of what appeared to be pure black river mud.