Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

all other mouths were shut. Matthew thought this woman could knock a door down by hollering at it. The other Indians simply shut up, and some of the young braves even plopped themselves on the ground in a display of obedience, their heads and shoulders bent forward as if the woman's words were whipstrikes. Matthew had no earthly idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was lighting the devil's own fire in their earholes. If anyone moved during this tirade, her black eyes found them and the offender shrank back like a trembling dog.

When she was done browbeating her own people, she turned her attention to Matthew again and just stared at him as if to crumble him to dust. After a length of time in which he failed to disintegrate, the woman shouted out what was obviously a command of some kind, for here came forward a fearsome-looking brave decorated with jagged red and blue tattoos on his cheeks, chin, arms and legs. The man got right up into Matthew's face, said, 'E'glish folla,' and turned around to walk out. Matthew did exactly as he was told, having to pass by the large Indian woman who made a noise like spit sizzling in a frypan, which he presumed summed up her opinion of himself and his countrymen.

Outside, another mass of Indians waited for him, along with their animals. Shouts and what might only be termed catcalls started up, but were quickly stopped by his escort, who began to give them as much a tirade as the woman had delivered, and this one punctuated by slaps to his own chest and the pounding of his fist against his palm. Whatever was said, it was delivered with authority, for no sooner had the brave finished speaking did everyone turn away and go about their regular business as if Matthew had suddenly ceased to exist. 'Folla, folla!' the brave told him, and motioned him on. Matthew went like a ghost through the village. He caught the eyes of a few children and young women examining him, and a brown dog ran up barking furiously until the brave hollered out and a small boy scurried over to clamp his hand over the dog's muzzle, but otherwise Matthew's progress was undisturbed.

It was a huge place, containing one longhouse after another. Matthew counted thirty-four of them, of varying sizes. He figured the largest few might each house a hundred Indians. Women were busy caring for infants and young children, and there were shed-like structures where men were working at such tasks as building birch-bark canoes, chopping wood, and sharpening knives and spearheads. In fact, the industry he saw around him-the weaving of baskets and blankets, the molding of clay pots and the scraping of animal skins stretched taut in wooden frames-and the sheer number of villagers made Matthew think this must be the tribe's New York. Toward the rear of the village, the back wall was open to reveal a large lake that might have been part of the Raritan river system, and alongside it a cornfield, an orchard on the hillside and other rows of vegetable fields. Truly, it was a world unto itself. 'My friend,' Matthew said to his escort, who walked briskly ahead. 'The man who was hurt. Where is he?'

No answer was offered, therefore Matthew had to be satisfied with silence. At length they came to a smaller bark-covered dwelling set off by itself near what Matthew thought must be the village's eastern wall, and here the brave planted his palm in the air in a motion that Matthew took to mean stand still. A little knot of children who'd been following at a distance crept forward a few more yards and then also stood still, watching intently. The brave shouted something in his language toward the dwelling's doorway, which was covered with a deerskin. Smoke was rising from the hole on the roof, indicating that someone was home, but no one emerged. The brave picked up a long stick from the ground, edged forward close enough to pull the deerskin aside with the stick, and then repeated his shout, which sounded not unlike a rough command.

Abruptly a brown hand shot out, grasped the stick and wrenched it away from the brave, causing the man and the group of children to turn around and flee as if they'd seen the hand of the Devil emerge from that dark interior. Matthew's first desire was also to run, but he stood by himself, waiting, as he'd already met Satan this day and a lesser devil was no match for Slaughter.

An Indian came out from behind the deerskin, and stared at Matthew with eyes like pieces of black flint. He was about as tall as Matthew, and maybe only three or four years older, though age was hard to determine among native people. He was bald but for a scalplock, in their fashion, yet he wore neither feathers nor that cap-like head covering Matthew had seen some of the others wearing. He bore no tattoos on his face, but his neck and bare chest under an open buckskin waistcoat were well-marked with blue scratches and scribblings that looked more like self- inflicted torture than any kind of symbolism. On his arms at wrists and just above the elbows were blue tattooed rings. He was slimly-built, even on the gaunt side, for every rib showed and there was a troubled darkness around his eyes. He wore the customary loincloth, leggings and moccasins, and around his neck hung a small carved wooden totem of some kind on a leather cord. It appeared to Matthew to be the representation of a man with two heads.

The Indian cast his gaze in the direction the others had gone. His profile was hawklike, his face high- cheekboned and his expression sullen. Then he regarded Matthew once more, and he said in a clear voice, 'English.'

'Yes!' Matthew was relieved to hear the word spoken almost as if by a native of New York.

'Are you what all the noise is about?'

'I am. My friend's been hurt. Can you help me find him?'

'Is he here?'

'Yes, but where I don't know.'

'Hm,' the man said. His black eyebrows lifted. 'Hurt how?'

'Stabbed. In the back.'

'Your hands.' The Indian motioned with his stick. 'They don't look too good.'

'It's my friend I'm worried about,' Matthew replied.

'Then, he must be a true friend, because I would imagine you are in some pain. What happened?'

'Never mind that. I just want to know where he is. His name's Hudson Greathouse.'

'All right.' The Indian nodded. 'If he's here, he'll be with the medicine sisters.'

'Take me there.'

'No,' came the reply, 'I will not. The medicine sisters don't like to be bothered when they're working,' he explained to his visitor's look of dismay. 'It's best to leave them alone. Do you have a name?'

'Matthew Corbett.'

'Do you wish to come into my house and have some tea, Matthew Corbett?'

'Tea?'

'A nasty habit I picked up in London,' said the Indian. He tossed the stick back to the ground and pulled the deerskin aside. 'Come in. It's poor manners to refuse a formal invitation.' He waited as Matthew tried to decide what kind of bizarre dream he was having, and how soon he might awaken from it. Matthew was beginning to be aware of all the pain that was flooding in upon him, from rope-burned hands and stone-slashed feet. His bruised left shoulder felt like a dead weight. Among these sensations was an overwhelming weariness, coupled with a forlorn grief. If not for him, Greathouse would not be dying, or already dead. If not for him, Slaughter would not have been set loose, and this might have been the worst of it. But he had to lay that aside now and put his attention on the moment, for that was how he had to survive what was ahead.

'Thank you,' Matthew said, and he walked into the Indian's shelter.

Inside, the small bits of wood in the central firepit burned low. Arranged around the dwelling were items of everyday life: a sleeping pallet, a wooden rack holding blankets, animal skins and some items of clothing, a few wooden bowls and clay drinking cups, a bark water pail and other necessities. Matthew took note of several spears, two bows and a quiver of arrows leaning against a wall. The man would have to be a hunter, certainly, or he could not survive. But why was he living alone here, with no evidence of a wife and children?

Matthew's question was answered, in a way, when the Indian sat down cross-legged before the fire, poured some black liquid from a wooden pot into two small clay cups, and asked in a quiet voice, 'You're not afraid of insanity, are you?'

'Pardon?'

'Insanity,' said the Indian. 'I am insane.'

'No,' Matthew answered, if a bit warily. 'I'm not afraid.'

'Ah, that's good, then.' One of the cups was offered, and Matthew accepted it. 'Everyone else here is afraid. That's why I'm an ' He paused, his high forehead creasing as he searched for a word. 'Outcast,' he went on. 'Or nearly so. It won't be very long before I am, because I'm getting worse. Go ahead, drink. As they say in your land, cheer up.' He lifted the cup in semblance of a toast, then put it to his lips and downed the liquid.