Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

Matthew also drank, but before he got more than a swallow down his throat he thought his knees might give way, for though it was certainly English tea it was the strongest, most bitter brew he'd ever dared to imbibe. He thought there must be some fishheads and bear balls in this drink. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes shot forth tears, and he held the offending cup almost at arm's-length.

'No sugar, I'm sorry,' said the Indian. 'Isn't it suitable?'

Matthew coughed again, explosively. Still, for all the bitter taste, he felt a little charge course through his veins, as if one ingredient of this particular tea might be gunpowder. He said hoarsely, 'It's all right.'

'I trade for it at the post in Belvedere.' The Indian poured another cup and drank from it. 'Is it what you recall from your land?'

'I was born here,' Matthew said, when he could trust his tongue again.

'Ah. So I was. We might as well be brothers, shouldn't we?'

Matthew didn't know how to respond to that, so he took another small sip of the furniture polish. 'What's your name?' he asked.

The Indian spoke something that sounded like a ghostly wind blowing through a winter forest. 'In your language,' he said, 'that would be Walker In Two Worlds.'

'You speak English very well.'

'Thank you. It's not an easy tongue to learn. I still have difficulties. But I'm the best speaker here, and that is why I'm allowed to stay.' He smiled tightly, which on his drawn and haunted face resembled a grimace. 'I became insane in London. You see?'

Matthew didn't, but he chose not to press the point. He bent down and put the cup beside the fire. Not too close, though, for fear of explosion. 'I need to find my friend.'

'You need something on those hands. You won't be able to use them tomorrow.'

'My friend,' Matthew repeated. 'If he dies ' He let go of the sentence.

But the stern black eyes of Walker In Two Worlds were fixed upon him, and would not let him go free so easily. 'If he dies, what?'

'If he dies,' Matthew answered, 'I'm to blame.'

'Are you? How?'

'We were taking a prisoner from Westerwicke to New York. A very dangerous man, named Slaughter. Because of me something I did or didn't do Slaughter hurt my friend and got away.' Matthew ran a hand through his hair, barely feeling the twinge of raw flesh. 'He's a killer. There's no telling what he'll do out there.'

Walker In Two Worlds nodded, his face now devoid of expression. 'Tell me, then. Who do you grieve for most? Yourself, for your mistake; your friend, for his injury; or the others?'

'The others? What others?'

'The innocent others,' Walker said, 'you fear this man Slaughter is going to kill.'

And there it was. The central truth, the essence of Matthew's anguish, perceived by a man who in New York might be called a savage. For Matthew had realized, on the way from Fort Laurens to the village, that Greathouse's death would be only the first of many at the hands of Slaughter. He cursed his stupidity and greed; he cursed his smallness, and his vanity. He cursed the black leather bag, with its red wax seal of an octopus, and he cursed the gold that had shone so brightly in his eyes that day at the Chapel estate. He felt as if he'd stepped into a trap that had been set out for him just as surely as if Professor Fell had planned it so. Such traps, he thought, were easy enough to step into, but hell was paid to get out.

He realized, also, that he was going to have to settle his own debt with Satan, if he was ever to get out of this.

He found himself staring at Walker's hunting tools: the sharp-tipped spears, the bows and the quiver of arrows.

'Are you a good hunter?' Matthew asked.

'I keep myself fed, and I what is the word contribute my part.'

Matthew nodded. Then he swung his gaze back to meet Walker's. 'Have you ever hunted a man?'

'A man,' Walker repeated, tonelessly.

'Have you? Or, to the point could you?'

Walker looked into the small flickering fire. 'It is not could that matters, but would. I could, but I would not. And you could not, for before the sun rises again your pain will make you forget that idea.'

'My hands are all right.'

'I was talking about your legs. I saw that you limped as you came in.'

'My feet are cut a little bit, but that's no matter.'

Again the tight smile that was a grimace distorted the Indian's face. 'Oh, you Englishmen! Forever fighting everything around you, even your own spirits and vessels. You don't know when to cut the rope before it strangles you, or how to avoid the quicksand pool that lies in plain sight. You seek to bend everything to your way, even if it destroys you. To win, even if winning leads to your death. Haven't you had enough death for one day, Matthew Corbett?'

'I'm not dead. And I don't plan on dying anytime soon.'

'Neither do I. But I suspect the man you wish to hunt would not wish to be captured, and has grown a killer's eye in the back of his head. Besides that, you don't even know what direction he's gone.'

'That's why I need you,' Matthew said. 'Someone who can follow tracks.'

Walker put a hand to his face and shook his head, as if this were such a ridiculous idea he didn't want to shame Matthew by revealing his expression of either mirth or derision.

Matthew felt his own resolve start to flag, yet he had to make another effort. 'I have to get him back. Do you understand that? God knows what he'll do out there, and whatever blood he spills will be on my soul. Are you listening?'

'Listening,' Walker said behind his hand, 'but not hearing very well.'

'Then hear this. I have money. Not with me, but I can get it for you. Gold coins. Eighty pounds worth. If you help me find Slaughter and bring him back, you can have it all.'

Walker said nothing for awhile. Then he grunted and lowered his hand. He looked up at Matthew with narrowed eyes, as one might regard the most foolish of fools. 'Eighty pounds,' he said. 'That would be quite a lot of money, would it not? It would make me the richest insane man in this village. What should I spend it on, then? Let me think. I'll buy the moon, and bring her down to earth so she might sing me to sleep at night. No, no; I should buy the sun, so that I should always have a warm-hearted brother to light my way. Or I might buy the wind, or the water, or the earth underfoot. I might buy a whole new self, and wear English clothes as I parade up and down the streets of your great town. No, I have it! I shall buy time itself, the river of days and nights, and I shall command it to carry me backwards in my canoe until I reach the moment I was taken from my people across the dark divide to your land and became insane. Ah! Now we have an agreement, Matthew Corbett, if you might promise me that eighty pounds of gold will return me to sanity, and how I used to think, and what I used to know was true. Because that is all I desire in this world, and without sanity there is one walk I can never make, and that is upon the Sky Road when I die. So did you bring the paper and quill to sign this agreement, or shall it be written on the smoke?' He held a palm toward the firepit, and the smoke there swirled between his fingers as it rose upward toward the roof hole.

Matthew had no reply, and at length Walker again turned his attention to the small tongues of flame, as if they might speak to him the reassurance for which he yearned to hear. But Matthew was not done yet. Walker's mention of 'time' had reminded him that he had one more card to play.

He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and brought out the leather holder that secured his silver watch. As he opened it, bits of glass fell out. He saw that the watch had been broken, probably in his fall to the ground, and if not damaged at that point then surely by immersion in the well water. The time had stopped at ten-oh- seven.

'This is broken,' Matthew said, as Walker looked on, 'but the silver should be worth something. I can give it to you now, and the gold later, if you'll help me.'

Walker held his palm out. Matthew put the watch in it. Walker drew it to himself, and stared silently at the