Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

neck-now sickly green-stained and more ill than frill-had entered from a door at the back, holding what appeared to be a pair of candlesticks made from deer's legs, hooves and all. Her hair was coal black, her eyes were coal black, and so were her front teeth when she grinned. 'Walker!' She put the bizarre candlesticks down and glided forward to offer her hand, the fingernails of which were also grimed with coal black.

'Lady Dovehart,' said Walker, and as he kissed the hand Matthew saw spots of color rise on the cheeks of her sallow face.

'Watch out, now!' Dovehart cautioned, but it was spoken in good humor. 'I don't go for none of them damned manners!'

'You ought to,' the lady replied, with a coquettish and rather hideous smile at Walker. 'What is this world comin' to, when an Indian's got better manners than an English-born?'

'I'm sure the world will survive,' Walker answered graciously, turning his attention again to the trading post master. 'But you were speaking about the bearded man?'

'Yeah, he came in and asked about a horse. I told him the only fella I knew might sell him a horse was Constable Abernathy. Now!' Dovehart motioned with his wooden hand. 'Here's where it gets interestin'. Round about three, four in the mornin', somebody broke into Abernathy's barn and tried to steal a horse. Only he didn't know that mare's a right terror, and the sound she put up brought Abernathy runnin' out in his nightshirt with a pistol. Abernathy took a shot at the man, that mare bucked the bastard off, and he took out through the woods. All mornin' long Abernathy, his brother Lewis and Frog Dawson-you know Frog, that crazy bastard-have been ridin' up and down the road huntin' that fella.'

'But they didn't find him,' Walker said.

'No, didn't find him. But Abernathy said when they found him, they was gonna take his skin and trade it to me for a nice bag of hickory nuts.'

'Any blood on the road?'

'No, not that either. Shot must've missed, but it scared him plenty.'

Matthew thought that what might have scared Slaughter-if indeed he could be frightened-was being thrown for a second time from a horse. The first time had ended in his capture. He wondered if after this incident Slaughter might swear off horses and keep his boots on the ground.

'Odd, though.' Matthew watched, his face expressionless, as Dovehart actually used his wooden hand to scratch the back of his neck. 'That fella could've just walked up to the constable's door and bought the mare. He had plenty of money in his bag.'

'He bought something here?' Matthew asked.

'Oh yeah, sure did. He bought you kept the tally, Lizzie. What was it all?'

'A haversack, for one. Some salted meat, for two.'

Salted meat from this place? Matthew wondered if Slaughter might be lying dead in the woods from food poisoning, which would make his job all the easier.

'And the ammunition for his pistol,' Lizzie said. 'For three.'

'The ammunition,' Matthew repeated.

'That's right. A dozen balls.' Dovehart rubbed his nose so furiously with the wooden hand that Matthew expected to see splinters sticking out of it. 'And everythin' else a shooter needs, of course. Two flints, powderhorn and powder, cloth patches. He got himself a deal.'

Matthew glanced quickly at Walker, but the Indian was examining a gaudy brown-and-red striped waistcoat that hung from a wallpeg.

'What'd the man do?' Lizzie asked, drawing closer to Matthew. 'I mean, besides tryin' to steal the constable's horse?'

'He's a killer. Escaped from me and my associate yesterday. I suspect he didn't want to meet the constable face-to-face. Probably couldn't bring himself to pay a penny to the law, either. But I think he's gotten a little over- confident.'

'He seemed all right,' Lizzie said. 'He had a nice smile, and his voice was refined. Said he was on his way to Philadelphia, that he had to get there for some business and Indians stole his horse last night when he was camped. I thought that was kind of peculiar, but then again all kinds of people pass through here goin' north and south.'

'Did you inquire as to what kind of business he was in?' Matthew asked.

'I did. Just to converse, you see.' She used that lofty word as if she'd been waiting years to drag it out from its shuttered attic. 'He said he was between jobs, but that he was goin' back into the business of settlin' accounts.'

Matthew thought that over. It meant something, certainly. But what?

'Oh!' Lizzie snapped her black-nailed fingers. 'Almost forgot. He bought a spyglass, too.'

Walker In Two Worlds lifted his gaze from his inspection of the English waistcoat, which he'd found had a stitched-up tear in its back that had likely been made by a knife. The brown bloodstain very nearly blended into the color of the stripes.

'Special on that one,' Dovehart announced.

Matthew put a hand against the pocket of his own waistcoat and felt the jewelry there. He said, 'You have guns?'

'Surely! Got a nice musket no, wait the barrel fell off that one a few days ago, needs a bit of work. Are you handy with gunsmithin' tools, sir?'

'How about a pistol?' Matthew asked.

'Three for your approval, sir! Lizzie, show the man!'

Lady Dovehart leaned down, opened a box on the floor and brought up, one after the other, three flintlock pistols in various stages of decay. Two looked to be more dangerous for the firer than for the target, but the third-a little brown bullpup of a gun, hardly a handful-appeared to be in fairly decent shape but for the green patina on all exposed metal parts.

'Twelve shillings, an excellent choice!' said the master. 'But for you, seeing as how you're a friend of a friend, ten!'

'I have no money, but I have this.' Matthew brought out the first trinket that came to his fingers; it was the silver brooch with the four black stones.

'Hmmmm.' Dovehart picked the brooch up with his good left hand to examine it more closely. Before he got it up to his face, his wife snatched it away.

She held it near a lantern. 'Ohhhhh,' she crooned. 'It's pretty! You know, my favorite color's black. Kinda royal-like lookin', ain't it?' She elbowed her husband in the ribs. 'Sell the young sir his pistol, Jaco.'

'Including the same items you sold the man we're after?' Matthew prodded. 'Flints, powderhorn, powder, patches and a dozen balls?'

'All right. Very well. Sold.'

'Including also a pair of stockings?' Matthew had seen a few on one of the shelves. How clean they would be he had no idea, but he needed a pair anyway. 'And,' he continued, 'I'd like that, if it fits.' He pointed to another item that had caught his eye; it was a fringed buckskin jacket, hanging from a peg next to the waistcoat Walker had been ogling.

'Well, sir.' Dovehart frowned. 'Now, I'm not so sure that we can-'

'Try it,' the lady said. 'Go on, it looks about right.'

'God A'mighty!' Dovehart fumed as Matthew shrugged into the jacket, which was on the large size across the shoulders and had a burn mark along the left arm as if a torch had been passed over it. Otherwise, it was fine. 'I'm tryin' to run a business here!'

The lady was already pinning her brooch on, and she picked up a little oval handmirror that was cracked down the middle to admire her new acquisition.

'Jaco?' Walker had come up to the counter again. 'Do you have another spyglass?'

'Huh? No, that was our one and only. Lizzie, stop grinnin' at yourself! God save us from prideful wives!' That comment was directed at Walker, but Matthew saw Dovehart quickly shift his gaze as if it had been originally meant for him. Obviously, the matter of Walker not having a wife was a thorny subject, best left alone.

'One more thing,' Walker continued calmly, as if the comment had never existed. 'He'll need a carry-bag for all that.'