Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

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?

But why, Matthew wondered as he'd already wondered several times this morning, hadn't Lark cried out? Or tried to fight him? Well, of course she knew what he was capable of, and what was she going to fight him with? In hindsight, they should have left her the knife, or at least wakened her and told her to take Faith and move out of the clearing, or hidden them somewhere, or

But they'd never expected Slaughter to get past them. To slip into the camp in the dark, and-wounded or not-make quick work of forcing Lark and her mother into the woods. Going to the southwest, Walker had said after he'd found the trail. Don't need an Indian to follow this one, he'd told Matthew. The stuck pig is still bleeding.

Matthew left the blood-smeared pine and continued walking along the path Slaughter had taken to the clearing. There were some thorns and thicket, but his boots had stomped through them. Matthew imagined what might have happened last night, when Lark had heard someone coming, had called his name-when he'd been too afraid to reply, for fear of Slaughter getting off a shot at the sound of his voice-and been answered by a quiet whisper up close to her ear, and maybe the hot barrel of the pistol up under her throat. Now tell your dear mother we are going to a safe place, or tell her we're going to play hide-a-seek, or any damned fucking thing, but know I will kill her first if you scream. I don't want to hear any noise from either of you. Just take her hand, and walk ahead of me. That way. Go.

Matthew wondered if Slaughter had told Lark that there was no hope for the two women if she resisted, but that he might let them go once they got a distance away. Would Lark have believed that, after what had happened at her house? Or might she have seized upon it, as a way to survive? Maybe she thought she could talk him out of killing them. Maybe perhaps possibly who could know?

I myself have been a soldier, Slaughter had said. It seemed to Matthew that he'd certainly been well-trained in combat, in addition to his natural aptitude for killing. Slaughter elevated murder to the realm of art. He could plan an escape days-weeks?-in advance, plot his moves like a chess master, travel overland like an Indian, confidently stalk the dark like a cat, and shake off the pain of a nasty wound to fix his mind upon his purpose. He was skilled with pistols, knives and razors. He was utterly ruthless and ice-cold, and he possessed, as Walker had said, 'a killer's eye in the back of his head'.

A soldier? Maybe so. But it sounded more to Matthew as if Slaughter had been trained to be an assassin. For that job he seemed to be exceptionally capable.

His job? Oh, that: Between jobs, but going back into the business of settling accounts.

What did that mean?

Whatever it was, Matthew knew it wasn't good, and likely meant someone was going to pay with his or her life.

Matthew had his own account to settle. When he emerged from the woods, he saw that Walker was still sitting against a tree on the far side of the clearing, next to the ashes of last night's fire that had soothed Faith to sleep. Matthew felt the same hammerblow to the gut he'd taken at first light, upon seeing the bloody hole in the Indian's side.

Walker's eyes were closed, his face uplifted toward the warmth of the early sun. But even in the short time that Matthew had left him, to visit the battleground and find Walker's bow, the Indian seemed more frail, the facial bones more defined. His flesh was as gray as a gravestone. The bandage that Matthew had made from his cravat- the same cravat that had been utilized for the mercy killing of Tom's dog-was tied around the lower part of Walker's chest. It was dark with blood on the left side.

Walker opened his eyes and watched as Matthew approached. 'Do I look that terrible?' he asked, reading Matthew's expression. And he answered his own question: 'Death has been called many things, but never handsome.'

'I'm going to get you out of here.'

Walker smiled thinly. His eyes held the glint of inescapable pain. 'No, you are not. If you wish to become an Indian, the first thing you have to do ' He had to stop speaking, as he silently battled his internal agony. 'Have to do,' he repeated. 'Is accept reality.'

Matthew could find no reply. He'd already seen, in his inspection of the wound, that the ball had splintered at least one rib and driven deep into the organs. Where it had come to rest in all that carnage could not be determined. It was miraculous, he thought, that Walker was even able to talk, much less move. Walker had taken a handful of moss, pine bark, and broken-up green pine needles and pushed it into the hole, and then he'd said, Bind it up.

'Is there nothing you can do?' Matthew asked.

'No.' It was firm and final, spoken without regret: the Indian way. 'You'd better eat something, then we'll go.'

Matthew ate a piece of the dried meat and drank some water from the flask that Lark had left behind. Everything tasted like the smell of gunsmoke, which permeated his hair, skin and clothes.

'The women are going to slow him down,' Walker said as he again lifted his face into the sunlight. 'So is his wound. They're leaving a trail any Englishman could follow.' He winced, and waited for the pain to pass. 'You know why he took them.'

Matthew did. 'He needed something to trade.'

'For you,' Walker said.

Matthew agreed: 'For me.'

'You know him well. I think he must know you well, too.' Walker shifted his position a few inches and pressed his hand against the bandage. 'He's not sure if he hit you last night. He knows if you're not too wounded to move you'll be coming after him. So: your life for the women. He's just seeking the right place.'

'Where might it be?'

'Somewhere that limits your choices,' said Walker. 'He'll know it when he finds it. Until then, we follow.'

Matthew offered him water, but Walker shook his head; he had also previously refused the food. 'Listen,' Matthew said, as he corked the flask. 'I want you to know I thank you for doing this for me. For coming all this way, and ' He let the rest of it go. 'You didn't have to.'

'I've already told you. I wanted the watch.'

'Is that all of it?'

Walker paused; maybe he'd been about to say yes, Matthew thought. But now, with the hole in his side and his life leaking away, Walker decided to speak honestly. 'Not all,' he said. 'When I first agreed yes, it was just the watch. The what would be the word? The novelty of it. And the idea that life is a circle. Things come back to you, when you least expect it.' He was quiet, gathering his strength again. 'Then,' he continued, 'when I saw what Slaughter did at the reverend's house I knew what you were. What you are.'

'What is that?'

'My chance,' said Walker, looking into Matthew's eyes, 'to walk the Sky Road.'

Matthew said nothing.

'Though I am insane and taunted by demons confused in my mind,' he went on, 'I may be accepted home by the Great Spirits if I can help you catch this mad wolf. This creature who cannot be endured, among civilized men. The Great Spirits don't see red skin, or white. They see only the war between good and evil, which makes the world what it is. And they charge us to be their weapons. Their strength. They charge us to be