Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

their arrows, and fly true.' He nodded, with the sun on his face. 'You have given me my chance to fly true,' he said. 'But first we have to catch the monster. We have to pull his teeth.' He coughed, spat dark blood onto the ground beside him and studied it. 'Not good,' he said, with a slight frown. 'We have much to do before I become the spirits willing a walker in three worlds. Will you help me up?'

Matthew did. When Walker was steady, he asked for his bow to be returned to its sheath and the sheath slung across his shoulder, along with the quiver of arrows. He had his knife in its fringed belt and his rawhide bag of dried meat, which was nearly gone. On his face the black paint was smeared, the spirit symbols blurred by rain, sweat, and circumstance. He had lost a few feathers, but he was ready.

Matthew put the loaded pistol and the waterflask into his shooter's bag and the bag's strap over his shoulder. He looked at his black tricorn, which lay on the ground where he'd left it last night. He decided he didn't want it anymore, since two snakes had worn it. Then he was ready too. He offered his shoulder for Walker to lean against, but the Indian didn't even grace that gesture with a glance; Walker went on, slowly at first, as if over hot coals, but then with his hand positioned firmly against the bloody bandage he set off at a decent speed following the red spots and splatters that marked Slaughter's trail.

The sun continued its ascent. Within an hour, Matthew noted that Walker's pace had slowed dramatically and the Indian was limping on his left leg. When Matthew again offered to give support, Walker shook his head. His face was ashen, and glistened with sweat.

Walker was right about the trail being easy to follow. Though the blood spots had stopped, there was clear evidence of the passage of three people. The ground cover showed a plentitude of broken twigs and crushed weeds, and at one point Matthew stopped to examine an area under some pines that indicated dead needles had been brushed aside for someone to sit down. He could envision Lark's hand, trying to make her mother comfortable even on this march of terror. They might have rested here until daybreak. In the thicket nearby he found a few ragged pieces of blue cloth, trimmed with yellow, and held them up for Walker to see.

'The mother's apron,' Walker said; his eyes were sunken and bloodshot. 'Made himself a bandage.'

They kept going. With the passage of another hour, Walker did not resist when Matthew put an arm around him to keep him upright. Every so often Walker spat blood upon the ground, and now his knees were weak and Matthew knew he couldn't go on much longer.

They were moving through an area of large white boulders shaded by yellow elms when Matthew noted Walker kept looking over his shoulder. By now the Indian was all but stumbling, and he had begun to half-mutter, half-sing a strange rhythm in his own language.

'Matthew,' Walker whispered, his eyes heavy-lidded. 'Stop here.'

Matthew instantly obeyed, and helped him sit against one of the boulders. Walker's hand came up and grasped the front of Matthew's jacket.

'Someone behind us,' he said.

'Behind us?' Matthew looked back along the trail they'd come, but saw only trees, brush and rocks. A spear of panic pierced him; was it possible Slaughter had circled around?

'Following,' Walker said thickly. Bloody foam had collected in the corners of his mouth. 'I saw him twice. Very fast.'

'Saw who?'

'Death,' came the answer. 'He is near, but he stays back.'

Matthew again fixed his gaze along the trail, and focused on detecting the slightest movement-human or otherwise-among the trees. There was nothing. He crouched beside Walker, who was breathing raggedly and holding his side as if to keep his organs from spilling out. 'I'm going to go ahead,' he said quietly. 'You stay here and-'

'Die?' Through his delirium, Walker gave him a savage, fearsome grin. 'Not yet. I'm not ready. Help me.'

'You can't go any further.'

'I'll say when I'm done. Not yet.'

Again Matthew helped him to his feet. They passed through the jumble of boulders and found, just on the other side, a narrow but obviously well-used track that came up an incline from the right and led off into the forest on the left. Whether it was another Indian trail or a pathway used by fur trappers, Matthew didn't know. Fresh boot and shoe marks in the dirt showed that Slaughter was continuing his relentless advance to reach Philadelphia, with captives or not, and had gone left in the southerly direction.

In another few minutes, during which Matthew feared Walker was surely at the end of his strength, they came out of the forest and faced a new obstacle.

Before them was a ravine, about thirty feet in width. When Matthew stood at the edge and looked down, he saw gray rocks fifty feet below, and that same stream meandering on its way to the nearest river. A rope bridge had been strung across the ravine, but it was history; though it was still tied to its supports on this side, it had been cut away on the other, and now hung useless.

Matthew cursed under his breath. It was certainly Slaughter's work. How far would they have to go to find another way? The answer was quick in coming, for when Matthew looked to the right he saw, at a distance of forty or so yards, a massive dead oak that had been felled in some turbulent windstorm, its roots wrenched up from the earth on this side and its branches entangled in the foliage on the other.

Though Walker's vision was fading, it was still strong enough for him to judge the situation. 'Careful,' he whispered. 'This is the place.'

Matthew knew it was. Slaughter had made sure of that by destroying the bridge. He opened his shooter's bag and withdrew his still-loaded pistol.

'I can't get across that,' Walker said, 'unless I grow wings.'

'Come on,' Matthew told him. 'Hold onto me.' They pushed through the underbrush and vines alongside the ravine, as rays of the sun streamed down through the trees. Birds chirped and sang overhead. Matthew was thinking furiously while watching the thicket on the far side. Crossing by way of that tree would be precarious for him; would it be impossible for Walker? Maybe another rope bridge could be found across, but how far might that be? A mile or more? If at all?

Matthew thought maybe they both could sit on the trunk and pull themselves over. They could go slowly. As slowly as it took. But if this was the place, then Slaughter had to be somewhere nearby with the women, maybe watching them right now. The longer it took to cross, the longer either one of them would be a target for Slaughter's pistol, and he knew which one of them would be the first man shot.

Walker knew also. 'Here,' he said wearily. 'Let me sit down. Here.'

Matthew eased him to a sitting position on the ground, leaning against the oak near its base where the gnarled roots had burst forth.

'My bow. My quiver,' Walker said. 'Put them next to me.'

Matthew did as he asked, and then he knelt beside the Indian. 'Can I ' He had to stop, and begin again. 'Can I do anything for you?'

'You can go on. Quickly. With great care, Matthew. With eyes always open in all directions.'

'All right,' Matthew said.

'Hear me.' Some strength had returned to the ragged husk of Walker's voice; he was a valiant brave, right to the end. 'I will die but I shall not perish. I charge you to be my arrow. And if you if you ever get back to my village tell my father I might have been insane but I was a true son.' His bloody hand came up and pressed Matthew's arm. 'Will you?'

Matthew nodded. 'I will,' he answered.

Walker gave a half-smile. His eyes slid shut. Then he abruptly opened them again, as if he'd remembered something vitally important. 'Do you want the watch back?'

'Oh, what a sad and stirring sight!' came the mocking voice, from the other side of the ravine.

Matthew felt Walker's hand fall away from him as he stood up and turned to face Tyranthus Slaughter, who had emerged from the woods. In his right hand Slaughter was holding his pistol; in the hand sinister was gripped the cord he had made from Faith's apron, which served to bind the women's wrists one to another. The bandage he had also cut from the cloth was tied around his head, and Matthew noted with satisfaction the dark splotch of blood on the left side just above the ear, which was itself crusted with gore. Slaughter kept the women in front of him as a shield. Even so, Matthew noted that Slaughter's clothing had improved: brown breeches, white stockings, a gray