Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

eyes going 'round and 'round?' He moved out from behind the women and motioned with the pistol's barrel. 'Come, come!'

'My mother and I are already dead, Matthew,' said Lark. And of Faith she asked the question, 'Do you believe in God?'

Yes, Momma. Had it been spoken, or had Matthew only imagined it?

'Do you believe that we need fear no darkness, for He lights our way?'

Yes, Momma.

'Stop that nonsense!' Slaughter said.

'Do you believe in the promise of Heaven?' Lark asked.

Did Faith answer, or not? Yes, Momma.

'So do I,' said the girl.

With one quick, strong, sure movement she tore the cord out of Slaughter's hand.

Making a leap forward, Lark threw herself and her mother over the edge.

They fell silently.

Matthew saw them hit the rocks like two dolls all dressed up in lace.

He had a shout in his throat, but it lodged there like a stone. His eyes filled with tears.

Slaughter peered over the edge. He scratched his chin with the pistol's barrel.

'Women!' he said with an air of disgust, and then he took the gun in a two-handed grip, held it at arm's length toward Matthew, and pulled the trigger.

Twenty-Five

In the brief delay between the flare of the flashpan and the ball leaving the gun, Matthew gripped hold of a broken stub where a branch had been and flattened himself against the trunk. At almost the same time, he was aware of something going past his shoulder on the left side; he heard a high-pitched zip, and his ear tingled in the disturbance of air.

The gun cracked. Matthew heard the ball tear through foliage on the other side of the ravine. He looked up to see the shaft of an arrow still vibrating in the meat of Slaughter's upper right shoulder. Slaughter too was regarding it with an expression of curiosity, the pistol's smoking barrel uptilted where the arrow's force had altered his aim.

Then Matthew looked over his shoulder to see that Walker had slowly and painfully, inch by inch, angled his body to get a shot. The bow fell from the Indian's hand. He remained sitting upright, supported by the mass of roots behind him. His eyes were open, unblinking, and now truly focused on something beyond Matthew's world.

Slaughter crashed away through the woods. Matthew was torn for an instant about what to do; he scrambled back across the tree to Walker's side, and there he found that the last breath had been drawn, the last bit of strength spent, the last measure of will used up.

My finest scene was a death sprawl, Walker had said, in which I lay motionless at center stage for three minutes with my eyes open.

But the damnable part of it was that Matthew had thought Walker was already dead. Jonathan Redskin the Savage Adam the Lucifer of the New World

They had all left the stage.

Matthew took Walker's knife. Something came over him that was a resolve greater than courage; he knew he was likely to die today, and possibly in the next few minutes, but it didn't matter. He was ready for that. His mind shut off to anything and everything but chasing Slaughter down, and he stood up, half-ran and half-jumped along the tree without looking at the bodies below, and then he was in the woods sprinting at full speed along the path Slaughter had just trampled.

Beyond the ravine, the land sloped sharply downward. Matthew tore through low-hanging pine branches and flinched as vines whipped his face. His eyes darted back and forth. He jumped a mass of tangled roots, landed off- balance and felt a twinge of pain along his right ankle, but it didn't slow him a stride. He kept going, and then through the next group of trees he saw Slaughter running on the decline below him, bursting his way through the foliage like any wounded wild beast might.

Slaughter ran without a backwards glance. Matthew saw him fumbling with the haversack as he fled. Trying to load the pistol while moving? He didn't think even a killer of Slaughter's experience could do that; more likely he was getting everything he needed to hand, and looking for a secure place to stop, pour the powder and ram the ball.

Matthew had to get to him first.

Pine needles slid under his feet. One slip here and he would be on his face. Ahead of him, Slaughter's foot caught on something and he staggered, nearly falling before he crashed off a birch tree and righted himself. Still they ran downhill, Matthew steadily closing the distance, and then Matthew heard above his own harsh breathing the noise of water rushing over stones.

Ahead, down at the bottom of this hill where the trees stood thick and colored vivid scarlet, Matthew saw a fast-moving stream. It ran to the left, between rocky banks, and turned the wheel of a watermill, a vine-covered wooden structure with a brown peaked roof. Through the trees Matthew caught the quick glimpse of a village maybe a quarter-mile distant and further below: small houses, white church, smoking chimneys. One of the villages on the outskirts of Philadelphia.

Slaughter made for the watermill. This time he dared a glance to judge Matthew's progress, and with a bound he was up the mill's three stone steps. He whirled around, facing his pursuer. Matthew saw the powderhorn come out of the bag. Saw Slaughter's arm moving in a blur to seat the patch and ball. Saw the gleam of the ramrod as it slid from the socket.

Matthew felt vines grab at his ankles. He tore free, and was racing toward the steps when he saw the ramrod go down into the barrel.

Ramrod out. Powder in the flashpan. Flashpan snapped shut.

I'm not going to get there, he thought.

Gun swiveling toward him. Thumb on striker.

Striker going back.

Firing position.

The gun was in Matthew's face, and he saw the striker fall as he was jumping forward up the steps, pushing with every ounce of strength in his legs, the knife in his hand already streaking out.

He heard the click of the flint and the hiss of the sparks. Smoke enveloped him, but before the gun fired and the ball came out the pistol was deflected, because Matthew had chopped an arm into Slaughter's wrist and stabbed at his ribs. But just that fast Slaughter had already sideslipped; he caught Matthew's arm to prevent the knife from biting, and their backward momentum took them crashing through the door.

They tumbled together amid the mill's inner workings. The rotation of the pit wheel, the wallower and the great spur wheel made a noise like muffled thunder. Matthew and Slaughter fell across a planked floor thick with yellow dust and the decay of thousands of dead leaves blown in through the glassless windows. Matthew had not let go of the knife, and as he rolled away from Slaughter he took it with him. Slaughter got up fast, his face pallid with dust and his eyes full of murder. Matthew saw him swell up and become monstrous, huge of shoulders and chest. The arrow's shaft had snapped off at the midpoint in their collision, but the way the man moved he seemed to be suffering no sensation of pain.

Slaughter flung the pistol end-over-end at Matthew, who dodged aside in time to save his teeth. Slaughter then reached into his haversack. He brought out a wicked-looking knife with a horn handle. Matthew thought it was likely the blade he'd used to sever the rope bridge. A dark brown stain below its handle testified to other work as well.

Without hesitation Slaughter rushed Matthew, whipping the knife back and forth. Matthew retreated, striking here and there with the blade but finding only empty air where a body had been. Even wounded, the man possessed a fearsome speed and agility.

'Just lie down, lie down,' Slaughter breathed, as he circled. 'Lie down, let me kill you, just lie down.'

Matthew had no intention of lying down. But he was still backing away, his own knife ready to stab into