Mister Slaughter

Fourteen

Matthew had hold of Greathouse's cloak. He refused to let go. His feet searched for a place on the wall behind and below him where a half-inch of protruding rock might give him some support, but he found what felt only like slippery moss. In spite of that, he pulled Greathouse's face up out of the water.

"That may be so," Matthew said, answering the man's last comment, "but there's something left of me."

"Do tell," followed the response, and when Greathouse let out an explosive cough the blood flew into Matthew's face.

"Get your cloak off. It's dragging you down."

Greathouse's face again started to submerge. When the water reached the man's nostrils, Matthew grasped his hair and yanked his head back.

"Keep your chin up." Matthew realized it sounded absolutely stupid, but so be it. "Feel around behind you, try to find a place to put your feet."

"One thing at a time. Damn it. Bastard " He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. Matthew could feel the man's legs moving underwater, though, so even in Greathouse's anguish and shock he was making the effort to live. So much so that an elbow came up from the water and hit Matthew in the jaw, almost closing the book on his own efforts. When the stars had dissolved, he heard Greathouse say, "Something here. Got my. Right heel wedged in."

It was all Matthew could hope for. He went about getting the cloak off Greathouse, and then pushed it aside. They were in close quarters. The rope floated about them, like a serpent's coils. Matthew took off his own cloak, sinking into the cold embrace of the well before he was free of it. His burgundy-red coat came off next, for that too was a drag on hi m, but he retai ned the waistcoat if only for its warmth. And now he was aware of his boots weighing him down. His new damned boots, only so recently delivered. Tears of anger blinded him. It wasn't fair, to buy new boots and then have to let them drop into the murk of a backwoods well!

Steady, he told himself. What he'd thought was anger had taken a turn toward panic. He looked up, at the peaked roof above. Twenty feet to the top of the well. At least twenty. He was getting truly cold now, and starting to shiver.

Greathouse coughed again. He put a hand to his mouth and then blinked heavily as he took account of the red smear. "Got me good," he croaked. "Matthew listen "

"No time. Save your breath." He was treading water with arms and legs, having to put forth a real effort, and he feared that if Greathouse fell off the slim ledge of rock that held his right heel, the man would go down for the last time.

"Said I " Greathouse stopped, swallowed blood, and tried again. In the dim light that fell from above, his face was ghastly gray. His eyes were tortured slits. "Said I could handle him. I was wrong. Sorry."

Matthew had no idea how to respond, for he was himself close to begging Greathouse's forgiveness. All that could wait, he decided in the next few seconds. He had to get his boots off before they drowned him. He curled himself underwater, struggled with one of the blasted impediments, freed his foot, and then had to come up for a breath. Then he repeated the ordeal, and thought that by the time he'd finished it would have been wiser to leave them on.

Greathouse's face was still above water, his arms splayed out to either side, fingers grasping rock wherever they could find a purchase. His eyes were closed, his breathing precarious.

Matthew peered upward again. God, it was a long way! If he was going to do something, it had to be soon, for his strength, his very lifeforce and will to live, was staggering away from him like a sick horse.

With no warning, Greathouse suddenly fell from his precipice and the water closed over his head. At once Matthew had grasped his coat and was trying to pull him back up again, and this time was helped by the man himself, who kicked and splashed and reached and scratched for a fingerhold on the wall. At last Greathouse was still, having secured a hold on the edges of two rocks that barely jutted forward enough for the balance of a worm.

Matthew once more took stock of the well, and the distance up. The shovel, he thought. Sunk to the bottom. Depending on how deep the well, might he find it?

"I'm going under," Matthew said, and added, "On purpose. Don't let go."

Greathouse didn't answer, but he was shivering from either the effort, the cold, or both. Matthew took a breath and then exhaled it, the better to sink the faster. He pushed himself underwater, feet first, cupping his hands and stroking toward the bottom. There was no need to keep his eyes open, for everything was black. He felt about, searching left and right, also striking out with his legs. Deeper still he went. Suddenly his stockinged feet touched stones. His search became frantic, as his lungs were starting to convulse for air. He feared he couldn't surface and have enough energy left to repeat this descent.

His left elbow hit something. Twisting in that direction, his hands found the wall, and scrabbling across it his fingers discovered the shovel, which had sunk iron-tip first and was leaning there as if ready to be used by the gravedigger. Except in this case, Matthew hoped, it might offer a reprieve from the boneyard.

He seized the shovel, pushed off from the bottom and rose quickly upward.

As he broke the surface, gasped for breath and shook the water from his face, he saw that Greathouse was now only hanging on with one hand. In this state of emergency, Matthew's senses had become keen-raw, it might be said-and he knew exactly what he needed to locate. He found a suitable crevice between rocks a few inches above the waterline, and, holding the shovel at a downward angle over his head, thrust the iron tip into it. Then he brought the handle sharply down, which effectively jammed the shovel between the walls, the shovel being longer than the well's diameter. He grasped the shovel at its midpoint with both hands, to test its strength, and it held firm. Now there was something for Greathouse to grip onto, if he could be compelled to fight for survival just a little longer.

Matthew grasped Greathouse's free hand and guided it to the shovel, where he was gratified to see the man's fingers clench hold. Now if Greathouse's weight just didn't break the shaft at its midpoint or dislodge it, but it was do or die. He said, "Come on, come on," as if speaking to a child, and Greathouse allowed Matthew to guide his other hand to the makeshift land-anchor. The shovel didn't budge, nor did it snap in two. Greathouse hung from it, his face upturned toward the light.

It was a tentative victory, at best. Matthew took hold of the rope floating about them. The bucket had filled and gone under, but the wooden rod, easily as thick as a small log and about three feet in length, was still afloat. He immediately gave up any idea of untying the rope from the rod, as a dollop of tar had been used to seal the knot. He had no choice; if he was to carry the rope to the top and tie it to the beams that supported the peaked roof above, which would be the only way to bring Greathouse up, he also would have to bear the rod. If he could get out, himself.

Treading water, he looped the rope twice around his chest and under his arms. "Hudson!" he said. "Can you hold on?"

There was no answer, but Greathouse gave a low, gutteral grunt and that was enough for Matthew.

"I'm going to climb up." He had purposefully left out the words try to. Failure at this meant the end of them. "Hold on," he urged, as much for Greathouse as for his own resolve. Then he pressed his feet against both sides of the well, his toes seeking purchase among the rocks, and at the same time planted his palms rigidly outward to secure a grip by the force of friction. He pulled himself out of the water, slowly, inch by inch, and began crawling up the center like a spider dragging its own web.

He got about six feet up when his right foot slipped, his raw hands scraped across the stones, and he fell into the water again, perilously close to coming down on Greathouse and the shovel. There was nothing to be done but start anew, as quickly as he could before some more rational part of his mind told him it was impossible.

This time he didn't make it quite six feet before he slipped and fell, and his palms left blood on the stones. He treaded water for a moment, working his hands open and shut, and then he pushed upward yet again.

Slowly, slowly, the spider ascended. Palm pressing here, palm pressing there, right foot gripping a small outcrop of stone while the left foot sought a place to apply pressure, and all the time the tension of muscles could not be relaxed, for it was tension that gave the spider its balance. Upward and upward, carrying the rope that itself was pulled at by the water below, and then a few seconds to rest, but always keeping the muscles of splayed arms and legs taut. Upward once more, palms and feet pressing, moving, finding new purchase where the edge of a stone might be only a half-inch wide yet felt under his flesh like the edge of an axe.

Matthew lost his grip and fell again.

He scraped down three feet before he could right himself. This time he could not suppress a cry of anguish, and he squeezed his eyes shut until the wave of pain had crashed over him. In the echo of his own mortality he dared to look down. Greathouse was still hanging onto the shovel, about ten feet below him. He had half the distance yet to go.

As he continued upward, his arms and legs starting to tremble beyond his control, he thought very clearly of Berry Grigsby. Of when he'd fallen in Chapel's vineyard, with the hawks and the killers coming after them, how Berry-herself disheveled, terrified and bloodied-had shouted Get up! and paused in her own flight to help him to his feet, if only by nearly kicking him upright. He could use her kick, about now.

He intended to see her again. He desired it greatly. In fact, he intended to invite her to a dance at the first opportunity, if he lived through this. He'd never been much of a dancer, but damned if he wouldn't dance the floor to woodshavings. If he lived through this.

His right palm lost its grip and he scraped down another few feet before he checked the drop. What was pain, after all? A little thing to hold behind the teeth, and shed a tear or two over. Nothing more than that.

You just don t accept it yet.

He shut his mind to that voice, which threatened to weaken and destroy him. Slaughter might be physically gone, yet enough of him remained to finish the task of murder.

The spider stretched out arms and legs and continued up, not pretty, not graceful, but determined to survive.

Matthew lifted his head and saw, as if through a fog, the top of the well about two feet above. He had to be careful here, very careful, for this was where disaster lurked. He commanded himself not to reach for the top prematurely, or let his knees go slack. It was the hardest, most cruel distance he had ever travelled in his life. Then, with agonizing effort, his heart pounding and his strained muscles jumping and quivering, he was up. His fingers grasped the edge and he pulled himself over and let out a half-cry of pain, half-shout of victory as he fell to the ground.

But there was no time to rest. He staggered up, his stockings in tatters and his feet bloody, and peered into the well. "Hudson!" he shouted. "I've made it!" The man's face was downcast, though he was still clinging to the shovel. Were his mouth and nose underwater? "Hudson! Do you hear?" Matthew got the rope off himself and hauled up the wooden rod, which had been hanging several feet below him. He started feverishly coiling the rope around one of the beams that supported the peaked roof, and that was when he heard a chuckling noise at his back.

Whirling around, the breath freezing in his lungs for fear that Slaughter was about to swoop upon him and complete the day's work, Matthew saw three Indians sitting cross-legged on the ground less than ten yards away.

They were not chuckling, but talking. At least, Matthew surmised it was their language. One had leaned toward another and was speaking and nodding, and now that he saw Matthew looking at him he put his hand up over his mouth as if to guard his words. The one who'd been spoken to shrugged and shook items from a bead-decorated pouch onto the ground. They looked to be mollusk shells, from the river. The Indian with the chuckling tongue now made a noise that was definitely a laugh, and scooped up the shells to put into his own similarly-adorned pouch. The third Indian, frowning fitfully, also poured some shells on the ground, which the happy deerstalker seemed delighted to claim as his own.

It appeared, Matthew thought, that a wager had just been won.

They were all barechested, but wearing deerskin loincloths, leggings and moccasins. The Indian sitting in the center, the winner of the shell game, looked to be much older than the two on either side, who might have been near Matthew's age. The elder man was tattooed with blue wave-like designs on his face, chest and arms and wore a metal ring in his nose, whereas the others-his sons, perhaps?-were not so heavily nor intricately adorned. The two younger men were shaved bald but for a scalplock that hung down behind the head, and on the scalplocks were fixed with leather cords a burst of three or four turkey feathers dyed in different hues of red, blue and green. The elder warrior wore a feathered cap of sorts, which had a number of turkey feathers splayed out on either side with a central larger eagle feather standing up straight as if to signify order out of chaos. On the ground beside them lay their bows and arrow quivers. The Indians were lean and sinewy, not an ounce of English fat upon them. They regarded Matthew with their long-nosed, narrow faces like aristocrats of the forest wondering what the cat had just dragged in.

"Help me!" Matthew said, and motioned toward the well. "My friend's been hurt!" Of course that got no response. Matthew tried French, as he knew from experience that many Indians had learned the language-or a pidgin form of it, passed from generation to generation-from Jesuit and Sulpician missionaries. "Aidez-moi! Mon ami est blesse!"

Still there was no reaction.

"Mon ami est blesse!" Matthew repeated, with greater emphasis on the French word for injured. He added, as a measure of urgency, " Sil vous plait" But it was clear the Indians did not know that language, as they continued to sit and regard him as if Matthew were speaking to stone statues. Matthew couldn't wait; whatever they intended to do, that was their own business. He set about finishing the job of tying the rope to the beam, and then he peered over and shouted, "Hudson! I'm coming back down!" He grasped hold of the rope with his bloody palms, and just as he was about to swing over the edge a pair of hands that felt like iron covered with flesh caught his shoulders and moved him aside as if he had the weight of a griddlecake.

The three Indians looked down upon Greathouse, who had neither moved nor responded to Matthew's shout. Before Matthew could speak again, the elder man said something to the others in a more serious tone of voice-a phrase that sounded to Matthew's uneducated ear like huh huhcha pak-and without hesitation one of the young men grasped the rope and descended into the well so fast he was nearly a blur. He got down into the water beside Greathouse and smacked him on the back of the head with an open hand, and when Greathouse stirred and gave out a muffled half-groan, half-curse, the young Indian called up with what was certainly a word but was heard by Matthew as an exuberant whoop.

Another command spoken by the elder, this one a stacatto rat-a-tat not unlike the sound of a snare drum, and the young man in the well grasped Greathouse around the chest with one arm while holding onto the rope with the other and, amazingly, began to pull him up. If Matthew hadn't been witness to such physical strength, he never would have believed it. To act as safeguard, the second young man swung over on the rope, and as the overhead beam creaked and cracked he clambered down to meet the two men coming up. Greathouse was not entirely dead weight; he was feebly trying to use his hands and feet on the stones, but Matthew thought he was probably so dazed he imagined he was being flown to Heaven by an unlikely pair of angels.

They got Greathouse out of the well with an ease that made Matthew consider himself to be of a fiber so weak he could barely stand against the force of gravity, which in truth was how he felt. The elder Indian spoke again-heh ke shakka tey, it sounded to Matthew-accompanied by a gripping motion of his right hand and at once one of the sinewy braves heaved Greathouse up and put him across his right shoulder like a side of mutton. Hi, hi! the elder said, and pulled Greathouse's boots off. He emptied out the water and tossed them to the ground at Matthew's feet. Then, with a short sharp command from the elder that sounded like a spat-out tut! the young men began running in the opposite direction from which Matthew had entered the fort. The one carrying Greathouse seemed only a little burdened by the heavy weight, and in a few seconds the Indians had vanished amid the ruins.

The elder clapped his hands to get Matthew's attention, and pointed at the boots. Matthew understood; if he was going to travel, he had to have something on his feet. As he pulled the boots on and found them on the large size but thankfully useable, he noted that his tricorn was gone, and so were the safebox and pistol.

The Indian had scooped up the three bows and quivers and put them around his shoulders. No sooner had Matthew gotten the second boot on did the Indian turn and began running in the direction the others had gone. Matthew realized he was expected to follow, or not, as he pleased, but that he would have to keep up regardless of his condition. He set off running after the elder, each stride a little explosion of pain all the way up to his knees.

The Indian ran without a backward glance, going between the burned remnants of cabins that perhaps had been torched by his own father. The other two and Greathouse were already out of sight. Matthew stumbled and staggered and kept upright by sheer willpower, which even so was not a bottomless commodity. He saw the elder leave the fort through another gaping vine-edged aperture in the wall, and then the man was gone into the dripping woods. Matthew continued after him, following what appeared to be a narrow trail into an otherwise impenetrable wilderness. Massive trees stood about, their branches interlocked seventy feet above the earth. Creepers as thick as anchor ropes hung down, it seemed, from the clouds. Dead leaves spun around Matthew in a chill breeze, and a judgment of crows flew past directing at him their silent appraisal. He felt an oppression upon him like the thumb of God. It was not just that Greathouse was gravely wounded, very likely near death. It was also that Slaughter had been loosed upon the world, and Matthew's silence-yes, and greed, call it what it was-had aided the monster's escape.

How could he live with that?

He was breathing hard after only three or four minutes, his legs leaden, the blood roaring in his head. It was impossible to see any of the Indians ahead of him for the thick foliage, and they were probably by now a half-mile in front. He was still running as fast as he was able, which was really not saying much, as he was hobbled by pain. But he kept going, marking the strides by how much they hurt. He must have lost his concentration, or his legs simply gave out, for suddenly he was off-balance and staggering and the stagger turned into a stumble that ended in a sprawl, his face skidding into wet leaves on the ground.

Matthew sat up, shaking his head to clear it of a gray haze. He saw a quick movement. There stood the elder Indian on the trail twenty or thirty feet away, seemingly appeared from among the trees. Up, the man motioned with his hands. Matthew nodded and got to his feet, a task that had a degree of suffering even Job might have appreciated. As soon as Matthew was up, the Indian turned away and began running again, and was out of sight before Matthew could get started.

Alternately running, limping and staggering, Matthew came out of the forest into a wide field of shoulder-high brown grass. Ahead of him, across the field a hundred yards or so, was a wall of cut logs similar to the wall of Fort Laurens, yet this one was in sturdy condition. A little pall of blue smoke hung in the air above it. As Matthew continued on, he heard from the field around him the cries of invisible sentinels, some mimicking the barking of dogs and others the cawing of crows. In another moment he knew that he was being accompanied, for he caught glimpses of the dark shapes of Indians loping along on either side of him amid the high grass. They barked and cawed and otherwise made high-pitched noises one to another, and Matthew thought there might have been five or six braves on either side. He might have been fearful at this presentation, but as he had no choice than to go forward, since certainly Greathouse had been brought this way, he dared not slow down nor show himself as anything less than able.

That was still fresh in his mind when the two braves coming up behind him at lightning speed grasped his arms, picked him up between them and carried him onward across the field with hardly a pause.

He was taken through an open gate. Surrounded on all sides by tattooed and feather-capped warriors, he was rushed across a bare dirt yard where small dogs, pigs and goats scattered out of the procession's path. Women with long glossy black hair, wearing leather skirts and waistcoat-like blouses decorated with brightly-colored beads and baubles, came forward chattering and calling out, most of them carrying or pulling young children, to see the new arrival. Some of the men had to holler and shove to keep the women away, as it appeared curiosity was as strong here as it might be toward a Japanese walking on Dock Street in New York. To their credit, the women shoved and hollered back, stating their rights in no uncertain terms. Children cried, dogs barked under Matthew's boots, which hung several inches off the ground, and goats ran wildly about butting anybody who got in the way. If Matthew had not been so desperate for Greathouse's life, this would have been the first act of a comic play, yet he feared the final act must surely be a tragedy. Through the feathered, tattooed and bangled throng Matthew caught sight of the dwellings that he knew the Indians called their "longhouses", which were huge wooden barrel-roofed structures covered i n sheets of bark. Some of these were well over a hundred feet long and twenty feet or so tall, and from openings in their roofs emanated the blue smoke of communal fires.

Matthew found himself directed toward one of the largest of the longhouses, and with a jumping and shouting mass of Indians at his back he was carried through curtains made of animal skins that covered its doorway. When his escorts abruptly halted and let him go he fell to his knees in the dirt.

The light was dim in here, the air smelling of pinewood smoke. The communal fire burned low, a pit of seething red embers. Suddenly a renewed shouting and calling in the Indian language erupted around him, and through the gloom Matthew saw first the glint of eyes. Converging on him from all sides, edging forward closer and closer, was a mob of men, women and children numbering too many to count. He was truly in another world now, as much as a being from another planet. Fear was driven deep into him at the sight of this multitude, but he had to stand up and assert himself, for in his experience Indians respected courage above all. But where was Greathouse? Here or in some other place? The mass of natives were ringing him, and some were daring to reach out as if to pluck at his clothes.

Matthew hauled himself to his feet, and shouted forcefully, "Listen!"

His voice immediately silenced all others. The nearest Indians drew back, their eyes wide. Children scampered away to hide behind the legs of their mothers, and even the fiercest-looking braves stood motionless at the sound of a white man's tongue.

"Where's my friend?" Matthew called out. "Ecouter! Ou es'tmon ami?" He got no answer. He looked around at the staring faces. "Does anyone here speak English?" he demanded, as frustration got the better of him.

The silence stretched. And then from the back of the crowd came a single high-pitched voice chattering something that sounded like ha aka nu eeeegish!

In the next instant the place erupted into a storm of hilarity, and the laughter that burst forth might have lifted the roof up and whirled it away had it not been so securely fixed.

In this tumult of noise Matthew knew he was being mocked, that no one here spoke either English or French, and while he was standing at the center of a joke Greathouse was likely dying. Courage or not, tears sprang to his eyes, and as the Indians began to dance and caper around him and their laughter soared up with the smoke Matthew feared all was lost.

Fifteen

"Stop it!" Matthew shouted, as the merry carnival of Indians continued to careen around him. His face reddened with anger. He knew a little of the Dutch language from his work as a magistrate's clerk, so in desperation he tried that as well: "Einde net"

It made no difference, but only brought forth a fresh uproar of laughter. A brave of diminutive size suddenly leaped out of the throng and landed to Matthew's left, and as this buckskinned comedian began to swell up his cheeks and hop about while emulating the deep croaking of a bullfrog Matthew thought the audience was going to holler the place down on their heads. Such croaking, Matthew reasoned, must be what the white man's language sounded like to their ears. At any other time he might have found this of interest, but right now it was just maddening.

In the midst of all this, Matthew was aware of an approaching figure. He was aware of it for the reason that the mob was parting to let this figure through, and where the mob did not part quickly enough a pair of big hands found purchase and threw Indians left and right. Then a kick was given to the butt of the human bullfrog that launched him toward the nearest lilypad, and a massive buckskin-dressed woman with long gray-streaked hair and necklaces of animal teeth around her throat stood with her hands on her hips, glowering at Matthew. He had no idea what was about to happen, but in spite of what he really wanted to do-which was fall to his knees and beg for mercy-he stood his ground and even managed to thrust out his chin in an actor's show of defiance.

The big woman looked him over from head to feet, made a noise deep in her throat like a bear's grumble, and then turned upon the crowd. If anyone were still laughing and shouting, her voice in the next instant made certain all other mouths were shut. Matthew thought this woman could knock a door down by hollering at it. The other Indians simply shut up, and some of the young braves even plopped themselves on the ground in a display of obedience, their heads and shoulders bent forward as if the woman's words were whipstrikes. Matthew had no earthly idea what she was saying, but it was clear she was lighting the devil's own fire in their earholes. If anyone moved during this tirade, her black eyes found them and the offender shrank back like a trembling dog.

When she was done browbeating her own people, she turned her attention to Matthew again and just stared at him as if to crumble him to dust. After a length of time in which he failed to disintegrate, the woman shouted out what was obviously a command of some kind, for here came forward a fearsome-looking brave decorated with jagged red and blue tattoos on his cheeks, chin, arms and legs. The man got right up into Matthew's face, said, "E'glish folla," and turned around to walk out. Matthew did exactly as he was told, having to pass by the large Indian woman who made a noise like spit sizzling in a frypan, which he presumed summed up her opinion of himself and his countrymen.

Outside, another mass of Indians waited for him, along with their animals. Shouts and what might only be termed catcalls started up, but were quickly stopped by his escort, who began to give them as much a tirade as the woman had delivered, and this one punctuated by slaps to his own chest and the pounding of his fist against his palm. Whatever was said, it was delivered with authority, for no sooner had the brave finished speaking did everyone turn away and go about their regular business as if Matthew had suddenly ceased to exist. "Folla, folla!" the brave told him, and motioned him on. Matthew went like a ghost through the village. He caught the eyes of a few children and young women examining him, and a brown dog ran up barking furiously until the brave hollered out and a small boy scurried over to clamp his hand over the dog's muzzle, but otherwise Matthew's progress was undisturbed.

It was a huge place, containing one longhouse after another. Matthew counted thirty-four of them, of varying sizes. He figured the largest few might each house a hundred Indians. Women were busy caring for infants and young children, and there were shed-like structures where men were working at such tasks as building birch-bark canoes, chopping wood, and sharpening knives and spearheads. In fact, the industry he saw around him-the weaving of baskets and blankets, the molding of clay pots and the scraping of animal skins stretched taut in wooden frames-and the sheer number of villagers made Matthew think this must be the tribe's New York. Toward the rear of the village, the back wall was open to reveal a large lake that might have been part of the Raritan river system, and alongside it a cornfield, an orchard on the hillside and other rows of vegetable fields. Truly, it was a world unto itself. "My friend," Matthew said to his escort, who walked briskly ahead. "The man who was hurt. Where is he?"

No answer was offered, therefore Matthew had to be satisfied with silence. At length they came to a smaller bark-covered dwelling set off by itself near what Matthew thought must be the village's eastern wall, and here the brave planted his palm in the air in a motion that Matthew took to mean stand still. A little knot of children who'd been following at a distance crept forward a few more yards and then also stood still, watching intently. The brave shouted something in his language toward the dwelling's doorway, which was covered with a deerskin. Smoke was rising from the hole on the roof, indicating that someone was home, but no one emerged. The brave picked up a long stick from the ground, edged forward close enough to pull the deerskin aside with the stick, and then repeated his shout, which sounded not unlike a rough command.

Abruptly a brown hand shot out, grasped the stick and wrenched it away from the brave, causing the man and the group of children to turn around and flee as if they'd seen the hand of the Devil emerge from that dark interior. Matthew's first desire was also to run, but he stood by himself, waiting, as he'd already met Satan this day and a lesser devil was no match for Slaughter.

An Indian came out from behind the deerskin, and stared at Matthew with eyes like pieces of black flint. He was about as tall as Matthew, and maybe only three or four years older, though age was hard to determine among native people. He was bald but for a scalplock, in their fashion, yet he wore neither feathers nor that cap­like head covering Matthew had seen some of the others wearing. He bore no tattoos on his face, but his neck and bare chest under an open buckskin waistcoat were well-marked with blue scratches and scribblings that looked more like self-inflicted torture than any kind of symbolism. On his arms at wrists and just above the elbows were blue tattooed rings. He was slimly-built, even on the gaunt side, for every rib showed and there was a troubled darkness around his eyes. He wore the customary loincloth, leggings and moccasins, and around his neck hung a small carved wooden totem of some kind on a leather cord. It appeared to Matthew to be the representation of a man with two heads.

The Indian cast his gaze in the direction the others had gone. His profile was hawklike, his face high-cheekboned and his expression sullen. Then he regarded Matthew once more, and he said in a clear voice,

"English."

"Yes!" Matthew was relieved to hear the word spoken almost as if by a native of New York.

"Are you what all the noise is about?"

"I am. My friend's been hurt. Can you help me find him?"

"Is he here?"

"Yes, but where I don't know."

"Hm," the man said. His black eyebrows lifted. "Hurt how?"

"Stabbed. In the back."

"Your hands." The Indian motioned with his stick. "They don't look too good." "It's my friend I'm worried about," Matthew replied.

"Then, he must be a true friend, because I would imagine you are in some pain. What happened?" "Never mind that. I just want to know where he is. His name's Hudson Greathouse." "All right." The Indian nodded. "If he's here, he'll be with the medicine sisters."

"Take me there."

"No," came the reply, "I will not. The medicine sisters don't like to be bothered when they're working," he explained to his visitor's look of dismay. "It's best to leave them alone. Do you have a name?"

"Matthew Corbett."

"Do you wish to come into my house and have some tea, Matthew Corbett?" "Tea?"

"A nasty habit I picked up in London," said the Indian. He tossed the stick back to the ground and pulled the deerskin aside. "Come in. It's poor manners to refuse a formal invitation." He waited as Matthew tried to decide what kind of bizarre dream he was having, and how soon he might awaken from it. Matthew was beginning to be aware of all the pain that was flooding in upon him, from rope-burned hands and stone-slashed feet. His bruised left shoulder felt like a dead weight. Among these sensations was an overwhelming weariness, coupled with a forlorn grief. If not for him, Greathouse would not be dying, or already dead. If not for him, Slaughter would not have been set loose, and this might have been the worst of it. But he had to lay that aside now and put his attention on the moment, for that was how he had to survive what was ahead.

"Thank you," Matthew said, and he walked into the Indian's shelter.

Inside, the small bits of wood in the central firepit burned low. Arranged around the dwelling were items of everyday life: a sleeping pallet, a wooden rack holding blankets, animal skins and some items of clothing, a few wooden bowls and clay drinking cups, a bark water pail and other necessities. Matthew took note of several spears, two bows and a quiver of arrows leaning against a wall. The man would have to be a hunter, certainly, or he could not survive. But why was he living alone here, with no evidence of a wife and children?

Matthew's question was answered, in a way, when the Indian sat down cross-legged before the fire, poured some black liquid from a wooden pot into two small clay cups, and asked in a quiet voice, "You're not afraid of insanity, are you?"

"Pardon?"

"Insanity," said the Indian. "I am insane."

"No," Matthew answered, if a bit warily. "I'm not afraid."

"Ah, that's good, then." One of the cups was offered, and Matthew accepted it. "Everyone else here is afraid. That's why I'm an " He paused, his high forehead creasing as he searched for a word. "Outcast," he went on. "Or nearly so. It won't be very long before I am, because I'm getting worse. Go ahead, drink. As they say in your land, cheer up." He lifted the cup in semblance of a toast, then put it to his lips and downed the liquid.

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 watch's immobile hands.

With an acid hint of irony in his voice, Walker said, "I would never have believed it, but time does stop for the Englishman."

A cryptic remark, Matthew thought, that seemed to hold some meaning for the Indian, but was otherwise impenetrable.

A few seconds after that, there came the tap-tapping noise of what Matthew reasoned must be the stick being struck against the side of Walker's dwelling. He heard a voice call out, and then Walker stood up and went to the entrance, where he pulled the skin aside and spoke for a moment with what Matthew saw was an elderly man whose deeply-seamed face was almost covered with time-faded tattoos. Walker listened intently, nodded and then said to Matthew, "Your friend has died."

Sixteen

"In fact," Walker continued, as Matthew's heart seemed to cease beating, "your friend has died twice. Both times the medicine sisters have been able to sing his soul into returning to his body, but they think it would understand better if you were to speak to it in your own language. They say he's a very strong man, though, which is a good thing. Go with Old Dry Ashes, he'll take you there."

Matthew passed by Walker, who withdrew with the watch clasped in his hand, and went out into the gray light. Old Dry Ashes turned and began walking at a brisk pace that challenged the ability of Matthew's aching legs. Again a group of children followed along, chattering and laughing at the pale, wobbling scarecrow, while their dogs ran around in circles and every so often aimed an indignant bark in Matthew's direction.

The journey this time was mercifully short. Old Dry Ashes led Matthew to a structure that was twice as large as Walker's dwelling. It also was emitting smoke from a hole at the center of its roof, and its walls were covered with deerskins marked with red, blue and yellow designs that appeared, to Matthew's limited comprehension, to be stick-figure depictions of human beings, animals and fantastic shapes with multiple arms, legs and eyes that might represent denizens of the spirit world. He thought this place, the domain of the medicine sisters, must be the village's hospital, if indeed any connection could be made to the English world. Strips of leather decorated with feathers, beads and carved totems marked the entry, and set above it-ominously so-was a human skull missing its lower jaw, perhaps to mark the fact that the medicine sisters lost patients just as did doctors in New York, and they wished not to be spoken badly of by the departed in their afterlife. Or, that bones were only bones, and all flesh no matter how proud, how beautiful, or how strong, was destined to fail.

Old Dry Ashes stopped before the entry and motioned Matthew in. With the most mixed emotions of dread and propensity he'd ever experienced, Matthew parted the leather curtains and went inside.

Once more the dimness of light within at first limited his vision. Then, gradually, he made out the figures of two women, both of sturdy size, with long silver hair and dressed in deerskins decorated with beads, brightly-hued feathers, and totems. Their faces were painted, one yellow with red around the eyes, the second half-blue and half-green. They both held round wooden rattles with, presumably, dried beans or corn inside. An essence of some kind had been applied to the central firepit, for the crackling flames showed colors of blue and purple. The sweet, musky smell of burning spices was all but overpowering. Clay pots and jars stood about, in a variety of sizes. And hanging in what appeared to be a hammock sewn from beaverskins was a figure tightly wrapped in white cloth, like a babe in swaddling.

Only Greathouse's head was visible. His eyes were closed, his sweat-damp face gray except for daubs of red and yellow that had been applied to chin and forehead. The two medicine sisters were keening and chanting in low voices as Matthew approached, and did not pause in their vocal utterings to the spirits when Matthew stepped between them.

Matthew thought Greathouse looked eighty years old. It seemed that the flesh was starting to tighten around the skull. Matthew felt a start of alarm because he couldn't tell if Greathouse was breathing or not. Then one of the medicine sisters took a drink from liquid in a red cup, sprayed it between her teeth onto Greathouse's face, and Matthew saw him flinch, if almost imperceptibly.

"Hudson," Matthew said, as the medicine sisters chanted and shook their rattles through the musky-scented smoke.

Greathouse's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood-shot and dark-hollowed, they searched for a face to go with the voice.

"I'm here," Matthew said, and touched the man's swaddled shoulder.

"Matthew?" It was a weary whisper; the voice of a man who was saving his strength to fight for his life.

"Yes."

"Where the hell are we?"

"An Indian village. Not far from Fort Laurens."

Greathouse made a noise of either pain or interest, it was hard to tell which. "How'd we get here?" "They brought us."

"I can't move." He frowned, obviously disturbed by his lack of freedom. "Why can't I move?"

"You're all wrapped up. Don't try to move. I imagine they've put something on your wounds, and you don't want to-"

"Shit, what a mess," Greathouse said, squeezing his eyes shut again. "That box. Damned box. What was in it?"

"I don't know."

There was a long moment in which Greathouse didn't speak. Matthew was aware that the medicine sisters had withdrawn to the other side of their shelter, probably to give him the opportunity to convince Greathouse's spirit not to fly away from the body.

"Well," Greathouse whispered, his eyes opening again, "I was a prince of fools wasn't I?"

"How could you have known?"

A small tide of anger rippled over the man's face. "I am paid to know. It's my job." He winced as fresh pain hit him, and let the anger go in order to lessen his torment. "In the well. I remember that. You wouldn't let me go under."

"That's right," Matthew said. "I'm not going to let you go under here, either. I forbid you to die."

"Oh do you?"

"Yes, I do. I forbid you to die because my education is not yet complete, and when you're up on your feet again and we're back in New York I intend to continue my lessons in sword-fighting and, as you put it, the art of combat. So you're not to die, do you hear me?"

Greathouse gave a grunt that might have been a muffled laugh. "Who died," he said, "and made you king?"

"I'm just telling you, as your associate." It was a difficult task for Matthew to keep his voice steady.

"I see." Again, Greathouse was silent for awhile. His eyes closed, the eyelids fluttered, and then he brought himself up to the world once more. "I suppose if the young master Matthew Corbett commands it, then I'll have to obey."

"You've been through worse than this," Matthew said. "I've seen the scars." "My collection's growing. Like it or not."

Matthew tore his gaze away from Greathouse's face and stared at the ground. The fire popped and hissed behind him. He knew what he had to do now; he knew this was the moment. He opened his mouth to speak.

"Listen," Greathouse whispered. When Matthew looked at him again, he saw that Greathouse wore the crooked hint of a smile. "Something amusing. The work I was doing. For Lillehorne. Hired me to find out if his wife, the Princess is having " Once more he hesitated, and winced at a passing thrust of pain. "Sexual relations with the new doctor in town."

"Dr. Mallory?" "Yes. Him."

Matthew knew that Jason Mallory and his wife Rebecca had come to New York from Boston about a month ago, and set up residence at the north end of Nassau Street. Mallory was in his late thirties and as handsome as his black-haired wife was beautiful. He doubted that the good doctor would wish to dally with the needle-nosed, frankly unattractive Maude Lillehorne when his own lady was so comely.

"Told me Princess sees him three times a week," Greathouse went on. "Says she comes home in a sweat. Red-faced, and trembly. Can you imagine it?"

"No, I can't."

"Won't tell Lillehorne why she goes. Just that that she needs him." A savage little grin moved across Greathouse's mouth, which Matthew took to be a good sign. "And listen the thing is " He couldn't speak for awhile, until he'd recovered some strength and breath. "There are four other wives. Seeing Mallory. For unknown reasons. He must be hell of a ram." Greathouse shook his head, as much as he was able. "Me I'd like to ram his wife."

Greathouse then lapsed into silence, and the grin slowly faded. His eyes closed and Matthew thought he'd drifted to sleep, but then he said in a barely audible voice, "God, I'm tired."

"You're going to be all right," Matthew told him. "It'll take time, but at least you'll have another interesting story to tell." And then he leaned closer to Greathouse's ear, and he said, "I'm to blame for this."

Greathouse said, "What?" His eyes were still shut, his mouth slack.

"I've caused all this. I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid."

"Afraid? Of what?" The voice was almost gone.

"Of what you'd think of me." Matthew's heart was beating harder; even with Greathouse in this condition, it was difficult to get the words out. "I've deceived you. When I went to the Chapel estate that day I found the tunnel I also found some money."

"Money," Greathouse whispered.

"Eighty pounds worth of gold coins, hidden in a lockbox made to pass as a book. The money is in my house, right now. It's enough more than enough to buy Zed's freedom. I didn't tell you, because " The moment of truth had at long last arrived, and its fruit tasted bitter indeed. "Because I wanted all of it," he went on, his face as agonized as Greathouse's now was peaceful. "I found it, and I thought it should be mine. Every last penny of it. When we turned off the pike, I should have told you. I wanted to, but I thought, maybe we could get Slaughter's money. I thought we could trick him as you said, and everything would be all right.

"I'm sorry," Matthew said, "that you have to pay for my mistake. I'm sorry that I didn't tell you. But listen to me, Hudson. I'm going after Slaughter, and I'm going to bring him back. Before God, I can't live knowing what I've let loose. Can you hear me, Hudson?" He clasped his friend's shoulder more tightly. "Can you hear?"

"I hear," said another voice.

Matthew turned around.

Behind him and just to one side stood Walker In Two Worlds.

They stared at each other for a moment, as the fire crackled and blue flames curled.

Walker held up his right hand, in which was gripped the silver watch.

"I like this." His eyes were full of shadow. "I'm sure it was very expensive, in your land." He stepped forward and put the fingers of his left hand under Greathouse's nostrils. "Still alive. I think he must be a very strong man."

"Do they think he'll live?" Matthew motioned with a lift of his chin toward the two women, who stood watching from the far wall.

Walker spoke to them, and one answered. "She says it's too early to tell, but it's a good sign that his soul has decided to stay in his body, at least for now." He looked down upon Greathouse's placid face. "Sleeping well, it seems to me. They gave him some strong medicine. He shouldn't wake again before tomorrow."

"Can they give me something?" Matthew asked. "For my hands and feet. Maybe also to keep me going."

"They do medicine, not " Walker probed his memory for the right word. "Miracles," he said. "You need food and sleep." He spoke once more to the women, and was answered again by the same one. "She says they can put a poultice on your hands and feet and bind them up, yes, but it won't take away all the pain."

"Just so I can walk."

"You won't be doing any walking today. Better to let them work on you, and rest until morning." He nodded toward Greathouse. "Is this man your brother?"

"In a manner of speaking," Matthew replied, "I'd say he is."

"But you betrayed him? And now you seek to make things right?"

Matthew didn't know how much of his confession Walker had heard, but obviously the Indian had caught some of it. "Yes."

"And the man called Slaughter? If I refuse to track him for you, will you still go?"

"I will. He's going to have a long headstart, but he has no shoes. The first thing he's going to do is try to get a pair of boots." Matthew had already given this some thought. Would Slaughter try to get the wagon backed up on the road above Fort Laurens? It would be a hard job for one man. He might try to unharness the horses, but those old nags weren't going to hold a rider. Matthew recalled, with chilling clarity, Slaughter's comment to Reverend Burton: Looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you?

Matthew thought that was going to be Slaughter's first destination, but where he would go after that was anyone's guess. Matthew could only hope that Slaughter took just the boots, and left Burton and Tom in one piece.

"You may never find him," Walker said. "You know that, don't you?" "I know I'll never find him if I don't try."

Walker stared into Matthew's eyes for a time, until Matthew uncomfortably felt as if the Indian was gauging the territory of his very soul. "True enough," said Walker. He spoke to the medicine sisters, who acknowledged him by going about business that involved pouring some of the contents-different kinds of tree bark and berries, it appeared to Matthew-from a few of the jars out into a bowl and then grinding the mixture with a pestle made from an animal's bone. "Do you like fish?" Walker asked, and when Matthew nodded he said, "Come on then, there's always some on the coals at " He paused as he put together the correct translation. "Happy River Turtle's house."

As they progressed through the village, Matthew noted that most gave Walker a wide berth, and some averted their faces or clasped their hands over nose or mouth as if to avoid a bad smell. Women picked up children at their approach, and hurried away. A few braves motioned angrily at them, their attention directed specifically to Walker, but Walker paid no heed to his critics and actually laughed harshly in the face of one who came up close enough to spray them with spittle.

"Don't mind them," Walker explained. "This is a show they put on."

Matthew had to ask the question, though he didn't know how to phrase it. So he simply asked it as best he could: "How are you insane?"

Walker looked at the watch as they continued on, and rubbed its silver back with his palm. "I know too much," he answered.

Happy River Turtle indeed must have a fine reputation as a cook, Matthew thought, for there was a crowd around the longhouse he and Walker were approaching. There was an outside fire burning at the center of a communal eating area. It was almost a festive atmosphere, of people drinking from clay cups and hollowed-out gourds and taking from the fire roasted meat and fish on sharpened sticks. It shouldn't have surprised him, he mused, because it was time for the midday meal here just as in New York. He didn't see that any payment was being made for the culinary items, but maybe it was simply on the basis of share-and-share-alike, or that some system of bartering was happening beyond Matthew's understanding. In any case, Walker waded into the throng-which parted for him, and became more sullen until he had passed through-and then returned bearing a stick on which sizzled large chunks of charred white-fleshed fish along with pieces of tomato and peppers. Matthew reasoned they were to share the item, so there was enough to go around.

Matthew sat on the ground to eat the portion that Walker gave him, for his legs were giving out. He felt exhaustion coming upon him, slowly and steadily; it was a process he could not halt, no matter how steadfast his will. As he ate, he couldn't help but go over in his mind again and again the events of the morning. When he could tear his thoughts away from Greathouse's precarious situation and his concerns about Reverend Burton and Tom, he found himself pondering the trick safebox. How had Slaughter managed to rig such a thing? Some kind of explosive device had been concealed in it, yes, but how had the thing worked? And all the time Slaughter had been pretending to fear for his life he'd known that box was in its hole, protected from the damp by all the straw, ready to go off in Greathouse's face. Had Slaughter primed the thing over two years ago, and left it waiting like a bomb? But for what reason? His fear that Indians might dig it up? Slaughter couldn't have known he wouldn't be back to his cabin that day he was captured, so perhaps the box was primed to go off when and if an Indian tried to open it. But what had been inside to make it explode? Matthew wished he could get a look at it, just to satisfy his curiosity.

His hands were stiffening up. He finished his food, grateful to get something in his stomach, and then struggled to his feet again. Walker remained a few yards away, crouched on his haunches as he ate. No one had dared to come anywhere near either of them. Matthew watched Walker as the Indian stared out impassively toward the other villagers. Insane? Because he knew too much? Matthew noted that Walker kept firm hold of the watch, and gazed at it every so often. In admiration, or for some other reason? It was hard to tell. Equally hard to tell was whether Walker had decided to help him or not. If not, then Matthew was on his own, but he had to keep going. Tomorrow morning he would set out, no matter what. First to the reverend's house, and then?

He wasn't sure. Would Slaughter head back for the Philadelphia Pike, or toward the nearest settlement, which would be the trading post at Belvedere? It seemed to Matthew that once Slaughter got boots on his feet his next item he'd try to get was a horse that could carry him at a reasonable speed. If that happened, the chance of catching up with him became even less likely.

Matthew felt that if he closed his eyes for just a second and reopened them, all this might fade away and reveal itself to be nought but a bad dream brought on by the experience-long ago, it seemed now-at the

Cock'a'tail tavern. Here stands the celebrity of New York! he thought bitterly. Look how well he's dressed, and how fine a figure he makes! He lowered his head. All that could go to Hell, he thought. The only thing that was important now-the only thing that both taunted and compelled him-was seeing Tyranthus Slaughter back in chains.

He was aware of a movement to his left.

When he looked up, the young Indian girl who was holding a wooden cup full of water instinctively stepped back, like a frightened doe. But she only retreated one pace, and then held her ground because, after all, it was her ground.

Her dark eyes shone as if pools of some exotic amalgam of ebony and silver. Her long black hair was a midnight stream, flowing over the warm brown stones of her shoulders. In her lovely, full-lipped face and steady gaze Matthew saw something ancient and indescribable, as if the hundreds of ancestors who had hunted and farmed this land, had raised children here, had died and returned to the earth, were there behind her eyes, studying him. She was maybe fifteen or sixteen years old, but timeless. She wore the deerskins, beads and ornaments her mother had worn, and her mother's mother, and on back into the mists before London's first citizen had built a fire on the edge of the Thames. He felt flowing out from her like a spirit force the dignity of great age, but also the curiosity of a child who never aged.

She said something softly, like a church bell heard at a great distance. Then she came forward and offered him the cup, and he took it and soothed his thirst.

Step by step she backed away, calmly watching him, until at last she turned around and was gone among her people.

"Matthew Corbett," said Walker In Two Worlds, standing at his side. "Come with me now."

In his state of increasing weariness, his mind beginning to fill up with fog, Matthew followed Walker back to the house of the medicine sisters. Within, the two women were prepared for him. They washed his hands with warm water from a pot over the fire, dried them and applied a red powder to his raw palms that made him grit his teeth and almost shout from the pain, but he was determined not to make a fool of himself. Next they coated his palms with a brown, sticky liquid that smelled of pine sap, and was as cooling as the pain had been hot. Pieces of white cloth were bound around his hands, followed by strips of leather that were knotted and secured so that he in essence found himself wearing fingerless gloves.

The sisters were chattering at him, wanting him to do something he couldn't understand, and Walker had not entered the dwelling with him so he was all at sea. Then one of the women overturned a large wooden pot in a corner and plopped herself down on it, motioning Matthew to follow her example. As he sat on the makeshift chair, the medicine sisters removed his-Greathouse's-boots and treated his damaged feet in the same fashion, with powder and pine sap liquid. Then they repeated the process of the pieces of cloth and also the binding of his feet with the leather stri ps, knotted and secured across the top of the foot. He started to stand up but they grasped his shoulders and wouldn't allow it. A nasty-looking black elixir was poured from a long-necked clay jar into a fist-sized cup and put to his mouth. He had no choice but to drink it, and though it smelled like wet dirt it tasted surprisingly sweet, like musky fermented grapes or berries. They wouldn't let him stop until he'd finished it all, after which he was light-headed and his tongue felt coated with fur. At the bottom of the cup was a residue of what appeared to be pure black river mud.

"Here," said Walker, as he came into the house. "These should fit you." He held out for Matthew a pair of moccasins. They were by no means new, but looked to be sturdy enough.

Matthew took them and tried them on. They did fit, quite comfortably.

"Sleep in those tonight," Walker told him. "Get used to them. Those English boots aren't any good for travelling."

"Thank you. Where will I sleep?"

"Outside my house, on the ground. I'll give you a blanket. You ought to get used to sleeping on the ground, too. Besides," he said, "my demons come in the night."

Matthew nodded, deciding it was far better to sleep on the ground than witness a visitation of Walker's demons, whatever they were.

"We'll eat well tonight," Walker continued. "But you'll be wanting to sleep early, with all that " He hesitated. "There's no English word for what you just drank, but the sisters know what they're doing. We'll leave at dawn, and we'll be travelling light and fast. That is, as fast as you can move."

"We?"

"You'll never find that man by yourself," Walker said. "I told you I liked the watch." He was still holding it, Matthew saw.

"All right." Either the drink was about to overpower him, or it was the sense of relief. "I thank you again."

"Thank me after he's caught. Which, as you English would say, is tomorrow's business."

Matthew stood up in his new footwear. He approached the beaverskin hammock where Greathouse lay silent, eyes closed, in his wrapping.

He remembered something Greathouse had spoken to him, that morning at Sally Almond's.

I can't be with you all the time, and I'd hate for your gravestone to have the year 1702 marked on it.

"I as well," Matthew said quietly. But it was equally important-vitally important-to stop Slaughter from filling up any more graves. He prayed he would be in time, and that when the time came he would be strong enough-and smart enough, having crawled back from that deepest pit in Hell set aside for men who think themselves so very smart-to be more than a match for a monster.

But, as the Indian and the English said, that was tomorrow's business.

Seventeen

Up on the road ahead of them was the wagon. One of the horses was missing, while the other stood with head hanging and shoulders slumped, forlorn in its solitude and unable to reach any leaf or stem of edible vegetation.

Matthew followed Walker up the hillside. It was still the dim light of early morning, the clouds thick overhead, and the air smelling again of approaching rain. Walker had already pointed out the clear prints of Slaughter's bare feet. "He's carrying something heavy," Walker had said, and Matthew had nodded, knowing it was the explosive safebox.

The missing horse made Matthew's guts twist. He'd thought that surely neither of those old swaybacked nags would have carried a rider. And, anyway, how fast could the horse go, even if whipped by a stick? Still, for Slaughter to have a horse meant he could give his legs and lungs a rest, which was a definite advantage over his trackers-or at least one of them.

At the first rooster's crow this morning, the wet nose of a dog sniffing his face had brought Matthew up from his sleep beside Walker's dwelling. His hands and feet were sore, his left shoulder badly bruised; if he'd awakened in such condition in New York, he might have lain in bed until midday and then staggered out to see a doctor, but in this country he thought that such injuries amounted to a splinter in the finger. Not a half-minute after Matthew had pushed aside his blanket and tested the strength of his legs, Walker In Two Worlds had emerged from the shelter. Today the Indian was wearing, along with his usual garb of deerskin loincloth, leggings, and moccasins, a dark green cloak tied at the throat. Fixed to Walker's scalplock with leather cords was an arrangement of feathers dyed dark green and indigo. Around his right shoulder was a leather sheath, decorated with the beaded images of various animals, securing his bow, and around the left his quiver of a dozen or so arrows. A knife hung in a holder from a fringed belt around his narrow waist, along with a small rawhide bag that Matthew thought probably contained a supply of dried meat. What Matthew took as spirit symbols-swirls and lightning bolts-had been painted in black on Walker's cheeks, his forehead, and across his chin. His eyes had been blackened, and made to resemble the glittering danger of tarpit pools. As Greathouse might have said, Walker was ready for bear.

Matthew, in contrast, realized he was as dangerous-looking as a sugar cookie, in his dirty white shirt and cravat, his dark burgundy-red breeches and waistcoat missing half its buttons, and the tatters of his stockings, which bared his calves and ankles down to the moccasins. He was in need of a shave and his dirty hair and gritty scalp might have scared the bristles off a brush. That, he thought, was as fearsome as he would be this day, for though he pushed himself onward following the silent Walker out of the village he felt his courage was made up of tinfoil and could be crumpled by any child's fist.

They were trailed from the village by several young braves who seemed to be jeering at Walker, making fun of his perceived insanity perhaps, but Walker paid them no heed. After a while the young men tired of their game and turned back, and the two travelers were left alone. Walker moved fast, without speaking or looking left or right, but with his eyes fixed ahead and his shoulders slightly lowered. He had a strange rolling gait that Matthew had seen other Indians use: the "fox walk" was what the leatherstockings in New York, the fur traders and rough-edged men who had experience with the tribes, called it. Very soon it was a chore for Matthew to keep up, and when Walker seemed to realize he was so far ahead they were about to lose sight of each other the Indian slowed his pace to what was probably for him a crawl.

Last night Matthew had slept soundly on the earth, beneath a tan-colored blanket, until he'd been awakened in the stillness. Why he'd been awakened he didn't know. A few Indians were sitting around the embers of a nearby fire, talking quietly as the members of any community might converse, but their voices did not carry. No, it was something else that had disturbed Matthew, and he lay with his eyes open, listening.

In a moment he heard it: a keening cry, barely audible at first, then becoming louder and stronger, ending with either a strangled rush of breath or a sob. Again the cry rose up, and this time Matthew saw the men around the fire glance back at Walker's house, for the tortured wailing was surely coming from within. The cry went on for a few seconds longer, then quietened once more. Twice again it rose and fell, now more of a hoarse moan than a cry. Matthew felt the flesh crawl on the back of his neck; Walker's demons had come, and they were sparing him no mercy. Whatever insanity Walker believed he possessed-or that possessed him-on this night he was its prisoner.

The men around the fire went to their own houses. The embers darkened and cooled. Matthew at last fell asleep again, with the blanket up to his chin. In the morning, when Walker had emerged, nothing was spoken about the visitation of demons, and for once in his life Matthew had known to ask no questions.

The wagon was ahead, where it had been left. The single horse, seeing the men coming, lifted its head and gave an exhausted whinny.

Walker reached the animal. He put a reassuring hand on its flank. "Is this what Slaughter was carrying?" he asked Matthew, and nodded toward the back of the wagon.

And there it was. The safebox, its lid open, sitting right there next to the chains. Matthew went to it and saw that it was empty of valuables: no coins, no jewels, nothing. But within it was a rectangular compartment that immediately drew his interest, for he recognized the flintlock mechanism of a pistol that had been tripped by a rachet-like device and caused to ignite a powder charge. The walls of the compartment were black with the powder's ignition, which had blown smoke and sparks through the keyhole. Of additional interest was a small square of iron and a piece of metal that resembled a miniature hammer. Matthew saw, with admiration at the skill and trickery of this ruse, that the little hammer had been under some kind of tension and, upon being released by the rachet, had made the sound approximating a gunshot when it struck the iron plate. It was an elaborate way to foil a robbery, but certainly would have worked to scare off an overly-curious Indian or two. Still, the thing was a puzzle. How would its owner get into it without setting off the charge? And who had made it?

He tilted it up to look at the bottom, searching for a maker's mark. His reward for that supposition was not just a mark, but a name and place of origin, burned into the wood by a piece of redhot iron used as a quill.

It read O. Quisenhunt, Phila. And was followed by a number: 6.

"I think he left something else," Walker said, and knelt down beside the wagon. He held up a muddy ring, fashioned of gold and inset with a small red gemstone. "And another." This find was an elegant silver brooch, studded with four black stones. Walker continued to search the ground, while Matthew came to the realization that in transferring his stolen items and coins from the safebox, Slaughter had dropped at least two things. And what had he transferred them to? Matthew recalled that Slaughter's clothing had had no pockets. He looked beneath the wagon's seat, and saw that his small bag of personal belongings was gone, along with his water flask. His razor and shaving soap had been in the bag. And now, horribly, the razor belonged to a man who could devise more use for it than grooming.

"Take these." Walker had found two more items: a silver ring with intricate engraving and a necklace of grayish-blue pearls that would be very beautiful when they were cleaned up. As Matthew took the four pieces of jewelry from Walker's outstretched hand, he remembered Slaughter posing the question What is a string of pearls selling for these days? He put the pieces into his waistcoat pocket, as it was clear Walker had no interest in them and it was foolish to leave them lying about. Walker made another survey of the ground around the wagon, then he stood up and began unharnessing the horse. Matthew helped him, finding it difficult to look the Indian full in the face because, in truth, all that paint made Walker himself appear to be demonic, some sort of forest specter whose purpose was to stab fear into an English heart. Matthew figured that was the reason for it: if he was the one being tracked, one glimpse at that fierce visage and Matthew would have given up his flight as hopeless.

Whether that would work when-and if-they found Slaughter was another question.

When the horse was freed, it made a direct line to the nearest vegetation and began to eat. Walker was already climbing the road, and Matthew hurried after him.

They found the second horse chewing weeds at the top of the hill. Walker had only one comment to make as they passed the animal and continued on: "Slaughter has discovered he's not up to riding a horse without a saddle."

Matthew got up alongside Walker and forced himself to keep pace. How long he could maintain this, he had no idea. Even so, it was evident Walker was not moving as fast as he was able. "Why are you helping me?" Matthew managed to ask, his lungs starting to burn.

"I told you. I like the watch."

"I don't think that's all of it."

"I would save your breath, if I were you." Walker glanced quickly sideways at Matthew. "Did you know that my father, in his youth, could run one hundred of your English miles in a day? And that after a night's sleep, he could get up at dawn and run one hundred more? Those were the old days of the strong men, before you people came. Before you brought what it is you have brought."

"What exactly " Matthew was having trouble talking and keeping his breath. "Have we brought?"

"The future," said Walker, and then he broke into a loping trot that Matthew tried to match but could not. In a few seconds Walker had pulled away, heading downhill. Matthew doggedly followed, as fast as he could manage on sore feet and aching legs but no faster.

Soon Matthew came to the split in the road that led to Belvedere. Walker was down on his haunches, examining the ground. The Indian gave Matthew time to catch his breath, and then he said, "Bare feet going this way." He pointed in the direction of New Unity. "Boots coming back, and going this way." His finger aimed toward Belvedere. He stood up, narrowing his eyes as he stared at Matthew. "He's going to the trading post. There was money in that box?"

"Yes."

"He wants to buy a horse. The boot tracks were made yesterday, about midday. He's walking quickly, with a long stride. He might have reached Belvedere by late afternoon or early evening. If he bought a horse, he's gone."

"Unless he stayed in Belvedere to rest."

"He may have," Walker said. "We won't know until we get there."

Matthew was looking along the road that led to Reverend Burton's cabin. "I have to go that way first," he said, his voice hollow.

"For what reason?"

"I know," Matthew answered, "where Slaughter got the boots." And he set off, again moving as quickly as he was able. Walker caught up within a few strides, and stayed a distance off to his right.

Rain began to fall quietly through the trees. Red and yellow leaves drifted down. As Matthew reached Reverend Burton's house, he saw that the door was open, sagging inward on its hinges. He went up the steps to the porch, where he couldn't help but note splotches of dark red on the planks. Then he walked through the door, and into the world of Tyranthus Slaughter.

It was a place of blood and brutality. Matthew abruptly stopped, for he'd heard first the greedy buzzing of flies. The reverend's body lay on its back amid splintered furniture, both boots gone, the hands outstretched, palms upward. A pool of blood surrounded the head, and there the flies were feasting. The face was covered by the heavy Good Book, which had been opened about to the middle. Matthew stepped forward, slowly, and saw upon the Bible's back a smear of mud from the bare foot that had pressed it down.

And there was Tom.

The boy was on his knees, near the fireplace. Half his face was a black bruise. His nostrils were crusted with blood, his lower lip ripped open, a razor slash across his left cheekbone. His dark brown shirt was torn open to the waist, his pale chest scored with razor cuts. He looked up at Matthew with eyes sunken into swollen slits.

He was holding James in both arms, at about chest-height. The dog lay on its right side. Matthew saw that it was breathing shallowly. It was bleeding from the mouth and nose and its visible eye had rolled back into its head.

When Walker came into the house, Tom gave a start and dropped the dog a few inches. What could only be called a scream of agony came from James' mouth, and instantly Tom lifted the dog up again to chest-height. Gradually, its piercing cries subsided.

"He's with me," Matthew said to Tom, as the boy gave an involuntary shiver; his voice sounded unrecognizable to him, the voice of someone speaking beyond the door through which he'd just walked.

Tom just stared blankly at him.

Walker eased forward. He leaned down and lifted the Bible.

"He's dead," Tom said. A spool of bloody saliva unraveled from his mouth over his injured lip and down his chin. His voice was listless, matter-of-fact. "I touched him. He's dead."

Matthew could not bri ng hi mself to look at the reverend's face, but he saw how bad it was by looki ng at Walker's. If an Indian could ever go pale, this one did. Matthew saw an incomprehension in Walker's eyes, a statement of horror that was made more terrible because it was silent. A muscle jumped in Walker's jaw, and then the Indian put aside the Bible and gazed upward-not to Heaven, but at the sleeping loft. He climbed up the ladder.

"That man came back," Tom said. "That man. This mornin'." He shook his head. "Yesterday. Knocked the door down. He was on us 'fore we could move."

Walker returned with a thin blue blanket, which he used to wrap around the misshapen mass that had been John Burton's face and head.

James gave another sharp cry, and Tom adjusted his arms because they'd begun to drift down. "I think " Tom swallowed, either thick saliva or blood. "I think James' back is broke. That man brought a chair down on him. Right 'cross his back. There wasn't anythin' could be done."

"How long have you been sitting there?" Matthew asked.

"All night," he said. "I can't I can't put James down. Ysee? I think his back is broke. He cries so much."

Walker stood over the corpse. Flies were spinning in the air, and the place smelled of blood and a darker sour odor of death. "No human," he said, "could do this."

"What?" Matthew hadn't understood him; his own mind felt mired in the mud of corruption. He stared at a hayfork that leaned against the wall near the door.

"No human could do this," Walker repeated. "Not any human I've ever met."

James shrieked again. Tom lifted his arms. Matthew wondered how many times he'd done that over the course of the long night to keep the dog's body evenly supported; the boy's arms must feel like they were about to tear loose from the sockets.

"His back is broke," Tom said. "But I've got him. I've got him, all right." He looked up at Matthew, and gave a dazed, battered half-smile that made fresh blood drool from his mouth. "He's my friend."

Matthew felt the Indian staring at him. He avoided it, and ran the back of a hand across his mouth. Tom's eyes were closed, perhaps also avoiding what he must certainly know should be done.

"Belvedere," Walker said quietly. "It won't come to us."

"Shhhhh," Tom told the dog, as it whimpered. The sound became a low groaning noise. "I've got you," he said, his eyes still closed, and possibly more tightly shut than a few seconds before. "I've got you."

Walker said to Matthew, "Give me your neckcloth." The cravat, he meant. Matthew's brain was fogged. He heard a blood-gorged fly buzz past his ear and felt another graze his right eyebrow. He unknotted the cravat, removed it from around his throat and gave it to the Indian, who tore from it a long strip and handed the rest of it back. Walker twisted the cloth for strength and began to wrap the ends of the strip around each hand. When Walker took a forward step, the boy's eyes opened.

"Wo," Tom said. Walker stopped.

"He's my dog. My friend." The boy lifted his arms again, and now winced at the supreme effort of holding them steady. "I'll do it if you'll hold him so he don't hurt."

"All right," said the Indian.

Walker unwound the strangler's cloth from his hands and lay it across Tom's left shoulder, and then he knelt down before Tom and held out his arms like a cradle to accept the suffering animal.

James cried out terribly as the exchange was made, but Tom said, "Shhhhh, shhhhh," and perhaps the dog even in its pain understood the sound of deeper agony in its companion's voice. Then James whimpered a little bit, and Walker said, "I have him."

"Thank you, sir," answered Tom in a distant, dreamlike tone, as he began to wrap the cloth between his own hands, which Matthew saw bore razor cuts.

Matthew stepped back. Tom eased the taut cloth around James' neck, trying to be tender. James began to whimper again. Its pink tongue came out to lick at the air. Tom leaned forward and kissed his dog on the head, and then very quickly he crisscrossed one hand over the other and fresh blood and mucous blew from his nostrils as he did what he had to do, his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth grinding down into the wound of his lower lip.

Matthew looked at his feet. His moccasins stood in the pool of the reverend's blood. The indignant flies swarmed and spun. Matthew backstepped, hit the remnants of a broken chair, and almost fell. He righted himself, swayed unsteadily, felt sickness roil in a hot wave in his stomach. He had seen murder before, yes, and brutal murder at that; but Slaughter's work had been done with so much pleasure.

"Don't shame yourself," he heard Walker tell him, and he knew that not only were his eyes swimming, but that his face must have been as white as his cravat had been only yesterday morning.

Slowly, his eyes still downcast, Matthew busied himself with winding the cravat around his throat again. After all, it had been very expensive. It was the mark of a gentleman, and what every young man of merit wore in New York. He carefully knotted it and pushed its ends down under the neck of his dirty shirt. Then he stood very still, listening to the patter of rain on the roof. Tom turned away from Walker. He went to a bucket of water on the floor that had survived the violence, got down on his knees with the slow pained grace of an old man and began to wash the blood from his nostrils.

"His tracks head to Belvedere," Walker said, speaking to the boy. A small black-haired carcass with a brown snout lay on the floor in front of the fireplace, as if sleeping there after a day fully done. "We intend to catch him, if he hasn't already gotten himself a horse."

"He'll want a horse," Tom agreed. He splashed water into his face and rubbed life back into his shoulders. "Maybe one or two to be bought there, not many."

"One would be enough."

"He can be tracked, even on a horse," said the boy. "All we have to do is get us some horses, we can find him."

We, Tom had said. Matthew made no response, and neither did Walker.

Tom took their silence for another reason. "I can steal us some horses, if I have to. Done it before. Well one horse, I mean." He started to stand up, but suddenly his strength left him and he staggered and fell onto his side.

"You're not in any shape to be stealing horses," Walker observed. "Can you walk?"

"I don't know."

"Decide in a hurry. Matthew and I are leaving."

"I can walk," Tom said, and with a show of sheer willpower over physical distress he stood up, staggered again, and then held his balance. He looked from Walker to Matthew and back again, the bruised and bloodied face defiant.

"How fast can you walk?" was the next question.

For that, Tom seemed to have no answer. He blinked heavily, obviously in need of sleep as well as medical attention. He held his hands up before his face and looked at the razor cuts there as if he had no memory of having been wounded. Then he turned his attention to Matthew. "You're a Christian, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Will you help me, then? You bein' a Christian, and the reverend bein' a Christian. Help me bury him?" "There's no time for that," said Walker.

"I promised. Said I'd stay with him 'til he died, and then I'd bury him. I won't go back on a promise." "We can't lose time. Do you understand that?" "I understand it. But I won't go back on a promise."

"Do you want to play at catching Slaughter?" Walker asked Matthew, with a flash of anger behind it. "Or do you want to really try?"

"We're talkin'," Tom said, "when we could be buryin'. I want to put the reverend under, and James, too. There in that cemetery, with the other ones. After that, I'll show you how to get to Belvedere through the woods. Cuts about four miles off goin' by the road."

"I already know that way," said the Indian.

"I reckon you do," Tom replied, and he winced at some pain and blew a little bloody snot out of his nose.

How the boy was even standing up, Matthew had no idea. He might have a broken nose or even a broken jaw, by the looks of him. Probably missing some teeth, too. But he was alive, and that was more than most of Slaughter's victims could claim. Matthew thought that this boy probably had the hardest bark of anybody he'd ever met, including Greathouse himself. Of course they had to get to Belvedere, and they had to get there before sundown.

But still a promise was worth something, in his book. "What's your say?" Walker prodded.

Matthew realized he was in charge. He was the only member of the New York office of the Herrald Agency who could stand on his feet, and make the decisions. He was Greathouse now, for better or worse. What would Greathouse do, was the question?

But no, it was not, he decided. The question was, what was right?

Matthew looked squarely at Tom. "Do you have more than one shovel?" he asked.

Eighteen

Matthew had lost all calculations of time and distance. He knew they'd been travelling through the woods for what seemed like several hours, but exactly how long and how many miles they'd come, he had no idea. A light rain was falling from a sky more twilight than afternoon, which further distorted his senses. His legs, usually a reliable informant as to distance, had passed through ache and pain into numbness. No longer either could he feel any sensation in his feet. The woods were thick, and the path through them-windey-twistey, as Greathouse might have said-led up over rocky hillsides and down through swampy hollows. It was sometime during the descent into one of these hollows that Tom's knees gave way and he went down into the thicket. It was a quiet falling, like the rain, and if Matthew had not glanced back at the boy and seen him already on the ground he would not have known it.

"Wait!" he called to Walker, who was about thirty yards ahead and already going up the next hill. Instantly the Indian checked his progress and stood among the golden-leafed birch trees with his dark green cloak wrapped around himself, resembling nothing more than a black-eyed, fearsome and feathered head floating amid the questionable beauty of nature.

Matthew went back the fifteen yards or so to where Tom was trying to get his feet under him. It was obvious the boy, as hard barked as he might be, was running low on wood to feed his fire. His bruised face was ghastly purple, one of his eyes swollen shut and the other nearly so. The razor cuts across his chest were as scarlet as whipstrikes. It had astounded Matthew, back in the sad cemetery of New Unity, how Tom with his slashed hands had gripped hold of one of the two shovels and started feverishly digging in the wet earth. Matthew had joined in the work, as Walker had watched from a distance. They must have made a sight, Matthew thought. Both of them with wounded hands, staggering around in the cold rain trying to do the Christian thing. After the boy had fallen down twice and twice picked himself up with mud on his knees, Walker had taken the shovel from him and told him to go sit down under a tree. In time, they had two graves, as Tom had asked; one large, one small. Neither was very deep, and this had been at Walker's insistence for, as he'd said before the work had begun, Belvedere was not going to come to them. They left the cemetery, which now held forty markers. The last two were boards taken from a crumbling cabin and pounded into the ground. When Tom turned his back to the graves he had so carefully maintained, Matthew noted that it was without emotion. But Matthew thought he understood why: a show of emotion would be a use of resources that Tom needed to get through today. Either that, or the boy had iron control over what he revealed or did not reveal.

In any case, the three travelers departed from New Unity, and left its occupants and their stories for some future generation to ponder.

Now, in the deeper forest some number of miles distant from Belvedere, Matthew reached Tom and offered his hand to help the boy up.

Tom angled his head so his better eye looked at the hand. "If I'd wanted your help," he said, his voice distorted by his injured lip, "I would've asked." So saying, he hauled himself to his feet and staggered past Matthew, who turned to find the Indian standing there right beside him.

"How do you do that?" Matthew asked.

"Do what?"

"Never mind." He watched Tom fall again, get up once more and keep staggering onward, up the hill where Walker had just been standing. "Should we rest awhile?"

"No." Walker turned and began striding rapidly after the boy, while Matthew quickened his pace to catch up. "Boy!" Walker called.

"I've got a name."

"Tom," Walker amended. He'd heard Matthew call him that, in the cemetery. "How is it you know this way to Belvedere? It's a Seneca trail."

"How is it you speak such good English?"

"I've lived with the English. Have you lived with my people?"

"No. I was lookin' for a shorter way to Belvedere one day, and I found it."

"How is it you didn't get yourself lost in the woods?" Walker asked, slowing his stride to remain alongside Tom. "Or did you?"

"I can tell my directions, if that's what you're askin'." Tom shot him a quick dark glance from his better eye.

"Who taught you?"

Tom suddenly stopped, so abruptly that Walker also stopped and Matthew narrowly avoided a collision with the both of them. "Who taught me?" There was acid in the boy's brogue. His mouth twisted. "I'll tell you who, then. My father, partly. Taught me how to read the ground and the sky. Taught me my directions. How to build a fire. How to hunt, and lay a snare. But after he died, and I was on my own then there were lots more things I had to best learn in a hurry, and I knew if I didn't learn 'em right the first time, I wouldn't get no second chance. So I stole when I had to, and I hid out when I had to." He glanced at Matthew, as if marking him as an intruder in this brutal paradise. "See," Tom continued, "I learned real quick that the way to stay alive is to keep movin'. I forgot about that, and I got soft and liked an inside bed, and a house with a table you ate off of, and readin' the Bible to an old man, and pretendin' I had some kind of family again. That's why they're dead, 'cause I forgot that at any minute this world can kick your door down and come in swingin' a razor." He nodded. "Look what I let happen, back there." His eye found Walker again. "Who taught me, you're askin'? My father, some. But in this world, it's the Devil teaches you the lessons you never forget."

"You couldn't have stopped Slaughter," Matthew said. "No one could've."

Tom thrust his face toward Matthew's. "Maybe you could've," he answered. "I told you, maybe you should've killed him when you could. But don't fret about it, don't you fret." He held up a finger of his razor-slashed right hand. " I'm gonna kill him, so don't you fret."

Matthew almost recoiled from the cold ferocity in the boy's voice. It was hard to remember that he indeed was a boy, of thirteen or fourteen years, because his sentiments and expressions were those of a older man mauled by life. Scarred by life, would be the more correct phrase. To see what lay behind those eyes, Matthew thought, would be a frightful view. A desolation, perhaps; a loneliness, for certain. Anger was holding him together, a rage against the world. And who could blame him, with all the death and misery he'd witnessed? So he might be young in years, Matthew thought, but it was an illusion, for his trials had left him withered within.

Tom was through talking. He turned and started up the hillside again, but halfway up his remaining strength failed him, for he staggered against a boulder and slid down to the ground. He put his hands to his face and sat there, hunched over and otherwise motionless.

"He's almost done," Walker said quietly. "He's fighting it, but he knows it too."

"What are we going to do with him?"

After a silence in which Walker was obviously deliberating the question, the Indian approached Tom, with Matthew following behind. "I suppose, if you can read the ground so well, that you've seen the tracks?"

Tom lowered his hands. Matthew had expected to see the tears of either loss or frustration on Tom's cheeks, but there were none. The boy was again sealed up tight. "I have," Tom replied. "Good-sized bear about two hours ahead of us, movin' slow."

Matthew felt a start of alarm; his own scars had been left by a meeting with a bear, three years ago, and he didn't wish for another encounter.

"That's why I'm not running us faster," Walker said. "I'm going on ahead, to scout. You two meet me at the stream, and don't dawdle."

Tom nodded, familiar with the landmark Walker specified, and then the Indian took off running at a steady pace up the hillside, among the trees, and out of sight.

"Give me a minute," Tom said, as Matthew waited. He reached into his mouth and worked a loose tooth, after which he spat red on the ground. Then, with a soft groan that spoke volumes, the boy pulled himself up and stood unsteadily, balancing with a hand against the rock. "Maybe find myself a walkin'-stick," he said, his voice slurred.

"I'll be all right."

At the top of the hill, a slim branch from a fallen tree was found to suit Tom's purpose, and he hobbled on it while trying to walk as fast as he could go. Matthew thought that Tom's revelation of his sense of the world's evil had sapped some of the strength the boy had been hoarding, and even Tom's depth of willpower had its bottom.

Tom's description of the murder of John Burton had been horrific, even if the boy was unable to remember all the details. It had been like a bad dream, he'd told Walker and Matthew. James started barking, the door had crashed in and the man was suddenly there. Tom recalled that he'd worn a black tricorn-Matthew's hat-and how he'd grinned in the guttering candlelight. Dogs were born brave, and so James had attacked the intruder and been crushed down by the chair across his back. Boys were also born brave, and sometimes foolish, and when Tom had gone at Slaughter he hadn't seen the glint of the drawn razor until it came at him, slashing his outstretched hands, followed by a fist that had slammed into the side of his face and sent him sprawling. He'd remembered, in a blur, seeing what Slaughter was doing to the reverend, and when he'd grabbed at Slaughter from behind an elbow hit him in the mouth and another fist struck and the razor streaked across his cheekbone and tore ribbons from his shirt. Then he was stumbling out across the porch, dripping blood and only half-conscious, but the conscious part was screaming at him to run, to get to the woods, because he knew James was finished from how the dog had shrieked, and no man could stand up to a razor the way it was cutting pieces from the reverend's face.

He had gone instead to the barn to get the hayfork, but there the darkness had crashed upon him and he remembered falling. And there he'd stayed, until James' cries had called him back to the world, and he'd gotten up and walked in a haze of blood and pain to the cabin with the hayfork ready, the Devil's weapon to kill the Devil. But Slaughter had gone, probably in a hurry to get to Belvedere before nightfall, and had taken with him two items: the boots and Tom's long black coat, which certainly was too small for him to shrug into but would serve well enough as a cloak over his asylum clothing.

"I don't intend to kill Slaughter," Matthew said to Tom as they continued on along the trail. "Though he might deserve it. I'm going to catch him and take him to New York. Let the law punish him."

Tom grunted. "Tall words. He'll have somethin' to " It was getting harder for him to talk, and he had to get his breath and make another effort at it. "To say about that. Best I kill him. When the time comes."

The afternoon moved on, and so did the two travelers along the Seneca trail. When Matthew thought Tom couldn't make it another step, the boy seemed to draw from amazing reserves and keep going. By Matthew's imprecise calculation of time, about two hours after Walker had left them they came upon a shallow stream that ran clear and quick across rocks. Both Tom and Matthew drank from it and rested against the trunk of a massive oak tree that Matthew saw was carved with Indian symbols.

They didn't have long to wait. Walker came at his steady run along the trail from the opposite direction, knelt down and drank from the stream and then said, "Belvedere is only a mile distant." He turned his attention to Tom, who was already trying to stand up but whose legs would not obey; he was worn to a nub. "Help him," he told Matthew.

"I don't need no help," was the boy's angry, if hoarsely whispered, response. But whether he admitted it or not, he did, for he couldn't stand up even with the walking-stick until his pride allowed Matthew to lend a shoulder.

At last they emerged from the forest onto the road again, or at least what served as a road, and there stood the town of Belvedere before them. The smell of a settlement was very different from the smell of the woods. In the air lingered the scents of cooked food, burned firewood, moldy timbers, wet cloth and that oh-so-ripe fragrance of well-filled fig-pits. Belvedere itself was no different from any of dozens of small communities that had grown up around a trading post originally built to barter skins from Indians and trappers. Most of the houses that Matthew saw were in need of whitewash and some were green with mold, though here and there an enterprising soul had put a brush to work. But all their roofs and walls were still standing and they all looked to be occupied, for their chimneys smoked. A long structure with a front porch had brightly-colored Indian blankets nailed up on the walls, and above its door was a red-painted sign that proclaimed, simply, Belvedere Trade. Two men were perched in chairs on the porch, smoking long clay pipes, with a little boy sitting on the floor beside them, and all three stared at the new arrivals as Walker led the way and Matthew supported Tom.

Walker did not go to the trading post, as Matthew would have thought. Instead, the Indian went through the gate of a picket fence to one of the white-washed houses, which Matthew saw had mounted above its entrance a wooden cross. Then Walker knocked at the door, the sound of which brought the door open and a tall man about fifty years old with thick gray hair, a trimmed beard and eyeglasses emerged.

"Ah!" the man said, with a frown of concern. "Bring him in, please! Sarah!" he called into the house. "They're here!"

It was a normal house with the usual spare furnishings, but Matthew noted the woman's touch in the frilled window curtains and on the fireplace mantel a blue clay pot of wildflowers. And then the woman herself appeared from another room; she was slim and had copious curls of gray hair, looked to be a few years younger than the man, and wore the expression of a worried saint as she came forward to meet the visitors.

"Go get Dr. Griffin," the man directed, and the woman was out the door. "You can bring him in here," he said to Walker, and led them along a short hallway to a small but clean bedroom.

"I'm all right!" Tom had grasped some of the picture, and didn't like what he was seeing. Still, he could hardly stand up and was in no position-of either strength or willpower-to resist. "I'm all right!" he protested to Matthew, but Matthew helped him to the bed and didn't have to use much force. As soon as Tom lay down upon the russet-colored spread he thought better of it and tried to get up again.

"Listen to me." Walker put a hand against the boy's chest. "You're to stay here, do you understand? The doctor's coming. You need to be tended to."

"No, I'm all right. I don't need a doctor!"

"Son?" The man leaned forward. "It's best you stay here, and try to rest awhile." "I know you." Tom's eyesight was fading, along with his resolve. "Don't I?"

"I'm the Reverend Edward Jennings. Walker In Two Worlds has told me what happened to you, and to Reverend Burton."

"Told you?"

"Yes. Lie still now, just rest."

Matthew realized that Walker had run to Belvedere and back in the time it had taken him and Tom to reach the stream. It was an answer to Matthew's question about what they were to do with the boy.

"I don't want to lie still. I've gotta get up gotta keep movin'." As much as he desired it, the movement part was all but impossible. He looked up, almost pleadingly, at Walker or where his darkening vision had last made out Walker to be. "I'm goin' with you. To find that man. I ain't gonna I ain't gonna stay here."

"You are going to stay here," Walker replied. "You can't go any further. Now you can fight it all you please, but you're only going to wear yourself out more. The doctor's coming, just lie still."

Tom had been shaking his head-no, no, no-all the time Walker was speaking. He rasped, "You don't order me what to do," and reached up to grab hold of Matthew's waistcoat as a means of pulling himself out of bed. The grasp was weak and the show of will a last flicker of the flame, however, for Tom then gave a quiet moan. "I'm gonna kill him," he managed to whisper. But even the powerful desire for revenge had its limits, and as Tom's fingers opened and the hand fell away from Matthew's waistcoat his head lay back against the straw-stuffed pillow and sleep overcame him in a second. His razor-slashed chest moved as he breathed steadily, but his candle was out.

The doctor arrived, escorted by Sarah Jennings and with his own wife in tow. Griffin was an earnest young physician only ten years or so older than Matthew, with sandy-brown hair and sharp hazel eyes that took in Tom's injuries and instantly called for Sarah to bring a kettle of hot water. Griffin's wife was laying out bandages and the doctor was readying his sewing kit when Walker and Matthew took their leave of the room.

"I thank you for accepting the boy," Walker said to Reverend Jennings at the front door. A few people were milling about at the fence, craning their necks to get a view of what was happening in the parsonage. "I trust the doctor will fix him?"

"As much as he can be fixed," Jennings replied. "He's been through a rough time." "He has. And you'll treat him well?" "Of course. You have my word on that." "What'll happen to him?" Matthew asked.

"When he's able to get up and about, I suppose he'll have a choice to make. There are people here who could use help on their farms, but then again there are the homes for orphans in Philadelphia and New York."

Matthew said nothing. That was going to be a hard choice for Tom. He thought the boy would probably get up one night and disappear, and that would be that.

"Thank you for bringing him in," said the reverend to Walker. "It was very Christian of you."

"For an Indian?" Walker asked, cocking an eyebrow.

"For anyone," came the reply. "God be with the both of you."

They left the parsonage, and Matthew followed Walker through the little knot of people toward the trading post. It wasn't such a terribly bad town, Matthew thought, though it was out on the raw edge of the western frontier. He saw vegetable gardens and fruit trees, and in the dim light of late afternoon lanterns were glowing in windows. He judged from the number of houses that maybe seventy to a hundred people lived here, and there were surely some outlying farms and orchards as well. There looked to be, at a passing glance, a small business area with a blacksmith's, a tavern and two or three other merchants. The locals who glanced at him and Walker did so without surprise or untoward curiosity, for surely Indians were a common sight at a trading post. He reasoned also that Walker had been here many times, and had previously met Reverend Jennings. Well, it was a relief to have Tom taken care of, and now Matthew could turn his attention to the task at hand.

They went up the stone steps to the porch. The pipe-smokers were still there, though the boy had gone. One of them called, "Walker! What's the commotion?"

"You'll have to ask the reverend," the Indian replied, with the polite decorum of an Englishman. Inside, in the lamplight, a squat, wide-bodied man behind the counter wore a tattered and yellowed wig and a faded red coat bearing what appeared to be military medals. He said in a booming voice, "Afternoon, Walker!"

"Good afternoon, Jaco."

The man's bulbous blue eyes in a face like dried mud took in Matthew and then returned to the Indian. He had six rings hanging from one ear and four from another. "Who's your companion?"

"Matthew Corbett," said Matthew, who reached to shake the man's hand and was met by a piece of wood sculpted and painted to resemble one, complete with carved fingernails and grooved knuckles. Matthew hesitated only a second before he took the timber and shook it, as any gentleman should.

"Jaco Dovehart. Pleased to meet you." Again the bulbous eyes went to Walker. "What are you all dressed up for? Never seen you in black paint. Hey! There's no trouble, is there?"

"I'm working."

"Just wanted to make sure you fellas weren't on the warpath. What'd you bring me?"

Matthew had had a chance to take a look around during this exchange. His first impression was of a merchant's bedlam. This likely being the first building put up in Belvedere and obviously as old as Moses' beard, the crooked mud-chinked walls encouraged vertigo and the warped floorboards presented a series of frightening rises and dips. Shelves held blankets, linens, clay plates and cups, wooden bowls and eating utensils, mallets, saws, axes, shears, bottles, jars and boxes of a staggering variety, wigs, slippers, boots, breeches, petticoats, gowns, shifts, and a myriad of other items. Everything, however, appeared to be either well-worn or moldy. Pieces of a plow lay on the floor, and two wagon wheels were propped in a corner. On dozens of wallpegs hung a crowding of shirts, cravats, waistcoats, leather belts, tricorn hats, caps, coats, blanket robes and bed gowns; again, everything had a musty green tinge. Matthew thought all the items here had probably belonged to dead people.

"We're looking for a man who may have passed this way," Walker said, his face especially fearsome caught as it was between the yellow lamplight and the blue haze through dirty windows. "Describe him, Matthew."

"He would have a beard. It's been described as a 'patchwork'."

"Oh, him!" Dovehart nodded. "Came in yesterday, about this time. Askin' to buy a horse. I told him I had a good horse last week, but I sold it to a Mohawk. Hey, Lizzie! Walker's here!"

A gaunt, sharp-chinned woman wearing what once had been a royal-blue gown with a frill of lace at the 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 over­confident."

"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 royal­like 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 hi m. Obviously, the matter of Walker not havi ng 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."

"Got anythin' else to trade?"

Matthew started to reach for another item from his pocket, but before he could get there Walker said with a hint of steel in his voice, "Good will is a valuable commodity. I'd expect you could find something." He stared across the counter into Dovehart's eyes and became utterly immobile, as if nothing on earth could shift him from the position.

"Well " Dovehart glanced nervously at Matthew and then back to the Indian. "I suppose there's an old shooter's bag up on the top shelf over there. Ought to do."

Walker found it and gave it to Matthew. It was made of deerskin with the hair still on it and had a drawstring closure, as well as a braided leather strap that fit around the shoulder.

"Alrighty! You through robbin' me?" asked the master, with a measure of heat in his face.

"I'll remember your good will," Walker answered, "the next time the pelts come in."

"And I hope it's soon! Been waitin' for a good load of 'em nearly a month now!"

In his buckskin jacket and new stockings, with his bullpup pistol and the necessaries in the shooter's bag around his shoulder, Matthew bid good-bye to the Doveharts-the master still fussing about lost business, the mistress fixed on her mirror-and followed Walker out into the darkening afternoon. A drizzle was falling again, proclaiming a nasty night. Matthew's stomach rumbled; he looked toward the single little tavern, identified by the sign Tavern, and said, "I'll buy us a meal." Surely the tavern-keepers would accept the engraved silver ring for two bowls of corn soup and a few slices of whatever meat was available.

"I am not allowed in there," said Walker, who did not slow his pace past the tavern. "It's for Englishmen and Dutchmen only."

"Oh. I see."

"They think we smell. It upsets their appetite." He went on a few more strides before he spoke again. "Constable Abernathy's house is around the bend there. I can find where Slaughter was thrown, and where he entered the woods. I can find his track, and his direction. But it has to be done before dark. We can make another mile, maybe two. Are you able?"

Am I? he asked himself. The lights in the tavern windows were fading behind them. It seemed to him that it was the last call of civilization, before whatever lay out there, ahead.

Slaughter. In the dark. With a razor and a pistol. Settling his accounts. "I am," Matthew said.

Walker began to move at a slow run, and Matthew grit his teeth and kept up.

Nineteen

They had penetrated possibly a mile and three quarters into the thick forest that lay alongside the road directly across from Constable Abernathy's house before Walker said, "We'll stop here."

The decision had a strategic importance, because the place he'd chosen was among a group of large boulders in a slight hollow overhung by pines. Working quickly, Walker found a series of fallen treelimbs that, with Matthew's help, he placed overhead in a criss-cross pattern between a pair of the largest rocks. Smaller branches and handfuls of pine needles were then spread across this makeshift roof to provide further shelter from the drizzling rain. Matthew had no qualms about getting wet tonight, but he was appreciative of any measure of comfort.

Walker wasn't finished with their camp, though, for as soon as the shelter was done he went to work preparing a fire using broken-up pine needles and small bits of pine bark and papery white birch bark that were as dry as he could find. The tinder was sparked by not the rubbing of two sticks together, which Matthew had expected, but by the method any English trapper or leatherstocking might have used, the striking of a flint and a small piece of steel. Walker worked intently but patiently, adding more bark and then broken branches to the little tongues of flame. Soon, they had a not unrespectable fire and a decent amount of warmth.

The Indian had previously shed his bow and quiver, as well as his fringed knife belt and his rawhide bag. He sat with his back against a boulder, warming his hands, and then he opened the bag and removed from it a fist-sized, black and oily-looking hunk of dried meat. He sliced some off with his blade and gave it to Matthew, who didn't particularly care if it was beef, venison, bear meat or beaver tail. And it might have been beaver tail, for its pungence, but it was chewy in the mouth and went down just as well as brisket at Sally Almond's. Walker ate some, cut Matthew another piece and himself a second, and then returned the rest of it to the bag.

"Is that all?" Matthew asked.

"It's enough."

Now Matthew knew why the man was so thin. But even though Matthew was still famished, there was no asking for anymore, and that was that. Now that he'd had some time to sit and stretch his legs out, he wondered if he could ever stand up again. Truly, the morning was going to bring a battle of mind over matter. Sitting in the warmth and the orange light, he felt how very tired he was, how very near the edge of absolute collapse. Yet he knew also that when he closed his eyes he would see the carnage in John Burton's cabin again, and hear the buzzing of the flies.

True to his claim, Walker had found the crushed place in the thicket where Abernathy's mare had thrown Slaughter. The Indian had knelt down and found Slaughter's tracks among the dead leaves, and had announced to Matthew that their quarry was heading into the deeper woods on a southwesterly course. Probably wanted to avoid the road for awhile, Matthew reasoned; at least until a few miles had been put between himself, the constable and the men who were after his skin. Matthew assumed Slaughter would either veer his course to meet the road further ahead or might find some other backwoods route to Philadelphia.

"We go at first light," Walker said as he added a few more small broken sticks to the fire. "By that, I mean we're moving at first light."

"I understand."

Walker stared at him, his face impassive. "You did well today." "For an Englishman?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," Matthew answered. Whether he would do so well tomorrow was another question entirely.

"We might catch up with him in the afternoon, if we're fast and he's slow. I had hoped he might have been injured in his fall, but he's not limping."

"Too bad," Matthew mumbled. It was all he could do to keep his eyes from sliding shut.

"Yes, unfortunate for us. But he didn't get the horse." Walker arranged the cloak around himself. "Listen to me, Matthew."

An urgent note in the man's voice made Matthew push back the dark.

"I'm going to sleep now. My demons will find me. You are not to awaken me, no matter what you hear. Don't touch me. Do you understand that?"

"Yes."

Walker said no more, but curled up beneath his cloak and for all intents and purposes disappeared within its folds.

Matthew sat up for a minute or two longer, until his chin dropped upon his chest. The fire still burned, its warmth soothing. Matthew stretched out alongside the flames, listening to the soft crackling of the wood and the softer sound of rain upon the shelter's roof. Behind his closed eyes he did again see the bloody horror of Reverend Burton's cabin, the broken dog and Tom's battered face, but the worst was that he saw in his mind's eye Slaughter out there in the night somewhere, going on and on, mile after mile, a monster moving across fields of carnage.

Then, mercifully, he dropped into sleep as off a precipice. He woke up just as suddenly.

And lay there, very still, drowsy and fogged, listening to the night.

Far off, an owl hooted. Once, again, and a third time.

The rain had stopped, he thought. He couldn't hear it falling any longer.

The owl hooted once more. The same one or another? It seemed to be from a different direction, and nearer to their camp.

Matthew opened his sleep-swollen eyes. The fire had burned down to the red-glowing embers. And then from beneath Walker's cloak came that keening cry again, rising up to end in what might have been a gasp of breath or a plea for mercy. There followed a period of silence, and then the cry rose up, grew ragged and hoarse and became in its last tortured notes a strangled moan.

The owl spoke. Walker was silent, but Matthew could hear the quickness of his breathing, as if he were running from something he knew he could not possibly escape.

Matthew gave an involuntary shiver. The night was colder, with the fire's dying. He carefully and quietly reached out to grasp a few of the broken sticks Walker had gathered to feed the flames, and as he dropped them upon the embers one of them gave a crack, a polite sound, nothing harsh, just a sound that might have been the trod of a stealthy boot amid the pines.

The dark green cloak whipped up. Startled speechless, Matthew looked into the face of the damned.

The skin seemed to have further tightened around Walker's skull, its pressure so intense that it had caused him to bare his teeth in anguish. Sweat sparkled on his forehead and cheeks. The thin slits of his eyes were fixed directly on Matthew, but then again they had an unfocused quality, a nightmare glaze about them, and so perhaps they could be just as much looking through Matthew at some distant vision as at him. He was up on one knee, his body quivering.

Matthew saw the gleam of the knife in the newborn firelight, and suddenly in a blur of motion the blade was right there at Matthew's neck.

"Walker," Matthew said firmly. He dared not move. The Indian's face came toward him, as if to make out whose visage was floating like an orange lamp in the dark. "Walker," Matthew said again, and this time his voice cracked and betrayed him. "I'm not one of your demons."

Walker's eyes searched his face. The seconds passed. And then Matthew saw the madness leave him, like a blanket of crows rising from a bleak field. It was there one second, and the next it had broken apart and whirled away and nothing was left but the memory of black wings beating the air.

Walker sat back on his haunches and looked at the knife in his hand. Matthew, as weary as he was, doubted he'd be getting back to sleep anytime soon. He sat up, rubbed his throat where the blade had threatened to cut him a dead man's grin, and stared into the fire as if to find in it some picture of comfort.

"Ah," said Walker, his voice tired and raspy. He slid the knife back into its holder on the fringed belt. "Now you know."

"Know what?"

"Why I have no wife, and why I am unlikely to ever have a wife." "That's happened before?"

"Several times, in your land. Of course, they never let me have a knife. But I did try to attack some of the ladies who accepted me. It happened only once, here, but once was enough." Walker kept his head down, shamed by his lack of control. "You can imagine my " He thought for a word again, and Matthew decided that in these times of hesitation Walker was trying to recall words he had learned but that he didn't have much need to use and so had nearly forgotten. "Popularity," he finished.

Matthew nodded. "What do you dream about?" he asked. Walker was silent. "Is it so terrible to speak of?"

For a time Walker did not answer. He picked up a few sticks, broke them between his fingers and put them into the fire one after the other. "My demons show me things," he said at last. "Things only demons would be cruel enough to show a human being."

"That's saying a lot while not saying very much," Matthew observed. "What do they show you, exactly?"

"The end of the world," Walker answered, and he let that linger before he continued. "That is to say, the end of my world. Yours will go on, but you might wish someday-someday-that it would not."

"I don't understand."

Walker opened his rawhide bag that held the dried meat as well as the flint and steel, and from it he brought a familiar object: the broken silver watch. He placed it in the palm of his left hand, and occasionally gazed at it as if to ascertain whether it was still lifeless or not.

"When I was eleven years old," Walker began, "a group of Englishmen came to our village, with a guide who spoke our tongue. Rich-looking men, they were. Wearing great cloaks and feathered hats. They brought bags of gifts with them. Bundles of bright cloth, glass bottles, bead necklaces and bracelets, woolen caps and the like. They were certainly rich men, and they wanted us to know it. They brought the chiefs daughter a clay doll with blonde hair; I remember that very clearly, because all the children crowded around it wanting to see. And then these men said that they wished something for their gifts, and it would benefit both them and the tribe. They said they wanted three children, to take back with them across the dark divide, to show them what the world called England was like, and the great King's city of London."

"The agreement was made," said Walker, as he watched the fire burn. "To pick three children, and see them off on one of the flying canoe clouds that rested on the waters of Philadelphia. Nimble Climber was chosen, Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone was another, and I was the third." He glanced at Matthew. "Back then, I was called He Runs Fast Too. My father is He Runs Fast. You met him. He and my younger brothers took your friend out of the well. He doesn't run quite so fast now, but he still gets around."

"For that I'm grateful," Matthew replied.

"It would please him to hear it, but not from me, since he and I no longer speak. I am a source of great shame to him, being insane."

"Insane how? Because you have bad dreams?"

"Let me go on. We three children, and the tribe, were told we would see the world of England and the city of London for ourselves and when we were returned-within two years-we would be able to explain to our people what we had witnessed. In hopes, the men said, of forming closer ties as brothers. But you'll note in my story that the men wanted only children, and there was a reason for that." Walker nodded, his eyes still directed to the fire. "Children are so much easier to handle. They're so trusting, so unaware."

"You mean the men didn't do as they said?"

"We were taken to England, yes." A muscle worked in his jaw as if he were chewing bitter hardtack. "What a journey that was. And all that time, through heavy seas and sickness, knowing your home is falling further and further away behind you, and to get back home you have to come the same way again. My soul withers at the memory of that trip. How you English do it again and again, I'll never know."

Matthew managed a faint smile. "Maybe we're a bit insane, too."

"You would have to be. But I suppose that's the nature of all men. To be a bit insane, for a purpose or a cause." Walker turned the watch over in his hand, and ran his fingers across the silver. "Nimble Climber did not survive the trip. The sailors began a wagering game, betting how fast he could get up the rigging to fetch a gull feather fixed to the mast with a leather strap. And they kept putting it higher and higher. The captain warned them to stop, and the gentlemen who were travelling with us forbade it but an Indian boy of nine years can't be stoppered in a bottle, or locked below a deck. They were paying him with peppermint candies. He had one in his mouth when he fell. And when I stood beside Pretty Girl and looked at him lying on the deck, I thought of the clay doll with the blonde hair, and I hoped it didn't break as easily as Nimble Climber."

One of the owls hooted a few times, far off in the woods. Walker listened to it, his head tilted to the side as if hearing the sweetest music. "When we reached England," he said, "I stood on the deck in the dawn light looking at a forest of flying canoe clouds around us. Ships, of course. Hundreds of them, it seemed. All shapes and sizes. I thought how many men must there be in this world, to have made all those canoes? It was an incredible view, one I shall never forget. And then directly when we left our ship Pretty Girl Who Sits Alone was taken away by two men. I held onto her hand as long as I could, but they pulled us apart. They put her in a horse box. A coach. She was carried off, somewhere. I never found out. Some men put me into another coach, and I was not to see my people again for almost ten years. When they finally were done with me, and let me go home, I was insane."

"When they were done with you?" Matthew asked. "What happened?"

"I became a star," the Indian replied, with his own wistful smile. "A celebrity, I think is the word. I was dressed up in feathers and animal skins, with a golden crown on my head, and put upon the London stage. The signs out front advertised me as the 'Noble Young Savage', or 'Jonathan Redskin'. The plays-I was in several, over a number of years-were all the same: romantic dramas pitting the gallant Englishmen against the wicked or misguided savages, building to the moment when I stepped upon the stage and with sign language alerted the hero to the oncoming attack. Some such thing. As time went on and I grew older, the novelty of my stoic silence wore off, and I was required to speak a few lines. I remember one: Beware the wrath of the Iroquois, as they shall strip your scalps" He frowned, searching for the rest of it. " As surely as the locust strips the cornplants, yonder in the field." He solemnly raised his right hand, toward the paper cornplants in the painted field.

Matthew thought that the low firelight might indeed pass for the footlamps. On the boulder behind Walker his shadow was thrown as upon a canvas backdrop. "And that was enough to drive you insane? Playing a part on the stage?"

"No, not that. In fact, it was a very interesting experience. I was tended to, fed and watered very well, and I was taught your language by some very capable teachers. People came to see me by the hundreds. The thousands, I suppose. I was shown off at garden parties and in grand ballrooms. I was may I say the object of affection from a few daring ladies. But that was then. Later when first a new Indian was brought to the stage, and then another, and another yet Jonathan Redskin's days of valor were numbered. I was cast as the villain in a new play, which served to prolong my career, but the truth was I could not act. My finest scene was a death sprawl, in which I lay motionless at center stage for three minutes with my eyes open. But I was no longer a boy, and I was no longer a sensation. I was simply one of many."

Walker paused to add a few more sticks to the fire. "One of many," he repeated. "In a foreign land." He took a long breath and let it slowly out. "I was sold," he said flatly. "To another acting company. They toured the countryside. I was required to do the same as I had done, in town halls, pastures, barns and warehouses. Wherever we might set up. Of course the people flocked in, to see oh, I was called 'The Savage Adam' that time around. Things were good for awhile, but soon there was always another Savage Adam, it seemed, who had just passed that way and played a week's engagement. In one village I was accused of being an Englishman in makeup, because I'd spoken to a man there who thought my speech was too civilized. So I was sold again. And sold again, about a year after that. Then, sold once more within six months. Until at last " He looked directly at Matthew. "Have you ever seen a mishap of nature?"

"A mishap?"

"A person," Walker corrected, "who is a mishap of nature. A malformed human being. A dwarf, or a man with claw hands, or a woman with three arms. A boy who sweats blood. Have you ever seen any of those?"

"No," Matthew replied, though he could certainly relate to any boy who sweated blood.

"I was the Demon Indian," said Walker, in a quiet, faraway voice. "The Lucifer of the New World. The sign on my cage said so. The red paint on my face, the horns on my head those said so, too. And Mr. Oxley, the show's owner-poor old drunken Mr. Oxley-told me to make sure I rattled the bars of my cage, to throw myself against them, and holler and growl like a fiend from Hell. Some nights I had part of a chicken to gnaw upon. Then when the people had gone, I came out of my cage and took off my horns and all of us-all of us mishaps of nature-packed up to go to the next town. And there stood Mr. Oxley with his silver watch-very much like this one-telling everyone to hurry, telling everyone that tomorrow night in Guildford there was a fortune to be made, or the next night in Winchester, or the night after that in Salisbury. He said, hurry there! Hurry up! He said we had to hurry, through the night along the little roads, because time was wasting, because time was money, and because time never stops for an Englishman."

Walker turned the watch in his hands. "Mr. Oxley," he said, "hurried himself to his death. He was already worn out. It was the gin that finished him off. The rest of us divided what money we had and that was the end of the show. I dressed in my English suit, went to Portsmouth and bought passage on a ship. I came home. I went back to my people. But I brought my insanity and my demons with me, and they will never let me be."

"I still don't understand what you mean."

Walker closed his eyes for a few seconds and then opened them again. "From the first moment I saw the city of London," he said, "the demons came to me. They began their whispering in my ear, day and night. In my dreams I see them as high-collared Englishmen with gold coins and jewels in their fists. They have eyes like fire-pits, and they say, Look upon what will be. All those buildings, roads, coaches, and people. A hundred thousand chimneys, spouting black smoke. All that noise, like the beating of great drums that you can never find nor understand. All that confusion, and constant rushing like mad human rivers. The demons whispered: this is the future. Of everywhere. Not only of the English New York, and Philadelphia, and of every town the English build upon the earth. But for the Seneca, or the Mohawk, or any of my nation there will be no place left, among all those buildings and roads and noise. Oh, we'll fight for a place, yes, but we won't win. That's what my demons tell me; that's what they've shown me, and to make me insane they have ensured that no other of my tribe will believe it, because it is beyond belief. The world will be strange. My nation will no longer be part of it. All we have created all that is important to us gone, under the buildings and the roads, and all we hear will be lost to the noise."

He looked at Matthew and nodded. "Don't think you shall escape it. Someday you'll see your world and not know it, and think it strange monstrous, even. And you and your Englishmen will yearn for what was lost, and never be able to find it again, for that is the demon's trick. To point the way forward, but to close the way back."

Matthew ventured, "I suppose that's called progress."

"There is progress," Walker agreed, "and there is rushing toward an illusion. The first takes wisdom and a plan, the second can be done by any drunken fool. I know how that story ends." He regarded the watch again. "I will think of Mr. Oxley whenever I look at this. I will think of him hurrying through the night, toward a fortune that never existed, with a wagon full of mishaps of nature. And I will think that the greatest thing for a man-and maybe the hardest thing-is to make peace with the passage of time. Or the stopping of his own time." He returned the watch to the bag, and gathered up his cloak, his bow and quiver, and the belt with his knife. "It's not raining anymore. I'll find another place."

"You can stay here."

"No, I can't. I won't be far away, though. I believe we have four or five hours before light, so there's still plenty of time to sleep. Take it while you can."

"All right. Thank you." It was all Matthew could think to say. He watched as Walker strode off into the dark beyond the fire, which seemed a familiar place for the Indian to be. At last Matthew lay down and tried his best to relax, if that would ever be possible again. But weariness is weariness, after all, and slowly he began to drift off. His last sense of anything was hearing the voice of a nightbird far away in the woods, which stirred some memory that did not linger, but departed on silent wings.

Twenty

"So," said the Reverend, "you've had a good year, then?"

"Yes, sir. Very good," Peter Lindsay answered. "A bumper crop of corn, apples a'plenty, and pumpkins still on the vine. You must have seen them, out in the field."

"I did. Peter, you're a blessed man. To have such a farm as this, and such a lovely family. I was speaking with a fellow not long ago about greed. You know, how greed can lead a man into the valley of destruction. It's good that you're not greedy, Peter, and that you're satisfied with your position in life."

"I am, sir, and thank you."

"Well, we certainly need the glories of the farm, don't we? Just as we need " He paused, tapping his chin with one forefinger, which had a long and ragged nail.

"The glories of Heaven?" asked Peter's wife, Faith, who was preparing the midday meal at the hearth across the room. Her kitchen was a glory of its own: clean and tidy, with walls of pale yellow pinewood, an orderly arrangement of cups and platters on shelves and in the arched fireplace itself the frying pans, trivets, spider skillets, iron pots, bake kettle, pot hooks and other vessels and tools that kept a home in operation and the family fed.

"Exactly that," the reverend agreed.

The youngest child, Robin, had been helping her mother. Now she came toward the reverend, who sat at the head of the table nursing a cup of cider, and showed him something she'd brought from the other room. She was eight years old, blonde-haired, and very proud of her small embroidered pillow, which indeed had upon it the representation of a robin perched on a tree branch.

"I made this myself," said the child.

"You did? How wonderful! Now, you're saying your mother didn't help you one bit, is that right?"

"Well " The child grinned. Her eyes were a bright, warm blue, like her mother's. "She helped got me started, and she helped got me finished."

"Oh ho! But I'm sure there was a lot of work between starting and finishing." He handed the pillow back. "Ah, what's this, then?" The middle child, the thirteen-year-old tow-headed boy named Aaron, had come forward as well to show off his favorite possession. "A fine collection," said the man as he took a small white clay jar and admired the bright variety of different colored marbles within. "How many do you have?"

"Twenty-two, sir."

"And you use them for what purpose? Games?" "Yes, sir. But just to look at, too." "I'd think any boy would like to have these." "Yes sir, any boy sure would."

"Aaron?" said Faith Lindsay. "Don't bother Reverend Burton, now."

"He's no bother. Not at all. Here you are, Aaron." He returned the jar of marbles and then lifted his bearded chin slightly to gaze at the eldest child, who stood next to the fireplace in the process of helping her mother cook the cornbread, the beans, the baked apples and the piece of ham for this special occasion.

She was sixteen years old, with the pale blonde hair of her mother and sister, the same lovely oval-shaped face and high cheekbones, and the lustrous dark brown eyes of her father. She stared fixedly at Reverend John Burton, as she paused before spooning the beans into a bowl.

"Would you like to show me something, Lark?" the man prodded.

"No, sir," came the firm reply. "But I would like to ask you something." Sitting opposite the reverend, her father-a wiry man in his late thirties, wearing a blue shirt and tan-colored breeches, his face lined and freckled by the sun and his scalp bald but for cropped reddish-brown hair on the sides and a solitary thatch at the front-glanced quickly at her, his thick eyebrows uplifted.

"Go right ahead, please," said the reverend, in a gracious voice.

"Why are your fingernails like that?"

"Lark!" Peter frowned, the lines of his face deepening into ravines. At the same time, Faith shot a stern look at her daughter and shook her head.

"It's all right. Really it is." Reverend Burton held his hands up and stretched the fingers out. "Not very attractive, are they? It's a pity I couldn't keep my nails like a gentleman ought to, among the Indians. My travels among the tribes unfortunately did not include weekly use of scissors. I presume you have a pair here? That I might use later?"

"Yes, we do," Peter said. "Lark, what's gotten into you?"

She almost said it, but she did not. I don't trust this man. Even thinking such a thing of a reverend, a servant of God, was enough to make the red creep across her cheeks and her gaze go to the floorplanks. She began spooning the beans into the bowl, her shoulders slightly bowed forward with the weight of what she was thinking.

He looks at me too long.

"I am hungry," the reverend said, to no one in particular. "Ravenous would be the word." "Done in just a minute," Faith assured him. "Robin, would you put the cornbread on its platter?" "Yes, Momma."

"Get out the good napkins, Aaron."

"Yes, ma'am." He put the jar of prized marbles down on the table and went to a cupboard.

Lark Lindsay glanced quickly at Reverend Burton, and then away again; he was still watching her, with eyes the pale blue color of water. The water of Christ, she thought her mother and father might say. But she was thinking more of frozen water, like the pond in midwinter when nothing can drink from it. She finished spooning out the beans, set the bowl on the table in front of her father, and then her mother asked her to refill the reverend's cup of cider from the jug so she turned her attention to that task.

He had arrived about an hour ago. Lark, her father and brother had been out in the orchard behind the barn, filling up more baskets from God's bounty, when Aaron had said, Papa? Somebody's on the road. Comin' this way.

It was rare to have a visitor. The nearest minister lived on the other side of Caulder's Crossing, which itself was almost eight miles south along the road. They had been overjoyed to have a guest, and Lark knew her father would take it as a sign of the beneficent grace of the Lord, which he talked about often. The land might be hard and the living a trial, Peter Lindsay said, but all you had to do to touch God in this country was to reach up. Which Lark had always thought was a roundabout way of saying that if you worked hard enough, God would reward you.

But sometimes that wasn't exactly true, because she remembered several years when everybody worked themselves to the sweat and the bones, but the crops were paltry and all reaching up did was give you a withered apple from a higher branch.

She refreshed the reverend's cup of cider. He shifted his leg slightly; beside him, on the floor, was his haversack. My Bible is in there, he'd said. I like to have my Bible right next to me, where I can get to it fast when I see a sinner coming.

And Peter and Faith Lindsay had laughed-a polite laugh, seeing as how some preachers did not appreciate laughter-and Aaron and Robin had smiled to hear their parents laugh, but Lark had looked at Reverend Burton's face and wondered why it was so scratched up, as if he'd been running through brambles.

"Momma? Momma?" Robin was pulling at her mother's apron, the nice blue one with the yellow trim instead of the older scorched one she usually wore. "Is this all right?" She showed that the cornbread had crumbled and fallen apart a bit when lifted from pan to platter, but Faith said it was just fine, dear.

Upon his arrival, the reverend had made himself comfortable in the kitchen and had told them the story of his life: how he'd grown up as a vicar's son in Manchester, and how he in his middle age had crossed the Atlantic on a vow to his father to bring salvation to the Indians. He had been among the savages for many months now, had carried the Lord's light into many heathen hearts, but oh how he missed Manchester. England was calling him home, he'd said. There to find a new place of service, and new flocks to tend. "We're pleased to have you here after you've travelled so long and far," Peter said as Aaron brought the good napkins to the table.

"Long and far, indeed. And I'm so glad to find a place to rest. I fear my feet are blistered, as these boots are just a shade small. You have some very nice boots, I see. They look comfortable."

"Yes sir, they are. Been broken in well enough by now, I'd guess."

"Hm," said the reverend, and he took a drink from his cup. The smoky-burnt smell of the ham was filling up the kitchen, as Faith always let the skin char just before she took it off the fire. Burton put his cup down and held it between both hands, and Lark could not help but take another furtive glance at the long, jagged nails. He had washed his hands and face in the kitchen bucket, and scrubbed the nails with a brush too, true enough, but the reverend smelled to Lark as if he had also gone long and far without a bath. Of course, if a man of God was out in the wilderness for months carrying Christ to the Indians then what opportunity might he have had for an encounter with soap? It was ugly for her to be thinking this way, she thought. Ugly as sin, to be throwing shadows on such a bright, sunny day as this one had dawned.

But she couldn't help it, and she thought that later-when Reverend Burton had gone-she ought to confess her sin of haughtiness or pride or suspicion or whatever it was. And it wasn't just the ragged nails that made her think of claws, either; it was the strange beard of many colors-dark brown, red, chestnut brown, silver-with a streak of charcoal black across the chin. God help her cleanse her soul of this sinful thinking, Lark thought, but it was the kind of beard that Satan might grow, the Devil wanting to be such a cock of the walk.

"Tell me, Peter," said the reverend, as Faith and Robin began to bring the plates to the table. "I passed several houses back there that looked to be deserted. There are no people nearby?"

"My brother had a farm back that way. When his wife-rest her soul-died in '99, he took the children and went to Philadelphia. Some of those houses are older; they were empty when we came here. You know, towns rise up and fall, and fall and rise up. But it is good land here, that's for sure. And I'm hoping, with the beneficent grace of the Lord, that we won't be alone in this valley too much longer. But the nearest people from here would be at Caulder's Crossing, sir. About eight miles. A little hilly to get there, not bad."

"And I'd presume the road connects somewhere to the Pike?"

"Yes, sir. On a few miles past the Crossing."

"I'd presume also that Philadelphia is probably twenty or so miles?"

"Near twenty-five. Aaron, go get another chair. Faith, you and Robin sit on this side here, and Aaron can sit beside Lark."

"Philadelphia is my destination. From there, I sail to England," said the reverend. Faith set the ham platter at the center of the table, and alongside it the horn-handled knife sharp enough to slice through the burnt crust. "Another thing, if you please. Your barn. Might you have a horse I could ride to Caulder's Crossing? As I said, these boots-"

"Oh, reverend! We have a wagon!" Faith said, as she put down the bowl of baked apples and sat beside Robin. "We'd be honored if you'd let us harness the team and carry you to the Crossing ourselves."

"How delightful," Burton answered. "This is truly an answer to a tired man's prayer." All the food was on the table. Aaron brought in another chair and sat to the left of Lark, who had taken a seat down by her father and was looking at Reverend Burton's black tricorn hanging on one wall hook behind him, and at the long black coat hanging on another. He'd come in with that coat, which appeared to be far too small for him, wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. His dirty, dun-colored clothing looked to have been worn day and night for God only knew how long. Still months in the wilderness, with the heathen tribes.

"Reverend?" Faith looked at him, her blue eyes sparkling, the sunlight through the windowpanes shining in her hair. "Would you lead us in a blessing?"

"I certainly shall. Let us close our eyes and bow our heads. And let me get what I need, it will just take a moment."

Lark heard the reverend open his haversack. Getting his Bible, she thought. Had he seen a sinner coming?

She heard a click, opened her eyes and lifted her head, and she saw Reverend Burton pull the trigger of the flintlock pistol he was aiming at her father's skull.

Sparks flew, white smoke burst forth, and with a crack! that rattled the panes in the sun-splashed window a small black hole opened in Peter Lindsay's forehead, almost directly between his eyes as he too looked up in response, perhaps, to some internal warning of disaster that was far more urgent than waiting for a minister's blessing.

Lark heard herself scream; but it was not so much a scream as it was a bleat.

Her father went over backwards in the chair, slinging dark matter from the back of his head onto the pinewood wall. A hand reached up, the fingers clawing.

Reverend Burton laid the smoking pistol down upon the table, and picked up the horn-handled knife.

He rose to his feet, his chair falling over behind him with a crash. He grasped the nape of Aaron's neck, as the boy looked up at him with a mixture of shock and wonder. Aaron's mouth was open and his eyes were already dull and unfocused, like the eyes of a small creature that knows the predator is upon it. Reverend Burton drove the blade down into the hollow of the boy's throat until the handle could drive no deeper. Then he let the handle go, and Aaron slithered off the chair like a boneless, gurgling thing.

The reverend's gaze moved across the table. The hard, frozen-water eyes fixed upon Faith Lindsay, who made a noise as if she'd been struck in the stomach. Her own eyes were red-rimmed and dark-hollowed. She had aged twenty years in a matter of seconds. She tried to stand up, collided with the table and knocked over her son's jar of marbles, which rolled crazily among the platters, cups and bowls. Then her legs collapsed like those of a broken doll, she staggered back against the wall and slid down making a beaten whimpering noise.

"Momma!" Robin cried out. Her face had gone pasty-white. She also tried to stand, and so was on her feet when Reverend Burton's hand took hold of her head.

Whether he was trying to break the child's neck with the severe movement that followed, or whether he was just aiming her where he wanted her to fall, Lark did not know. Lark's head was throbbing with a terrible inner pressure; her eyes felt about to burst from her skull. The room, the air, the world had turned a blurred and misty crimson. She made a gutteral hitching noise-nuhnuh nuh, it sounded-and watched, paralyzed with fear, as Reverend Burton flung Robin against the hearth, followed her, and picked up an iron frying pan from one of the fireplace trivets.

Robin was up on her knees, sobbing quietly, when he hit her on the head. Her sobbing ceased as she fell, her chin striking the floor. Her hair was in her face. Miraculously, she began to sit up again. The reverend stared at her with true amazement, his brows slightly lifted and his teeth parted, as if witnessing a resurrection. He hit her again with the pan, the sound like the strange commingling of a low-throated church bell and a clay pitcher breaking in two. She fell forward into the fireplace, her face disappearing into the white ashes. Then Reverend Burton let the frying pan drop, and in her state of near-madness, her mind slipping back and forth between horrors, Lark saw hot embers touch fire to her little sister's hair and crisp the locks to powder and smoke.

There was a silence. Which went on, hideously, until the breath rushed again into Faith Lindsay's lungs and she began to scream, her mouth wide open. The tears that shot from her eyes were ruddy with the blood of ruptured tissues.

Reverend Burton stood looking at the dead girl. He pulled in a long draught of air and shook his head back and forth, as if to clear his own mind and vision. Or perhaps, Lark thought, he had sprained his neck killing her sister. She tried to speak, to shout or scream or curse, but found her voice had left her and all that emerged was a hoarse rattling of enraged air.

"Hush," he said to Faith. And louder, when she did not: "Hush!"

When she still did not-or could not-Reverend Burton returned to the table, took up a handful of cornbread and pressed it into her mouth until she gagged and choked. Her bright blue eyes, wide to the point of explosion, stared at him without blinking as her chest slowly rose and fell.

"There. Better," he said. His head swiveled. His gaze found Lark, whose voice was reborn in a shuddering moan. With both hands she gripped hold of the chair beside her, as if its oak legs made up the walls of a mighty fortress.

He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "Don't think ill of me," he said, and then he went to Aaron's body and, pressing down with a boot against the chest, pulled the knife out. He wiped it on one of the good napkins. Then he righted his chair, sat down at his place at the head of the table, sliced himself a piece of ham, spooned out a baked apple and a helping of beans, and began to eat.

Faith was silent, still staring but now simply at the far wall. Lark still gripped hold of the chair, her knuckles white. She did not move; she was thinking, crazily, that if she didn't move he wouldn't see her, and soon he would forget that she was even there.

He chewed down the ham and licked his fingers. "Have you ever been irritated by a fly?" he asked, as he carved the baked apple. His voice made Lark jump; she thought she had spoiled her invisibility, and she thought she was stupid and weak and she couldn't help but begin to cry, though silently. "One of those big green flies, that buzz around and around your head until you can't stand for it to live another minute. Another second," he amended, between bites. "So you think, I am going to kill this fly. Yes, I am. And if it doesn't go easily, I shall pull off its wings before I crush it, because I don't like to be flouted. Then you watch the fly, and it may be slow or fast or very fast indeed, but soon you make out its pattern. Everything alive has a pattern. You see its pattern, you think one step-one little fly's buzz- ahead of its pattern, and there you have it." He emphasized his point by rapping his spoon against the table. "A dead fly. Not so different with people."

He reached for the cornbread, paused to take note of Lark's crying, and then continued his solitary feast. "I hate flies. They'll be in here in a while. Nothing you can do to keep them out."

"You're not " Lark didn't know if she'd meant to speak, but there it was. Still, the words were sluggish, and her throat strangled. "You're not you're not "

"Not really a reverend, no," he admitted, with a small shrug. "But if I'd come to your door and said, Good morning, I'm a killer, where would it have gotten me?"

"You didn't have " Could she ever make a whole sentence again? Something in her mind was screaming, but she could barely whisper. "You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to. Lark. That's a pretty name. There used to be a nest of larks in a tree outside my house, when I was a boy."

"Did you did you kill them?"

"Absolutely not. They woke me up in the mornings, so I could get to work."

And now came the question that she had to ask, but that she dreaded. "Are you going to kill us now?"

He finished the apple before he spoke again. "Lark, let me tell you about power. Most men will say that power is the ability to do as you please. But I say power is the ability to do as you please, and no one is able to stop you. Oh!" He watched as Faith threw up her breakfast and in so doing blew the cornbread out of her mouth. "I think she's coming around."

Faith was trying to stand. Her face was pallid and somehow misshapen, her mouth twisted to one side and her eyes sunken inward as if a pair of vicious thumbs had forced them back into the skull. The tracks of tears glistened on her cheeks. Her mouth moved, but she made no sound.

Then Lark thought her mother's tortured eyes must have seen the bodies again, and the whole event must have whirled once more through her mind like the gunsmoke that still roiled at the ceiling. Faith slid back to the floor and began to cry like a broken-hearted child.

The Not-Reverend continued to eat. He cut another piece of ham and whittled it down between his teeth.

"We didn't we didn't do " Lark feared she too was going to vomit, for the smell of blood and burnt hair had touched her nostrils. "We didn't do anything to you."

"And that matters exactly how?" he asked, with a spoonful of beans at his mouth. When no reply was made, he ate them and dug in for another bite.

Lark wiped her eyes. She was trembling, the tears still running down her face. She was afraid to try to stand up, for she was sure that would bring him upon her with either the knife or some other implement. She listened to her mother crying, and thought that something in the sound reminded her of how Robin had wept when the spotted puppy-Dottie, they'd named it-had died of worms last summer.

Lark felt her lips curl. She felt the rage seize her heart and embolden her soul, and even though she knew that what she was about to say would mean her death she spoke it anyway: "God will fix you."

He finished the piece of ham he was working on, took a last drink of the cider, and then he put his elbows on the table and laced his murderous hands together. "Really? Well, I'd like to see that. I want you to listen. Listen beyond your mother's crying. What do you hear? Listen now, listen very carefully. Go on what do you hear?"

Lark didn't answer.

"Nothing but my voice," he said. "No one but me." He lifted his arms toward the smoky ceiling. "Where is the bolt of lightning? Where is the angel with the flaming sword? Bring them on, I'm waiting." He paused a moment, smiling thinly, and then he lowered his arms. "No, Lark. It won't be today." He regarded the nails of his right hand and with them scratched his chin. "You'll stand up now, and take off your clothes."

Lark didn't move. Deep inside her head, the words repeated over and over again.

He picked up the knife. It reflected a streak of light across his face and across the walls. "Let me ask you this, then: which ear could your mother do without?" When no sound came from between the girl's tightly-compressed lips, he continued, "Actually, she could do without either one. All you need is a hole. But fingers now that's another kettle of cod."

He waited. She waited also, her face downcast.

"I'll demonstrate," he said, and with the knife gripped in his hand he stood up.

Lark said, "Wait. Please." But she knew he would not wait; no man who had just slaughtered three people was going to wait, and so she got unsteadily to her feet and when she began to remove her clothing she tried to find a place in her mind to hide. A small place, just enough to squeeze into.

"Show me where you sleep." He was standing right beside her, the knife glinting. One ragged fingernail played across her freckled shoulders, down her throat and between her breasts.

In the room she had shared with her sister, Lark stared at the ceiling as the man moved atop her. He made no noise, and did not try to kiss her. Everything about him-his hands, his flesh, that part of him battering itself within her-was rough. The knife was on a round table beside her bed. She knew that if she reached for it he would kill her, and perhaps he was so adept at murder that if she even thought about reaching for it he would kill her, so she stayed in that safe place in her mind, that far and distant place, which was a memory of her mother holding her hand and by candlelight reciting the nightly ritual before going to bed.

Do you believe in God?

Yes, Momma.

Do you believe that weneed fear no darkness, for He lights our way?

Yes, Momma.

Do you believe in the promise of Heaven?

Yes, Momma.

So do I. Nowgo to sleep.

The man was still. He had finished in silence, with a hard deep thrust that had almost conquered her refusal to break before the pain. The tears had coursed over her cheeks and she had bitten her lower lip, but she had not sung for him.

"Momma?"

It was the voice of a child. But not Robin's voice.

The man's hand went to the knife. He slid off her. Lark lifted her head, the muscles taut in her neck, and looked at her mother standing in the doorway.

Faith was holding both hands to her private area, her face half-masked by shadow and the other half sweat­ shiny. "Momma?" she said in the childlike, horrifying voice. "I have to water the daisies."

It was what Robin always said. And what Lark knew her mother had said to Grand Ma Ma when she was a little girl.

"Hurry, Momma," the child in the doorway pleaded.

Lark heard the man begin to laugh. It was the slow sound of a hammer nailing a coffin shut, or the hollow cough of a puppy choking on worms. She almost turned upon him and struck at him then. Almost. But she let the rage go, and instead decided she would try to keep herself and her mother alive as long as she could.

"Never seen that before," said the man. "By all means, get her to a chamberpot."

Faith allowed herself to be guided. To be directed and squatted and wiped. Lark realized that her mother's dull blue, sunken eyes no longer saw anything but what she wished to see, and if those were scenes from nearly thirty years ago on an English farm, then so be it. Faith gave no reaction to the man's presence, not even after Lark had put on her clothes again and the man instructed Lark to heat a pot of water and fetch a pair of scissors because he wished to shave. Not even, when the man had drawn the last stroke of his razor and the devil's beard was gone, he put on a pair of her father's stockings, a pair of his brown breeches, a gray shirt and a beige coat with patched elbows. When the boots came off the corpse and went onto the man's feet, Faith asked Lark if they were going to town today to see someone named Mrs. Janepenny.

"You remember, Momma!" Faith said, as she walked across the kitchen avoiding the blood and the bodies like a child making her way through a blighted garden. "About the lace!"

The man had his tricorn hat on and his haversack with the pistol in it around his shoulder. He waved away the flies, which had arrived as he'd predicted. "We're going to the barn, and you are going to help me harness the team."

The afternoon sun was bright and warm, the air cool. There were only threads of clouds in the sky. In the barn, as Lark got the harness down from its hooks beside the wagon, Faith sat on the ground outside and played with some sticks. The man brought one of the horses from its stall and was getting the harness on when Faith said excitedly, "Momma! Somebody's coming!"

Instantly the man said, "Bring her in. Quickly."

"Mother!" Lark said, but the woman just stared blankly at her. "Faith," she corrected, her mouth tasting of ashes. "Come in here! Hurry!" Her mother, an obedient child, got up and entered the barn.

The man rushed to a knothole facing the road and peered out; within seconds he turned to his haversack and took from it a spyglass, which he opened to its fullest extent and put to the knothole. Lark reasoned that the approaching visitor was still distant. There followed a silence, as Faith stood beside Lark, grasped her hand and kicked idly at the straw.

The man grunted. "I am impressed," he said. "Found himself an Indian guide, as well." He lowered the spyglass, closed it and returned it to the haversack. He stood rubbing his bare chin, his cold eyes moving back and forth between the woman, the girl and the wagon. Then he walked to an axe leaning against the wall, and when he picked it up Lark caught her breath.

He chopped out two of the spokes from one of the wagon's wheels. Then, with quick and powerful blows, he began to destroy the wheel, until the wood splintered and broke and the wagon sagged. He threw the axe aside, reached again into the haversack and brought out two items that he offered to Lark.

"Here," he said. "Go on, take them!" There was impatience in his voice. Lark accepted the gold coins, and once they were in her hand they were visible to Faith, who made a cooing noise and wanted to hold them.

"The young man's name is Matthew Corbett," said the man, and Lark noted that small beads of sweat had bloomed on his clean upper lip. "I want you to give those to him. Tell him we're square, as far as I'm concerned. Tell him to go home." He strode to the rear of the barn, where he kicked enough boards loose to crouch down and get through into the orchard beyond. "But tell him," he said when his way of escape had been made, "that if he wishes to find death, I will be glad to give that to him, also." He took his tricorn in his hand and knelt down.

"You aren't going to kill us?" Lark asked, as her mother rolled the gold coins between her palms.

The man paused. He gave her a slight smile that contained in equal measures both disdain and mockery, but not a whisker's weight of pity.

"Dear Lark," he said, "I have already killed you."

And with that, the man pushed his shoulders through, and was gone.