Mister Slaughter

Twenty-One

After Lark had told her story, Matthew walked for the second time into the blood-stained kitchen, not to further test his stomach but to reaffirm that this hideous, unbelievable sight was inconvertibly true.

The scene of carnage had not changed. He put his hand to his mouth once again, but it was only a reflex action; he had not yet lost his breakfast of cattail roots nor the midday meal of dried meat and a handful of berries, which meant that he was either toughening up or that the food was too precious to expel. He thought the latter was more likely, for he never wished to be tough enough to take a sight like this without feeling sick.

He walked around the kitchen, avoiding the blood and in the case of Peter Lindsay, the brains that had been blown out the back of the head. He was looking for details, as the sunlight through the window shimmered in the gore and the flies buzzed back and forth on their industrious journeys.

No boots on the man's corpse. Slaughter's old boots, taken of course from Reverend Burton, were lying on the floor. Couldn't Slaughter just ask for a damned pair of boots? Matthew wondered. Or at the very least take them without stealing someone's life? God damn the man! Steady, steady, he told himself. There was no use in losing control. He was shaking a little bit, and he had to get a grip. Slaughter would not be Slaughter, if he asked for things he desired. No, Slaughter's way was to take, and to kill, and however senseless it seemed to Matthew it must make some kind of sense to the killer. Or not. Matthew thought that Slaughter was a breed apart; a human being who detested the very air that other humans breathed, who hated people right down to their shadows. But to kill children

Matthew picked up a green marble from the table. No, it was not altogether green. It had within it a swirl of blue. It was a beautiful thing, polished and smooth. He had it in mind that he should put two or three of these marbles in his pocket, to rub between his fingers, to remind himself that beyond the ugliness and evil of what had happened here there still remained beauty in the world. But he had no wish to rob the dead and, besides, marbles were for boys. He was far from boyhood now. Getting older, he thought, by the minute.

He put the marble back where it was, looked at all the food on the table and knew that Greathouse might be able to cast the corpses out of his mind and feast on the leftovers, but Matthew would rather have eaten cattail roots and dried meat for a week rather than touch any of this tainted groaning board. Or perhaps, he suspected, he wasn't hungry enough.

The pot of soapy water on the table drew his attention. In it he saw floating hair of many colors. Slaughter had gotten his shave; one more step toward his presentation as an earl, a duke, or a marquis, the better to cut the throat of some wealthy widow and throw her in a pauper's grave.

God damn the man.

Walker In Two Worlds came into the room. This was also his second visit here; his face was impassive, his eyes fixed only on Matthew. But he looked tired and drawn, and even his feathers seemed to have wilted like the petals of a dying flower.

"Slaughter went up the hillside," he reported. "I caught sight of him, moving among some boulders. He got into the woods before I could draw my bow."

Matthew nodded, knowing Walker had chosen the better part of valor-and shown good sense-not to continue the pursuit without having the little bullpup pistol covering his back.

"It's very thick up in there," Walker said. "Many places to set a trap."

"He'll keep going." Matthew opened his left hand and looked at the two gold coins Lark had given him. They were both five-guinea pieces, the same type as he'd taken from the lockbox in Chapel's house. Some well-to-do traveler or merchant had come to grief on the Philadelphia Pike, and coughed these up for Slaughter and Rattison. "I wonder if he really thinks I'll give up."

Now Walker did turn his gaze away from Matthew and with hooded eyes regarded the dead man and the two children. "Will you?"

Matthew saw a small blood-splattered pillow on the floor, next to one of the chairs. It displayed an embroided picture of a robin sitting on a tree branch.

"I don't understand your god," said Walker, in a toneless voice. "Our spirits created the world and the heavens and all that we are, but they never promised to keep their eye upon every little bird. I thought your god showed more " He searched his memory for the word. "Compassion."

Matthew couldn't reply. Rain fell equally on the just and unjust, he thought. The Bible surely contained more verses and lessons about misery and untimely death. But how could God turn a blind eye to something like this? The question begged for an answer. More than that; it screamed for an answer. But there was no answer, and Matthew put the two gold coins into his waistcoat pocket along with the other items of jewelry and got out of the kitchen before his sense of dark despair crushed him to his knees.

Walker followed him. Outside, the girl and her mother sat in the shade of a brilliant yellow elm tree. The girl's back was pressed hard against the trunk, her glazed eyes staring straight ahead, while the mother was chattering with a strange childlike abandon and playing with the hem of her daughter's light blue dress.

Faith looked up at Matthew as he approached. "Are you Mr. Shayne?"

Her voice was high-pitched and childlike. Matthew thought it was nearer to the voice of a girl seven years old. The sound of it was unsettling, coming from the throat of a woman in her early thirties. But Matthew had already seen the emptiness of the woman's eyes, the scorched shock where a mind used to be, and he thought that here was a patient for the doctors in Westerwicke.

"No," Matthew said. Lark had previously given him their names and the names of the dead. The girl had come out of the barn like a sleepwalker, her face devoid of expression but for the tear tracks on her cheeks and the grim set of her mouth, and she'd opened her hand to show him the gold coins.

He says you're square as far as he's concerned, she'd said. Her eyes had rolled back into her head, her knees had buckled and Matthew had caught her just before she fell, as the bedraggled woman in the blue apron with yellow trim emerged from the barn crying for her momma.

Matthew had known it was going to be bad, in the house. He had eased Lark to the ground against the tree, and he and Walker had gone inside to find the aftermath of Mister Slaughter's visit. Neither one of them had stayed but a moment, in that sunny kitchen with all the food upon the table. It appeared that only one person had left the table well-fed.

Gone, Lark had said when she could speak again. Not more than ten minutes. Back of the barn.

Walker had told Matthew to stay where he was, that he was not going to do anything stupid but that he was going to find Slaughter's trail across the apple orchard, and he had set off at a cautious trot. Matthew had sat down beside Lark to hear the story when she was able to give it. Several times Faith Lindsay had asked him if he was Mr. Shayne, and once had inquired when Ruth could come to play.

Matthew had returned to the house when, after Lark had finished her tale, the girl had begun crying with her hands to her face. Just a little at first, as if she feared releasing what she was holding back within; but then, suddenly and terribly, she had broken. It had begun as a wail that Slaughter must have heard as he climbed the hillside toward the deeper woods. And as Lark had sobbed and trembled her mother had rubbed her shoulder and whispered in the little-girl voice, "Don't cry, Momma, don't cry. We'll get the lace tomorrow."

Lark had lifted her agonized face and stared at her mother, who said brightly, "For the dolls, Momma. You know. To make their dresses." Which was when Matthew had gone into the house for the second time, preferring for the moment the silent company of the dead to the tortures of the living.

"Why are you wearing that?" Faith asked of the Indian, as Walker came up beside Matthew and Lark blinked, looking around herself as if trying to determine who was speaking.

"I am a Seneca," Walker replied. The woman was obviously puzzled, for she frowned and shook her head. She returned to her task of smoothing and smoothing and smoothing the hem of Lark's dress.

Matthew knelt down beside Lark. "The man's name is Tyranthus Slaughter. He's a " She already knew that part about him being a killer, so it was not necessary. "Escaped prisoner," he said. "Walker In Two Worlds is helping me track him. I'm going to take him to the gaol in New York."

The girl's mouth gave a bitter twist. "You are? How?"

"I have a pistol in my bag. Walker has his arrows. We'll run him to ground, eventually." "Eventually," she repeated. "How long is that?" "As long as it takes."

"He said he's going to Philadelphia. We told him about Caulder's Crossing, that it was just a few miles from the Pike." She caught her breath, as if she'd suddenly been struck. Her eyes again filled with tears. "Why did he have to kill them? Why did he have to kill them?"

"Shhhhh, Momma, don't cry," Faith fretted.

"Matthew." Walker stood over him. "We shouldn't waste time or daylight. We can catch him before dark, if we start now."

"Start now?" Lark's bloodshot eyes widened. "You can't leave us here! Not with in there."

"There's no time to bury them." It was a statement of fact, and spoken with the hard truth of the Indian.

"Caulder's Crossing is eight miles. I can't walk with my mother, like she is. Not alone. And what if he comes out of the woods while we're on the road? If he caught us out there " She left the rest of it unspoken.

That was why Slaughter had destroyed the wagon's wheel, Matthew thought. He'd seen it in the barn. Lark and her mother could have taken the wagon to town, but Slaughter had wanted to slow his pursuers down in case the bribe didn't work. Thus Matthew and Walker were now encumbered by a desperate sixteen-year-old girl and a woman with the mind of a seven-year-old.

"You look funny," said Faith to the Indian.

He ignored the comment. "You'll have to either stay here or walk the road. We don't have time to throw away." "Spoken," Matthew said quietly, "like Mr. Oxley."

Walker turned upon him with something like cold fury on his face, though it would have been barely perceptible to anyone but Matthew. "Did you see what I saw in that kitchen? The hand of a monster? If you want him to escape, just keep standing here enjoying the shade. Do we go, or not?" Exasperated when Matthew didn't immediately respond, Walker asked Lark, "Are there saddles for the horses?"

"No. They either pull the plow or the wagon."

Walker spoke in his own language, and from the sound of it even an Englishman couldn't have expressed a more vehement oath.

Matthew had decided. "There's a third choice. They come with us."

"You are mad," Walker shot back, in his own calm but devastating fashion. "Those woods at the top of the hill are thicker than what we went through this morning. We'd be slowed to a crawl."

"At least we'd be moving."

"Yes, at the pace of a girl and a girl," he said. "Matthew, we can't take them up in there! One broken ankle, and we're done."

"Slaughter won't have an easy time of it, either. He'll be moving faster than us, yes, but he's still leaving a trail, isn't he?" Matthew held up his leather-wrapped hand when Walker started to protest again. "If he's not heading for Caulder's Crossing, he's heading for the Pike. Maybe he hopes he can get a ride from there. But if his trail leads to the Crossing, that's where we can leave them." He motioned toward Lark and her mother, the former paying close attention and the latter totally oblivious.

Walker stared at the ground. After a moment he said tersely, "They'll need food. A piece of the ham and some cornbread should do. Something to carry it in. And cloaks or a blanket. Warm, but light. A flask for water. The sturdiest shoes they have, too."

Lark got up and, with a quick glance and a nod of thanks at Matthew, set her jaw and started into the house. At once Faith was after her. "Momma! Momma! Where're you going?"

"I'm going inside," Lark answered, pausing at the door.

"Inside," the woman said.

"Inside our house. I have to get us some things before we go. Do you understand that, Mother?"

"Our house?" There was something ominous in the reply. She kept her gaze fixed on her daughter's face, and Matthew saw the woman's lips try to make words. Nothing came out at first. Then she said, in a dazed voice that was midway between a woman's and a child's, "I'm not I'm not your mother."

"Yes, you are. I'm Lark. Don't you know me?"

"Lark," she repeated, as if she'd never heard it before.

"Mother, we have to leave here. I'm going inside now. I want you to stay-"

"I don't want you to go inside, Momma," said the little girl, clutching at Lark's hand. It must have been a painful grip, for Matthew saw Lark flinch. "Please." She leaned her head forward, her eyes wide, and whispered, "I'm afraid of that place."

"I'm afraid of it, too. But I have to go." Lark slowly eased her hand free. "Faith," she said, "I want you to stay out here, with them."

"Mr. Shayne and the funny man."

"That's right. Will you do that for me?" Something dark, like the shadow of a passing cloud, moved across her face. "Will you do that for your momma?"

"Yes'm," came the reply. All seemed to be well again, in the land of faraway and long ago. But not entirely well; again she leaned forward, and this time whispered, "The funny man doesn't have on enough clothes."

Lark went into the house. Faith came over toward Matthew and Walker-but not too close-and sat down once more on the ground.

When Matthew looked into Walker's face, he saw the Indian's eyes burning holes through him. Walker abruptly turned away, and strode in the direction of the orchard.

In less than three minutes Lark re-emerged, ashen-faced and silent, with a dark brown cloak, a second cloak the gray of morning mist, and around her shoulder a canvas bag stitched with red and yellow flowers. She had not changed her shoes, as they appeared sturdy enough, but she'd brought for her mother a leather pair to trade for the fabric slippers Faith wore. As Lark put the shoes on her mother's feet, Faith did not seem to note all the blood on the slippers that were removed. Then Lark put the dark brown cloak around Faith's shoulders, fastened it at the throat, and they stood up.

"Where are we going?" Faith asked, as Lark took her hand.

"To Mrs. Janepennys house," was the response. "I think I'd like to get that lace."

"Isn't Daddy coming?"

"No. We'll meet Daddy later on."

The answer seemed to make Faith happy. But as Matthew, Lark and Faith met Walker behind the house and began to make their way through the orchard toward the rocky hillside ahead, the woman abruptly stopped and looked back, and Matthew stopped also. Lark pulled at her mother's hand and said firmly, "Come on, we have to keep going."

"This isn't the way. To Mrs. Janepennys. I don't know where " Again, the voice was wavering between age and youth, anguish and innocence. "I don't know where I am," she said, and Matthew saw the bright tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

"You're with me, dear," Lark answered. Matthew thought it took a brave soul to keep a steady voice, to betray not a quaver nor a tremble, for surely she knew that this was not the worst part; surely she knew that the worst would come when-if-her mother's mind fully awakened from this protective dream. "You're with me. That's all that matters."

"I am I am Faith Burgess," the woman said, as if speaking to the house. "Faith Burgess," she repeated, and now lifted her chin as any child might, in defiance of some imagined horror that might lie beyond the walls.

"We're going to Mrs. Janepennys by a different way," Lark told her. "Look at me." The woman tore her gaze away from the house, the cords standing up in her neck, and obeyed. "We're going up the hill and through the woods. I want you to be careful where you step. If you need help, ask me. But try to keep up, because we're in well, Mr. Shayne and his friend are in a hurry, and they've offered to take us with them. All right?"

"The hill?" Faith's manner of speech had fully become the child's again. "What hill, Momma?"

"The one I'm going to help you climb," said Lark.

Faith nodded, but her eyes were blank. "Yes'm."

Matthew saw that Walker had gone ahead. He was waiting on one knee at the base of the hill about forty yards away. The hill was stubbled with large boulders and spindly pines, and at the top the woods boiled up in a thick chaos of green, yellow, purple and red. As Walker had said, many places to set a trap.

Faith turned her back to the house. She began walking, her hand held firm in Lark's, and together they left the dead behind.

Twenty-Two

Something of formidable size crashed away through the thicket as the travelers came upon a swiftly-moving stream. Whatever it had been, Walker gave only an incurious glance in its direction, and Matthew knew it had not been Slaughter taking to his heels.

"Drink," said Walker, as if they needed encouragement. The last two miles had been a rugged, hard go, through tangles of brush, hanging vines, and thorns; but Matthew was pleased to note, as Walker indicated all the broken vegetation and the bootmarks in the dirt and fallen leaves, that Slaughter had already blazed this trail.

Walker knelt down, cupped his hands for a drink, and left them to their own devices. Matthew stretched out, put his face in the cold water and drank directly from it; Lark took the waterflask from her bag, filled it, and let Faith ease her thirst before she drank. Matthew sat up, rubbed his mouth with his buckskin sleeve and watched as the Indian set foot in the stream, which was about a foot deep, and waded to the other side. The current swirled around Walker's legs. He examined the bank, bent down for a closer look, and then regarded the foliage ahead.

"Interesting," Walker said. He stood up. "It seems Slaughter doesn't trust you, Matthew. He didn't think you'd go home, after all."

"What do you mean?"

"He didn't come out here. He followed the stream for a distance. That means he suspects you wouldn't give up-gold coins or not-and he's making an effort to elude us."

"Momma," Faith said quietly. "My feet hurt."

"Mine too," Lark answered, and patted her mother's shoulder. "We'll just have to bear it."

Matthew got to his own feet, which were certainly no strangers to pain. "You're not saying he's gotten away, have you?" he asked urgently.

"I'm saying he's making an effort. We'll have to follow him. In the water."

"But which way?"

Walker pointed to the left, upstream. "Humans and animals alike usually have a desire to reach higher ground. Unless Slaughter knows I'd think that, in which case " He shrugged. "I say we go upstream first. If I can't find where he came out-and it won't be beyond a hundred yards, most likely-we'll go downstream. Everyone ready?" He waited for Lark to nod assent, and then he turned and began wading against the current.

Lark and Faith followed, with Matthew at the rear. That had been the order of progression since they'd started off, nearly three hours ago. Matthew was in fact situated there by Walker's command, to make sure the girl and her mother did not falter and to lend a hand if one of them fell. So far, they were both doing an admirable job of coping with this torturous course, though Walker had been right about their being slowed to a crawl. But if the Indian was frustrated about their lack of speed, he didn't show it; he simply plodded on ahead, waited for them to catch up, and did the same over and over again.

They weren't in the stream a matter of minutes before Faith slipped. She went down on her knees, crying out with pain, and at once Matthew was at her side helping Lark stand her up. Walker stopped a distance ahead to mark their struggle, for the current was indeed strong, and then he continued forward, his eyes searching the right bank.

"I hurt my knee," Faith said. "Momma, I hurt my knee." Her lower lip quivered, but she was a big girl and did not weep.

"You'll be all right. Can you lean on me?"

"Yes'm, thank you."

Matthew saw Lark lower her head and quickly squeeze her eyes shut. He said, "Faith, let me help you," and took her weight against his shoulder so Lark could keep her own balance.

"Thank you, sir," said the child, whose parents should be ever so proud of her manners. "It just hurts a little bit now." She gave him a sideways glance. "Water's cold."

"Yes, it is."

"Mr. Shayne?"

Matthew replied, "Yes?"

"How come you to visit us today? I thought you went to London."

"Well, you thought correctly. But I'm here now."

"Did you like London?"

"It's a very large city," Matthew said.

"I'd like to go someday. Momma and Daddy say we will. Just yesterday. We were sitting at the table and-"

Matthew felt the shock go through her. Felt her seize up and tremble, as if her heart was about to burst. She stopped moving and stood very still, while the current pulled at her dress and decorated it with dead leaves. Matthew did not wish to look at her face; he was tensed and ready for the scream.

"Faith?" Lark's voice was miraculously steady and as calm as the underwater stones. "Dear?" She put her arm around the woman. "We have to keep going. Come on." She glanced at Matthew, because still Faith would not be moved. "Tell her we have to keep going, Mr. Shayne."

Matthew said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, "Mind your mother, now. Like a good girl."

And Faith Burgess, if anything, was a good girl. In another few seconds she came back to them, and she breathed deeply of the crisp air and rubbed the back of her neck and picked up the hem of her dress to view her scraped right knee. She did not speak, for perhaps somewhere in her mind the shadow of Faith Lindsay knew that things were best left unsaid, untouched and unremembered. She went on, silently, between Lark and Matthew.

Matthew saw that Walker had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow, and was aiming it into the woods as he waded forward. The Indian had obviously seen something he didn't like, or else he expected that Slaughter might choose this place as a shooting gallery. I do knowpistols, sir, as well as I knowrazors, Slaughter had said to Greathouse. And another statement Matthew recalled Slaughter making: I knowthe look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier.

Which meant Slaughter must have had experience quick-loading pistols. Matthew had heard from Greathouse, during his own firearms training, that a real expert could eye-measure the powder, pour it down, ram the ball and cloth patch, prime the pan and fire a shot within fifteen seconds. Of course the faster the process was done, the more chance there was for a mistake, which meant a misfire or even an explosion, rendering both the pistol and the hand useless pieces of junk.

Walker continued along the stream, moving the arrow's point to follow his line of sight. But in another moment he lowered the bow, climbed up upon the right bank, and motioned for the others to come ahead.

"He came out here. The mark is very fresh, maybe an hour old." Walker showed Matthew an area of crushed weeds and among them the impression of a bootheel. When he located two more, he said, "Going this way," and pointed to the southeast. "Moving slowly. His legs are tired and he ate too much." He stood up and returned the arrow to its quiver and the bow to its sheath. "Is the woman all right?"

Faith didn't speak, though her mouth was moving as if reciting a childhood conversation. Her eyes were glazed over, her face slack. Though her body was here, her mind was far distant.

Lark said, "She can keep going."

Walker looked up through the trees toward the sun. "About two hours of light left. Can we pick up our pace?" He had directed this question to Matthew.

"I don't think so."

"All right, then." There was no reason for argument; things were as they were. "If possible, we should be silent from here on. We don't want him to hear us as we get closer. I'm going to go ahead a distance, but not so far that I can't see you. If you're getting too much off the track, I'll correct you." With that pronouncement, Walker trotted quietly away into the woods, nimbly leaping gnarled roots and ducking under low-hanging branches.

Matthew had never bargained to be a pioneer, but he'd learned that many things in this life were thrust upon you whether you wanted them or not. He had not a clue about how to follow Walker's trail. A disturbance of leaves and a crushed weed spoke volumes to the Indian, but withheld from him even a short story. Walker was out of sight now, and the forest seemed vast and darker. Still, Matthew could only do as he was instructed; he started off in what he hoped was Walker's path, and behind him followed his army of two.

"Careful here," Matthew said, as softly as was practical, to warn them of a place where the ground abruptly sloped into a hollow full of tangled vines and roots before it rose up again. Lark nodded; Faith was still absent, but she clung to Lark's hand and let herself be guided.

"Who are you?" Lark asked, coming up beside him. "A constable?"

"In a way. I'm a problem-solver. In New York."

"What kind of problems?"

"This kind," he replied. He motioned toward a patch of thorns that blocked their way, so they had to change course a few degrees. They walked for a while in silence, as Walker had directed, but Matthew found himself compelled to speak again. "I'm sorry," he said.

"You had nothing to do with it." She paused, and Matthew thought she might be able to sense the bitter anger that suddenly seemed to be, like one of Slaughter's claw-nailed hands, closing around his throat. "Did you?"

Matthew didn't reply. But he knew he would have to, eventually; if not here, then somewhere else, for he could not let himself wander a path that had no end.

"I am responsible for his escape," Matthew said.

He felt Lark staring at him. He kept his head down, in pretense of examining the way ahead for pitfalls. Lark said nothing else. Soon he'd either picked up his pace or she had drifted back, he wasn't sure which, but he might as well have been a solitary traveler.

They came out of the forest into a small clearing. Matthew was pleased with his sense of direction, because Walker was kneeling down under a group of oaks at the clearing's edge only a few yards away. Before them rose another hill, easily twice the height of the one they'd climbed when leaving the Lindsay house.

Matthew, Lark and Faith approached the Indian. They were almost beside him when Matthew caught from the corner of his eye a sharp glint of glass or metal catching the sun. He looked up the hillside, toward the top where the trees grew thick.

"He's up there," Walker whispered, motioning them to remain under the trees. "Taking a look around with his spyglass."

Matthew crouched against an oak's trunk and scanned the hilltop. The reflection did not repeat itself. "Do you think he's seen us?"

"I don't know."

They waited. Slaughter might have moved to a different spot, and be watching them even now, or he might have made a single quick pass across the clearing. In any case, they couldn't stay here forever.

After about three minutes during which both he and Matthew intently watched for any sign of movement and saw none, Walker got to his feet. "I want to get up there as fast as we can. You help the girl. And if you see anything, call out."

"All right."

Walker found the trail that Slaughter had already broken through the underbrush, but it was an arduous climb. At one point Faith nearly collapsed and had to sit down, still without a word, and Lark sat beside her and rubbed her legs until she could stand once more. Walker stayed with them, crouched on the ground and alert for movement, his bow drawn and an arrow ready to fly. Matthew's own legs were killing him; the muscles in his calves felt as if they were about to rip through the skin.

It took more than half-an-hour to reach the top. There was no sign of Slaughter, except for the bootmarks that Walker easily found. It appeared to Walker that Slaughter had clambered up onto the rocks, laid flat and from there aimed the spyglass down.

And not far from where Walker deduced that Slaughter had done so, Matthew's black tricorn lay on a smooth gray boulder amid the pines. Likely left behind, Matthew thought, in Slaughter's haste to put distance between them.

Matthew approached his hat. He reached out to pick it up. Walker's bow stopped the arm from its intent. "Wait," Walker told him. "Step back."

"What're you-"

"Back," Walker repeated, and this time Matthew obeyed.

The Indian stretched his own arm out and used the bow's narrow end to tilt the tricorn up. As Walker lifted it, the snake that was coiled underneath began to give its warning rattle. Fangs struck at the bow. Walker swept the rattler off the boulder onto the ground where it slithered away.

"Bite you," said Faith, in her dazed and dreamlike voice. "Ol' Scratch."

Lark stood beside Matthew, and Matthew suddenly realized she had grasped his hand because his fingers were about to be broken.

"I would say," Walker remarked, "that Slaughter has seen us. Do you agree with that, Matthew?"

"Yes."

"That's probably not a good thing."

"No," Matthew said.

"He's left clear tracks. Still moving slowly. The hill wore him out." "I think we're all worn out."

Walker nodded. "I think you may be right." He regarded the sun again, which was turning red in a cloudless sky as it dropped toward the west. "We need to make camp before dark. Find someplace as safe as possible."

"Not here!" Lark objected. "Not in rattlesnake country!"

"Miss," said Walker, with weary authority, "it's all rattlesnake country." He looked at Matthew, who had been kneading the blood back into his fingers since Lark had released him. "You can get your hat now."

They went on about two hundred more yards before Walker said the place would do for the night. It was a grassy clearing atop a small hillock, surrounded by huge oaks. They found as much comfort as was possible on the ground. Walker gave Matthew a portion of the dried meat and some for himself. Faith sat staring at nothing when Lark offered her a piece of ham and some cornbread; she reacted by clamping her hand over her mouth when Lark tried to push a bit of the ham between her lips. Then Faith curled herself up into a ball at the base of an oak and refused to respond to Lark's entreaties to eat. His meal done, Walker promptly climbed up into a tree and sat amid the branches while the sun went down, painting the western sky vivid red edged with purple. "No need to waste this." Lark offered Matthew what her mother had rejected. "Do you want it?"

"I'll take the cornbread, thank you." He was delighted to get something that reminded him of happier suppers at home. "You ought to eat the ham yourself."

"I'm not very hungry."

"That may be so, but hungry or not you ought to eat it anyway." He chewed on the cornbread, which was absolutely delicious, and watched as she looked at the ham in her palm as if it had been cut from the haunch of a gigantic rat. Then, overcoming her revulsion for what the last family meal had been, she followed his suggestion, after which she promptly got up, rushed away into the thicket and vomited.

Matthew stood up, retrieved the waterflask from her canvas bag and took it to her. She was sitting on her knees, having crawled a distance away from her stomach's refusal. Without looking at him she accepted the flask, uncorked it, took a drink, swished the water around in her mouth and spat it out. She took a longer drink, corked the flask again and handed it back.

"Pardon me," Lark said, pushing the hair out of her eyes.

Matthew said nothing, but sat down a few feet away. He took off his tricorn, which he doubted he would be wearing much anyway, since his scalp prickled underneath it. Lark was a pretty girl, he thought. Very young, and fresh-faced. Or had been. He wished he had seen her yesterday. He wished so many things. But wishing seemed a waste of time, out here. He looked up and saw in the darkening sky the first few stars in the east. He wondered who might be looking at them in New York. Berry? Effrem Owles? Zed? Even Lord Cornbury, on his evening walk?

He wondered if he would ever get back there. He wondered if Greathouse was still alive, and at that point he had to stop wondering for that, too, was folly.

"How are you responsible?" Lark asked.

Matthew knew what she meant. He knew his statement had been working at her, ever since he'd spoken it. "If

it weren't for me-my actions-Slaughter would now be in the gaol at New York." "You let him go?"

"No, not so directly. But I remained silent about something when I should have spoken. I forgot my job, and I in essence betrayed a friend. That silence when you know you should speak up, but you don't that's the killer."

"You're saying you made a mistake?"

A mistake. It sounded so small when she said it. So inconsequential. "I did," he answered. "A mistake that I shall be turning over and over in my head for the rest of my life."

She shifted her position, sitting down and pulling her knees up toward her chin, her hands hooked together. "That could be a very long time."

"I hope," Matthew replied, and found that he could still smile, if only briefly.

Lark was quiet for awhile. A flock of birds flew across Matthew's line of sight, winging home before full darkness fell. "My mother," Lark said. She couldn't continue, and had to wait. "My mother," she tried again, "was a very good woman. A well-educated woman, and very kind, to everyone." She drew in a long breath and slowly, almost painfully, released it. "I don't think she's coming back."

"You don't know that. She may be better in the morning."

"You mean when her head clears? If it clears? I mean, she can never go back to what she used to be. Neither one of us can. Ever. And I guess you can't, either."

"That's right," Matthew said.

"My father always said there were only two directions in life. Up or down. He was always talking about how good the land was, and how good God was to us. He said no matter how hard things got, all you had to do to touch God in this country was to reach up. Just try to meet God as much as you can, I guess is what he meant. Just try. I suppose that's the best anyone can do, is try." Now Lark managed a tight smile, but it quickly slipped away. "I used to sit on his knee and listen to him, and I believed everything he said. Reach up, reach up, he said. Just try, is what he was telling me. And don't give up, because then you never meet God. But I suppose I stopped listening to all that, when I was too old to sit on his knee anymore. I thought it was just something you told a child, when the harvest went bad and the going got rough. But it was for him, and my mother, as much as it was for me. He never quit trying. Neither did she. Trying to reach up."

In the last of the light Matthew saw the glint of her tears, and then how they slowly coursed down her cheeks one after the other. But her face remained tragically serene.

"I'm going to get him," Matthew promised. "Tomorrow."

"How? I've seen what he can do. What he will do. How are you going to get him?"

"One arrow," said Walker In Two Worlds, who was standing only a few feet away; he had come upon them in total silence. "That's all I need to put him down. If I can get close enough, and get a clear shot, it's done."

Matthew said, "I don't want him dead. I want him taken back, to stand trial in England."

"In England?" Walker frowned. "Trial or not, I'd say he's earned the hangman's noose here first. Then they can take him over and hang him again, as they please. But don't worry, I'll be sure to spare him for the rope, if you think he's worth the knot."

Matthew was about to reply that he himself thought Slaughter wasn't worth a cupful of drool, but that higher

powers across the ocean wanted him before the docket; he was interrupted in the formation of this reply when there came a shrill cry from Faith Lindsay. At once Lark was up and tearing through the thicket toward her mother, with Walker and Matthew close behind.

Faith was sitting up, clinging to the trunk of the tree beside her; she cried out again, a sound of utter, mindless terror, before Lark could kneel down and comfort her. Matthew turned his back, wishing to give them at least a little privacy, and walked a distance away. Now that the sun was just a purple blush to the west, the air was chill but not uncomfortably cold; the cloaks would do for the mother and daughter. He looked up at a sky filled with stars. On any other night he would have thought this an absolutely beautiful view, and he might have wandered out along the harbor-possibly with Berry at his side, if she'd liked to go-and taken it all in, but tonight the darkness was not his friend.

"You need to sleep." Walker was standing behind him. Matthew immediately heard the edge of tension in the Indian's voice. "While you can."

Matthew gave words to his suspicion:

"Do you think he's coming tonight?"

"If I told you I did, would it help you sleep any better?"

"No."

"The fact is, he's not far away. He knows we'll catch up with him tomorrow. It's likely his spyglass has already shown him that his gift did not make the proper impression. So if I were of a mind to murder someone, I would strike before dawn."

"We'd best both stand guard then."

"You need sleep," Walker repeated. "He's sleeping too, you can count on it. If he's coming, it will be when he's rested and ready. But make sure, before you sleep, that your pistol is loaded, and that it's near at hand."

"All right."

"May I ask you something?" Lark had left her mother, and was approaching. Her question had been directed to Walker. "Can you make us a fire? She's afraid of the dark."

"I'm afraid of the light."

"A small fire," Lark persisted. "Please. It doesn't have to last very long, just so I can get her to sleep."

Walker pondered the request. He looked at the woman sitting against the tree with the dark brown cloak wrapped around her, her eyes swollen and vacant, her mouth slack. He drew his knife from its sheath. "A small fire," he agreed.

Walker was true to his word. With the knife he dug a shallow hole next to Faith, filled it with a fistful of tinder, and struck a spark. A few broken-up sticks were added. The fire that resulted was little more than a warming glow, but it served its purpose. Lark sat beside her mother and smoothed her hair as Faith stared into the flames.

Matthew found his own place to sleep, under the stars. Walker had disappeared; whether into the tree branches again or out into the woods, Matthew didn't know. He prepared his pistol, first by pouring gunpowder down the muzzle. Next he took a lead ball from his shooter's bag, placed it against one of the cloth patches Dovehart had sold him and, using the small ramrod that was actually secured in the pistol just underneath the barrel, rammed the patch and ball home. He returned the ramrod to its place. The final step would be to prime the flashpan, but that would be done in advance of actually using the weapon. He stretched out, hearing his

backbone crack, and put the gun at his right side, just under his fingertips. He heard Lark speaking to her mother. "Do you believe in God?" There was only silence.

"Say it for me, Faith. Come on, as we say every night."

The silence stretched. Then, in a hoarse and ragged voice, Faith the little girl asked, "Will we get to Mrs. Janepenny's tomorrow?"

"We will."

"I don't like this way."

"It's the way we have to go. Now, try to relax. Close your eyes. That's right, very good. We need to speak it, the same here as we do at home. All right? Do you believe in God?"

Only silence. And then, faintly: "Yes, Momma."

"Do you believe that we need fear no darkness, for He lights our way?" "Yes, Momma."

"Do you believe in the promise of Heaven?"

"Yes, Momma."

"So do I. Now go to sleep."

Matthew was having his own problems. How to bid sleep come on, knowing that when Slaughter crept to their camp it would be with intent to murder, and his victim of choice would be a certain problem-solver from New York who, having escaped one rattler, was the prime target for another. Matthew remembered asking Slaughter at their first meeting why he'd decided to try to kill Mariah at the red barn behind the hospital instead of running for freedom, and Slaughter had answered I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. It seemed to Matthew that perhaps the hatred of people and desire for murder in Slaughter even overwhelmed his common sense. Just as some men were willing slaves to any number of vices, against all possible reason, so Slaughter was devoted to the extinction of human life. Or, more likely, he simply saw the opportunity to kill and took it, no matter what. Matthew closed his eyes. And opened them again. He was tired enough, but his nerves were jangling. He put his fingers against the pistol's handle. Suddenly being a magistrate's clerk seemed not such a bad occupation. He recalled Nathaniel Powers saying to him, at City Hall in midsummer after the magistrate had released Matthew from his duties in order to enter the employ of the Herrald Agency, I think your education is just beginning.

God help me survive the next test, Matthew thought.

"Can I sit here with you? Just for a minute?"

He was aware that Lark had joined him. He sat up, glad to have some company. "Yes," he said. "Please do." He reached over to brush some sticks and rocks away from where she was going to sit. "I apologize for the furnishings," he told her, "but at least the place has a nice view."

He doubted if his attempt at humor had made her smile, as he couldn't see her face in the dark. Behind her, the small fire was dying. Under her cloak, Faith appeared to have at last drifted to sleep, which in itself was a

blessed event. Lark sat down and offered him the flask of water. He took it, drank some and returned it.

Neither of them spoke. Overhead the night had revealed an awesome river of stars, and within that gigantic river were swirls of light like celestial currents. Some stars appeared to burn red, or blue. Some seemed to pulse with unknown energy. Far off above the horizon, a spark of fire leapt, gold against black, turned orange and winked out just as suddenly. It was the way of all things, Matthew thought. Beginnings and endings, even for stars.

"Matthew," Lark said. "I wanted to tell you I don't blame you for anything."

He didn't respond, but he was listening very carefully.

"You shouldn't blame yourself," she went on, and whether she was looking at him as she spoke or not, he couldn't tell. "You had your own reasons for what you did, and I'm sure you thought they were important. They must have been important. But if you weren't if you weren't a good man, Matthew, you wouldn't be out here right now. You wouldn't care what happened to us. And you wouldn't be trying to make things right."

"I don't think I can ever-"

He stopped speaking, because Lark had placed a finger against his lips.

"You can," she said. "By taking him where he needs to be. By not giving up. Everything that's happened is in the past now. It's done. Do you hear?"

He nodded. Her finger moved away.

"Let yesterday go," Lark said, "so it will not betray tomorrow."

Did he feel something leave him? A heaviness? A sadness that had leeched deep? A sense of guilt, like a self-built gallows? He wasn't sure. If he did, it was not dramatic; it did not have the power and majesty of a river of stars, or a celestial current. But he thought that by the grace of this young girl-older and wiser than her years would suggest-there was the lighting of a small spark of hope within him, there in his darkness, and by it he might find his way home from this wilderness his soul wandered.

"Would you hold me?" she asked, in barely a whisper.

He did. She put her head against his shoulder, and pressing her face in tightly she began to cry with muffled sobs, so her mother-her child-might not hear and awaken. He stroked her hair, and rubbed warmth into her neck, and still she clung to him and wept like any heartbroken girl of sixteen years might, on a night when the stars burned with fierce beauty high above the ugly realm of rattlesnake country.

Matthew didn't know how long he held her, or how long she cried. Tme had indeed stopped for the Englishman. But at last her sobbing quietened, her crying ceased, and she lifted her face from his damp shoulder.

"Thank you," she told him, and she got up and returned to her mother's side.

Matthew lay back down, the pistol under his fingers. His legs were hurting and his back ached, but for the first time in a long while-maybe since he'd decided to break open the red octopus-his mind knew a calming touch of peace.

His eyes closed.

He slept soundly, and at least for a short while he feared not.

Twenty-Three

When Matthew awakened, it was as any animal of the forest might: instantly alert, his senses questing, and with the memory of what Walker had just quietly spoken to him.

"He's coming."

There was no light but starshine and the poor candle of a quarter-moon. Everything was made up of shades of dark blue deepening to black, and Matthew could just see Walker kneeling at his side.

"One minute," Matthew answered, in an equally quiet, composed voice. He opened his shooter's bag and brought out his powderhorn. In his firearms training, Matthew had been required by Greathouse to several times load a pistol blindfolded. Matthew then thought it had been ridiculous, but now he grasped the wisdom of the exercise. He wished, indeed, that he'd practiced it more, instead of getting out the door and to the coffeehouse as soon as possible. But he would have to do the best he could, and if he made a mistake the gunpowder goblin-he who sometimes flashed bright and hot and sometimes fizzled and sputtered in the hands of greenhorns-would soon correct him most harshly.

He shook powder into the pistol's flashpan, after which he closed the pan's lid and thumbed the striker to half-cock. Now, he thought as he shouldered his shooter's bag and stood up to follow Walker, they were in it for blood.

Walker unsheathed his bow, took an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. "Slowly and silently," he whispered. "Stay on my right side, shoulder-to-shoulder. He's coming in from the left, about sixty yards out."

"How do you know?"

"I got near enough to hear him. And to smell him. Are you ready?" "Yes." He had told bigger lies, but not many.

They left the sleeping girl and her mother, crossed the clearing and entered the forest on the far side. Matthew strained to see anything, and thought himself lucky not to immediately trip over a root or stumble into a thicket and fall face-first, alerting everything with ears between here and the City of Brotherly Love. But the moccasins helped his feet read the earth and he moved slowly, at Walker's pace. One step, and stop. One step, and stop. His heart was beating hard; in this silence, surely Slaughter could hear the drumming.

When Matthew took a pace forward and dead leaves crackled, the noise seemed as loud as the raucous laughter of ruffians in the Cock'a'tail tavern. Walker stood motionless, and so did Matthew. They stayed that way for what Matthew thought must have been at least a minute. Walker knelt down, making no noise, and leaned his head further toward the ground. Then, at last, he stood up again and eased onward, correcting their course a few more degrees to the left.

Blue upon black and gray upon black were the colors of the night woods. Matthew's eyes were becoming more accustomed to the dark; here the black stripes of tree branches were faintly seen across dark blue underbrush, and there a gray boulder rose up like an island in a sea of ink. The two stalkers, seeking to intercept the third, continued steathily into the forest. When thorns clutched at Matthew's buckskin jacket and scratched his face, he barely paused in his advance. His eyes sought movement among the massive trunks of trees and among the black patterns of vegetation. He kept the pistol low at his side, his thumb ready to pull the striker to full-cock. Though the air was chill, sweat rose at his temples and dampened his armpits. He was no hero born with iron nerves; every step he took, he thought he might pee in his breeches.

"Crouch down," Walker whispered, close to his ear.

He obeyed. Walker got on his knees, tilted his head and leaned forward, almost placing his ear upon the ground. The Indian stayed in that posture as if frozen, while Matthew scanned back and forth across the dark. It was very quiet at first. Just a hint of sound, before it became a sound. Dead leaves being crunched underfoot, almost directly ahead. The sound ceased, so quickly Matthew wasn't sure he'd heard it or not. Walker remained still.

The back of Matthew's neck crawled. If that was indeed Slaughter out there, and not just any noctural animal, he was moving as cautiously as they were. It called to Matthew's mind the unsettling supposition that Slaughter might have known they would be here, and he was listening for them as well.

The noise did not repeat itself. Walker waited a moment more, and then he silently and smoothly rose to his feet.

He took one step forward and stopped. Then one step, again, and stopped. His head went from side to side, the arrow ready for a target. Matthew eased up next to him, wincing as a small stick broke under his right heel.

Walker once more remained motionless, and Matthew with him. They listened, in the silence.

Matthew could only hear his heartbeat and the roaring of blood in his veins. If any of that got any louder, he would be deafened.

And now ahead again, but nearer was that the noise of a boot scraping across a stone? Or had it been a pistol's striker being drawn to full-cock?

Walker's elbow was planted firmly in the center of Matthew's chest. The message was clear: Wait.

Moving his head in small increments, Matthew looked back and forth across the woods. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.

Then, frighteningly and horribly, there came from the direction of camp a woman's cry. It was sharp and sudden, and became the noise of Faith calling for her mother. Matthew realized she had awakened in the dark, with all the terror it unlocked in her fragmented mind. In a few seconds the sound of her voice faded, as Faith had either drifted off again or Lark had been able to comfort her.

Walker's elbow moved from Matthew's chest. Slowly, carefully, Walker took a single step.

Something abruptly burst from the brush beneath the Indian's foot. Matthew, who thought his hair had just turned white, had the sense of a small dark shape scurrying off. Its clatter through the leaves sounded like a herd of deer, though the creature had probably been a rabbit or a woodchuck. Walker stood as solid as a rock, but Matthew was left trembling and instinctively felt at his crotch for any leakage there. Fortunately, he was still wearing dry breeches.

But was there a shape ahead of them, through the slanting blue and black bones of the night, that Matthew saw moving? Just a glimpse, and then gone if it had ever been there?

"Something moved," Matthew whispered, his voice raw. He started to point and thought better of it. "Ahead to the left."

Walker aimed his arrow toward that point, and when the Indian took his next step Matthew felt his guts twinge until it was evident there would be no more bursts from the brush. Matthew stayed alongside him, as they advanced among huge trees. In another moment Matthew was aware of a faint and hazy lumination on all sides: the green glow from dozens of mushrooms on the forest floor, or of fungus attached to rotting wood.

Matthew kept alert for any further movement. Walker stopped again and seemed to be sniffing the air. There was a long pause, during which Matthew thought his teeth might break, he was clenching them so hard. Walker whispered, with a hint of urgency, "He's close." A shape suddenly rose from a crouch through the thicket in front of them, but even as Walker let his arrow fly the shape flattened out once more and merged with the dark. There came the thunk of the arrowhead hitting a tree. Walker reached back, took a second arrow from his quiver and nocked it.

Matthew saw, to the left again, another fleeting motion. Whether it was part of a shoulder, or a back, or a head, he couldn't tell. It was just there one instant and the next not. The bowstring sang and the second arrow sped away. No cry of pain followed. There was only the silence and the stillness. Walker readied a third arrow. The Indian moved forward, the bow drawn and the arrow seeking a target. Matthew lifted his pistol and cocked the striker; it made a jarringly loud click. He followed Walker, staying just off his right shoulder.

With two more paces, the world blew up.

Sparks flew from low down on the ground, about ten feet in front of Walker. In the blinding flash of the powder igniting, Matthew saw Walker fire his third arrow into the light, and then the sound of the gunshot cracked his ears. As Walker staggered back, Matthew pulled his pistol's trigger and fired into the billowing smoke, his eyes dazzled by first Slaughter's shot and then his own. Another voluminous gout of smoke whirled up, rank with the potent smell of gunpowder, and he felt Walker collide with his shoulder and nearly knock him sprawling.

Matthew went down on his knees. Walker had fallen to the ground somewhere behind him. And now, as Matthew's head reeled and his eyes seemed to pulse with white-hot cores of flame, he realized he had to get his gun loaded again, for there was no way to know if Slaughter had been hit or not. Over the high-pitched ringing in his ears he heard Lark shouting from the camp: "Matthew! Matthew!"

He got the shooter's bag off his shoulder and shut his eyes, for they were useless. His fingers would have to see for him. They found the powderhorn, a lead ball and a cloth patch.

"Matthew!" Lark screamed.

He poured the powder, pulled the ramrod from its socket and rammed down the patch and ball. Opened the flashpan. Shook powder into the pan. Closed it. What was he forgetting? Something vital. The ramrod. Still in the barrel. If he lost it, the pistol would be reduced to a club. He removed the ramrod from the barrel and-

A shot fired from his right. The ball hissed past his ear. Slaughter might be wounded, but he was still able enough to quick-load a pistol in the dark.

Matthew opened his blind eyes, which saw nothing but flowing curtains of light, and fired at the sound of Slaughter's shot. He heard the ball smack into a treetrunk; he thought, crazily, that Greathouse would have kicked his tail for firing too hastily and too high. Then Matthew's next thought was that even though Slaughter was also shooting blind he had to move, lest Slaughter pinpoint his own position from the sound. Grabbing the shooter's bag and holding the pistol like God's own gift, he got on his belly and crawled to the right over dead leaves, roots and luminous mushrooms.

He got his back against a tree and, eyes closed, started the loading process again. Halfway done, he was shaken by the crack of another shot from somewhere in front of him, but where the ball went he didn't know. All he cared was that he wasn't hit. Flashpan primed? Ramrod out? Yes. He aimed into the night, pulled the trigger, and the little bastard bullpup gun failed to fire.

He thumbed the striker back, his hand trembling. Could be any damned thing gone wrong. Flint misaligned. Touch-hole blocked. Maybe not enough powder in the pan. He opened the pan, feeling his way, and shook more powder into it from the horn.

"Matthew! Matthew, answer me!" Lark was pleading, near panic. Beyond her voice, he could hear the sound of

Faith wailing like a child about to be whipped.

He opened his eyes. Through the mist and dazzle he saw a shower of red sparks fly up from the underbrush maybe twenty feet away. He heard the report an instant before the ball knocked splinters from the treetrunk a foot above his head; then it was his turn, and when he pulled the trigger this time the Dovehart Special fired into Slaughter's hiding-place with a spectacular display of flaming comets and smoke that might have choked London.

In the aftermath of the shot, Matthew set to work reloading. His i ndustry was sped by sheer terror, for Slaughter's last try had been much too close. Was Slaughter wounded? Dead? There was no telling. He got the pistol ready, cocked the striker, and waited for Slaughter's next move, if the man could move at all.

He heard a crashing through the woods. In what direction, it was hard to tell. The smoke was still thick and his eyesight still feeble. Was Slaughter repositioning himself for another attack? Getting around behind him? He almost called out to the man, but for what purpose? To tell him to give himself up? He thought that Slaughter might be arrow-pierced and pistol-shot, but as long as the monster had breath, teeth and claws he was not going to surrender. He waited, his heart pounding, the gun aimed into the night, and he would not let himself think about what had happened to Walker. "Matthew!" Lark called again, but he was too afraid to answer.

A period of time went by-two minutes? three?-during which Matthew thought he might either vomit or pass out. He did neither, but he was hard-pressed to want to move a muscle from where he sat, with the protection of the treetrunk at his back. "Stand up," someone said at last, from the dark. It was Walker's voice, calm and steady. Matthew didn't move; he thought he must have been made delirious by the gunpowder fumes, or his ears weren't quite back to normal. "Up," Walker's voice repeated. "He's gone." Matthew was too dazed to respond to the specter; he could see nothing, though thankfully the bright whorls of gunfire had faded away. A hand grasped his left arm. It was solid enough. "Stand up. He's gone. Toward the camp." The last three words knocked sense into him. He shouldered his shooter's bag and tried to stand, but everything seemed to be gone from the knees down. "I thought you were shot," Matthew said.

"Listen," Walker insisted. "Do you hear the women anymore?"

Matthew did not. This time his effort at getting to his feet was successful. "Lark!" he shouted. There was no answer. Then, again, and louder: " Lark!"

Slaughter, he thought. Slaughter had crept up to them in the dark, while he was sitting against the tree protecting his back, and cut their throats with razor or knife. "Lark!" he cried out, and his voice broke.

"Follow me," said Walker.

Matthew took hold of Walker's cloak and stumbled after him. His nostrils felt nearly singed by the scent of the powder, but he caught another odor drifting in the smoky air. He knew what it was: the coppery smell of blood.

"Are you hurt?"

"Yes," Walker said, and now his voice had tightened. "Be silent." But just a distance further on, Walker suddenly stopped. "I'm going to have to rest here."

"Where are you hurt?"

"I've been shot in the left side. I can feel the edge of a broken rib in the hole. Ay-yuh!" It was an Indian's exclamation of disgust.

"Sit down. Can you?"

"I can. But can I get back up again?"

Matthew felt crazed; he feared he was going to crack like an overheated pot, and mad laughter would bubble out. Walker badly injured. Maybe both Lark and her mother lying dead. Was Slaughter waiting for them, hiding among the trees with his pistol? Where was the clearing from here? He thought it was ahead about fifteen yards and maybe another ten or so to the left, but it was through rough thicket.

"I'm going in first," he decided.

"Go slowly. If the women are dead, there's nothing you can do. Take a step then stop and listen. And I mean listen, Matthew. He may be hurt, too. If he is, you might hear him breathing. All right?"

"Yes."

"If you hear see or smell anything that makes the flesh on the back of your neck crawl you crouch down and wait. Until you know what it is. However long that takes."

"Are you trying to teach me how to be an Indian?"

"I'm not a very good teacher. I was impatient tonight. Too much English in me after all." Walker leaned back against a tree, and Matthew saw his shape slide to the ground. "If you live through the next half hour will you come back for me?"

"I will," Matthew said.

"I won't go anywhere, then." He sounded weak and tired, which frightened Matthew almost more than the idea of braving Mister Slaughter's murderous skills again tonight.

But pistol in hand, Matthew turned away from Walker. His mouth set in a grim line, he advanced quietly through the woods, his mind steeled against what he feared to discover.

Twenty-Four

The sun came up, on a morning clear and cool. Birds sang in the trees. A passing breeze stirred the limbs and brought down a shower of autumn-burnt leaves, and Matthew picked up an arrow and saw on its bloody point a piece of skin matted with hair.

Slaughter at least had been given a new part across his scalp last night. Good, Matthew thought. On his inspection of the scene of battle this morning, he'd found the two other arrows Walker had launched, but only this one showed damage. There was some blood spattered on the leaves, but not enough to indicate that Slaughter had been hit by a lead ball. His legs were still working, that was for certain. Whatever Slaughter was up to by taking Lark and Faith from the camp, he might not be hobbled but he was surely hurting.

Matthew picked up Walker's bow where the Indian had dropped it in the dark after the ball had hit him. He could see where the mushrooms and weeds had been crushed by crawling bodies. And, more interestingly, he could see the edge of a ravine about forty feet away, falling down onto jagged rocks and a small stream; they could have all tumbled into it last night, and their bones lay together moldering into dust. Lying dead next to Tyranthus Slaughter for all eternity was not in Matthew's plans.

He followed the blood trail, as Walker had instructed. They'd known Slaughter was hurt from the blood they'd found in the clearing at first light. Either ball or arrow grazed him, Walker had said. But only a flesh wound.

Matthew saw where Slaughter had torn through the thicket like a mad bull. Drops and splatters of blood on the forest floor led Matthew onward into an area of slender pines. He stopped, looking closely at what appeared to be the bloody impressions of two fingers and the thumb of a left hand against one of the pine trunks. Slaughter had briefly paused here either to get his bearings or make a decision about what he intended to do. Obviously, he'd made a quick decision and carried it out with military efficiency. After all, hadn't he said he'd been a soldier?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What did that mean?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew did. "He needed something to trade."

"For you," Walker said.

Matthew agreed: "For me."

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

"Where might it be?"

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

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

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

"Is that all of it?"

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

"What is that?"

"My chance," said Walker, looking into Matthew's eyes, "to walk the Sky Road." Matthew said nothing.

"Though I am insane and taunted by demons confused in my mind," he went on, "I may be accepted home by the Great Spirits if I can help you catch this mad wolf. This creature who cannot be endured, among civilized men. The Great Spirits don't see red skin, or white. They see only the war between good and evil, which makes the world what it is. And they charge us to be their weapons. Their strength. They charge us to be their arrows, and fly true." He nodded, with the sun on his face. "You have given me my chance to fly true," he said. "But first we have to catch the monster. We have to pull his teeth." He coughed, spat dark blood onto the ground beside him and studied it. "Not good," he said, with a slight frown. "We have much to do before I become the spirits willing a walker in three worlds. Will you help me up?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone behind us," he said.

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

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

"Saw who?"

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

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

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

"You can't go any further."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You can go on. Quickly. With great care, Matthew. With eyes always open in all directions." "All right," Matthew said.

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

Matthew nodded. "I will," he answered.

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

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

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

"That red bastard got me," Slaughter said. "Just a nick, though. Be right as rain in a few days." He grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth which appeared larger now that he was clean-shaven. "Matthew, Matthew, Matthew!" He made a clucking noise with his tongue and rested the pistol's barrel on Lark's shoulder. "Keep that gun down by your side, now. Don't touch the striker. Tell me: what am I going to do with you?"

Matthew made a quick examination of Lark and Faith, who stood tethered by the killer's cord. Faith had left this world; she stood with her face downcast, her hair in her eyes. Her mouth was moving, perhaps repeating in her mind over and over some moment of childhood that sustained her even on this black morning. Like a child, also, she looked to have tripped and fallen on their journey here, for her nose and chin were both skinned and bloodied and dead leaves clung to the front of her dress.

Lark's eyes, though swollen red and surrounded by dark hollows, still held the shine of intelligence. She had been recently slapped, for a handprint showed on her left cheek. Matthew saw the vivid scratches where Slaughter's fingernails had caught her. She stared silently across the divide at him, and lifted her chin as a way to tell him she was yet all there in the mind.

"Well," Matthew said, as easily as he could with Slaughter's pistol aimed in his general direction, "you can drop your gun, untie the ladies, crawl across this oak like the slug you are and give yourself up, for I am arresting you in the name of New York, both town and colony, the Queen's Constable, the Queen herself, and the country of England. How does that sound?"

His intention had been for Slaughter to lose his temper, blow himself up like a bullfrog, and take a shot; the distance between them-near forty feet, from where Matthew was standing at the oak's roots-would severely test the flintlock's accuracy, and Matthew thought that if push came to shove he could get off his own prayerful shot and scramble across that damned tree before Slaughter could reload. He hoped.

But alas, it was not to be. Slaughter just laughed; the slow tolling of funeral bells freighted the air. "You are worthy," he said, when his laughter was done. He didn't say worthy of what, but Matthew suspected he meant worthy of a slow, excruciating execution.

"Lark?" Matthew spoke to the girl, but kept his eyes on Slaughter's trigger finger. "Are you all right?"

"Never been better," Slaughter said. "A little piece of custard pie, this one is." His arm moved, and now the pistol's barrel played with her locks of blonde hair. "Want the leftovers?"

Matthew felt the slow boil of rage in his guts. Taunting me to lose my temper and take the first shot, he thought. As Walker had said, You knowhim well. I think he must knowyou well, too.

"Matthew?" Lark's voice was steady; she had not given up, she had not broken. She was, he thought, an incredibly strong girl. If they got out of this, he would take both of them to New York, find care for her mother and what? Somehow erase all this horror from Lark's mind? "I want you to know," she went on, "that I my mother and I we're-"

"Blah de blah blah," Slaughter interrupted. "Is he dead?"

Matthew looked down at Walker. The Indian lay motionless, gray-faced, his eyes open but seeing nothing. A trickle of blood had leaked from his mouth. "Yes," Matthew answered.

"Throw the body over," Slaughter said.

Matthew stared across at the other man. "You come do it."

"I gave you an order, young sir."

"I'm not in your army." He offered a purposefully-mocking smile. "I'm surprised at you! A stalwart soldier, afraid of a dead Indian? He was my friend, Slaughter; I'm not throwing him over like a grainsack."

Slaughter paused; he worked his tongue in and out of his cheeks, and then he said brightly, "Leave him for the buzzards then, I don't give a shit. The business at hand, Matthew, concerns your coming across that tree. When you set foot on this side, and I blow your brains out, the two little squats go free. My word of honor. And as I told you, I never lie to men who are not fools. You, sir, have proven yourself to be no fool. Stupid, yes, but a fool no. Therefore, I do not lie."

"I appreciate the compliment. But being no fool, I should have to ask after my departure from this earthly realm, how long will they remain free?"

"Ahhhhh," said Slaughter, and grinned again. "Ouch! You're making my head hurt."

"Your truths are lies, Slaughter," Matthew told him. "You know I'm going to follow you, wherever you go. You know I'm not going to stop." His heart was beating hard at this presumption that he would still be alive in the next few minutes. "If you give yourself up, here and now, I promise-"

"That the fucking noose doesn't cause me to shit in my pants?" Slaughter had nearly roared it, making Faith jump and give a muffled little child's cry. "That I get a garland of red roses upon my fucking grave?" His face had also bloomed rose-red, so much so that small creepers of blood began to appear at his nostrils. In his rage he had swollen up again, all huge shoulders and massive monster's chest, spittle upon his lips and the red lamp of murder in the pond-ice eyes. "You idiot! You charlatan of a constable! What can you promise me?"

Matthew was silent until the tirade had passed. Then he said, "I promise that I will endeavor to buy you a title before you are hanged, and that it will be so marked on your stone." Katherine Herrald would have special connections; maybe she could be talked into arranging it.

Slaughter's face froze, his mouth half-open. Slowly, very slowly, his expression began to thaw. "Well said," he allowed. "The one thing I so devoutly wish, given to me what? an hour before I swing? And possibly marked on a black brick at the ass-end of Hammer's Alley? Oh but it's impossible, Matthew, bless your heart; you see, even if I was fool enough to give myself up, as you put it, I wouldn't live to cross the Atlantic."

"And why might that be?"

"I have," he said, "a very strict employer."

Matthew frowned, puzzled by that statement. Employer? He was about to ask who that was when Slaughter thumbed his pistol to full-cock and held it against the side of Lark's head.

"You will throw your gun over," Slaughter directed, staring cold-eyed and remorseless at his enemy. "Now, young sir, or I shall have to scorch some blonde hair."

Matthew had no doubt it would be done. Though Slaughter couldn't reload again before Matthew got across the log, that would be no help for Lark. His bullpup was useless at this range. He could refuse and then what? No, he had to get closer to Slaughter. Try to make the man take a shot. He threw the gun into the ravine.

"The shooter's bag, too. Let's not be hiding anything I don't know about." When it was gone, Slaughter lowered the gun but kept it aimed between Matthew and the girl. "Sensible. Now we shall see what sort of a true-blue knight you really are. Come across the tree, like a good lad."

"Matthew!" Lark called, but he didn't look at her.

"Hush," Slaughter said. "Let him do what he must."

Matthew slowly climbed up on the oak and, sitting on it, began to slide himself forward. It was a very long way down, upon the treacherous rocks. His throat was dry; his mouth had no spit in it. He heard himself breathing like a bellows while his mind raced to figure how to save their lives. If he could make Slaughter fire a shot before he got too much closer but the distance was narrowing, and he might just have to leap at Slaughter and take his chances that the ball would not kill him outright. For this Englishman, time did not stop nor stand still. "A little faster, if you please," Slaughter said. "Don't mind your breeches, where you're going they'll give you a fresh pair with your name sewn across the bum, I'm sure."

Onward Matthew pushed himself, and now he was nearly halfway across. His legs were dangling over. He thought how much he'd hate it if he lost one of his moccasins. The sweat had beaded on his face; it ran in rivulets under his shirt.

"I will make it quick. That I would do for any worthy opponent. Right in the back of the head. Candle snuffed, the end. I'll do the same for them as well."

"Matthew!" Lark called, and when he looked at her he saw she had grasped her mother's hand. A strange kind of light gleamed in her eyes. Madness? Determination? "Just try, is all I ask."

"Oh, he's trying all right," Slaughter replied. "He's trying to think how to get out of this. Can't you see his eyes going 'round and 'round?" He moved out from behind the women and motioned with the pistol's barrel. "Come, come!"

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

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

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

Yes, Momma.

"Stop that nonsense!" Slaughter said.

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

Did Faith answer, or not? Yes, Momma.

"So do I," said the girl.

With one quick, strong, sure movement she tore the cord out of Slaughter's hand. Making a leap forward, Lark threw herself and her mother over the edge. They fell silently.

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

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

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

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

Twenty-Five

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had all left the stage.

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

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

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

Matthew had to get to him first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gun swiveling toward him. Thumb on striker.

Striker going back.

Firing position.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matthew had no intention of lying down. But he was still backing away, his own knife ready to stab into Slaughter's guts if he had to. Slaughter followed, like a man who smells a particularly juicy cut of steak.

Slaughter feinted and drew back. He moved to the right, the knife carving slow circles in the air. Slaughter's eyes never left Matthew's. There came another feint followed by a fast strike toward Matthew's chest, which he recognized and dodged almost a second too late. He struck out with his own knife, intending to get under Slaughter's guard arm as the man righted himself, but then realized with sickening certainty that he was far too slow, for Slaughter's free hand clamped hard on his wrist. The horn-handled knife rose up. Matthew grasped the arm before it fell. They struggled, slamming back against the wall. A set of shelves collapsed, and with them a box of wooden tools and three or four oak buckets that rolled about the room.

As they fought, straining against each other, Slaughter's dust-streaked face came in toward Matthew's. Closer, and closer still, until Matthew feared the man would try to bite his nose off. Then Slaughter began to laugh, deeply and slowly, as the increasing pressure from his grip numbed Matthew's fingers. The ragged fingernails dug into his wrist. Matthew felt the knife began to slip.

"Just a little more, now," Slaughter whispered, right up in his face. "Starting to break, isn't it? Listen for the bones to snap!"

And then Slaughter twisted Matthew's wrist so fiercely searing pain coursed along the tortured arm through his neck and paralyzed him. He cried out, equally in panic as well as pain, as the knife fell from his frozen hand to the floor. Slaughter released Matthew's wrist to jab at his eyes with the fingernails, an effort Matthew was able to deflect even as he clung desperately to Slaughter's knife arm. Slaughter then grasped the front of Matthew's buckskin jacket, and with a display of awesome one-handed strength whirled around and flung him across the chamber to crash heavily into the base of the opposite wall.

Matthew got up on his knees. He tasted blood. The room swam about him.

Slaughter came toward him almost leisurely, the knife at his side. He was hardly breathing heavily. "Dear Matthew! Don't you know by now? It would take two of you to polish me off. Alas, there is only-"

One of the wooden buckets was within Matthew's reach. He picked it up and hurled it at the man's head.

Slaughter dodged, snake-quick, but not quick enough that the bucket didn't glance off his wounded scalp. Its passage tore the bandage away, brought a hiss from between Slaughter's teeth and caused blood to stream anew from the hideous, raw red furrow above his ear. "Damn it!" he shouted, staggering back and clasping a hand to the injury. Howdare you, was his tone of voice. He blinked rapidly; blood was in his eye. "Damn-"

He never finished the second oath, because Matthew had gotten to his feet and now he hit the man in the mouth as hard as he could. Even falling, Slaughter swung out with the knife; it slashed across Matthew's chest, carving through buckskin, waistcoat cloth and shirt linen as cleanly as it had cut through the burnt crust of a ham.

Slaughter went down on his back, making the planks squeal and tremble. Matthew had no time to worry about a slashed chest. He stomped on the knife hand; once, twice, again did the man have a grip of iron? Slaughter was trying to grab Matthew's leg, and then he reached up and caught the jacket, but the fingers of his other hand had sprung their knuckles and the knife was loose. Matthew bent down to get it but again Slaughter's nails came at his face. He kicked at the knife, if only to remove it from the killer's immediate choices, and the weapon of murderous destruction slid up under one of the revolving wheels.

Slaughter was on his knees. The arrow wound was running crimson through his hair. Matthew hit him in the mouth again, but Slaughter just grinned with bloody teeth. A fist struck Matthew in the chest and made his lungs hitch for air, another blow smashed him on the right cheekbone and a third hit his jaw and rocked his head back, and then the killer was up and driving him across the floor toward the mechanisms, where a set of pyramid-shaped teeth in one of the groaning gearwheels could very well scrape a face from a skull.

That was Slaughter's intent. He bent Matthew's face toward the teeth, put a hand on the back of his head and pushed. Matthew resisted, the cords and muscles of his neck straining. He thrashed to escape, frantically throwing both elbows, but the man's grip was just too strong. Matthew knew that in another few seconds his fast-dwindling strength would be history, and so too would he be when Slaughter polished him off. Still he fought, and still he knew he was losing. He heard Slaughter grunt when an elbow crashed against his chest, but it was only a matter of time.

Matthew felt himself going. Felt himself giving up, whether he wanted to or not. Try? He had tried. Tried all he could. It was not to be. And all those deaths all for nothing

Slaughter released one hand to pound him across the back of the head, which made red comets shoot through his brain. And from the gloom that was closing in on him Matthew imagined that Slaughter leaned forward, as Matthew's face hung inches over the revolving teeth, and whispered something in his ear that was strangely familiar:

" With a shove and a shriek I pass through the town, and what fast horse might ride me down?"

Very soon, now. Very soon.

Try. I'm sorry, he thought. I am all tried out.

Something hit the wheel.

Not his face. Something that sounded like pebbles. Someone had just thrown a handful of pebbles into the room, is what it sounded like. Matthew heard them-four or five, it might have been-hit the wheel and bounce off; one struck the side of his neck and gave him a sting.

All at once Slaughter cast him aside like dirty laundry. Matthew fell to his knees. He stared down at the floor where his own blood was dripping. He was used up, nothing left. He thought he was going to pass out in another few seconds, and lie here like a lamb for the well, yes.

"Who's there?" he heard Slaughter roar. The man stalked to the nearest window, which looked toward the woods. "Who's there, please?" The diplomat at work. "This is a private matter!"

Matthew saw something roll past his face. His eyes followed it.

It was a marble.

Green, it appeared to be. No, not altogether green. It had within it a swirl of blue. Matthew was dazed. He had seen that before. Hadn't he? Somewhere.

"Show yourself!" Slaughter shouted. He reached into his haversack again-his bottomless bag of horrors, it seemed-and this time brought out the razor, which had an evil glint about it that Matthew had never noted in his own shaving-glass.

"Somebody's spying on us," he heard the man mutter. "I'll fix 'em, just you wait there. I'll fix 'em." And then, louder, "Come on in! Where are you?"

Matthew didn't wish to stay for the cutting party. He looked over his shoulder. At one of the windows on the opposite side of the mill.

If he was going, it was time to get.

Matthew hauled himself up.

With the desperate urgency of someone fleeing Satan Incarnate he ran or hobbled or somehow got to the window. As he heard Slaughter bellow and start after him, he flung himself through the frame.

For a few seconds he was actually riding on top of the watermill's wheel, for he had come out amid the blades. Then he was on the downward slope, he banged the right side of his head on a slat, and suddenly he was in cold water that rushed him away from the mill. How deep the stream was he didn't know, but if his feet dragged the bottom he wasn't aware of it. The chill of the water had given him a start, but now everything was darkening once more, getting hazy around the edges. He went past several half-submerged rocks that he tried to grasp, but the stream was fast and his reflexes seemed to be several seconds behind his intentions. The stream curved to the right, spun him around in white water eddies and picked up more speed.

If Greathouse could see him now, he thought. It was to laugh at, really. To laugh at until one wept. He had the strength of a wet feather. His vision was fading; everything was giving out on him, he had blood in his mouth and a knot on his head and maybe, he thought, this was the end of it. Because his face kept going down into the water, and he couldn't seem to keep his head up.

His chance to get Slaughter was gone. That was to laugh at, as well. Had he ever possessed a chance to "get" Slaughter? He doubted it. The man was unstoppable.

He was very, very tired. His feet found no bottom. The stream was speeding him along, and now Matthew heard a roaring noise that at any other time might have secured his full attention but that now only made him think his life was numbered in minutes and there was not much to be done about that.

There was a waterfall ahead.

He let his neck relax, and his face slipped into the water. He felt like a floating bruise. He felt like an utter failure. There was not much to be done about that, either.

Oh, but he could try, couldn't he?

No, there would be no more trying. Not today. He just wanted to drift, to some land where there was neither pain of mind nor body.

He lifted his face up. The water hissed, rushing past boulders with mossy beards. On either side of the stream was thick forest. He could see a fog ahead; a mist, it was. The waterfall's spume. He felt a rocky bottom under his feet, which then fell away again. The sound of falling water was louder, and he wondered how steep the drop would be. He might tumble into a deep, swirling pool, or he might come down on more boulders and drown with shattered bones. He hoped it would be quick.

I charge you to be my arrow, Walker had said.

And Lark speaking: Reach up reach up

Matthew saw he was going to pass one of the big rocks, just a few feet to his right. Once beyond that, it was over the falls and done.

If he died, he thought, Slaughter would go on and on, truly unstoppable. If he died, then Walker and Lark had offered up their lives for nothing.

It was a hard thing to think about. It caused him, in a way, to want to die. To punish himself, maybe, for being so weak.

The big rock was coming up, very fast.

He began to weep, for Walker and Lark, for her family, for himself too.

Because he realized very clearly that his lot in life was not some place beyond pain of mind and body. His lot in life was, in fact, directly in harm's way. He had asked for that, when he'd signed on with the Herrald Agency. And maybe that was the lot in life of all people, and realizing that either broke you or built you. Just as Lark said her father told her: there were only two directions in life, up or down. He was looking at that big rock coming nearer, and as he wept he was thinking that the good thing about tears is sometimes they wash your eyes clear.

Slaughter would be along soon, for sure. Looking for him, to finish the job. Matthew thought he maybe had seven or eight minutes. Maybe. But if he only had two minutes, or one minute, he ought to get out of this stream and not let a waterfall break Walker's arrow. The big rock was right there.

Painfully, Matthew kicked toward it, and he reached up.

It took him a long time to get out. Seven minutes? Ten? He had no idea. He was hurt and hurting, no doubt about it. Spitting blood from a cut inside his mouth where his own teeth had bitten flesh, his head throbbing, his vision fading in and out, the muscles of his legs stiff and cramping, his neck nearly wrenched. But he got out by swimming from one big rock to the next, grabbing hold of the mossy beards and pulling himself onward, until at last he could stand up and hobble into the woods.

He staggered like a drunk through the dense thicket, lost his footing almost at once and slid into a hollow full of vines and fallen leaves. There he lay on his back, the world slowly spinning around him. He hoped that if Slaughter followed the stream he might think the waterfall had done his work for him; still, Matthew knew he was not safe, that he ought to get up and keep moving, but he could not. He forced himself to turn over, get up on his knees and start digging into the leaves, winnowing himself in like a wounded mole.

It was while he was occupied at this camouflage that he heard the voice through the woods.

"All right, come out! Do you hear?"

Matthew's heart nearly burst. He flattened his body and pressed into the leaves. The smell of dirt and decay was up his nostrils. He stopped breathing.

"What kind of game are you playing at?" Slaughter shouted. "Can't you see I'm hurt, I don't have time for this!"

Matthew didn't move.

"You have the wrong impression!" Slaughter went on. His voice was moving. "I was attacked! That thief tried to kill me!"

Matthew heard him crunching through leaves alongside the stream. He's not speaking to me, Matthew realized. He's speaking to whoever threw the pebbles. Not pebbles marbles. But who?

"Come out, let's talk about this!"

Matthew knew that the razor would do most of the talking. Slaughter was silent; he'd continued on, away from Matthew's hiding-place. Had he looked over the falls? Seen anything that might lead him to believe a certain constable from New York was deader than yesterday's codfish pie?

Matthew could breathe again, but he still didn't move. He didn't think he could move, even if he wished. He was safe here, buried in all these leaves. At least he had the illusion of safety, and that was all he could ask for.

"All right, then!" he heard Slaughter shout, some distance away. The voice was ragged and tired; the beast was also in pain. "As you please!"

Then, nothing more.

Matthew thought of calling for help to whoever had thrown the pebbles-marbles-but the thought was short-lived. Slaughter might still be near enough to hear. What would Slaughter do next? Matthew wondered. His mind was sluggish, filling up with dark mud. What would any man with an arrow in his shoulder and a bloody gash across his scalp do? Find a doctor while he could still stand up. He would go down to that village-Caulder's Crossing or whatever it was-and find a doctor to mend him.

Matthew decided he should rest here for awhile. A short while. Slaughter wasn't going anywhere fast. Matthew needed some rest. He needed some strength. He would let himself rest here until he was sure he could walk again without falling, he thought. Then he would get up, and he would go down in search of the doctor. No better to find the town's constable first. Tell him to bring a gun or two, or three. Also bring about five more men.

I'm not done, Matthew thought. Not finished.

His eyes were closed, though he hadn't remembered closing them.

He did not drift off; he plunged into an abyss.

When his eyes opened again, the light had faded to purple. He had no idea at first where he was, or why. Night is coming on, he thought. Why am I buried, and in what? Everything suddenly came back in a jumble and rush, a madman's picture book. He had to get up now, he told himself. Slaughter was down in the village, wherever that was from here. Get up, get up!

Matthew moved, but the pain that throbbed through him-from arms, legs, scalp, cheekbone, chest, everywhere it seemed-put quit to that intention. He felt as if his bones had been yanked from their sockets and thrust back in at crooked angles. He might have groaned, he didn't know. Some small frightened animal darted away. Slowly, against every bruise that shouted his name, he started digging out of the leaves. His head ached fiercely, and it seemed to take tremendous effort and concentration to do anything. He was the one who needed the doctor, he thought. Maybe later, after Slaughter was behind bars.

Get up, get up! Wow!

He tried. His feet slipped out from under him. He rolled down into underbrush and stickers.

The purple light darkened. Matthew felt the chill of the night around him, but the earth was warm.

He would try again in a little while, he thought. Not yet. He wasn't strong enough yet. But he wasn't done, he told himself. He wasn't finished. Neither would he give up, no matter what. He would just keep on trying.

And that was something, wasn't it?