Mister Slaughter
PaRT TWO: The Valley of Destruction Chapter Twelve

Matthew writhed inwardly, knowing he could never put his hand on a Bible and tell a lie. To emphasize his danger, another bolt of lightning shot white beyond the shutters and thunder blasted overhead. He kept his face down, staring at a scuffed spot on the table.
Greathouse scratched the stubble on his chin, but made no other demonstration.
"Do it, pastor," Slaughter urged, his eyes ashine and his brows twitching. "Make them swear on the book."
Burton tapped his fingers. He cast his gaze in the direction of Slaughter's voice but said nothing for a space of time, during which Matthew thought he'd rather be in the long dark tunnel than this candlelit room. at last the reverend said, "Obviously you feel yourself to be at the mercy of these two men, yet I assume you initiated this um bargaini I do not approve of any of this. Gentlemen, before God I implore you to put aside your greed and do what is right for the common good. That is, deliver the prisoner to the proper authorities in New York. The reward for that is the knowledge that you have done a righteous thing for your fellow man."
"Make them swear!" Slaughter hissed. "Their hands on the book!"
"I will not," came the solemn answer. "In so much as, being of limited mind, I do not understand their motivations. Yet God, being of infinite mind, does understand. The only thing I can say is, do not let greed lead you into the valley of destruction. Take this man, with all proper respect, to New York as you are charged and be done with him. Remember also, that Christ showed mercy to the poorest wreckage of life. Should you not try to do the samei"
"That's right." Slaughter nodded vigorously. "Mercy. Listen to the reverend, gentlemen. He talks a peach, doesn't hei"
"I think," Greathouse said, "that it's time for your irons to go back on."
Burdened by the manacles, the leg irons and the heavy ball, Slaughter sank down to the floor with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes as James sniffed the air and growled in his direction. Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily. Matthew noted that water was dripping from several places in the roof, and Tom put pots around to catch what he could. More wood was added to the fire. Reverend Burton asked Greathouse to bring the Bible over to the table and read to him from the Book of First Timothy, which Greathouse did without noticeable complaint. Tom went to work scrubbing the bowls and utensils with ashes, and Matthew silently helped him in his task.
When the work was done, Tom brought a small box from the bookcase and opened it in front of Matthew. "You playi" he asked, showing two sets of crudely-carved but useful chess pieces, one in dark wood and the other a few shades lighter. Matthew nodded, both surprised and grateful to find one of his greatest pleasures out in these forsaken woods. Tom fetched a battered chessboard from the cupboard at the back of the room, and he and Matthew sat down in the chairs before the fire, set the board and pieces up on the small table between them, and began their war.
The first game Matthew won with ease. The second was not so easy, and it appeared to Matthew that Tom was a quick student, for before this contest was over Matthew had lost his queen, his defense of his king was in jeopardy and Tom's knights were threatening mayhem. But experience won out, and Tom nodded and turned his king over when it was certain there was no escape.
During the third game, Matthew noticed how Tom would lean down and rub or scratch the dog that lay nestled against his foot. Clearly, they had a strong connection between them, and at one point Tom picked James up and held him in his lap, and spent a moment rubbing the dog's back while Matthew puzzled over a potential move.
"Gonna let him goi" Tom asked, quietly enough not to be heard by Greathouse, who was still involved in reading First Timothy, or Slaughter, who snored on the floor.
Matthew knew Tom wasn't talking about the bishop that was being stalked by two rooks. "No," he answered, just as quietly.
"Gonna kill him, theni"
"No."
Tom waited for Matthew to make his move. Then he said, "Maybe you ought to."
The third game ended in another win for Matthew, but not before the soldiers all across the rank and file had been decimated for their generals.
Greathouse finished his reading, Reverend Burton nodded his approval, James got down off his master's lap and curled himself up on the little bed of straw, and Matthew reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a small leather drawstring pouch he'd purchased to keep his silver watch, a gift from Katherine Herrald, safe from the elements. Tom regarded him with interest as he opened the pouch and checked the time, finding it was nearly eight o'clock.
"Wake up." Greathouse took his cap and coat from the wallpeg and gave Slaughter a none-too-gentle kick in that favorite fare of cannibals, the buttock. "It's time to get to sleep."
Burton lit another candle and put it into a punched-tin lantern for them. Matthew kept the pistol under his cloak and took charge of the lantern, and with Slaughter between them he and Greathouse said goodnight to their host and went out into the rainy dark, bound for a miserable night in the barn during which neither captor slept worth a Dutch penny but their prisoner slumbered as if on royal linens.
at first light, the rain had turned to a nasty drizzle and gray clouds seemed to be snagged in the treetops. Tom emerged from the cabin, with James at his feet, to help get the horses harnessed. Slaughter allowed himself to be pushed up into the wagon, where he lay down in the posture of a silent observer. Greathouse had retrieved his cloak and wrung it out, and now he put it around his shoulders, wet cloak against wet coat against wet shirt. He climbed up onto his seat and took the reins, while Matthew sat facing backwards again so as to keep guard over the prisoner. But, in truth, Slaughter appeared to be no menace today; his eyes were swollen from sleep and he yawned as if he might unhinge his jaws.
"Good luck to you!" Tom called. The last sight Matthew had of him was Tom walking up the steps to rejoin Reverend Burton in the cabin, and James following right behind. They set off into a murky fog that lay close upon the ground. Just past two more abandoned cabins, the muddy track took the curve to the southwest that Slaughter had foretold. The forest thickened again on either side. Rain dripped from the trees, and the birds were quiet. The wind was still, which was a blessing since all three travelers were soaked and already chilled. Further on, another track split off to the left at a more southerly course, which Matthew presumed must be the route to Belvedere. Greathouse kept to the path they were on, which might be termed a "road" as much as belladonna might be termed a "spice". Soon the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were freighted with black mud, slowing their progress even more, and the road began to take a perceptible degree of ascent.
"This is a damnable track," Greathouse said sourly, as if Matthew were to blame.
"Sirsi" Slaughter spoke up. "Might I ask what you'll spend your money oni"
Neither Matthew nor Greathouse were in any mood for conversation. Slaughter adjusted his chains, sat up as best he could manage, and lifted his face to the stinging drizzle. "I'm going to buy myself a shave and a proper bath, first off. Then a new suit. Something very respectable," he said. "a new hat, too. Somewhat like yours, Matthew. I like that style. Then on to buy my ship's passage. Get myself out of here as soon as I'm able. Oh, you can have these colonies, gentlemen, and piss on them! Who in their right mind would want all this, this emptinessi Tell me, Mr. Greathouse, don't you miss Londoni"
No reply was offered.
"I do. Not saying I'm going to stay in London. I don't wish to trade one gaol for another. No, I shall make only a brief stop in London, to get my bearings. Then, I think I shall go to Europe. any country where there's not a war, as my soldiering days are behind me." He shook his head back and forth, flinging water. "I shall endeavor to find a country," he went on, "where I might buy a title. Lord Slaughter, or Baron Slaughter, or Marquis de Slaughter. It can be done, I have no doubt. In this day and age, with money as it is, it doesn't pay to be a commoner."
The horses pulled onward and upward, as the road continued to ascend. There was no abatement of the steady rain, which dripped from Matthew's tricorn and ran down Greathouse's face from his soggy cap. Matthew felt sure at least two miles had passed since they'd started their uphill climb; the horses were laboring, and the wagon's wheels alternately seemed to stick and then slide.
"You're going to kill me, aren't you."
Matthew looked into Slaughter's face. The prisoner stared impassively at him, his head cocked slightly to one side.
"I would," Slaughter said, before Matthew could form an answer. "I mean, if I were in your position. I'd get the money in my hands, and then I'd kill you. You being me, of course." He gave a thin smile. "Really. What's five pounds, when you're looking at fifty or morei and me, I'm just a what did you call me, Mr. Greathousei Oh yes. a common criminal."
"We're not going to kill you," Matthew replied.
"But you're not going to let me go, are youi You're not going to do as you promised. I can tell. Yes, I see it in your eyes, Matthew. So, if you don't let me go and you don't kill me, how are you going to explain to your keepers about the moneyi I mean, when we reach New York I must tell them that you've gotten hold of my treasure, for what reason should I noti and then they're going to want a piece of it, aren't theyi a sizeable piece, I would think. Yes, I know about greed, all right."
"Shut up," Greathouse said over his shoulder. They were coming to what appeared to be, thankfully, the top of this rather steep incline.
"I think it's a problem for both of you," Slaughter continued, undaunted. "and for me as well. are you willing to split the money with men who dared not even dirty their breeches to come fetch mei You two doing all the work, for a measly five poundsi It's a crying shame, gentlemen."
"Matthew," Greathouse said grimly, "if he speaks again I want you to put the barrel of that pistol in his mouth."
"Now you know the young man is not going to do that. I do know pistols, sir, as well as I know razors. What if it went off and blew the brains out the back of my headi Good-bye, money. One dead Slaughter, but not a penny for Greathouse and Corbett. No, the reasonable thing to do, sir, is to assure me that you will let me go after I show you to the safebox, and then if you're not a liar, young man I would much appreciate it if indeed you did allow me to go on my way. I shall think of you kindly, when I'm sitting on silk pillows in Europe."
"Just do all us a favor, and keep your damned mouth-" and then Greathouse's own mouth stopped making noise, for they'd crested the hill and there before them was a curving decline with thick woods on the right. On the left was a dropoff that fell into a forested gorge with wisps of fog at its bottom fifty feet below.
"Oh dear," said Slaughter, peering over the wagon's side. "I did forget about this dangerous descent."
Greathouse held steady on the reins, which was unnecessary because the horses locked their legs up and one of the beasts gave a tremulous whinny that sounded like it meant Don't make me go down there.
They sat in the rain, saying nothing. Greathouse's shoulders were hunched forward, water dripping from his chin. Matthew wiped his eyes, his other hand on the gun he held protectively beneath his sopping-wet cloak. Slaughter gave a long, low sigh and at last said, "Fort Laurens is a little more than a mile from here. What's your pleasure, sirsi"
When Greathouse's voice came, it was as tight as an Iroquois' bowstring. "Giddup," he said, and flicked the reins. The horses didn't move. Greathouse flicked the reins again, with some temper behind it this time, and one of the horses started off, pulling along with it the animal that had put up a protest. The wagon rolled forward, as rivulets of mud coursed down before them.
"Keep an eye to that dropoff," Greathouse told Matthew, which was breath wasted because Matthew was already measuring the distance between wheel and disaster. The horses' hooves were plowing into the mud, for true, but there was always the danger of the wagon slipsliding to the side sinister. If Greathouse couldn't get them straightened out in time they could plunge over the embankment and down where the forest and fog might hide bones for a hundred years.
They'd descended about another sixty yards when it was apparent the road, tortured by time and weather, was getting narrower. "It's close over here," Matthew said. "Two feet at the most." With a start, he realized he'd not directed his attention to Slaughter for several minutes, and he had the mental image of Slaughter rising up with a burst of speed and strength and heaving him over to his death; when he looked at the prisoner, however, Slaughter had not moved an inch, and the man's eyes were closed against the drizzle.
They kept going down, through the slippery muck. Matthew uneasily watched the left edge of the road continue to constrict, where previous rainstorms had sheared large sections of the earth away. The horses nickered and jerked their heads, and Greathouse glanced to the left to see for himself how much space separated the wheels from going off the edge. It was less than ten inches, too tight for his comfort, and in another moment he pulled back on the reins and said, "Whoa!"
Slaughter's eyes opened.
Greathouse set the brake. He turned around, wiped the water from his eyes with his cloak, and stared gloomily at their prisoner.
"What are we going to doi" Matthew asked.
"I don't like this damned road. I don't want to take the team too far down it, in case it's washed out further along." He looked back the way they'd come. "No room to turn around. Going to be one devil of a job backing this wagon up."
"I repeat my question."
"I heard you the first time." Greathouse shot a glance at him that could curdle the blood. "The only thing we can do, if we're intending to get to that fort, is to walk."
"Good suggestion," said Slaughter.
He hardly had time to draw a breath after the last word, for suddenly Hudson Greathouse was off his seat and upon him, and when Greathouse meant to be upon somebody they were well and truly a fixed target. Greathouse grasped shirtfront with one hand and patchwork beard with the other and brought his face down into Slaughter's with eyes like hellfire lamps.
"Don't speak," Greathouse hissed. "Don't do any damned thing I don't like." His voice trembled, not from fear but from loss of control, which Matthew had realized was paramount to his nature.
Slaughter obeyed; his face was expressionless, betraying nothing.
It took a minute for Greathouse to compose himself, but still he kept hold of the prisoner's shirt and beard. "Yes, we're going to walk. Yes, I'm going to have to unlock your irons. But you want that, don't youi Is that what you'd hoped would happen, all alongi"
Slaughter said not a word, honoring Greathouse's first command.
"I'd warrant it's still over a mile," Matthew said, looking down the long descent.
"You be quiet, too. Just let me think."
a bad sign, Matthew thought. The man of action, reduced to thinking.
"How heavy's the safeboxi" was the next question directed at Slaughter. When the prisoner didn't reply, Greathouse twisted his beard. "Now you can speak."
No discomfort registered in Slaughter's eyes. Matthew thought he must have a supreme mental control over pain. "One man can carry it."
"all right, then. But you'd better know that I'll have the pistol on you all the way there, and by God if you do something-anything-I don't like I'll blow your kneecap off. Do you understand thati"
"I hear what you're saying, sir. But why should I do anything you don't like, as I wish to be quits with you two even more than you wish to see my backside."
Greathouse held him for a few seconds more, to emphasize who had power over whom, and then let him go. He reached for the key in his pocket and unlocked the manacles and leg irons, even as Matthew watched with the growing anxiety of a job ill-done.
Slaughter rubbed his wrists. "If you please, sir," he said in a silken voice, "would you throw that key over the dropi"
Greathouse shook his head, the key clenched in his fist.
"ah, here's the problem, then, and I knew we must come to it." a faint, maddening half-smile surfaced on Slaughter's mouth. "It's a matter of trust, isn't iti I'm trusting you-the both of you-to do as you've promised, even though you were let off so lightly by that simpleton of a pastor. Why should I take you to the safebox, unless there's at least-at least-a display from you that I shall not end up in irons again once you have the treasurei" He gave a passing scowl of irritation when Greathouse didn't respond, and diverted his attention to Matthew. "Tell him, young sir, that I'm not going anywhere if he doesn't throw the key over."
"We'll be sitting here for a long time then, won't wei" Greathouse said.
"Yes," replied Slaughter. "We will be."
The two men stared at each other, neither one moving. Suddenly, in a blur of motion, Greathouse reached out to grasp Slaughter's beard again; yet, before the hand could get there, Slaughter intercepted it with his own, the dirty fingers with their sharp ragged nails seizing Greathouse's wrist with remarkable and-for Matthew-unsettling strength.
Slaughter said, quite calmly, "You forget yourself, sir. We are no longer captors and prisoner. We are now partners."
"The hell you say!"
"The hell," came the answer, "I do say." He freed Greathouse's wrist, with an air of annoyance. "If I'm to walk you down to the fort, I want an assurance that I will not be walked back up and returned to those irons. You vowed you'd release me, and not kill me. I take you at your word. Now show me I can trust you by throwing the key over."
Greathouse looked to Matthew for guidance, and for the first time Matthew saw in the other man's eyes an expression of helplessness. It was a terrible thing to witness, this chink in a knight's armor. Yet Matthew knew his own tarnished tin had gotten them into this predicament.
"Damn it," Greathouse said, to the world. He took a long breath, let it out between gritted teeth, and then he reared his arm back to throw.
"On second thought!" Slaughter held his hand out, palm up, before Greathouse. "I should like to cast it myself." His eyes were heavy-lidded. "and, by the by, I do believe you moved the key to your other hand just before your last attempt at beard-twisting. I think it's in your coat pocket by now, there on the left side."
Greathouse lowered his head. When he looked up again, he was wearing a bemused-if petulant-smile. "as you said back at the hospital, never blame the wind for wishing to blow."
"True enough. However, I've polished off several men who tried to blow their wind in my direction. The key, pleasei" He wriggled his repugnant fingers.
"I suppose you'll want the gun nexti" Greathouse took the key from his coat pocket on the left side and dropped it into Slaughter's palm.
"Not necessary. I trust you not to shoot me, at least until you have the safebox. Besides, wet weather is no friend to gunpowder." Slaughter threw the key over; there was a faint metallic tink as it hit a treetrunk far below. Then, rid of this obstacle to the life of a titled scoundrel, he grinned like a king. "Now! Shall we be off, gentlemeni" Disregarding Matthew, who had brought the pistol's barrel out from beneath his cloak as a presentment of threat, Slaughter got down off the wagon. His feet pressed into the mud, and he began to walk jauntily along the treacherous road into the valley of Fort Laurens.
Greathouse started to get down as well.
Matthew felt a pressure in his throat, as if he were being throttled. It was his confession, he realized. His confession, all balled up word tangled with word. He reached out and grasped the other man's sleeve. "Hudson," he said, sounding near choked.
Greathouse looked at him, the thick gray eyebrows ascending.
"Listen," Matthew went on. "We don't have to go down there. There's something I need to-"
"Coming, sirsi" Slaughter called, waiting twenty yards further along.
"Easy, easy." Greathouse's voice was muted. "I can handle him, Matthew. Don't worry. The key to the irons is still in my pocket. He threw the key to my room at the boarding house." Greathouse angled his face toward Slaughter. "We're coming!" he replied, and he clambered off the wagon to the mucky earth.
Matthew watched him follow Slaughter along the descending track. Wet weather is no friend to gunpowder. True enough. The pistol he was holding might be useless, if the time came to pull that trigger. He wished Greathouse had brought a sword; those worked well enough, shine or rain. He had to get out of the wagon and face what was ahead, had to push his guilt into his guts where his courage used to be. Had he actually begun believing those air-woven tales of his own stellar celebrity in the Earwigi Had he fallen so far, since summeri
Greathouse stopped to wait for him, and just beyond Greathouse also stopped Slaughter, who was if anything a well-mannered killer.
When Matthew's boots pushed into the mud, he half-expected the earth to open up for him, and for him to slide down and down into the thick dark where a new winter's fireplace had been lit for his comfort in Hell.
He walked on, carrying his invisible irons that made prisoners of even the richest men.