Part 17 (2/2)

”A haversack, for one. Some salted meat, for two.”

Salted meat from this this place? Matthew wondered if Slaughter might be lying dead in the woods from food poisoning, which would make his job all the easier. place? Matthew wondered if Slaughter might be lying dead in the woods from food poisoning, which would make his job all the easier.

”And the ammunition for his pistol,” Lizzie said. ”For three.”

”The ammunition,” Matthew repeated.

”That's right. A dozen b.a.l.l.s.” Dovehart rubbed his nose so furiously with the wooden hand that Matthew expected to see splinters sticking out of it. ”And everythin' else a shooter needs, of course. Two flints, powderhorn and powder, cloth patches. He got himself a deal.”

Matthew glanced quickly at Walker, but the Indian was examining a gaudy brown-and-red striped waistcoat that hung from a wallpeg.

”What'd the man do?” Lizzie asked, drawing closer to Matthew. ”I mean, besides tryin' to steal the constable's horse?”

”He's a killer. Escaped from me and my a.s.sociate yesterday. I suspect he didn't want to meet the constable face-to-face. Probably couldn't bring himself to pay a penny to the law, either. But I think he's gotten a little over-confident.”

”He seemed all right,” Lizzie said. ”He had a nice smile, and his voice was refined. Said he was on his way to Philadelphia, that he had to get there for some business and Indians stole his horse last night when he was camped. I thought that was kind of peculiar, but then again all kinds of people pa.s.s through here goin' north and south.”

”Did you inquire as to what kind of business he was in?” Matthew asked.

”I did. Just to converse converse, you see.” She used that lofty word as if she'd been waiting years to drag it out from its shuttered attic. ”He said he was between jobs, but that he was goin' back into the business of settlin' accounts.”

Matthew thought that over. It meant something, certainly. But what?

”Oh!” Lizzie snapped her black-nailed fingers. ”Almost forgot. He bought a spygla.s.s, too.”

Walker In Two Worlds lifted his gaze from his inspection of the English waistcoat, which he'd found had a st.i.tched-up tear in its back that had likely been made by a knife. The brown bloodstain very nearly blended into the color of the stripes.

”Special on that one,” Dovehart announced.

Matthew put a hand against the pocket of his own waistcoat and felt the jewelry there. He said, ”You have guns?”

”Surely! Got a nice musket no, wait the barrel fell off that one a few days ago, needs a bit of work. Are you handy with gunsmithin' tools, sir?”

”How about a pistol?” Matthew asked.

”Three for your approval, sir! Lizzie, show the man!”

Lady Dovehart leaned down, opened a box on the floor and brought up, one after the other, three flintlock pistols in various stages of decay. Two looked to be more dangerous for the firer than for the target, but the third-a little brown bullpup of a gun, hardly a handful-appeared to be in fairly decent shape but for the green patina on all exposed metal parts.

”Twelve s.h.i.+llings, an excellent choice!” said the master. ”But for you, seeing as how you're a friend of a friend, ten!”

”I have no money, but I have this.” Matthew brought out the first trinket that came to his fingers; it was the silver brooch with the four black stones.

”Hmmmm.” Dovehart picked the brooch up with his good left hand to examine it more closely. Before he got it up to his face, his wife s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

She held it near a lantern. ”Ohhhhh,” she crooned. ”It's pretty! You know, my favorite color's black. Kinda royal-like lookin', ain't it?” She elbowed her husband in the ribs. ”Sell the young sir his pistol, Jaco.”

”Including the same items you sold the man we're after?” Matthew prodded. ”Flints, powderhorn, powder, patches and a dozen b.a.l.l.s?”

”All right. Very well. Sold.”

”Including also a pair of stockings?” Matthew had seen a few on one of the shelves. How clean they would be he had no idea, but he needed a pair anyway. ”And,” he continued, ”I'd like that that, if it fits.” He pointed to another item that had caught his eye; it was a fringed buckskin jacket, hanging from a peg next to the waistcoat Walker had been ogling.

”Well, sir.” Dovehart frowned. ”Now, I'm not so sure that we can-”

”Try it,” the lady said. ”Go on, it looks about right.”

”G.o.d A'mighty!” Dovehart fumed as Matthew shrugged into the jacket, which was on the large size across the shoulders and had a burn mark along the left arm as if a torch had been pa.s.sed over it. Otherwise, it was fine. ”I'm tryin' to run a business business here!” here!”

The lady was already pinning her brooch on, and she picked up a little oval handmirror that was cracked down the middle to admire her new acquisition.

”Jaco?” Walker had come up to the counter again. ”Do you have another spygla.s.s?”

”Huh? No, that was our one and only. Lizzie, stop grinnin' at yourself! G.o.d save us from prideful wives!” That comment was directed at Walker, but Matthew saw Dovehart quickly s.h.i.+ft his gaze as if it had been originally meant for him. Obviously, the matter of Walker not having a wife was a th.o.r.n.y subject, best left alone.

”One more thing,” Walker continued calmly, as if the comment had never existed. ”He'll need a carry-bag for all that.”

”Got anythin' else to trade?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”Oh. I see.”

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

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

Slaughter. In the dark. With a razor and a pistol. Settling his accounts.

”I am,” Matthew said.

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

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