“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Slaughter had stopped before the hole where the gate had been. He put his hands on his hips and admired the place as if he were already an earl, and this his madman’s castle. “We found it from an old map. Just the sort of refuge where a couple of hardworking highwaymen might rest for a few days and count their gold among the safety of the forgotten dead.” He grinned broadly at his new partners. “Shall we enter?”
“After you.” Greathouse motioned with the pistol.
“Must you still wave that thing around? I thought we were past that.” Slaughter suddenly frowned and clutched at his gut. “Oh, dear,” he said. “I’ve been holding my shit in respect for you gentlemen, but I really must let it go now. Pardon me.” He started walking off to the left, down into a small gulley full of brush and leaves.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Greathouse took a step toward him.
“I told you.” Slaughter flashed a baleful look at them. “Do you want to hold my hand?” He descended into the gulley, mindless of the gun, and then he pulled his breeches down to expose a large white rump the sight of which instantly made Greathouse and Matthew avert their eyes.
“Stay where we can see you!” Greathouse commanded, even as he walked away a few paces. The sound of cursing, grunting and straining that issued up from Slaughter’s place of excretion was truly horrific. Matthew could see the very top of Slaughter’s head, but no further down did he wish to witness. At last the hobble-gobble ceased, there came the noise of a handful of leaves being gathered and, presumably, used, and then Slaughter walked back up with his gray breeches in place and the long tail of his gray shirt flagging.
“Thank you,” Slaughter said. “I’m ready now.”
“You first,” Greathouse directed. “And slowly.”
Slaughter entered the dead fort, with Greathouse a few feet behind and Matthew following.
Within the walls were the ruins of a small town. What had been horsepaths between log buildings were weeded up and littered with debris like broken barrels and shards of pottery. Fires had gnawed most of the interior structures down to the tindersticks. An overturned wagon attested to the violence that had visited this place, as well as the shutters that had been hacked away from the windowframes of the few remaining cabins. Doors had been torn from their hinges and thrown aside. Once inside the walls, the Indians had taken their task of destruction from house to house, and Matthew doubted that very many of the settlers had lived to see the next hour.
Matthew saw no skeletons in the wreckage of Fort Laurens, for which he was grateful. Either the Indians had carried off the corpses, or more Dutchmen had come later to claim their brethren. Still, this was a gloomy place, and the imagination could quickly stir up the embers of ghosts from the piles of cold ashes.
There was one good element in this picture: the drizzle had changed to a light spit, though the sky remained low and leaden. A whisper of chill wind blew from the west, with the promise that autumn’s days were numbered.
Greathouse and Matthew followed Slaughter deeper into the center of the ruins. Matthew recoiled when he almost stepped on the head of a small ceramic doll, its blue-painted eyes staring up from the weeds and its body already crushed to powder. In another moment they came upon a few intact log cabins and two other structures—a barn and small warehouse, they appeared to be—arranged in a circle around a common area that held a stone well with a peaked roof above it. Both the barn and warehouse had suffered fire damage but were still standing, more or less; the cabins were in various stages of collapse. Slaughter took course for the one cabin that at least had a whole roof, and Matthew realized they had reached the highwayman’s hideaway.
“Hold it!” Greathouse said before Slaughter could pass through the opening where a door used to stand. Slaughter stopped on the threshold and waited for them, his mouth twisted to one side with what might have been irritation. “Your pleasure, sir. Do you wish to go in first, to make sure I’m not leading you onto a floor that will collapse beneath you?” Greathouse peered in, as did Matthew. The place was dark, even with the shutters ripped from the windows. Not much could be seen inside. “Go ahead, then,” Greathouse said, with a directional thrust of the pistol, and Slaughter’s bare feet left muddy prints across the floorboards.
Inside, the one large room was grim and austere, and certainly had been so even on the day of its construction. But Slaughter and Rattison had evidently made it a home, of sorts. On the floor were two piles of straw, similar to James’ bedding, but these big enough for men. A fireplace of rough stones held a mound of ash and some pieces of charred wood, and lying next to the hearth were pots and pans, indicating that at least one of the ruffians could play at cooking. There were two battered chairs, and a leather trunk between them that must have served as a table. A pair of woolen blankets were folded and stacked in a corner on the floor, showing that someone had a penchant for neatness even in the midst of decay. Both Greathouse and Matthew quickly noted that leaning over by the fireplace was a long wooden shovel with an edge of iron on its business point.
It was toward this implement that Slaughter intended to go, until Greathouse said sharply, “Wait!” When Slaughter paid no heed, Greathouse’s thumb pulled the pistol’s striker to full-cock.
Slaughter stopped, his hand outstretched to touch the shovel. “I do presume you want the safebox. Yes? If so, this will be needed.”
Greathouse kept the pistol aimed. A little muscle had begun twitching in his jaw. “All right, then. Get to it.”
Slaughter walked to one of the piles of bedding straw, which he shoved aside with his foot. Matthew surmised that Slaughter might not have trusted Rattison to the full extent of comradeship, and had been sleeping atop the treasure. Slaughter thrust the shovel downward and used it to pry up a short board, which he then put to one side. Three more boards were lifted and also removed. Then Slaughter stepped back and said with an exaggerated bow, “Sirs, your fortune awaits.”
Cautiously, watchful of the shovel in Slaughter’s grip, Greathouse and Matthew came forward to look down into the hole. They saw, simply, a square of straw.
“It’s underneath,” Slaughter explained. “Do you wish to dig, or shall I?”
“You,” Greathouse answered. “But if any of that goes in our faces…”
“A man with a pistol, afraid of a little hay.” Slaughter smiled sadly. “What is this world coming to?” Then he began to dig into the straw and very carefully placed it on the floor next to the hole.
“You surely went to great pains to keep this secured,” Matthew said, as he watched Slaughter work. His heart was beating harder. When the safebox came up, there would remain the challenge of getting a very unwilling prisoner back up the hill to the wagon. “I suspect you didn’t trust Rattison as much as you might have liked?”
“I don’t trust anyone. Whether I like them or not.” Bits of straw whirled up into the gray gloom. “But I was most concerned about the Indians. They’re still around; I’ve seen them, poking about. It wouldn’t do for them to find a safebox full of golden trinkets just standing—” The shovel’s iron tip thunked into something solid. “Ah! Not buried too deeply, you see, but deeply enough. Take this.” He held the shovel out toward Matthew, who paused long enough to glance quickly at Greathouse. A nod of assent was given, and Matthew took charge of the shovel.
Slaughter knelt down. With two hands he cleared away the last layer of straw, and then he brought up an object wrapped in what appeared to be a dirty burlap bag. Moving slowly, for it seemed the object had some weight to it, he removed the bag and let it drop to the floor. “Here,” he said, with obvious pride. “The result of our accord.”
It was an ordinary box about six inches deep, fashioned of lustrous dark wood. He turned it so that they might see its two brass latches, one set vertically on either side of a keyhole. “I’ll open it for you,” Slaughter said quickly, and put a finger against one of the latches.
“Not so fast.” Greathouse’s
voice was strained. He still held the pistol, aimed now just to the right of Slaughter’s body. “It has a keyhole. Where’s the key?”
“Not necessary. It’s unlocked, I assure you.”
“Seems a natural thing, to have locked it before you buried it. I would have.”
“Sir.” Slaughter smiled again, as if at a poor fool. “It’s a safebox, not a snake. It’s not going to bite you.”
“I’ve learned through experience, Mister Slaughter, that a box can bite. Especially if concealed within it is a throwing knife, or a pistol. And wet weather may be no friend to gunpowder, but I’d say that box has stayed dry enough nested in the bag and all that straw. Was that the intent? Is a gun in there?”
“No, and I never had the key. Does that suit you? May I open it now, and let’s be about our business?” Again his finger went to the latch.
“I said, no. Just take it very easy.” This time Greathouse directed the gun’s barrel at Slaughter’s head. “Let’s get out into the light. Move.”
Giving a sigh, Slaughter started out with the box in his arms and Greathouse went after him. Matthew put aside the shovel and started to follow when the burlap bag on the floor caught his attention. Rather, it was what was written on the bag, in bright red paint, that snagged his eye. He picked the bag up, held it to the dim illumination that spilled through the nearest window, and read upon it the words Mrs. Sutch’s Sausages. Below that was the legend “Sutch A Pleasure”.
“Matthew!” Greathouse called. “Come on!”
Odd, Matthew thought. Something was very odd about this. But he supposed highwaymen had the right to eat hot sausages, as much as did the patrons at Sally Almond’s. Or maybe they’d waylaid a shipment bound for New York. Still…it was odd.
He let the bag fall back into the hole, and then he went out.
Slaughter kept going, almost to the well, before he stopped and turned around. He waited for the others to reach him. His eyes darted from Greathouse to Matthew and back again. “If you don’t trust me to open the box, you do it. Oh, better yet! Let Matthew open it, as he seems to be the one with the sense and the courage.”
“I’ll open it,” Greathouse replied testily, but it was obvious he’d sensed something that he didn’t like. “You just stand there and hold it, and keep your fingers away from those latches. Matthew?” He offered Matthew the pistol. “Steady this on him, and I want you to shoot if you have to. Can you do that?”
Matthew nodded as he took the gun, but even so he wasn’t sure. There was a tension in Greathouse’s voice that said it really might be necessary to put a lead ball in Slaughter, that some trickery might be in this plan, and that he was again feeling the loss of control. Matthew had done fine shooting targets in his pistol lessons, and threatening Slaughter by brandishing the gun around; now, though, the game had changed.
“Careful with that, Matthew,” Slaughter urged lightly. “You wouldn’t wish to waste your only shot, and heaven forbid if you were to hit Mr. Greathouse by mistake.”
The statement made Matthew move the gun’s aim a few inches to one side.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Greathouse said. He was standing about ten feet from Slaughter, and Slaughter was holding the box out for him to open. Yet Greathouse still declined to approach. Matthew thought Greathouse’s animal instinct was sniffing the wind for treachery.
“Come on, then! It’s heavier than it looks, I assure you. All that money inside,” said Slaughter. When Greathouse still didn’t move, Slaughter added, “Very well, I’ll put it on the ground and step away. You can lean down and—” He made the motion of lowering the box to the ground next to the well.
“Stay where you are!” came Greathouse’s command. “Just right there. Where I can see your hands. That wouldn’t be the first box I’ve seen with a hidden lever that shoots out a blade.”
Slaughter laughed, but after the first few notes of it a rasp of anger crept in. “It’s a fucking box! Do you see?” He turned it to show various angles. “And heavy! Dear Christ, am I to stand here until I grow roots?”
“Matthew?” Greathouse said, his gaze fixed on Slaughter. “Move to your right about five feet and forward three. I want you to have a clear shot.” He waited until Matthew had situated himself, but a clearer line of fire did nothing to calm Matthew’s nerves. Then Greathouse seemed to thrust his chest out, as if daring the fates, and walked the few paces between himself and his adversary.
“The box opens by pushing the latches to either side,” Slaughter said. “A thumb to the left, and a thumb to the right. Simple, isn’t it?”
Greathouse put his thumbs against the brass and pushed. Nothing happened. “It’s locked.”
“No, it’s not. The mechanism may be a little stiff. Shall I do it for you?”
Greathouse tried again. The lefthand latch moved, with a faint metallic sliding sound, but the one on the right was still stubborn.
“I’d assumed you were a man,” Slaughter said.
Greathouse put some force to the righthand latch. And then it moved, again with the sound of metal scraping metal.
What happened next would be forever seared upon Matthew’s brain, though it had the speed and violence of a whirlwind.
As the second latch came to rest, there followed within a split-second the soul-shaking, ear-cracking bang! of a pistol firing at close-range.
From the keyhole a white gout of powdersmoke and sparks exploded into Greathouse’s face, blinding him. Matthew jumped at the noise and took aim to fire, but with his finger on the trigger he had to dodge down as Slaughter, the man’s bearded face a grinning rictus, hurled the still-smoking box at his head. His tricorn was hit, and spun off. Matthew slipped and fell, the striker dropped, the flint sparked, and the gun fired, its ball whining off one side of the well just behind Slaughter. Greathouse was staggering backward, his hands up to shield his face, but suddenly Slaughter was upon him, and Matthew was witness to a terrifying and awesome transformation.
With each step Slaughter took toward his prey, he seemed to grow. To expand, to thicken in his clothes as if he were letting go of muscles and tendons he’d contracted to make himself appear smaller. His spine lengthened, his chest pushed forward, his shoulders bulged. Matthew had the mad thought: He’s crawling out of his hole. A hideous grin was fixed to Slaughter’s mouth, the blue eyes wide and wild and nearly luminous with the joy of murder. Slaughter reached back, under his shirt. His hand held something in it when it reappeared. He uncapped a smooth silver cylinder, an object that looked like it might have been a doctor’s instrument. Matthew saw the glint of a hooked blade. Slaughter caught Greathouse around the neck with the crook of his arm, squeezed so hard the blood jumped red in Greathouse’s cheeks, and then with furious determination Slaughter began to drive the blade into Greathouse’s upper back, between the shoulders.
Before Matthew could scramble up from the ground, Greathouse had already been stabbed three times, with a fourth strike already falling. Matthew let out a hoarse cry and did the only thing he could think to do, which was to throw the pistol end over end at Slaughter’s head. It hit the man on his shoulder and staggered him, interrupting a fifth strike of the blade. Still he gripped his victim, and then Slaughter swung Greathouse around like a grainsack toward the well.
Greathouse went headfirst over the side. The bucket’s rope was hanging down from the overhead windlass, but there was no chance for him to grab hold of it. There was a splash as he hit water below.
Then, all the attention was turned upon Matthew.
Before Matthew, revealed in all his vile glory, stood the killer with the Satanic face whom he’d seen on his first visit to Westerwicke. No pretense was needed now. No disguise. The grinning carnivore lifted his thin, bloody blade, and said pleadingly, “Run, won’t you? Go ahead! Run!”
Matthew heard the echoed sound of choking. Greathouse was about to drown either on well-water or his own blood.
Matthew dared to glance around at the safebox lying a few yards behind
him. As soon as he did, he heard Slaughter start coming for him, moving with horrifying power. Matthew ran for the safebox, which had shown its strength by not bursting open on contact with the ground, and picked it up, finding the thing as heavy as guilt. In his current position it was mind over muscle, and he heaved it frantically at Slaughter as the hooked fingernails grasped for his face and the blade swung at his throat.
The box hit Slaughter in the upper body, and bounced off like a bird hitting a brick wall. But the impact drove the air out of him, and gave Matthew the chance to duck under flailing hand and swinging blade and run toward his true destination.
He leaped into the well.
Grasping the bucket-rope, he slid down into the wet dark so fast the skin nearly smoked off his hands. That pain he would deal with later. Suddenly he splashed into the cold water almost on top of Hudson Greathouse, and he clung hold of the bucket with one arm and with the other grasped Greathouse around the chest.
There came the grumble of a wooden mechanism in action. The bucket-rope tightened. Matthew looked up, and saw Slaughter peering down at him about twenty feet above. The bastard was using the windlass crank to pull the bucket up.
Matthew kept his grip on it, treading water and fighting the crank. Beside him, Greathouse coughed and sputtered, and then began to thrash as if coming to his senses to battle for his life.
“So!” Slaughter had released the crank, giving this little skirmish up as lost. His voice echoed down between the rough stones. “Do you think you’re smart, Matthew? Do you think I’m going to let you climb out of there? Well, just stay where you are for a few moments, and I’ll show you something!” He disappeared from view.