"Come on." Greathouse clapped his shoulder. "Let's get to it."
Matthew followed Greathouse to the wagon, where Slaughter still lay with his eyes closed like a beast dozing in the shifting sunbeams. Two more flies had found him and were whirling about his face. Matthew wondered how many he'd dined on since he'd been lying there.
Greathouse slammed his palm against the side of the wagon, which caused Slaughter only to lift his eyelids to half-mast and yawn. "Saying we might believe you," Greathouse told him roughly, "and that we might be interested. How far down that road do we go?"
Slaughter worked his head from side to side, stretching his neck. "To the end of it, as I've already said."
"How far?
"Oh six miles west, along the river. Then the road takes a turn to the southwest. Another four miles, I'd say. Ten miles in all."
"Ten miles? That's a long way, with these horses."
"You make a journey," said Slaughter, "with the horses you have."
Greathouse suddenly reached over and grabbed hold of the prisoner's beard, which served to secure Slaughter's full attention. "If we drive ten miles to the end of that road and no safebox is buried there, I won't be pleased. Those doctors may have promised the Quakers you'd get to New York alive, but I'm a Baptist. If I decide not to kill you, I'll at least give you some marks to remember. I may even tear off that damned beard." He gave it a steady pull, but Slaughter gave no reaction. "Do you understand me? Just nod."
Slaughter did.
Greathouse released him. He wiped his hand down the leg of his breeches, leaving a dirty smear. He said to Matthew, "Get up there and work the horses back."
Matthew climbed up onto the seat and put the pistol beside him where he could reach it in a hurry if he heard the chains rattle. He lifted the brake, took the reins and started urging the team to backstep as Greathouse took hold of one of the wheels and pushed against it. Soon they had retreated the wagon to just beyond the turnoff. Then Greathouse climbed up again, took the pistol and turned around on the seat to watch Slaughter.
"All right, Matthew," said Greathouse. "Let's go."
Matthew hesitated on the verge of flicking the reins. Tell him, he thought. But it was a quieter, less urgent voice. There was still time. Maybe in the next mile or two. He would have to think about it a little more. And it might not be necessary to tell. Not necessary at all. If the safebox was really there, and it held the treasure as Slaughter said then why would it ever be necessary?
Still, he had a taste of ashes in his mouth, and his fine suit did not seem to hang so well on his frame as it had before.
He flicked the reins. The team started walking, one of the horses snorting at this indignity of the driver not knowing whether he was going backward or forward.
They entered the woods on the narrow road. The canopy of trees closed above their heads. It was only after another minute or so that Matthew pulled himself out of his thoughts to realize they were heading directly into the oncoming storm.
Ten
Beneath a sky the color of lead and just as heavy, they heard the wind approaching through the forest. On a hillside in the distance, through a break in the trees, they saw huge branches whipping back and forth and hundreds of scarlet leaves spinning into the air. Then the white veil of rain descended over the view, and though it was yet a half-mile away they braced for the blast.
Matthew had given the reins to Greathouse about an hour ago and taken over the task of watching the prisoner. Both Matthew and Greathouse wore their cloaks tight about them, and now as the sound of the wind came nearer Greathouse shouted, "Keep the gun dry!"
Matthew put it inside his cloak and kept his hand on the grip. The horses nickered and lifted their heads nervously to protest their course, but Greathouse's firm control of the reins kept them from going off the road and into the thicket. Matthew saw the prisoner watching him almost incuriously, as one might watch to see what a dog would do when doused with a bucketful of water.
"Here it comes!"
The first swirl of the wind, deceptively meek, came just a few seconds after Greathouse's voice. And then there was a keen high shrill of air that built to almost a feminine scream and the next blast of wind hit Matthew in the back and almost lifted him off the seat. He had the quick sensation of thinking that the wind was going to get into the flapping folds of his cloak and send him flying. Leaves of a hundred hues of red, purple and yellow struck him, as if the very forest had turned assaulter. He felt the tricorn flip off his head, and that was when Slaughter made his move.
Through the tumult of whirling leaves Matthew saw Slaughter come up from his position of repose like a snake striking from beneath a rock. The noise of the wind masked the rattle of chains, and when Matthew opened his mouth to cry out he knew his voice would be tattered to pieces before it reached Greathouse, who was trying to keep the horses from turning against the onslaught. Slaughter reached out toward Matthew with a claw-like hand, the knives of his nails flashing at Matthew's eyes.
And even as Matthew struggled to get the pistol out of his cloak and failed to dislodge it, he brought up his other arm, fist clenched, to ward off the coming blow and he saw Slaughter grasp his tricorn, which had blown off his head and which the prisoner had caught before it could go flying off the wagon.
"There you are, Matthew," said Slaughter, bent with the weight of his irons and speaking close to the younger man's ear. "You wouldn't want to lose such a fine hat." He pushed it into Matthew's fist until the fist opened to accept it.
"What is it?" Greathouse had looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. The horses were still unnerved and tossing their heads against the bit. "Sit down, Slaughter! Wow!"
The order could not be obeyed before the rain struck. It came rushing in on the heels of the wind, hit with a cold impact that made breath hitch in the lungs, and within seconds had drenched the three travelers to their skins. Slaughter sank down amid the leaves that littered the wagon, and curled himself up as best he could. Greathouse hollered out a great curse as rain streamed through his brown woolen cap and down his face. Matthew dumped the water out of his tricorn and put it back on, and when he sat there shivering he wasn't sure if it was due to the chill rain or the fact that Slaughter's fingernails could have torn out his eyes.
The wind ceased, but the rain kept pouring down. Waterfalls sprang from the treetops. The air itself turned grayish-green, visibility was cut to the edges of what might have been roiling seafoam, and it seemed they were no longer travelling through forest but across an undersea kingdom.
The horses, back to their old stolid selves, pulled the wagon onward with no further dissent. Presently their hooves began to sink in mud. Thoroughly wet and miserable, Matthew thought that now must surely be the time to admit his discovery of the money, and end this travail. They'd already come, by the reckoning of his tailbone, at least six miles due west from the pike and the road was yet to turn to the southwest as Slaughter had said. Before the storm had hit, Matthew had expected Greathouse to point this fact out to the prisoner, but then again they might not have quite made six miles yet; it was hard to tell, with just these unbroken woods all around. They'd had several glimpses of the river, off to the right, but not a single view of any dwelling built by the hand of man.
Matthew wondered what his fate was going to be when he told. More than a scolding, for sure. A knock on the head, if he was lucky. More than one, depending on Greathouse's mood, and in this damned rain his mood was certainly going to be deepest black.