Abruptly a brown hand shot out, grasped the stick and wrenched it away from the brave, causing the man and the group of children to turn around and flee as if they'd seen the hand of the Devil emerge from that dark interior. Matthew's first desire was also to run, but he stood by himself, waiting, as he'd already met Satan this day and a lesser devil was no match for Slaughter.
An Indian came out from behind the deerskin, and stared at Matthew with eyes like pieces of black flint. He was about as tall as Matthew, and maybe only three or four years older, though age was hard to determine among native people. He was bald but for a scalplock, in their fashion, yet he wore neither feathers nor that caplike head covering Matthew had seen some of the others wearing. He bore no tattoos on his face, but his neck and bare chest under an open buckskin waistcoat were well-marked with blue scratches and scribblings that looked more like self-inflicted torture than any kind of symbolism. On his arms at wrists and just above the elbows were blue tattooed rings. He was slimly-built, even on the gaunt side, for every rib showed and there was a troubled darkness around his eyes. He wore the customary loincloth, leggings and moccasins, and around his neck hung a small carved wooden totem of some kind on a leather cord. It appeared to Matthew to be the representation of a man with two heads.
The Indian cast his gaze in the direction the others had gone. His profile was hawklike, his face high-cheekboned and his expression sullen. Then he regarded Matthew once more, and he said in a clear voice,
"English."
"Yes!" Matthew was relieved to hear the word spoken almost as if by a native of New York.
"Are you what all the noise is about?"
"I am. My friend's been hurt. Can you help me find him?"
"Is he here?"
"Yes, but where I don't know."
"Hm," the man said. His black eyebrows lifted. "Hurt how?"
"Stabbed. In the back."
"Your hands." The Indian motioned with his stick. "They don't look too good." "It's my friend I'm worried about," Matthew replied.
"Then, he must be a true friend, because I would imagine you are in some pain. What happened?" "Never mind that. I just want to know where he is. His name's Hudson Greathouse." "All right." The Indian nodded. "If he's here, he'll be with the medicine sisters."
"Take me there."
"No," came the reply, "I will not. The medicine sisters don't like to be bothered when they're working," he explained to his visitor's look of dismay. "It's best to leave them alone. Do you have a name?"
"Matthew Corbett."
"Do you wish to come into my house and have some tea, Matthew Corbett?" "Tea?"
"A nasty habit I picked up in London," said the Indian. He tossed the stick back to the ground and pulled the deerskin aside. "Come in. It's poor manners to refuse a formal invitation." He waited as Matthew tried to decide what kind of bizarre dream he was having, and how soon he might awaken from it. Matthew was beginning to be aware of all the pain that was flooding in upon him, from rope-burned hands and stone-slashed feet. His bruised left shoulder felt like a dead weight. Among these sensations was an overwhelming weariness, coupled with a forlorn grief. If not for him, Greathouse would not be dying, or already dead. If not for him, Slaughter would not have been set loose, and this might have been the worst of it. But he had to lay that aside now and put his attention on the moment, for that was how he had to survive what was ahead.
"Thank you," Matthew said, and he walked into the Indian's shelter.
Inside, the small bits of wood in the central firepit burned low. Arranged around the dwelling were items of everyday life: a sleeping pallet, a wooden rack holding blankets, animal skins and some items of clothing, a few wooden bowls and clay drinking cups, a bark water pail and other necessities. Matthew took note of several spears, two bows and a quiver of arrows leaning against a wall. The man would have to be a hunter, certainly, or he could not survive. But why was he living alone here, with no evidence of a wife and children?
Matthew's question was answered, in a way, when the Indian sat down cross-legged before the fire, poured some black liquid from a wooden pot into two small clay cups, and asked in a quiet voice, "You're not afraid of insanity, are you?"
"Pardon?"
"Insanity," said the Indian. "I am insane."
"No," Matthew answered, if a bit warily. "I'm not afraid."
"Ah, that's good, then." One of the cups was offered, and Matthew accepted it. "Everyone else here is afraid. That's why I'm an " He paused, his high forehead creasing as he searched for a word. "Outcast," he went on. "Or nearly so. It won't be very long before I am, because I'm getting worse. Go ahead, drink. As they say in your land, cheer up." He lifted the cup in semblance of a toast, then put it to his lips and downed the liquid.
Matthew also drank, but before he got more than a swallow down his throat he thought his knees might give way, for though it was certainly English tea it was the strongest, most bitter brew he'd ever dared to imbibe. He thought there must be some fishheads and bear balls in this drink. He coughed and sputtered, his eyes shot forth tears, and he held the offending cup almost at arm's-length.
"No sugar, I'm sorry," said the Indian. "Isn't it suitable?"
Matthew coughed again, explosively. Still, for all the bitter taste, he felt a little charge course through his veins, as if one ingredient of this particular tea might be gunpowder. He said hoarsely, "It's all right."
"I trade for it at the post in Belvedere." The Indian poured another cup and drank from it. "Is it what you recall from your land?"
"I was born here," Matthew said, when he could trust his tongue again. "Ah. So I was. We might as well be brothers, shouldn't we?"
Matthew didn't know how to respond to that, so he took another small sip of the furniture polish. "What's your name?" he asked.
The Indian spoke something that sounded like a ghostly wind blowing through a winter forest. "In your language," he said, "that would be Walker In Two Worlds."
"You speak English very well."
"Thank you. It's not an easy tongue to learn. I still have difficulties. But I'm the best speaker here, and that is why I'm allowed to stay." He smiled tightly, which on his drawn and haunted face resembled a grimace. "I became insane in London. You see?"
Matthew didn't, but he chose not to press the point. He bent down and put the cup beside the fire. Not too close, though, for fear of explosion. "I need to find my friend."
"You need something on those hands. You won't be able to use them tomorrow."
"My friend," Matthew repeated. "If he dies " He let go of the sentence.
But the stern black eyes of Walker In Two Worlds were fixed upon him, and would not let him go free so easily. "If he dies, what?"
"If he dies," Matthew answered, "I'm to blame."
"Are you? How?"
"We were taking a prisoner from Westerwicke to New York. A very dangerous man, named Slaughter. Because of me something I did or didn't do Slaughter hurt my friend and got away." Matthew ran a hand through his hair, barely feeling the twinge of raw flesh. "He's a killer. There's no telling what he'll do out there."
Walker In Two Worlds nodded, his face now devoid of expression. "Tell me, then. Who do you grieve for most? Yourself, for your mistake; your friend, for his injury; or the others?"
"The others? What others?"
"The innocent others," Walker said, "you fear this man Slaughter is going to kill."