Gone, Lark had said when she could speak again. Not more than ten minutes. Back of the barn.
Walker had told Matthew to stay where he was, that he was not going to do anything stupid but that he was going to find Slaughter's trail across the apple orchard, and he had set off at a cautious trot. Matthew had sat down beside Lark to hear the story when she was able to give it. Several times Faith Lindsay had asked him if he was Mr. Shayne, and once had inquired when Ruth could come to play.
Matthew had returned to the house when, after Lark had finished her tale, the girl had begun crying with her hands to her face. Just a little at first, as if she feared releasing what she was holding back within; but then, suddenly and terribly, she had broken. It had begun as a wail that Slaughter must have heard as he climbed the hillside toward the deeper woods. And as Lark had sobbed and trembled her mother had rubbed her shoulder and whispered in the little-girl voice, "Don't cry, Momma, don't cry. We'll get the lace tomorrow."
Lark had lifted her agonized face and stared at her mother, who said brightly, "For the dolls, Momma. You know. To make their dresses." Which was when Matthew had gone into the house for the second time, preferring for the moment the silent company of the dead to the tortures of the living.
"Why are you wearing that?" Faith asked of the Indian, as Walker came up beside Matthew and Lark blinked, looking around herself as if trying to determine who was speaking.
"I am a Seneca," Walker replied. The woman was obviously puzzled, for she frowned and shook her head. She returned to her task of smoothing and smoothing and smoothing the hem of Lark's dress.
Matthew knelt down beside Lark. "The man's name is Tyranthus Slaughter. He's a " She already knew that part about him being a killer, so it was not necessary. "Escaped prisoner," he said. "Walker In Two Worlds is helping me track him. I'm going to take him to the gaol in New York."
The girl's mouth gave a bitter twist. "You are? How?"
"I have a pistol in my bag. Walker has his arrows. We'll run him to ground, eventually." "Eventually," she repeated. "How long is that?" "As long as it takes."
"He said he's going to Philadelphia. We told him about Caulder's Crossing, that it was just a few miles from the Pike." She caught her breath, as if she'd suddenly been struck. Her eyes again filled with tears. "Why did he have to kill them? Why did he have to kill them?"
"Shhhhh, Momma, don't cry," Faith fretted.
"Matthew." Walker stood over him. "We shouldn't waste time or daylight. We can catch him before dark, if we start now."
"Start now?" Lark's bloodshot eyes widened. "You can't leave us here! Not with in there."
"There's no time to bury them." It was a statement of fact, and spoken with the hard truth of the Indian.
"Caulder's Crossing is eight miles. I can't walk with my mother, like she is. Not alone. And what if he comes out of the woods while we're on the road? If he caught us out there " She left the rest of it unspoken.
That was why Slaughter had destroyed the wagon's wheel, Matthew thought. He'd seen it in the barn. Lark and her mother could have taken the wagon to town, but Slaughter had wanted to slow his pursuers down in case the bribe didn't work. Thus Matthew and Walker were now encumbered by a desperate sixteen-year-old girl and a woman with the mind of a seven-year-old.
"You look funny," said Faith to the Indian.
He ignored the comment. "You'll have to either stay here or walk the road. We don't have time to throw away." "Spoken," Matthew said quietly, "like Mr. Oxley."
Walker turned upon him with something like cold fury on his face, though it would have been barely perceptible to anyone but Matthew. "Did you see what I saw in that kitchen? The hand of a monster? If you want him to escape, just keep standing here enjoying the shade. Do we go, or not?" Exasperated when Matthew didn't immediately respond, Walker asked Lark, "Are there saddles for the horses?"
"No. They either pull the plow or the wagon."
Walker spoke in his own language, and from the sound of it even an Englishman couldn't have expressed a more vehement oath.
Matthew had decided. "There's a third choice. They come with us."
"You are mad," Walker shot back, in his own calm but devastating fashion. "Those woods at the top of the hill are thicker than what we went through this morning. We'd be slowed to a crawl."
"At least we'd be moving."
"Yes, at the pace of a girl and a girl," he said. "Matthew, we can't take them up in there! One broken ankle, and we're done."
"Slaughter won't have an easy time of it, either. He'll be moving faster than us, yes, but he's still leaving a trail, isn't he?" Matthew held up his leather-wrapped hand when Walker started to protest again. "If he's not heading for Caulder's Crossing, he's heading for the Pike. Maybe he hopes he can get a ride from there. But if his trail leads to the Crossing, that's where we can leave them." He motioned toward Lark and her mother, the former paying close attention and the latter totally oblivious.
Walker stared at the ground. After a moment he said tersely, "They'll need food. A piece of the ham and some cornbread should do. Something to carry it in. And cloaks or a blanket. Warm, but light. A flask for water. The sturdiest shoes they have, too."
Lark got up and, with a quick glance and a nod of thanks at Matthew, set her jaw and started into the house. At once Faith was after her. "Momma! Momma! Where're you going?"
"I'm going inside," Lark answered, pausing at the door.
"Inside," the woman said.
"Inside our house. I have to get us some things before we go. Do you understand that, Mother?"
"Our house?" There was something ominous in the reply. She kept her gaze fixed on her daughter's face, and Matthew saw the woman's lips try to make words. Nothing came out at first. Then she said, in a dazed voice that was midway between a woman's and a child's, "I'm not I'm not your mother."
"Yes, you are. I'm Lark. Don't you know me?"
"Lark," she repeated, as if she'd never heard it before.
"Mother, we have to leave here. I'm going inside now. I want you to stay-"
"I don't want you to go inside, Momma," said the little girl, clutching at Lark's hand. It must have been a painful grip, for Matthew saw Lark flinch. "Please." She leaned her head forward, her eyes wide, and whispered, "I'm afraid of that place."
"I'm afraid of it, too. But I have to go." Lark slowly eased her hand free. "Faith," she said, "I want you to stay out here, with them."
"Mr. Shayne and the funny man."
"That's right. Will you do that for me?" Something dark, like the shadow of a passing cloud, moved across her face. "Will you do that for your momma?"
"Yes'm," came the reply. All seemed to be well again, in the land of faraway and long ago. But not entirely well; again she leaned forward, and this time whispered, "The funny man doesn't have on enough clothes."
Lark went into the house. Faith came over toward Matthew and Walker-but not too close-and sat down once more on the ground.
When Matthew looked into Walker's face, he saw the Indian's eyes burning holes through him. Walker abruptly turned away, and strode in the direction of the orchard.
In less than three minutes Lark re-emerged, ashen-faced and silent, with a dark brown cloak, a second cloak the gray of morning mist, and around her shoulder a canvas bag stitched with red and yellow flowers. She had not changed her shoes, as they appeared sturdy enough, but she'd brought for her mother a leather pair to trade for the fabric slippers Faith wore. As Lark put the shoes on her mother's feet, Faith did not seem to note all the blood on the slippers that were removed. Then Lark put the dark brown cloak around Faith's shoulders, fastened it at the throat, and they stood up.