Matthew saw that Walker had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow, and was aiming it into the woods as he waded forward. The Indian had obviously seen something he didn't like, or else he expected that Slaughter might choose this place as a shooting gallery. I do knowpistols, sir, as well as I knowrazors, Slaughter had said to Greathouse. And another statement Matthew recalled Slaughter making: I knowthe look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier.
Which meant Slaughter must have had experience quick-loading pistols. Matthew had heard from Greathouse, during his own firearms training, that a real expert could eye-measure the powder, pour it down, ram the ball and cloth patch, prime the pan and fire a shot within fifteen seconds. Of course the faster the process was done, the more chance there was for a mistake, which meant a misfire or even an explosion, rendering both the pistol and the hand useless pieces of junk.
Walker continued along the stream, moving the arrow's point to follow his line of sight. But in another moment he lowered the bow, climbed up upon the right bank, and motioned for the others to come ahead.
"He came out here. The mark is very fresh, maybe an hour old." Walker showed Matthew an area of crushed weeds and among them the impression of a bootheel. When he located two more, he said, "Going this way," and pointed to the southeast. "Moving slowly. His legs are tired and he ate too much." He stood up and returned the arrow to its quiver and the bow to its sheath. "Is the woman all right?"
Faith didn't speak, though her mouth was moving as if reciting a childhood conversation. Her eyes were glazed over, her face slack. Though her body was here, her mind was far distant.
Lark said, "She can keep going."
Walker looked up through the trees toward the sun. "About two hours of light left. Can we pick up our pace?" He had directed this question to Matthew.
"I don't think so."
"All right, then." There was no reason for argument; things were as they were. "If possible, we should be silent from here on. We don't want him to hear us as we get closer. I'm going to go ahead a distance, but not so far that I can't see you. If you're getting too much off the track, I'll correct you." With that pronouncement, Walker trotted quietly away into the woods, nimbly leaping gnarled roots and ducking under low-hanging branches.
Matthew had never bargained to be a pioneer, but he'd learned that many things in this life were thrust upon you whether you wanted them or not. He had not a clue about how to follow Walker's trail. A disturbance of leaves and a crushed weed spoke volumes to the Indian, but withheld from him even a short story. Walker was out of sight now, and the forest seemed vast and darker. Still, Matthew could only do as he was instructed; he started off in what he hoped was Walker's path, and behind him followed his army of two.
"Careful here," Matthew said, as softly as was practical, to warn them of a place where the ground abruptly sloped into a hollow full of tangled vines and roots before it rose up again. Lark nodded; Faith was still absent, but she clung to Lark's hand and let herself be guided.
"Who are you?" Lark asked, coming up beside him. "A constable?"
"In a way. I'm a problem-solver. In New York."
"What kind of problems?"
"This kind," he replied. He motioned toward a patch of thorns that blocked their way, so they had to change course a few degrees. They walked for a while in silence, as Walker had directed, but Matthew found himself compelled to speak again. "I'm sorry," he said.
"You had nothing to do with it." She paused, and Matthew thought she might be able to sense the bitter anger that suddenly seemed to be, like one of Slaughter's claw-nailed hands, closing around his throat. "Did you?"
Matthew didn't reply. But he knew he would have to, eventually; if not here, then somewhere else, for he could not let himself wander a path that had no end.
"I am responsible for his escape," Matthew said.
He felt Lark staring at him. He kept his head down, in pretense of examining the way ahead for pitfalls. Lark said nothing else. Soon he'd either picked up his pace or she had drifted back, he wasn't sure which, but he might as well have been a solitary traveler.
They came out of the forest into a small clearing. Matthew was pleased with his sense of direction, because Walker was kneeling down under a group of oaks at the clearing's edge only a few yards away. Before them rose another hill, easily twice the height of the one they'd climbed when leaving the Lindsay house.
Matthew, Lark and Faith approached the Indian. They were almost beside him when Matthew caught from the corner of his eye a sharp glint of glass or metal catching the sun. He looked up the hillside, toward the top where the trees grew thick.
"He's up there," Walker whispered, motioning them to remain under the trees. "Taking a look around with his spyglass."
Matthew crouched against an oak's trunk and scanned the hilltop. The reflection did not repeat itself. "Do you think he's seen us?"
"I don't know."
They waited. Slaughter might have moved to a different spot, and be watching them even now, or he might have made a single quick pass across the clearing. In any case, they couldn't stay here forever.
After about three minutes during which both he and Matthew intently watched for any sign of movement and saw none, Walker got to his feet. "I want to get up there as fast as we can. You help the girl. And if you see anything, call out."
"All right."
Walker found the trail that Slaughter had already broken through the underbrush, but it was an arduous climb. At one point Faith nearly collapsed and had to sit down, still without a word, and Lark sat beside her and rubbed her legs until she could stand once more. Walker stayed with them, crouched on the ground and alert for movement, his bow drawn and an arrow ready to fly. Matthew's own legs were killing him; the muscles in his calves felt as if they were about to rip through the skin.
It took more than half-an-hour to reach the top. There was no sign of Slaughter, except for the bootmarks that Walker easily found. It appeared to Walker that Slaughter had clambered up onto the rocks, laid flat and from there aimed the spyglass down.
And not far from where Walker deduced that Slaughter had done so, Matthew's black tricorn lay on a smooth gray boulder amid the pines. Likely left behind, Matthew thought, in Slaughter's haste to put distance between them.
Matthew approached his hat. He reached out to pick it up. Walker's bow stopped the arm from its intent. "Wait," Walker told him. "Step back."
"What're you-"
"Back," Walker repeated, and this time Matthew obeyed.
The Indian stretched his own arm out and used the bow's narrow end to tilt the tricorn up. As Walker lifted it, the snake that was coiled underneath began to give its warning rattle. Fangs struck at the bow. Walker swept the rattler off the boulder onto the ground where it slithered away.
"Bite you," said Faith, in her dazed and dreamlike voice. "Ol' Scratch."
Lark stood beside Matthew, and Matthew suddenly realized she had grasped his hand because his fingers were about to be broken.
"I would say," Walker remarked, "that Slaughter has seen us. Do you agree with that, Matthew?"
"Yes."
"That's probably not a good thing."
"No," Matthew said.
"He's left clear tracks. Still moving slowly. The hill wore him out." "I think we're all worn out."
Walker nodded. "I think you may be right." He regarded the sun again, which was turning red in a cloudless sky as it dropped toward the west. "We need to make camp before dark. Find someplace as safe as possible."