“We have some who read the Good Book,” Quinn replied, with more strength. “I’m one of ’em.”
“Blessed are you, then,” said Lott, offering a quick smile. He returned the tricorn to his head. “Come join us, friends. We are cooking up some snakes over this bountiful fire.”
Matthew saw that many of the men held sharpened sticks upon which were pierced pieces of white meat. He recognized the broad-shouldered, brown-bearded and husky Caleb Bovie, who regarded the three additions to the ‘party’ with an impassive expression that might have been tinged with dull-eyed contempt. The others he’d probably seen before, maybe in the boats or in the crowd at the Green Sea. They were mostly lean examples of men who had labored hard and long for very little, and wore in the lines upon their faces the tales of lives of quiet desperation. It was easy to see how any of them would be out here hoping to earn money for the ears of a runaway slave, particularly one who had murdered Sarah Kincannon, for such might lift them up at least for awhile from the common clay, or serve to buy a wife a nice piece of cloth for a new dress, or a playtoy for a child. A few of these gents, however, were intent on passing the jugs back and forth; their ruddy faces, glazed eyes and occasional giggling displayed the fact that they were out here, indeed, to join the ‘party.’
“Lord, boy!” said a man with a crown of white hair and a face seamed by many summers of burning suns. “You got blood all over your shirt! What happened?”
“Indians,” Matthew answered. He felt like he needed to sit down before he fell. “From that village back there. They came up from underwater. Threw some of the boats over, and—”
“You got away from there with your head?” Stamper was roasting his piece of snake over the flames. “We made sure we got past that place quick. Never been there—thank God—but I know what it is. The Catawba, Creeks, Yuchi, and Chickasaws put the people there they call ‘Dead in Life’…the outcasts. We figured the skins had already gotten past, without attractin’ too much attention. Yeah, all those torches on the river…all that singin’ and such…sure to draw ’em out.” Matthew thought the gunfire on the river might also have alerted the Dead in Life to trespassers in their realm, but he said nothing. “Heard tell of the game,” Stamper said. “You see it?”
“A part I want to keep,” Matthew answered, “was almost in the game.”
“Lost a lot of blood, looks like. Took a knife?”
“Arrow.”
“Broke off the shaft?”
“No,” Matthew said. “I pulled the arrowhead out.”
There was a moment of respectful silence, even from the drunken gigglers. Then Stamper called out, “Halleck, pass that jug over here! Let’s give this boy a drink. I think he needs one more than you do.”
The jug was passed. Matthew had a swallow, which burned hot going down and brought tears to his eyes but he welcomed the sensation. Then Quinn took the jug, said to him, “Draw a breath,” and when he did—knowing what she was about to do—she splashed some of the liquor onto his shoulder wound.
Comets and fireballs whirled through his head. The pain almost broke his teeth. He thought for a second his tormented flesh in that area had burst into flame. Then he was aware of being helped to the ground by Magnus, because his legs had collapsed. He sat in the firelight with his hand clasped to his shoulder and the beads of sweat glistening on his face.
“Thank you,” said Quinn, giving the jug back to Stamper, who began its passage back to Halleck and the other drunkards.
“Heard three shots,” Magnus said. “Killed three snakes?”
“Snakes were killed by the sword,” Stamper answered as he chewed on the blackened meat. “Whetters, Carr and Morgan fired those shots.” He motioned toward three men on the other side of the flames. “Tell the man why you’re wastin’ gunpowder, Morgan.”
“Wasn’t no waste!” said the wild-looking red-haired man with a hooked nose and maybe four or five black teeth in his head. “Somethin’ was stalkin’ us! We all heared it!”
“Scared it off, whatever it was!” said one of the others, thin and balding and red-eyed from either his experiences of the night or sips from the jug. “Somethin’ big…followin’ us through that thicket. Didn’t make a lot a’noise, but it cracked a twig or two. Gettin’ closer and closer. Thought it might’ve been one of the skins, slippin’ up to cut our throats!”
“Those skins are a long way from here, I’m bettin’,” said Stamper, with a nostril-flare of disgust for either the runaways or the three shooters. “And no one of ’em is gonna try to cut anybody’s throat. They want to run, not fight.”
“Just tellin’ you what we heard,” Morgan insisted. “Out there lookin’ to scare up a rabbit or such…then we all heard it prowlin’ through that brush. Couldn’t see it, not even with the torch. Keepin’ well-hid.” He turned his attention from Stamper to Magnus. “So we took our shots and to Hell with whatever damn devil it was.”
“Indian, maybe?” Magnus asked. “The Dead in Life?”
“Maybe, but I don’t believe they’d roam this far from their village,” Stamper said. “Whatever it was, you boys are damned poor shots. Wasn’t a drop of blood in that thicket.” He reached over and gave his musket a loving pat. “We’ll find out before dawn whether you hit an Indian or not.”
Matthew looked up at the sky. Had it ever been so dark before dawn in his life? Quinn settled herself beside him and pushed the sweat-damp hair back from his forehead.
Magnus reached down. He took for himself a stick of burnt snake meat from the hand of a long-nosed man who seemed to think just for an instant of defying Fate, but then regained his senses and sat with his knees pulled up to his chin. Magnus chewed on the meat and surveyed the group of men. He was a formidable beast, with his hair and beard matted and filthy and his face darkened by Solstice River mud. “Why’d you pull off the river here?”
“I don’t know who got here first and started a fire,” Stamper said, “but it’s a good place to camp. High off the mud. Eat some food and wait ’til daylight. Get started again in a couple of hours.”
Magnus nodded. “I’m lookin’ for Griffin Royce and Joel Gunn. Anybody seen ’em?”
“I seen ’em,” said a man leaning against a tree on the other side of the fire. He cradled a musket, was thick-bodied, had a neck like a bull and a square-jawed face that looked like he could crush stones between his teeth. Even so, his blind left eye was stark white. “About an hour ago. They was rowin’ ahead of me, Ellis and Doyle. Movin’ fast. Rounded a bend, and they was gone.”
“Hm,” said Magnus, still chewing on the reptile.
“Why you lookin’ for them, Muldoon?” Caleb Bovie had snake meat in his teeth and a voice that sounded as if his throat had been scraped with a razor. “You’re out after the skins just like the rest of us, ain’t you?”
Magnus was suddenly at a loss for words. He looked to Matthew, who took up the banner even though he was still nearly insensible. “We wondered…if those two might’ve found the runaways yet. They started off…before everyone else. So…”
“And what the hell are you doin’ here and who are you?” Stamper asked, his eyes narrowed. “I saw you in Jubilee. Wearin’ fancy clothes with fancy manners. You’re from Charles Town, am I right? What are you doin’ out here on a slave hunt, boy?”
Magnus got his jaw unlocked. He had realized, as Matthew knew, that telling these men what Granny Pegg had said would carry no weight, and might work against their aim. “Matthew’s a friend of mine. Was at my house when the bell started ringin’.” He offered a crooked, muddy-faced grin. “Don’t hold it against him that he’s from Charles Town. Wantin’ to help me start a business. Ain’t that right, Matthew?”