No point rushing things. The last time I'd gone sneaking into a stranger's digs, that's when I'd gotten mixed up with the Ripper in the first place. Seemed the wiser course to scout around before making up my mind as to whether I ought to try the house.

With that in mind, I headed off to the right. The windows along the ground floor were high enough so I didn't need to duck. They were all dark. At the corner, I turned and made for the front. The windows along this wall were dark, too. A couple of times, I stepped back and looked up. Didn't seem to be any lighted windows upstairs, either.

Well, it stood to reason. If a family was in there, they all would've turned in by now. I hoped they were were asleep, and not slaughtered. asleep, and not slaughtered.

Whittle was mad, but crafty. Maybe he figured to play things safe, and not mark his arrival in America by killing folks straightaway.

Likely as not, though, he wouldn't look at it that way.

Pretty soon, I came to the front of the house and followed its long porch to the stairs in the middle. By now, it came as no surprise to find the windows dark. From the look of the snow on the stairs, n.o.body'd climbed up or down them for a spell.

I had a mind to walk the rest of the way around the place, but figured I was only just looking for an excuse to put off going in.

So up the stairs I went. The snow on them squeaked under my shoes. Under the porch roof, I put some white tracks on the floorboards, and stomped one foot to shake the clinging powder off my shoe and sock. The thump of it startled me considerable. I felt like a plain fool. Quiet and stealth were called for, not clean shoes.

A single thump shouldn't have been enough to rouse the household-if anybody was in shape to arouse. And if Whittle was in there, he only would've heard it if he had his ear to the front door, likely as not.

Anyhow, I stood still for a long while. Nothing came of the thump. But I wasn't eager to try the door. I set down my driftwood club and brushed some snow off my hair and coat. Then I bent down for my club, but decided not to take it in with me. If Whittle was inside, I'd have to make do with my rocks. Because he might not be. And I didn't fancy the notion of creeping inside a strange house with a weapon in my hand. I'd had a knife in my teeth when I climbed aboard the True D. Light True D. Light, only to get myself laid into by an innocent chap who took me for a villain.

There's one thing about Trevor Bentley, he doesn't often make the same mistake twice.

So I kept my hands empty, the rocks in my pockets.

The door wasn't locked.

I eased it open and stood for a spell with my head in the crack. There wasn't much to see but only darkness. Nothing to hear but the ticktock of a clock pendulum somewhere close by. So in I crept, and shut the door real soft.

It was mighty good to be out of the snowy weather. The air felt warm and friendly. It smelled a trifle old and stale like Grandmother's place near Oxford. It smelled of wood smoke, too. From a fireplace, I reckoned. And there was a bittersweet aroma that put me in mind of Daws the cabman. I remembered how he'd kept his pipe upside down so the rain wouldn't put it out, the night I went to fetch Uncle William, and suddenly I felt mighty lonesome for home.

I would've given just about anything, right then, to be there with Mother.

I told myself this was no time to stand around feeling sorry for myself. This was dangerous territory, after all, whether or not Whittle was lurking about.

Keeping my eyes and ears sharp, I took to snooping about. Part of the time, rug was under my shoes. Other times, it was wooden floor. I moved slow, crouching some, my hands feeling ahead to warn me off collisions. I met up with an umbrella stand, a small table, a lamp, a couple of chairs. I only knew what they were by their feel. Somehow, I missed knocking any over. By and by, I found a newel post and stairway. The stairs seemed to be as wide as I was long.

It seemed smart to explore where I was before venturing into the upper parts of the house. So that's what I did. And before long, I found myself in a parlor. That's where the fireplace was. The fire had burned itself down to glowing embers, but it gave the room some extra warmth and enough ruddy light for me to see I wasn't blind, after all.

Though the light was faint and left swarms of shadows, I saw right off that the room had walls and walls full of books. Where there weren't bookshelves or curtained windows, there were cabinets or paintings. The place was all aclutter. It had a sofa, and so many tables and lamps and chairs and so on that it seemed more like a storage room than a place for folks to spend their time.

Even though I worried some about what might be hiding in the shadows, I wasn't eager to move on. I stepped over close to the fire, instead, and huddled down to feel its warmth better.

From somewhere behind me, a voice said, "Chuck another log on there, fellow."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

The General Well, I jumped up so quick I near hurt myself, and swung around.

Off in a corner, a match flared. It showed a broad, wrinkled face with white hair curled all around it and a thick, droopy mustache. The old man was sitting in an armchair off to the side a ways. I must've walked right by him on my way to the fireplace.

He sucked the match flame down into his pipe a few times, and puffed out some smoke. "Get that fire blazing," he said. "I only let her burn down because I was too comfy to get up and fool with it."

He didn't sound like he meant me any harm. He sounded downright friendly, in fact. So I figured there was no good reason to hightail. I turned to the fireplace, moved the screen aside, added some wood onto the andiron, and puffed away with the bellows till the fire took. After putting the screen back where it belonged, I faced the old man again.

"Much appreciated," he said.

What with the shimmery red light, I could see him better now. He was a husky fellow, all abulge under his flannel nightshirt. A blanket covered his legs. He sat there, looking at me, sucking on his pipe, just as calm as if I'd been invited into his parlor, not snuck in like a thief.

"General Matthew Forrest," he said.

A General?That might explain how come I hadn't riled him.

"Don't stand there with your maw hanging," he said. "Introduce yourself."

I let out a couple of noises like "Uhhh, uhhh" while I tried to figure things out. He talked like a Yank, pretty much the same as Michael and Trudy, rather flat and clipped. Just a few words from me, and he'd know by my voice I wasn't any native. Then I'd have an awful piece of explaining to do. What I needed was a good string of lies about who I was and where I'd come from-lies that left out everything about Whittle and the yacht.

"What's the matter, cat got your tongue?"

I nodded, and suddenly hit on a plan. Cat got your tongue? Cat got your tongue?Yes, indeed!

I commenced to frown and shake my head and touch my lips. Then I remembered how one of those rascals in Huckleberry Finn Huckleberry Finn had let on to be a dummy. He'd wriggled his fingers and such, pretending it was sign language. So I had a go at that. had let on to be a dummy. He'd wriggled his fingers and such, pretending it was sign language. So I had a go at that.

The General furrowed his brow. He tapped the bit of his pipe against a front tooth. "I see," he said. "You're a mute. Not deaf, however. I knew a fellow name of Clay who suffered from just such a predicament. That was back in '74. A couple of Comanches laid their hands on him, cut his tongue clean off at the root. This wasn't more than half a mile from Adobe Walls. A buffalo hunter happened along, just afterward, and picked off the savages with his Sharps. Saved Clay, but his tongue was already out. Being reluctant to part with it, he poked a hole in the tongue and wore it around his neck. Before long, the thing dried up like jerky. I hear he ate it, a year or two later on, to stave off hunger after he lost his mount and had to hole up in a cave for a week till the Indians cleared out."

This General sure was a talker, which suited me fine. He rather put me in mind of Uncle William, the way he seemed to relish his grisly tale.

"I don't suppose the Comanches got yours," he said.

Shaking my head, I stuck out my tongue so he could see I had one. Then I fingered my throat and let out a grunt.

"A problem with the voice box, eh?"

Nod, nod.

"That's a shame. However, it does give you a certain edge in conversational gambits."

When he came out with that, I couldn't help but laugh.

"The Lord has seen fit to saddle me with not one but two two women in my dotage, so your silence is mighty refreshing." women in my dotage, so your silence is mighty refreshing."

Two women! That set off alarms in me. What if Whittle'd come in, skipped the parlor and missed the General, but found the gals?

I must've looked anxious and fidgety, because the General waved his empty hand in my direction and said, "Oh, don't bother about them. They aren't likely to stray down and interrupt us. Once they've turned in for the night, they remain turned in. That's why I've taken to the habit of coming down for a smoke and a drink this time of..."

"I fear they might be in danger, sir!" I blurted.

So much for acting mute.

If the General was surprised to hear me talk, he didn't show it. He didn't sit still for a blink, but bounded out of the chair so quick it was amazing. "Explain yourself," he said. Turning his back to me, he dropped his pipe on a table and struck a match.

While he plucked the gla.s.s chimney off a lamp and lit the wick, I said, "I followed a murderer tonight. He may've come here."

The General didn't say a thing. He stepped past me lively with the lamp and s.n.a.t.c.hed a revolver off the fireplace mantel. It was huge.

I bet he knew how to use it, too.

"Follow me," he said. "Look sharp."

We hotfooted it out of the parlor, across the foyer and up the stairs. My heart pounded fierce. I hoped the women weren't dead, as that would be a sorry loss for General Forrest. But I sure hoped we'd find Whittle. Scared as I was of the man, I was keen to see him struck by lead. Five or six slugs in the chest would do him proper.

I fetched one of the rocks out of my coat pocket before we reached the top of the stairs. The General moved fast and silent into a hallway up there. I stayed close behind him. The lamp cast a glow that lit us and the walls on both sides, but left a long stretch of darkness ahead.

A runner on the floor kept our footsteps quiet, but boards creaked plenty. They would creak for Whittle, too, I judged, if he came sneaking along. But that didn't ease my mind much, so I looked over my shoulder every few seconds. When we walked past a couple of shut doors, I worried they might fly open and Whittle'd leap out. But they stayed shut.

The next door we came to, it stood open and the General hurried through. He didn't tell me to stay out, so I followed him, not hankering to be left all alone in the hallway. We rushed over to a big canopy bed. I could tell, right off, that Whittle hadn't been at the woman because the covers weren't thrown off and she wasn't a b.l.o.o.d.y carca.s.s. Only her head showed. It wore a bonnet.

The General's hands were full, what with the lamp in one and his revolver in the other, so he gave the mattress a jolt with his knee. The woman let out a moan.

"Stir your bones, Mable."

She mumbled, "Huh? Whuh?"

"We may have trouble. Get up now and come along, and be quiet about it."

She rolled onto her back, caught sight of me and bolted up fast, clutching the covers to her front. She was a skinny, wrinkled old woman. Some white hair stuck out from under the edges of her bonnet. She blinked and worked her jaw. "Who...? What in heaven's name...?"

"Shhhh," the General said. "Let's go."

"Why, I never..." she mumbled. But she didn't waste any time. Throwing some sour looks in my direction, she scampered out of bed and shoved her feet into slippers. She wore a wool gown so long she had to hoist it a bit so the hem wouldn't drag the floor.

The General took the lead. I hung back and stayed behind Mable, figuring to guard the rear. She had a bit of a limp, but she moved along spritely.

She kept glancing back like she suspected I might knock her on the head with my rock.

Up the hallway a piece, we rushed into another bedroom.

The gal in this one must've been a light sleeper, for she sat up quick before the General got a chance to call out or knee her bed.

"Gracious sakes," she said, "what is is going on?" going on?"

"Nothing at all, my dear," the General told her. "Nothing at all."

She frowned, looking fairly perplexed. She was a fine, pretty woman, maybe ten years older than me, with sleek black hair that hung to her shoulders.

"Nothing?" Mable asked, giving the General a sharp look. "Why, you've frightened me out of ten years' growth. Something had best best be going on, you old fool. Who's this be going on, you old fool. Who's this child? child? What's he doing in our home?" What's he doing in our home?"

"Trevor Bentley, ma'am," I said.

"He came to warn us of a killer in the house," the General explained.

"Oh, my," the younger woman said.

"You stay here and watch the women, Trev." With that, he headed for the hallway.

"Don't you dare leave us alone with this young rascal," Mable blurted.

The General, he let on that he didn't hear her. He vanished with his lamp. We were in darkness for a bit. Then a match lit up the young woman. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she touched its flame to a lamp on her night table. She turned the wick up bright, and put the chimney over it, and blew out the match.

Mable went over to the lamp. She picked it up and held it off to her side as if she aimed to pitch it at me. "I've dealt with my share of ruffians, fellow," she said. "Don't tempt me."

"Settle down, Grandma," the young one said, not at all snappish but soft and friendly. "I'm sure Trevor doesn't mean us any harm."

To show she was right, I tucked away the rock into my pocket.

"There," she said. "You see?" She stood up and went to her grandmother, and took the lamp. She set it on the table where it belonged.

She was a head taller than me, and slim and fine-looking. She wore a white nightdress that didn't quite reach to her ankles.

She gave me a smile that warmed me up considerable, then edged on past me and went for the door.

"I shouldn't go out there," I warned.

She didn't heed that, but stepped out into the hall and looked both ways.

"Sarah, you get back in here this moment!"

Well, she stood out there ignoring me and and her grandmother. I had to admire her pluck, but I was scared for her. So I heeled it into the hall. I had a mind to grab her and tow her back inside the room. Kept my hands to myself, though. Just stayed beside her. her grandmother. I had to admire her pluck, but I was scared for her. So I heeled it into the hall. I had a mind to grab her and tow her back inside the room. Kept my hands to myself, though. Just stayed beside her.

We both studied the darkness.

I didn't know where the General had gone to, but I sure wished he'd show up quick.

"Come back in here and shut the door," Mable sang out.

Sarah didn't answer. In a quiet voice to me, she said, "I do hope Grandpa's all right."

"I doubt the killer's in the house," I said. I couldn't be certain, of course. I allowed it was a safe bet, considering Mable and Sarah hadn't gotten themselves butchered. But then again, he might've hidden out in another room for some reason. I figured there was no telling, when it came to Whittle. He might be creeping up on us even as we stood there.

Far off at the end of the hall, light came glowing from a doorway. Pretty soon, the general walked out behind his lamp and revolver. He didn't glance our way. He crossed to another door and entered a room.

"Let's go back inside," I whispered.

She didn't answer, but just stood and folded her arms across her chest. I could hear her breathing sort of ragged. She was barefoot, and must've been mighty cold. Even though she had on a heavy nightdress, the chilly draft was likely chasing right up under it.