by John Babb
The gunshot wound that had gotten him captured in the first place had taken quite a plug out of his left calf, but it was the lack of medical treatment that had resulted in his leg drawing up so that he had to get around with a pronounced limp. The leg pained him most days, particularly when he was handling freight, so it was likely his farming days were over. He’d already resigned himself to the fact that he would have to find a job in a store. Working inside for the rest of his life . . . he’d sure never planned on that.
The important thing was he could almost smell the Ozark Mountains the further south he rode. And at the end of the journey he’d find his Matilda.
Lydel Suggs managed to eke out a living, even during the war, by selling a little ’shine at the head of Blockade Hollow. His still was down a spring branch from his home, located so that he could take advantage of the cool water twice—once for his recipe and once more to keep a jug or two good and cold. There was a big flat rock that jutted out over a deep pool in the spring, which afforded Lydel a good place to hide his cooled, fine liquor.
He was just naturally suspicious, having been hoodwinked more than once by friendly drunks. Maybe they meant well, but their promises to “pay ye later” never seemed to go his way. So he was careful about his customers; but even when they were regulars, he never disclosed his ready-made cold storage site. Nor did he make any sales down at his still or at the spring branch, as all transactions were carried out on the front step of his cabin, and only between the hours of five and eight o’clock in the evening. It was his practice to retrieve three or four jugs from his stash each afternoon and have them ready for sale at five o’clock. If a customer was interested in a cooled version of his shine, they would be expected to pay an extra fifty cents for the privilege.
Sundays were generally slow days in his line of work, as his loyal customers usually bought a jug on Friday or Saturday and commonly reserved Sunday, and even Monday, to recover from their purchase. So Lydel was surprised to hear a knock on his door at five o’clock on Sunday.
The fellow standing on his step was not someone he had seen before, and he was not keen to change his recent practice of knowing everybody he dealt with. He put his hand on the butt of his revolver. “Are ye lost, friend?”
“No sir. I hear down at Roaring River that you might be able to quench a man’s thirst—particularly since Peevey’s closed on Sundays.”
“There’s a fine spring behind the house if yer thirsty.”
“I was thinking more about some of that liquid corn you make.”
“Just enough for my personal use. It’s too precious to sell.”
“Maybe ye’d consider sellin’ just a short jug?”
“Sounds like yer in need of a dram or two.”
“I sure am, friend. I got the quivers somethin’ awful.”
“One drop of this here shine will make a bullfrog spit in a black snake’s eye. It’s pure as the driven snow. Why, the first sip will heat you up all over like a hot bonfire.”
McCorkle licked his lips. “I’m a thirsty man, friend.” He watched Suggs take his hand off his revolver and turn to pick up the jug behind the door. When Suggs looked back around, there was a musket staring him between the eyes. McCorkle kicked the door open and stepped inside the cabin. “Touch that pistol and you’re dead.”
In five minutes he was gone and Suggs was short the three dollars he’d had in his pocket, a jug of moonshine, half a ham, and a loaded pistol, not to mention being trussed up on the floor with his own bootlaces. As he lay there, trying to untie himself, he resolved that from now on he’d just go ahead and shoot anybody he didn’t know.
The Maid was glad to see the ham coming in the door, however she had a pretty good idea what it had taken to get it when he stood her musket in the corner and then spied the revolver tucked into his waistband. But when he stumbled as he turned toward her and she smelled the liquor on him, she knew things were about to change for the worse. She had known something was coming for several weeks but had forced herself not to pay any mind to the voice. She wanted to believe he cared about her and that the months of taking care of him and nursing him was something he would reciprocate.
Not that he had said it in so many words, but surely he felt something for her. Tonight, though, she began to lose faith. “Mac, ye know I don’t allow no spirits in the house.”
“Don’t you worry none about that.” He turned around and walked back outside, only to re-enter in a couple of minutes. “I took care of that little problem. They ain’t gonna be no spirits in the house. I just drunk ’em all up in the yard.” There was no mirth in his face. All she could see was that kind of mean sarcasm she used to see with her pap.
“Let’s have us some of that ham and maybe a couple of fried eggs.”
She turned to the fire and stoked the coals. “Won’t take but a few minutes.” She kept a sharp eye out for him, knowing how quick a drunk could strike. But at the moment, he seemed more intent on looking at his foot. It had healed fairly well but continued to cause him to feel like his missing toes were still there, and still hurting. She had tried to talk him out of that before, but tonight was no time to get into any kind of discussion, let alone an argument. She glanced at him rubbing the stumps on his foot, but looked away so he wouldn’t interpret her looking as though it was some kind of silent disapproval.
She put the two plates on the wooden plank they used for a table, and he shuffled over and began to eat hungrily. She ate as fast as she could, as it was important that she finish before he did. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to the necessary.” He barely looked up from his plate.
As soon as she left the cabin, she ran out in the woods and hid herself behind a big red oak. She wasn’t sure what to do, but she had sensed there was real danger in the cabin. Maybe she would just wait until he passed out, but then again, the danger might still be there when he woke up. She decided to sit tight and wait on another sign.
In about ten minutes she heard him holler for her, then he came out on the cabin step with the coal oil lamp in his hand. “Woman, get on back in here.” He pulled on his boot, walked over to the privy and slapped the door. “Mattie, come outa there.” The lack of an answer seemed to set him off and he jerked the door open. “Mattie, you best come on back here.” He held the lamp in the doorway to the privy. Empty. Where in thunder?
He walked back to the cabin and stood on the step for a few minutes, realized she wasn’t going to take the bait, and pulled his new pistol from the holster. The door slammed behind him, there was a pause of no more than a couple of minutes, and she heard a single shot, then silence.
She wondered if he had accidently shot himself, or maybe even did it on purpose. She had an overwhelming urge to run back to the cabin to see if he was hurt, but after taking no more than three steps, it was almost like an invisible hand reached out and stopped her in her tracks. Only a couple of other times in her life had her special power intervened so forcefully. But she recognized it for what it was and obeyed.
She retreated further up the hill from the cabin, fluffed up some pine needles, and slept as best she could. She awoke at daybreak but speculated he would likely not stir for two or three more hours considering his time with the jug the evening before. She sat there with her arms around her ankles and her chin on her knees, waiting for him to waken.
Finally, at nine o’clock, she watched as the front door opened, but blinked in confusion as a blurred voice reached out from her past. “Mattie, little Mattie girl—ye’d best git over here. I ain’t a gonna hurt ye, jest come an set a while on yer old Pap’s lap.” As she strained her eyes toward the ghost image standing in the cabin doorway, relieving hisself on just about the only extravagance she had—her four peony bushes that were pushing new buds up through the earth—her sight became clear and she knew the invisible hand was that of her Mam, guiding her away from accepting the same fate of her childhood.
When this action elicited no response, he hollered out, “Come on d
own here, Mattie. I wanta talk to ye.” Silence. “Come on Mattie, I know you’re out there.” Still silence.
He went back in the house for a few minutes and reappeared with his boots on and gnawing on a good-sized hunk of ham. After spending a few minutes in the shed, he rode off to the northeast on his horse.
Still she waited. She could just make out the silhouette of his horse, halfway up the hill and standing behind a big hickory. After fifteen minutes he gave up—apparently deciding that she was no longer in the vicinity—and rode on over the hill. She waited another fifteen minutes and walked down to the cabin.
Her leather pouch was on the table. The letter she had read a thousand times was torn into tiny bits, and Henry’s picture had a bullet hole straight through the face. She stood there looking at it for a long time. Finally, she picked it up and tried to push the jagged edges together, but no matter how hard she tried, it was impossible to recognize the picture as her Henry. Her Henry. She realized she hadn’t thought of him that way for a long time.
Why had McCorkle done such a thing? Was it because he was mad at her—or could it possibly be that he was jealous of Henry? Maybe he did care about her after all, and the alcohol pushed him to show it. Mattie had wanted to talk to him about it, but she knew she’d get no satisfactory response. Rather than remain in the cabin and wait for him to return, she figured it would be safer if she made herself a kit and stayed up in the woods for a day or so—at least until she had time to puzzle on the message from her Mam.
She was careful to leave the letter and the picture right where they had been but took enough food and supplies to last for about three days. As she was about to leave, she decided to retrieve her musket from the corner, as well as some powder and shot. No sense being stupid.
McCorkle got to the Keetsville stage stop just after ten-thirty and found that the north-bound stage departed at ten o’clock, while the south-bound left at four in the afternoon. He realized not only did he not know what day they would be traveling, but he had no idea whether Windes’ girl and the woman were headed north or south.
He grinned conspiratorially at the ticket agent. “Say, friend, was there two pretty women on that stage this morning? I was hoping to be on it with ’em.”
“I don’t know what you call purty, but they was an old granny and her colored maid on board. Didn’t see no other women.”
He snorted. “Nope. That sure as hell wasn’t them.” He didn’t want to raise any suspicions, so didn’t inquire further about the women. He felt the three dollars in his pocket. “You reckon Peevey is open for business this time of day?”
“If he was breathin’ when he woke up this mornin’, he’s open.”
He drank up half his loot before four o’clock and rode back to the Wire Road to a position where he could see who got on the south-bound stage, but was concealed enough that he was out of sight of the ticket agent. Only a middle-aged man got on board.
McCorkle had a strong hankering to go back to Peevey’s, but he had enough sense to realize that he might miss the morning stage again if he spent the rest of his money. Instead, he rode south out of town until he found an unoccupied barn, ate the rest of his ham, and let the alcohol haze put him to sleep for the night.
He was in place the next morning as the north-bound stage pulled in, but with the same result—no sign of either of the women. It was just as well. The other six quarters were eating a hole in his pocket, and once again he spent the middle of the day at Peevey’s.
B. F. closed his store at noon and rode over to the Durham home to spend as much time as he could with Crocia before she left the next day. His mind was a hundred miles away, and he wouldn’t have noticed the horse tied up in front of the dram shop, except that an Appaloosa is a striking animal. He was almost positive it was the same one he had seen Mattie Lansdown on a few months earlier. Apparently, her friend was still around, and it looked like he was the kind of fellow who drank hard liquor in the middle of the day. This was confirmed when he came back an hour later to reopen his store and the horse was still there. Too bad. Mattie deserved better than that.
At just about quitting time a stranger stuck his head in the front door and looked around. “Can I help you, mister?”
The man removed his hat and slapped it against his leg. He’d obviously been on the road for some distance, as he was covered in dust. With his hat off, the only part of him that wasn’t gritty brown was the top of his head. “I’m lookin’ for Norwood Barefoot. He used to have a seed store here.”
“Come in out of the sun.” B. F. poured some water out of a jug and handed the man the tin cup. “Looks like you could use some water.”
“I sure could, mistuh. Do ye know where I can find Norwood Barefoot?”
“Are you a friend of his?”
“I worked for him a bit afore the war. I ain’t seen him in about four years.”
“I’m sorry to tell you Barefoot was killed in a stagecoach hold-up over a year ago.”
The man looked away for a minute. “I seen many a good man die these last years. Guess I still ain’t got used to it.”
B. F. picked up a chair and pushed it toward him. “I hope none of us get to the point that we get used to it. My name’s B. F. Windes. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Name’s Henry Sedgwick. I’m looking for my girl, too. I went by her house, but it appears that it burned down. Her name’s Matilda Lansdown. Do ye know her?”
B. F. thought for a second. “You must mean Mattie Lansdown. Sure, I know her. She comes in here to get groceries every month or so.”
The tears came without warning to his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Mistuh Windes. It’s just that I been prayin’ she was safe since I left here in sixty-two. There’s so many people died, I just had to keep hopin’. Do ye know where she lives now?”
“She told me she lives in Blockade Hollow. But I’ve just been here a few months, and I don’t know where that is.” B. F. thought about the Appaloosa down at Peevey’s, and could only imagine the scene if Henry and the owner of that horse found themselves at Mattie’s cabin at the same time.
“I ain’t heard of Blockade Holler neither.”
“Tell you what—I was just about to go over to the Durham’s house. Maybe you know Matt and John Durham?”
“Matt and I are the same age. But I cain’t go over there to that fine house, dirty as I am.”
“I’ve got a shirt about your size, and you can wash up here in the back of the store. Maybe John or Matt can tell you where to find Blockade Hollow.”
“I reckon they’d know if anybody would. Maybe I can just stop by for a minute.”
As B. F. expected, Minnie Durham told Henry Sedgwick that he absolutely had to stay for supper, and they spent the next couple of hours listening to him describe the hellish environment at Camp Douglas, and in turn, telling him as much as they could recall that had happened in Keetsville since he left for the war.
When Henry asked about Blockade Hollow, John Durham spoke up. “You probably know the place as Simms Holler. Everybody started calling it Blockade after the battle down at Pea Ridge. I’ll take you there in the morning Henry. I know where Mattie lives, but the road is so bad, I’d get us lost for sure in the dark.”
“What time can we go, Mistuh Durham?”
Minnie spoke up. “How about just after ten o’clock? Elizabeth and Crocia are leaving on the stage in the morning, and we aim to see them off.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be here.” He smiled at her. “Thank ye so much for that supper. It’s been a long time since I ate so good.”
McCorkle was sick of waiting on the two women to travel. Worse, he didn’t have a cent to his name, having spent it all the last two days at Peevey’s. Now he was faced with another day waiting at the stage stop and not even the wherewithal to wet his whistle. Of course, there was that moonshiner down in the holler, but there wouldn’t be any chance to do it the easy way this time. Whatever, he might get lucky again and get money, shine, an
d grub.
He reached Suggs’ place right after dark. There was no sign of the man, but a light in the cabin confirmed that he was probably inside. He tied his horse well away from the house and crept up to the front door. There were two small windows in the front of the cabin and he eased over to one of them and looked in. The window was so dirty he could hardly see through it. He crossed to the other window and found a corner in one pane where he could just make out the figure of a man on the far side of the cabin.
He had no real desire to hurt the old fellow, but what was a man to do? Besides, he was gonna get awful thirsty tomorrow. McCorkle knocked loudly on the front door and quickly resumed his position at the window.
“Yeah. Who is it?”
McCorkle didn’t answer him but watched him cross the room and come to within five feet of the door. He shot him through the window and watched Suggs fall to the floor in a heap. Then he picked up the biggest piece of firewood he could find and, with three licks, knocked the handle off the door.
When he entered, Suggs looked up at him, clutching his stomach in agony. “You! Why didn’t ye just tie me up again? Ye done gut shot me—and with my own damned gun!” He looked down at the blood and bile in his lap. “I do believe ye kilt me this time.”
“Sorry. I couldn’t figure no other way to get in.”
“The hell you say!”
“You’d best hand over your money. I don’t want to shoot ye again.”
“I cain’t hardly take my hand off my guts.” Suggs took his left hand away and reached into his pant pocket. “I ain’t got but two dollars.”