Owen simply stared at the gloating Union officer for a few moments, struggling to maintain his calm. “The war’s over as far as I’m concerned. This ain’t got nothin’ to do with the war.”
“No, I suppose not.” He got up from his chair. “Let me make this short, Slaughter. I’ve already seen the quit claim deed. It was signed and witnessed. As far as I can see, it’s a legal document.”
“Witnessed?” Owen exclaimed. “Witnessed by who? My wife said there wasn’t anybody there but that low-down swindler. He stole my land!”
“Maybe he did,” the captain replied impatiently. “It’s hard to say which one of you is lying. But he’s got the legal claim.” He smirked as he added, “I guess you just lost another battle, Reb. You boys oughta be used to that by now.”
Matt could see that Owen’s short fuse was already lit. Fearing that his brother might do something foolish, he said, “Come on, Owen. There’s gotta be somebody higher up we can see.”
But Owen just stood there, fuming, his fists clenched. Finally he spoke. “You low-down Yankee scum. I shoulda known better than to even bother with a son of a bitchin’ bluecoat.”
“By God, that’s gonna cost you, Reb. Your mouth just landed your sorry ass in jail.” He yelled for his clerk in the next room. “Private! Take these men into custody!” His call was met with silence, for the private at the desk outside had taken advantage of an opportunity to slip downstairs to fetch a cup of coffee.
Seeing no immediate response to the officer’s summons, Matt tried to defuse the incident. “Hold on, Captain. There’s no call for trouble. We’ll just be on our way.”
“The hell you will,” Mathis shot back, and drew his pistol from his holster. With the weapon leveled at Owen, he said, “Some of you Rebels just have to learn the hard way.”
Owen, smoldering to that point, could contain his anger no longer. When Mathis turned his attention toward Matt, Owen lunged forward, driving his shoulder into Mathis’ gut, landing both bodies on the floor. They struggled violently, each trying to gain control of the pistol. Caught as much by surprise as the officer had been, Matt moved to intercede. But before he could reach them, he heard the sharp report of a gunshot. The sudden sound reverberated in the small room like a cannon, and the two struggling bodies became still. Shocked by what had just happened, Owen slowly disengaged himself from the unmoving body of the Union officer. Mathis lay dead, killed instantly by the pistol ball that had entered beneath his chin, tearing into his brain.
“Oh, God. . . . Oh, God,” was all Owen could utter at the moment, as his world came crashing down around him. “I didn’t mean to kill him.” He looked helplessly at his brother, his eyes pleading. “What am I gonna do?”
Hearing the sound of running footsteps downstairs, Matt quickly moved to close the door and lock it. Then he went to the single window and looked out. Just a few feet below the window was a shed roof. “Here’s what you’re gonna do,” he ordered, taking command of the crisis. “Go out the window, and don’t stop till you get home. I’ll take care of things here.”
Confused, Owen hesitated. “What about you? I can’t leave you here!”
Matt grabbed him by the arm and pulled him toward the window. “Listen, Owen, we ain’t got time to talk about it.” Already, he could hear the private running up the stairs. “You’ve got Abby and the boys to worry about. I’ll take care of this. It was an accident.”
“No, Matt,” Owen insisted. “It ain’t right. I killed the son of a bitch.”
“Dammit, just do as I say! Think of your family. They need you. I don’t have any family. Hell, I can do some time in prison. Nobody’s depending on me. Now, go, dammit, before they break in here.”
Still feeling guilty for letting his brother take the blame, Owen nevertheless did as he was told. Matt had barely closed the window when the door was smashed open. He turned to face the clerk and a sentry who had been posted downstairs. Seconds later, an officer and two more soldiers burst into the room, weapons drawn.
Matt raised his hands. “Take it easy, boys. This was an accident.” That was as much as he had an opportunity to say before the lights went out in his brain, the result of a solid blow from a rifle butt from behind.
* * *
“I believe you cracked his skull good and proper.” Matt heard the voice, but he wasn’t sure where it came from.
“You reckon you kilt him?” Another voice asked.
“It don’t really matter,” the first voice answered.
Painfully, Matt opened his eyes. The effort of raising his lids seemed to intensify the throbbing pain in his head. A third voice, this one slightly familiar, asked, “Matt, do you know where you are?”
He strained to focus on the face peering down at him. After a moment, he recognized the tired features of Dr. Benjamin Bates. “Yeah, Doc, I know where I am,” he managed.
“I believe you might have suffered a concussion,” Doc Bates said. Then glancing up at the soldiers gathered around him, he added, sarcastically, “Thanks to these brave lads.”
The comment brought a snicker from the two soldiers standing closest to him. The officer, a lieutenant, pushed forward to have a closer look at the prisoner. “He’s damn lucky they didn’t shoot him, the murdering Rebel trash. Now, I expect we’ll have to give him a trial before we hang him.”
Ignoring the comments, Doc Bates questioned his groggy patient. “What happened, Matt? Can you remember?”
Matt took a few moments to compose his thoughts, still waiting for the room to stop spinning around him. Bates was about to repeat the question when Matt spoke. “It was an accident, Doc. The damn fool pulled that pistol and it accidentally went off.”
“Ha!” the lieutenant scoffed. “Right under his chin, too.”
The captain’s clerk stepped forward. “There was two of ’em in here when I went downstairs. What happened to the other one?”
The lieutenant turned to look at the clerk. “Is that right?” Then, without waiting for an answer, he turned back to face Matt. “What happened to the other one?” He repeated the question.
His mind clearing now, Matt answered. “He followed that soldier downstairs and went on home. He said there wasn’t any use in arguing any more. He wasn’t even here when the damn fool shot himself.”
“How come I didn’t see him?” The clerk demanded.
“I don’t know,” Matt replied. “Maybe you were interested in somethin’ else.”
“Well, I guess that leaves you holding the bag, doesn’t it?” The lieutenant concluded. Staring down at Matt, he said, “So Captain Mathis shot himself, did he?” He stepped over to look at the body more closely. “I guess he fell outta his chair and landed over here on the floor, and scraped the skin off of his knuckles in the process.” He turned back to Matt, a wry smile on his face. “I believe a six-year-old coulda come up with a better story than that. We’re gonna use some new rope to hang you, Reb.” He stepped back and ordered the guards, “Get him outta here.”
* * *
There was no jail in Rocky Bottom. An empty corn crib behind the feed store served the purpose temporarily. Although the door was padlocked, a man could easily break out a few slats in the wall of the crib to affect an escape. The only thing preventing such an escape was a twenty-four hour guard detail, posted with its only duty to keep an eye on the prisoner.
The lieutenant was inclined to hang the suspect without further delay. The facts of the murder were blatantly apparent to him, but standard operating procedure required that a provost marshal be summoned to rule on the case. A rider was sent to Lexington to request such action. Matt spent a chilly night, sleeping on the bare planks of his makeshift jail. Early the next morning, Owen showed up.
“Are you all right?” Owen asked upon first sight of the bandage around his brother’s head.
“Yeah, it was just a little love tap,” Matt replied, anxious to discourage the worried expression on Owen’s face.
“I brought you some corn bread. I di
dn’t figure the Yankees would feed you.” He started to hand it through the slats, but the guard quickly stepped forward to intervene. After making sure there was nothing more than corn bread being passed to the prisoner, he permitted Matt to accept it.
“Thanks,” Matt said. Then primarily for the guard’s benefit, he added, “I shoulda listened to you, and left when you did, but how did I know that captain was gonna shoot himself?”
“Matt, we’ve gotta get you outta here,” Owen whispered. “They’re not going to give you no trial.”
“Listen to me, Owen.” Matt was deadly serious. “I’ll take care of the situation here. Your responsibility is to Abby and the boys. I’m afraid you’ve lost your farm. That was bad luck. Don’t go blamin’ Abby for gettin’ taken by that weasel. She was in a bad way when he cheated her. At least you’ve got a roof over your head. You’re welcome to my cabin and my little piece of land for as long as you want it. The land ain’t half the size of yours, but it’s good fertile land. You can get a helluva lot more outta that land than I ever could.” Owen started to protest, but Matt cut him off. “Don’t worry about me. Just do like I tell you, and everything will be all right.” He gave his brother a smile. “Hell, they saw it was an accident,” he lied, “and said I probably wouldn’t get much prison time. I’ll be home before you know it.”
Owen was reluctant to leave, but he eventually agreed to go and leave Matt to his own devices. “It’s best this way,” Matt assured his brother. “There’s just one thing you could do for me, and then I don’t even want you comin’ back here anymore. Just see if you can find out where my horse is, and let me know. All right?”
Owen nodded and turned away. In less than an hour’s time he returned with the information that Matt’s horse was in a stall at Monk Weiner’s livery stable. He could have guessed that. Some of the settlement’s citizens had been critical of Monk’s willingness to do business with the Union Army. The two brothers exchanged deep glances, the elder realizing fully what the younger was sacrificing for him and his family. “You take care of that family of yours,” were Matt’s parting words to his brother.
* * *
The Union provost marshall in Lexington wasted no time in investigating the death of Captain Mathis. A detail of one officer and six enlisted men arrived in Rocky Bottom before dark. The investigating officer, Captain Wilford Belton, asked to see the prisoner as soon as they arrived. He was appalled when led to the corn crib behind the feed store. “This is what you’re using for a jail?” Belton asked, hardly believing his eyes.
Plainly defensive and somewhat embarrassed, Lieutenant Foley tried to explain that a suitable jail was in the not-too-distant plan, but there had been no time as yet to start the project.
“Why, hell,” Belton mocked, “with a little bit of a running start, a man could run right through the side of that corn crib.”
“Yessir,” Foley replied sheepishly. “But that’s why we keep a guard on it twenty-four hours a day when there’s a prisoner in there. Captain Mathis was planning to request some materials to start a jail.”
“Well, I hope to hell so.” Belton turned his attention to the prisoner then. He studied the young man seated against the side of the crib intently. “Another belligerent Rebel who doesn’t know he’s been whipped,” he remarked aside to Foley. To Matt, he demanded, “What unit did you serve with, Reb?”
Matt, who had been studying the captain as closely as he himself had been studied, hesitated a moment before replying, “Twenty-Second Virginia Cavalry.”
“Twenty-Second, eh? I guess they didn’t teach you to stand up in the presence of an officer.”
“Not a Yankee officer, I reckon they didn’t,” Matt replied.
A wry smile creased the captain’s face. “Still got a few burrs, ain’t you? Well, let me tell you what happens to smart young men like yourself who murder an officer of the U.S. Army. We’re gonna take you back to Lexington in chains, so all the other Rebs can see you. Then we’re gonna hold a trial, so that everybody knows we stand for justice. Then we’re gonna hang you in the square to teach the rest of your kind a lesson.” He turned abruptly on his heel, and addressed Lieutenant Foley. “You make damn sure you keep a guard on this man all night. We’re starting back first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Foley replied, and saluted smartly.
* * *
There was no doubt in Matt’s mind that events would happen precisely in the order that Belton had stated. A trial would be no more than a formality and the prelude to a hanging. The question before him was when to attempt escape, for he knew that he would opt for a bullet in the back instead of a rope around the neck. It required little thought to decide the best chance for escape was before morning when he would be trussed in irons and turned over to the captain. Watching the sentry walk his post around the makeshift jail, Matt tried to calculate the odds of breaking through the flimsy boards of the corn crib and attacking the guard before he had time to react. He immediately rejected that plan, knowing that he would probably still be stuck in the slats when the guard shot him. It was going to have to be done slowly, loosening one slat at a time, so that at the precise time, all boards could be removed at once. It would take time, but he figured he had all night.
Under the wary eye of the first soldier posted to watch him, Matt got to his feet and moved around his wooden cage. Pretending to stretch his muscles a little, he glanced at each corner post of the crib, looking for signs of a loose slat. When he decided upon the corner that looked the weakest, he sat down against that post, and waited for the guard to lose interest in him. Once the guard shifted his attention to something else, he began to quietly push against the bottom board, exerting all the pressure he could manage. It was not an easy thing to do with his hands behind his back while still facing the guard. He had almost decided that his plan was impossible when he felt the slat give a little, enough to wedge his fingers between the board and the post. Encouraged, he tried to twist the board back and forth, staying with it until he was finally rewarded with the loosening of the two nails securing it to the post. Satisfied that he was making progress, he started on the next board up.
The guards were rotated on two-hour shifts. Their routine was predictable. At the start of their tours, they usually paced around the corn crib a few times before taking a position by the door. There they remained until boredom prompted them to take another turn or two around the caged prisoner. It was Matt’s good fortune that none felt an inclination to examine the nails holding the slats on the sides. He worked steadily until he had the nails loose in two slats. Then, supposedly getting up to stretch, he moved over to the next post to begin the procedure again.
The afternoon sun faded away behind the ridge west of the tiny settlement. Working continuously in the twilight and into the dark, Matt strained against the rusty nails holding the side boards on the crib. Lucky for him, the crib had been constructed to hold ears of corn, and not Confederate prisoners. Not long after darkness fell, Lieutenant Foley made a visit to the crib. Satisfied that all was in order, he soon departed. There was no concern on his part that the prisoner had neither food nor water. The guard, evidently confident that the lieutenant wouldn’t be back before morning, took advantage of the dark to make himself comfortable. With his back against the wall of the feed store, he sat down facing the crib.
As the guard rotation continued throughout the night, the diligence to duty was less in evidence as each soldier came on duty again, intent only upon completing his two-hour tour and getting back to his bed. Sometime shortly after midnight, Matt had succeeded in loosening two boards to the point where a firm shove would remove them completely. That part of his escape completed, he waited for the right moment to attempt the dangerous part of his plan. It arrived in the wee hours of the morning.
“Where the hell you been?”
“I ain’t late,” his relief answered. “I’m right on time.” He stepped aside while the other man grabbed his rifle, and prepared to de
part. “Anything goin’ on?”
“Nah,” the first soldier answered. “He’s just settin’ in his cage, sleepin’.” He did not linger to make small talk. “I’m headin’ for my bed,” he said in leaving.
Matt sat slumped against the corner post of his cage. He pretended to be asleep when the guard took a single turn around the crib. Seeing nothing out of place, the soldier wasted little time in settling himself comfortably against the rear wall of the feed store. In a short time, Matt heard the steady drone of snoring. It was time to act. Pressing a shoulder against the loosened boards, he began to apply a firm and steady pressure. The rusty nails squeaked in quiet protest as they were backed out of the posts, followed by a soft clump when the board fell free to land in the dust. Although muffled, the sound was enough to make Matt look back quickly in the direction of the sleeping guard. He held his breath for a moment, watching, until certain the sound had not been sufficient to disturb the soldier’s repose. He then returned to his task, forcing the second board from the posts. As soon as it dropped to land on top of the first slat, he squeezed his body through the opening to freedom.
Undecided at that point, he stood motionless before the sleeping guard. Should he take some violent action to silence the man forever? Maybe take his weapon? The man was sleeping like a baby. Why risk the noise that might result from an attack upon him? In a moment of compassion, he turned and slipped away in the darkness, leaving his guard in peaceful sleep.
Moving silently and quickly through the shadows, he made his way directly toward Monk Weiner’s livery stable. He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he estimated that there was little more than an hour before first light, and he knew he could not afford to let daylight find him still in Rocky Bottom. Encountering no one on the dark street, he hurried into the stable, and began a search from stall to stall to find his horse. In short time, he found the blue roan gelding; the horse nickered softly when it recognized his master.
Monk Weiner sat up on the cot he slept on in the back of the tack room. He blinked the sleep from his eyes, and looked around him in the semidarkness. It was too early to get up. Something had awakened him—a sound from the stalls outside the tack room perhaps. He wasn’t sure. He started to lay back again, but then he was certain he heard a sound, and it didn’t sound like one of the horses stamping or snorting. He decided he’d better take a look.
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