Pulling his boots on, Monk struck a match and lit the lantern by his cot. Passing through the doorway from the tack room, he stopped abruptly when the lantern light fell upon the man cinching up the saddle on his horse. Both men were startled, each freezing for a moment, speechless.
Monk had known Matt Slaughter since Matt was a youngster. Just the afternoon before, he had watched when the Union soldiers escorted Matt to the corn crib behind the feed store. After the awkward silence had extended to several moments, Monk finally spoke. “Well, I thought I heard somethin’, but I reckon I was wrong. I guess I’ll go on back to bed.” He turned around and started back to the tack room. Before leaving the stable, he remarked loudly, “I was afraid somebody might be after that little bit of money hid in that little soda cracker tin under the oat sacks by the back door.” He disappeared then, and Matt heard one last uttering from inside the tack room. “On the left hand side.”
There was no time to express his gratitude; already he could see the first evidence of the new day outside the stalls. Matt knew that he would never forget Monk’s compassion in this moment of crisis. He led his horse out the back door of the barn, half expecting to hear an outcry from behind the feed store at any second. He hesitated for a moment when he saw a stack of feed bags just inside the left door post. Monk had offered the money, but everyone in the valley was suffering from want after Sheridan had ravaged the land. He was reluctant to take what money Monk may have acquired. Time was running out. His situation dictated a surrender to his desperation. He quickly dragged the sacks of oats aside. There, underneath a layer of hay, he found the tin box. Inside was a roll of U.S. currency, along with a stack of Confederate bills. He counted ninety-five dollars in Federal currency. Taking only what he thought he needed to buy a gun and some supplies for the trail, he replaced forty-five, and returned the box to its hiding place. Spying an empty flour sack draped over the end stall, he grabbed it and filled it with oats for his horse. Then he said a silent thanks to Monk, and stepped up into the saddle.
Although first light was rapidly approaching, the little settlement was still quiet. It wouldn’t be for long, he thought. It had to be getting close to the guard change. He wheeled his horse toward the north road out of town, and left Rocky Bottom at a gallop.
Young Tommy Fletcher stopped on his way to work in the stables when he heard a rider approaching on the north road. Whoever it was seemed to be in a hurry. Curious, Tommy ran up the path from the footbridge in time to see the rider pass. “Dang,” he whispered, and ran to tell Monk. Bursting into the open end of the stable, he confronted Monk coming from the tack room. “Mister Weiner!” Tommy blurted. “I just saw Matt Slaughter hightailin’ it outta town on that blue roan we took in yesterday! He was burnin’ up the road toward Staunton.”
“Is that a fact?” Monk replied. “Are you sure it was Matt Slaughter?”
“Yessir, it was him all right. That Yankee officer said we weren’t supposed to let nobody take that horse. Reckon we oughta tell him?”
Monk stroked his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “That we should, boy. That we should. But first we should make us a pot of coffee. Then, after we’ve had our coffee, we should report it to the captain right away.”
Tommy, a bit slow for a boy his age, looked confused for a moment, but then a wide smile crept across his freckled face. “Yessir,” he exclaimed, “I’ll go fetch some water for the coffeepot.”
Chapter 3
With only one thought foremost in his mind—to leave Virginia and the Shenandoah behind him—Matt left the north road and headed west. He had no destination, only a curiosity about the frontier beyond the Missouri River. Since he was a boy, he had heard tales about the lands west of the Missouri—the untamed wilderness of mountains that made the Appalachians look like foothills. Maybe so, he thought. I’d have to see that for myself. It was difficult to imagine any place prettier than the Shenandoah Valley. He had seen parts of West Virginia and Tennessee. The mountains there were not a great deal different in appearance than those around his home. Yet there seemed to be something special about the Shenandoah.
He pushed his horse hard that first day, making his way through the mountains on some old game trails he had discovered when deer hunting. Though he felt confident there was little likelihood he was being followed, he took some pains to disguise his trail. He was an outlaw. It was a label he never expected to be attached to him. But outlaw he was, and he had no doubt that the Union Army would be determined to capture the man who had killed one of its officers. Well, they’re gonna have to go some to catch me, he promised.
It was a lean camp on that first night. He had nothing to eat, and no weapon with which to hunt. He had flint and steel in his saddle bags, so a small fire was his only comfort. But thanks to Monk Weiner, he had money in his pocket, and he knew where he could supply himself with what he needed—that is, if it still remained. He had stumbled upon the little crossroads deep in the West Virginia mountains some three years before. He was on the last real hunting trip he had taken before he and Owen joined the 22nd Virginia Cavalry. God, it seems longer than that, he thought. So much had happened since then. He had a worried thought that maybe the little store by the crossroads had suffered the same fate as so many in the Shenandoah. It might not be there anymore.
His fears were unfounded, however. Following a busy stream leading through a hardwood hollow, he emerged from the trees to find the store still standing. Not only had it survived the war, it had evidently prospered. There was now a blacksmith shop attached to the log structure. Matt breathed a sigh of relief, for his belly was beginning to growl for something to eat.
Oscar Pratt pumped the bellows on his forge, sending a cloud of sparks swirling around his head. He glanced up from the cherry-red piece of iron he was shaping into a gate hinge when something caught his eye over by the creek. Turning his attention back to the hinge, he pulled it from the fire and hammered it a few times on the anvil before plunging it into the tub of water beside him. With that taken care of, he took a couple of steps away from the heat of the forge to see who his visitor was.
Oscar didn’t recognize the rider approaching on the blue roan—a young fellow, by the look of him. The young man wasn’t from around here, of that Oscar was certain. There was something odd about him, and it took Oscar a moment to realize what it was. From all appearances, he might have just been out for a little ride, for he had no weapons, no pack behind the saddle, no coat, not even a hat.
“Afternoon,” Oscar greeted his guest when Matt pulled his horse to a stop before the forge. Oscar continued to stare at Matt, his curiosity aroused.
“Afternoon,” Matt returned, and stepped down. “I see you’ve got a forge since I was last here.” Although it was obvious Oscar could not place him, Matt remembered the stocky, bald little man with the snow-white beard.
Still at a loss, Oscar nodded. “Year ago this past August,” he replied. He studied Matt for a few moments more. “Seems like I seen you before, young feller, but I can’t recollect when.”
Matt laughed. “I expect it’s been close to three years. I came chasing an eight-point buck through here. Dropped him right down there by that big oak.”
A light went on in Oscar’s eyes. “I swear, that’s right! I remember you now. From over in the Shenandoah, right?”
“That’s right,” Matt said, grinning. “If I remember correctly, you came running out of the store with your rifle—thought I was stealin’ your mules.”
Oscar threw his head back and laughed. “I swear, that’s the truth. I heard that damn buck run by the door, and then here you came, and I heard a shot. Hell, I thought at first you’d shot one of my mules.”
“I guess I could have waited till I got by your place before I shot, but I’d been chasing that buck for two miles. I was afraid if he got to the creek, I’d lose him for sure.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Oscar exclaimed. “I shore wouldn’ta recognized you. You know, I et off’en that deer shoulder
for a week.” He paused to have a laugh over the memory. “What brings you over this way again? I don’t reckon it’s huntin’, unless you’ve started rasslin’ ’em down,” he said, again noting the absence of any kind of weapon.
“That’s why I came by this way. I lost all my possibles in the war. I was hopin’ I could get a gun and some supplies from you.”
Oscar became at once defensive. “Well, now, you know I can’t keep much merchandise, what with the war and all. Things is pretty scarce.”
Matt smiled. “I’ve got money to buy what I need.”
Oscar fidgeted a moment, eyeing the faded gray trousers Matt wore. “Well, now, you know Confederate script ain’t much good no more.”
“Union dollars,” Matt stated.
Oscar’s frown relaxed at once. “In that case, maybe I can scrape up a few things. I tell you though, there ain’t much left, and I ain’t had a wagon in since spring.”
Oscar was able to supply Matt with most of his basic requirements: salt, coffee, a coffeepot and a frying pan, a couple of blankets, and a few other essentials. As far as weapons, he could only offer a hard-used Army Colt and a box of cartridges. Matt needed a rifle. A man just wasn’t much use to himself or anyone else if he didn’t have a good rifle. He expressed as much to Oscar.
“I’m sorry, I can’t help you there,” Oscar apologized. He paused to study the young man’s face. “Are you a pretty good shot with a rifle?”
“Fair, I reckon,” Matt replied modestly. He didn’t feel it necessary to speak of his time in the army as a sharpshooter. “I usually get meat when I go after it.”
Oscar nodded knowingly. He suspected that such was the case. “Well, if you’re good enough to bet on it, and you can hang around until Saturday, I can tell you where you might get yourself a rifle.” Seeing Matt’s immediate interest, he was quick to caution. “Mind you, I said might. There’s a feller named Puckett over in the next hollow that’s puttin’ up a Henry rifle for the prize in a turkey shoot Saturday. I ain’t seen the rifle myself, but a feller told me it looked like a brand-new Henry. This Puckett feller bought it offen a soldier. I don’t know what he paid for it, but a brand-new Henry goes for about forty-two dollars.” Noticing Matt’s eyes widen with interest, he asked the unnecessary question, “Are you interested?”
“Hell, yes,” Matt immediately replied, “but I don’t have anything to shoot but this pistol I just bought from you, and a pistol ain’t much good in a turkey shoot.”
“I reckon not,” Oscar said. “But I’ll tell you what. If you’ve got enough money left to buy a chance on it, you can shoot with my rifle.”
“How much is a chance?”
“Five dollars for three shots,” Oscar replied.
“Five dollars? That’s pretty steep. I haven’t got much more than that.”
“Maybe,” Oscar said, “but, hell, it’s for a damn-near new Henry repeater.”
“I’ll do it,” Matt replied, after thinking about it for a moment. He would still have a little over two dollars left. It was a reasonable gamble. He had never met a man who was a better shot than himself, even without knowing what kind of rifle Oscar had.
As it turned out, Oscar had a British-made Enfield, like those the Confederate infantry had been supplied with. It was a weapon that Matt had fired many times, and one that was extremely accurate at long range. Oscar was even considerate enough to trust Matt to borrow it to go hunting while he waited for Saturday’s shooting match. “I appreciate it, Oscar. I sure as hell need the meat, and it’ll give me a chance to see how the rifle fires.” He paused when he considered what an advantage that was. “Come to think of it, that’s mighty big of you. Won’t you be shootin’ against me Saturday?”
Oscar laughed. “Nah, I ain’t no good with a rifle. I couldn’t hit the side of the barn if I was standin’ inside it.” So Matt took the Enfield the next morning and rode up in the mountains to hunt. In return for Oscar’s hospitality, Matt shared the venison he brought back.
* * *
Early Saturday morning Matt packed up his supplies, and he and Oscar set out on a small trail that led between two mountains to the west of Oscar’s store. Before leaving, Oscar pulled the door to his store shut and placed a large padlock on the hasp. Noticing that the bald little man failed to lock the padlock, Matt asked, “Ain’t you gonna lock it?”
“Nah,” Oscar replied as he climbed up on his mule. “That’s just for show. I don’t know what happened to the key for that lock.” He laughed. “If I was to lock it, I’d have to take the door offa the hinges to get in.” Seeing the look of amazement on Matt’s face, he went on. “I don’t have to worry about my neighbors, and we don’t get many strangers back in these hollows. You’re the first one I’ve seen since last fall.” He laughed again. “And I’m ridin’ with you. Hell, the Union Army never even found this part of the woods.”
Following the narrow trail along a busy stream that cut its way through patches of rhododendron and laurel, Matt sat easy in the saddle while Oscar bounced ahead on his mule. After a ride of approximately forty-five minutes, they emerged from the trees to find themselves in a long valley. Already a sizable crowd had gathered at the north end of the valley, with more filing in from the trail on the far side. Oscar kicked his mule into a trot and made straight for the crowd.
One after another, almost everyone there called out a cordial greeting to Oscar as he and Matt rode up and dismounted. “Don’t tell me you’re aimin’ to shoot this time,” a tall, lanky man called out when Oscar stepped down.
“Hell, no,” Oscar replied. “You know I ain’t no shot. I just come over to watch you boys throw your money away to ol’ Puckett over there.”
Hearing the comment, the man called Puckett responded. “Now, Oscar, don’t go discouraging these boys. Somebody’s gonna win this rifle and a box of rimfire cartridges to go with it. Even if you don’t win the rifle, you get to keep any turkey you hit.”
“That’ud be a dang expensive turkey dinner, though,” the lanky man remarked.
The playful banter continued for a few minutes, but all eyes were studying the young stranger standing beside Oscar. Finally, Puckett asked, “Who’s this you brung with you, Oscar?”
Oscar turned to look at Matt. “This here’s a friend of mine from over near the Shenandoah. He figures on shootin’ for that fancy gun of your’n.”
Puckett nodded, and extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Shenandoah.” He then cocked his head to squint at Oscar. “You ain’t brought in no crack shot to win that rifle for you, have you Oscar?”
“Well, now, you never know about that, do you?” Oscar joked. “Let’s have a look at that rifle.”
Puckett walked over to his horse, and drew the weapon from the saddle sling. “She’s a beauty, boys,” he said. “Barrel’s over two feet long, forged out of a single piece of steel. Just load fifteen cartridges in the magazine and one more in the chamber, and you can shoot for the rest of the day without reloadin’.” He handed it to Oscar.
“It’s got some weight to it,” Oscar remarked as he lifted the rifle and sighted upon a tree across the narrow valley. He handed it to Matt.
“It weighs almost nine and a half pounds,” Puckett said.
Matt pulled it up to his shoulder, and aimed at the same tree. The rifle felt solid. The balance was good. He decided that it was just the rifle he needed. He passed it on to the man standing next to him. The Henry rifle went from man to man as they all admired the weapon. Suddenly a dark, fearsome-looking man with a scowling face elbowed his way between two of the men, and snatched the Henry out of the tall, lanky man’s hand.
“I reckon that rifle belongs to me,” he growled, holding the weapon close to him while gazing around him defiantly.
The wide smile fled from Puckett’s face. “You’ll have to win it fair and square, Tyler.”
“I’ll win it right enough,” Tyler answered, cocksure. “Who the hell is gonna outshoot me?”
Matt looked the man over.
A meaner-looking man he could not recall having seen. He noticed that the men Tyler had elbowed aside stepped back a couple of feet, obviously uneasy.
Tyler looked around him, grinning at the begrudging respect he commanded, his long black hair resting capelike on the shoulders of his smoke-darkened deer-hide shirt, giving him the appearance of an evil priest of some unholy religion. Matt took the measure of the man, and having done so, answered his challenge.
“I reckon that would be me,” he stated softly, counting out five dollars to Puckett.
Tyler jerked his head sharply around to see who had spoken. He took a moment to study the stranger before demanding, “And who in hell might you be?”
“I might be the man that outshoots you for that rifle,” Matt replied simply, without emotion. With that said, he wasted no time to exchange stares with the belligerent Tyler, but returned to his horse to ready Oscar’s Enfield. His actions served to encourage the other men to shell out their money for a chance on the rifle, feeling secure in the belief that Tyler’s venom would be reserved for the young stranger.
Oscar strolled casually over to join Matt. “Tyler’s a shore-nuff son of a bitch, but he’s a damn good shot. I’m right sorry he showed up for this shindig. I know damn well nobody invited him.” When Matt showed only casual interest in the man, Oscar went on. “He’s a Kentucky man. He don’t show up around here very often, and that suits most folks just fine. Him and his brother rode with a band of bushwhackers over in Missouri and Arkansas durin’ the war. Called theirselves guerillas for the Confederacy, but they did more harm to Southerners than the Union Army.”
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