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.”
Matt shot another glance in Tyler’s direction. “What’s he doin’ around here?”
“Danged if I know,” Oscar responded. “Maybe it got too hot for him in Missouri. He just showed up a couple of weeks ago.”
“Well, maybe he ain’t as good at shootin’ turkeys as he is at bushwhacking innocent folks,” Matt said to Oscar, and returned his attention to loading the rifle.
After all the contestants had paid for their chances, there were some twenty-two shooters, some having purchased two or more chances at five dollars each. It turned out that they were not actually going to shoot at turkeys. Instead, a section of a pine log about a foot and a half in diameter was placed on a stump. In the center of the log, a wooden wedge about two inches wide and about an inch thick was driven into a split. This was the target, and the winner was the man who split the most wedges with three shots. Any wedge split was worth a turkey to the shooter. At five hundred yards, there had to be a little luck involved, because it was almost impossible to even see the wedge at that distance. After hearing the rules, Matt decided that although Puckett was putting the Henry up as a prize, he didn’t intend to give away many turkeys in the process.
All the betting done with, the shooting started as the first contestant crawled up to rest his rifle on a log provided for the purpose. As man after man took his three shots, it was plain to see that there weren’t going to be many turkey dinners in the valley afterward. Finally one man split the wedge, and a new wedge was driven in. When it was Matt’s turn, he laid down behind the log and rested Oscar’s Enfield on it. His aim was directed at the center of the round trunk, thinking that the wedge was most likely driven dead center. He drew a shallow breath and held it, slowly pulling the trigger until the Enfield suddenly fired.
“Miss!” Puckett called out from his station about fifty yards from the target. “Weren’t by more’n half an inch, though.”
Matt reloaded and drew a bead on the target once more. He adjusted his aim to allow for the half inch, figuring that his miss had been to the right of the wedge, remembering that his shot that killed the deer had been off a hair to the right. Once again the rifle barked.
“Dead center!” Puckett shouted. “Hold your fire till I drive a new wedge in.”
Matt took great care in reloading for his final shot. As he replaced the ramrod, he glanced at Tyler. The scowl on the dark face seemed even deeper. Back to the business at hand, he took dead aim a hair right of the center of the target, squeezing the trigger so slowly that the weapon surprised him when it fired.
“Dead center again!” Puckett shouted, excitedly. “That’s two outta three for Shenandoah.”
Matt got to his feet and walked back to stand beside Oscar. “This is a fine rifle you got here, Oscar. Shoots as true as any rifle I’ve ever shot.” Oscar took the weapon when Matt handed it to him, beaming as proudly as if he had done the shooting himself.
One by one, the remaining contestants tried to match Matt’s score, all failing to hit more that one wedge if any, until the man called Tyler stepped up to take his turn. His weapon was a model 1861 Springfield, the rifle used by both sides during the Civil War. He split the wedge with his first shot, causing the crowd of onlookers to move in closer. He smirked for Matt’s benefit as he reloaded.
“Missed it,” Puckett shouted after the second shot. “Not by much, though, just a tad high.” As soon as he said it, he realized that he was giving unfair information on the shot’s location. “I can’t say by how much,” he offered weakly. Tyler grinned and reloaded. His third shot split the wedge again. “Looks like we got us a tie,” Puckett announced.
There were several more shooters after Tyler, but none was able to match two out of three. When the smoke lay like a shroud of mist over the little valley, and the shooting was all done, only two remained. “We’re gonna have to have a shoot-off,” Puckett stated. “But just so it’ll be fair and square, both men will use the same rifle. They’ll use the Henry, and they’ll shoot at turkeys instead of a piece of wood.”
“That’s a little far for that repeatin’ rifle, ain’t it, Puckett?” Oscar asked.
“Well, maybe,” Puckett allowed. “We’ll bring it in about a hundred yards.” He faced the two finalists to give them the rules. “You’ll each have three more shots. We’ll stack about three of them logs up so you can just see them turkeys’ heads above ’em. The one that hits the most turkeys wins the rifle.” He then turned to the crowd. “Give us a hand, boys, and let’s stack up them logs.”
It was a bizarre contest. A couple of handfuls of corn were scattered behind the log barricade, and the turkeys were tied with a length of cord attached to one leg of each so they couldn’t scatter. Still, it was going to be quite a trick to hit the bobbing heads of the big birds as they pecked at the corn. After a coin toss, Puckett loaded the Henry and handed it to Tyler.
The exercise proved to be exasperating, and served to infuriate Tyler. He missed with the first shot, sending the frantic birds flapping back and forth in a frenzy. Firing again, he missed on the second shot. He was ready to protest the fairness of the contest when he got meat with his last shot. Knowing it was pure luck, he grinned, and handed the rifle to Matt, confident that it would have to be luck that beat him.
Matt had hunted a few wild turkeys in his life, and he knew a little about their quirks. Knowing that the birds had a tendency to cease bobbing their heads for a second after the snap of a passing bullet startled them, he aimed at one head popping up and down. As soon as he fired and missed, he quickly cranked another round in the chamber and shifted the sights to the next turkey. As he had anticipated, the startled bird held his head still for an instant. It was all the time Matt needed. The rifle fired straight and true, snapping the turkey’s head off. Without wasting a moment, Matt cocked the weapon again and nailed the second bird when it, too, froze for an instant.
Oscar whooped delightedly, and ran to pound Matt on the back. Most of the other men gathered around to offer their congratulations as well. Puckett handed him the box of cartridges that went with the prize, and said, “It looks like that rifle belongs to you, young feller. That was some shootin’.”
“It was luck”—Tyler snorted in disgust—“pure damn luck, and I’d like to see you do it again.”
Matt took a long look at the surly man before answering. “I’d like to put on a show for you, mister, but I don’t reckon I’ll waste the cartridges.” He left a deeply fuming Tyler to glare at his back as he abruptly turned and led his horse over by Oscar’s mule.
“Why don’t you light a while around here, son?” Oscar offered. “You could stay in my barn till you fixed you a place of your own.” Oscar had obviously taken a liking to the young stranger.
“Thanks just the same,” Matt replied, “but I’ve got it in my mind to see the Rockies.” He didn’t feel the need to confess the urgency to remove himself from this part of the country.
“I can understand,” Oscar said. “If I was a younger man, I might go with you.” He thrust his hand toward Matt. “If you get back this way, you’ll be welcome at my place.”
“Thanks,” Matt replied as he shook Oscar’s hand. He stepped up into the saddle then. “You take care of yourself, Oscar,” he said, and turned the roan’s head toward the lower end of the valley. Several of the men signaled with a nod or a slight wave of the hand as he rode out. One stood apart from the others, his stony stare fixed upon the young stranger until Matt had ridden out of sight beyond the bend of the stream.