Several good hours of daylight remained when Matt took his leave from the valley where the shooting match had taken place. Surrounded by mountains, he followed a trail that wound back and forth through narrow valleys, leading in a westerly direction. He glanced down at the one turkey he had kept, tied by the feet from his saddle horn so that it would bleed out. The bird’s blood formed a long thin streak down his horse’s withers that glistened when the afternoon sun reflected off of it. I reckon I’ll have an early Thanksgiving dinner, Matt thought. His marksmanship had resulted in two turkeys. The other bird had gone home with Oscar. I guess that’s pay enough for the use of the Enfield. He smiled when he thought of the bald little man on his mule with a dead turkey dangling on his saddle.
It had been a fortunate trail that had led him to Oscar’s store, deep in the West Virginia mountains. Not only was he looking forward to a turkey dinner, but he had acquired the rifle he sorely needed. He had fought against Union troops armed with new Henry rifles at Waynesboro. That damn Yankee rifle you loaded on Sunday and shot till Wednesday, as the men in K Company had referred to it. While the weapon was not especially suited for long-range kills, it would do nicely for his purposes. Matt had just seen proof enough of its accuracy at four hundred yards. Thinking about the rapid fire of his new rifle, he drew it from the saddle sling he had devised and admired his prize. The Henry felt at home in his hands. He cautioned himself to be mindful of wasted shots. At ten dollars a thousand for the rimfire cartridges, a man could throw away a small fortune if he was prone to engage in frivolous target practice.
Guiding on the setting sun, he continued to make his way through the mountains until the sun dropped behind the hills before him. In an hour’s time, it would be dark in the valleys and draws—time to make camp. He was resigned to making a dry camp when, luckily, he skirted a small hill and found a wide creek flowing gently through moss-covered banks. Made to order, he thought, glancing down at the turkey hanging from his saddle horn. Much longer in this warm weather, and this ol’ bird will be starting to get ripe.
Selecting a spot under a water oak with roots half exposed along the bank, showing evidence of numerous past floods that had swelled the creek, Matt made his camp. He pulled the saddle off of the roan and led the horse to a patch of grass near the water’s edge. He still had oats for the horse, but he decided it prudent to start training the animal to live off the land.
His horse attended to, he turned his attention to the turkey Holding the bird up by the feet, he eyed it as if seeing it for the first time. “I wish to hell I had a kettle,” he murmured. “It would be a helluva lot easier to pluck it if I could dunk it in a pot of boilin’ water.” He continued to stare at the bird for a few seconds more. “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” he recited, shrugged his shoulders, and laid his supper on the ground while he made a fire.
It was almost dark when the last of the stubborn feathers gave up the fight. He tried dunking the carcass in the creek. Then he tried boiling a frying pan full of water over the fire and dousing a small area at a time. He achieved some success using the latter method, but there was a liberal amount of cursing before he held a battered and abused naked carcass up before his eyes. He decided the bird was ready for roasting when suddenly the carcass was jerked violently to one side, and raw bits of flesh flew up in his face. An instant later, he heard the sharp report of the rifle. He recognized the sound of an army Springfield.
Although caught completely unaware, his reactions were automatic. He dropped to the ground, releasing the turkey as he did, and rolled away from the fire toward his saddle and rifle. With the weapon in hand, he scolded himself for being careless as he scrambled up behind the trunk of the oak. He cranked a cartridge into the chamber of the Henry and waited, listening. With no clue from where the shot had come, he had no choice but to continue to wait, knowing that his assailant was no doubt moving to a new position. The question now was whether or not his stalker had seen where he had taken cover?
His question was answered almost immediately when a second shot rang out, ripping a sizable chunk of bark from the oak, only inches above his head. Damn! He thought, hugging the ground as he pushed away from the tree and slid down the bank on his belly. The son of a bitch can see in the dark! Being reasonably sure his assailant was on the move, Matt knew he had better keep moving as well. Crouching in an attempt to keep his body as low as possible, he ran along the edge of the water, using the bank as cover. Gradually, his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, after having been staring into the fire moments before the first shot was fired. Reaching a shallow cutback in the creek bank, he stopped and crawled up close to the brink. Raising his head slowly, he surveyed his campsite, now some twenty or thirty yards behind him. There was no sign of his attacker. All was quiet; the only sound reaching his ears was the frightened stamping of his horse as it pulled against its tether.
Damn! he swore to himself, angry that he had not been able to spot the muzzle blast when the second shot was fired. His assailant could be anywhere out there in the darkness. As if to underscore the thought, a spray of sand suddenly stung his face, followed by the sharp crack of the Springfield. This time, however, he had been able to detect the muzzle blast. The stalker had moved through the trees, paralleling Matt’s escape along the bank. How in hell did he know which way I was going to run up this creek? The thought only flashed through his mind. He didn’t have time to ponder it. He had to move.
Back down near the water, he slipped on a moss-covered root, splashing his foot in the creek. A shot immediately rang out, and he heard the snap of the lead as it passed harmlessly overhead. Now we’re on equal terms, he thought. He’s guessing, same as I. Looking around him on the dark creek bank, he picked up a couple of clumps of dirt. In quick succession, he threw them back toward the way he had come, the first several yards away As soon as he heard it splash down in the water, he threw the second clump a few yards farther. Then he quickly crawled up to the edge of the bank, his gaze moving back and forth through the trees. There! Just for one brief moment, he spotted a movement among the trees, and then it was gone, swallowed up in the deep shadows. At least he was able to tell in which direction his bushwhacker was moving. The man was obviously following the sounds of the dirt clods splashing in the creek, apparently mistaking them for the sound that a man running along the water’s edge would make. Matt immediately rose up from the bank and slipped into the trees.
He was at home now, moving silently through the oaks and poplars, a few cautious steps at a time, then stopping to look and listen. Some two dozen yards ahead of him, he suddenly saw the shadowy form of a man moving toward the creek, but it disappeared before he had time to raise his rifle. Without hesitation, he moved quickly forward, his rifle ready, searching the tangle of brush and vines that obscured his vision. Once again he stopped to listen. There was no sound other than the gentle stirring of the night breeze in the leaves above him. The sobering thought struck him then: the man stalking him was as much at home in the forest as he.
On the move again, he continued toward the spot where he had caught a glimpse of his assailant. After making his way carefully through the brush, he found himself back at the creek, only twenty-five yards below his camp. There was no sign of the stalker. Kneeling near the bank of the creek, he peered up and down the creek for as far as he could see in the darkness. He realized that he was making no progress in this deadly game of tag. As he lingered there, making up his mind what his next move should be, a full moon made its initial appearance above the ridge behind him. In a matter of minutes, the trees began to emerge from the deep darkness of before and take shape. Matt’s gaze darted quickly back and forth in an effort to spot his enemy. He was suddenly distracted by a flicker of light, and he glanced down to discover the reflection of the moonlight from the shiny brass receiver plate of his new rifle. His reaction was immediate. Without taking time to think, he dropped flat on his belly and rolled over the edge of the creek bank. The snap of the bullet over his head at almost the same time as the sharp report of the Springfield rifle bore grim testimony of how close he had come to going under.
There was no time to consider what the consequence would have been had he not reacted so automatically. This time, Matt had spotted the muzzle blast of the shot. It had come from the large oak tree that he had first taken cover behind, near his campfire. Knowing that his assailant had to reload the single-shot Springfield, Matt sprang up from the creek bank, his rifle blazing as he pumped round after round toward the oak. Aware that it took only seconds to place another cartridge in the Springfield’s breech and throw the bolt, Matt sprinted to cover behind a tall poplar on the opposite side of the fire. He dove to the ground behind the tree just as another shot from the Springfield ripped the bark above his head. Without coming to rest, he rolled over in a continuous motion to scramble to his feet and charge the oak tree while his enemy was reloading.
Running straight for the oak, his heart pounding with the excitement of combat, he leaped over his campfire in full stride. Just as his foot hit the ground again, Tyler stepped out from behind the tree, a pistol leveled at the charging man. Matt barely had time to recognize the evil grin on the belligerent face before he felt the sharp sting of the bullet that grazed his shoulder, spinning him around and knocking him off balance. It happened so fast that he would not later remember having pulled the trigger, cocking the Henry, and pulling the trigger again before Tyler doubled over, grasping his gut.
Ready to fire again, Matt scrambled to his feet, but it was immediately apparent that there was no longer any threat from Tyler. While keeping a wary eye on the stricken man, Matt picked up the pistol Tyler had dropped and stuck it in his belt. The man’s face was twisted in pain as he lay clutching his belly. Matt came to stand over him.
“You son of a bitch,” Tyler spat between spasms of pain, “you gut-shot me.”
“I reckon,” Matt answered without emotion. He turned his attention momentarily to his bloody shoulder. After satisfying himself that the wound was superficial, he returned his gaze to settle upon the wounded man at his feet. At the moment, Matt was undecided what to do about him.
“You’ve kilt me, you son of a bitch. I’m hurtin’ like hell. What are you waitin’ for? Go ahead and finish me off.”
“I oughta, you low-down bushwhacker.” Still undecided, he continued to gaze down into the scowling face. “Did you want this rifle bad enough to kill a man for it?”
“To hell with you,” Tyler forced out painfully. “Go ahead and do it.”
Matt had no desire to execute the man, even a man as evil as Tyler. He was satisfied that he had stopped him. If Tyler died, it was God’s decision, not his. “I’m gonna put you on your horse. Maybe you’ll make it home. Maybe you won’t—all the same to me.”
When Matt tried to pick the wounded man up, Tyler let out a loud moan, and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. “I’m done for,” he gasped painfully, “just let me lay back.” Holding him by one arm, Matt tried to ease the dying man back down. Only a flash of moonlight on the knife blade saved him. In one determined final act, Tyler suddenly struck with a long skinning knife in his other hand. Matt was quick enough to catch Tyler’s wrist before the blade could reach his ribs. For a long moment, there followed a desperate struggle as they strained against each other for control of the knife. The effort proved to be the final act that drained Tyler’s life away. His eyes, gleaming with hatred only seconds before, suddenly glazed, and Matt knew he was looking at a dead man. Tyler’s body relaxed. Matt released his hold on the wrist and let the body drop back to the ground. With time to think now, he stepped back and marveled at the turn of events, and the fact that a man placed such low value on another man’s life that he would kill him for a forty-two dollar rifle.
Taking Tyler’s body by the bootheels, Matt dragged it away from his campfire and deposited it in a shallow gully. Feeling suddenly weary, he decided he would wait till morning before searching for Tyler’s horse. He picked up a few dead branches on his way back to the fire to freshen the flames. A pale object stood out in the moonlight a few feet from the firelight’s glow, and Matt gazed at it for a moment before realizing what it was. In the deadly game of tag, he had forgotten about the turkey. Issuing a grunt of amusement, he picked up the plucked carcass and brushed the dirt from it. A sizable portion of it had been torn away by Tyler’s first shot. “Happy Thanks-givin’, Matt muttered as he drew his knife from his belt. After gutting the bird and removing the entrails, he washed it in the creek before devising a spit to roast it over the fire. While he waited for it to cook, he tended to the wound on his shoulder, satisfied that it was not serious enough to concern him.
After eating, the next thing on his mind was to try to find some way to take the shine off the brass of his new Henry. That shiny brass receiver had almost cost him his life, and he didn’t intend to have it happen a second time. He knew if he had some vinegar, that might tarnish the metal. Since he didn’t have vinegar, he thought that possibly grass might do the trick. So he went to work pulling up handfuls of grass and mashing it between two rocks until he had squeezed the juice from it. Then he rubbed it all over the brass. It appeared to work as long as he avoided handling the rifle too much. Unfortunately, the dull rubbed right off. Maybe if I had some deer piss, he thought, the acid in it would cause the brass to tarnish. But, of course, he had no deer urine. So he decided to use what he could produce himself. The mixture of urine and grass juice appeared to be a successful temporary solution, reducing the shiny metal to a dull finish. It would have to do until he had a chance to do some hunting and make a deerskin cover to fit around the receiver mechanism.
* * *
The morning broke cool and clear in the mountains, unusually so for this late in June. A good day to travel, Matt thought. He placed his coffeepot on the fire to boil while he went over to the gully to have a look at the late Mr. Tyler. “You’re a pretty sight first thing in the mornin’,” he remarked as he gazed down at the twisted snarl, frozen for eternity. He removed the dead man’s gun belt and searched the body for anything useful. He took a moment to examine Tyler’s pistol. It was a Navy model revolver, considerably better than the cheap pistol Matt had bought from Oscar. Then he stood back and left the corpse with some final words. “I reckon you won’t be alone for long. There’s plenty of buzzards in these mountains. I hope the meat don’t kill ’em.”
After a breakfast of cold turkey and coffee, he saddled the roan, and went in search of Tyler’s horse. It didn’t take long to find the animal. Starting out through the trees, Matt rode in a wide arc from the creek. The roan whinnied when it caught the scent of the other horse hobbled in a laurel thicket. Tyler’s horse answered with a gentle neigh with a little grunt on the end, a characteristic common to stallions.
Matt dismounted and approached the wary stallion. From the nervous stamping displayed, he guessed that Tyler had been no gentler with the horse than he was with humans. Holding the bridle, he stroked the horse’s neck, calming the nervous animal while he looked it over. “You’ll be all right,” he said softly. “It might take a little time, but you’ll be all right.” He removed the hobbles. “I expect you’d appreciate a drink of water,” he said as he stepped up on his horse and led the stallion back to the creek.
A lot of things had changed since the preceding day. He thought about it while he considered his newly acquired possessions: principally a horse, a rifle, a pistol, and some cooking utensils. Having no desire to use Tyler’s frying pan and coffee kettle, he quickly discarded them. The extra horse would no doubt be useful as a pack horse, but he was undecided about keeping the saddle. Rummaging through the saddle bags, he found a small amount of Union currency and some tobacco. There was also a Wanted paper on some unfortunate named Ike Brister, wanted in Missouri for murder. I wonder if Ike knew this vulture was on his trail, Matt thought as he gazed at the sketch of a bald man with a full, bushy beard. He discarded the paper along with the personal items in Tyler’s bags. The inventory complete, he was ready to continue his journey west, deciding to keep Tyler’s saddle until he had an opportunity to trade it for something later on. It was an expensive saddle, hand tooled. It should be worth something.