Leaving West Virginia behind him, Matt followed the sun through Kentucky, traveling roads when they were available, riding cross-country when they were not. He tried to keep some track of the days at first, but soon became bored with it. Avoiding towns and even homesteads, he made his way through mountains and valleys, hunting for his food. It was not a lonely time, for he felt very much at home in the backwoods and mountains, at peace with the solitude.
At times, he thought about his brother, and wondered how Owen fared under the new Union occupation of the valley. Owen will do all right, he decided. He’ll get a helluva lot more out of that little piece of land than I ever would have. Maybe it was best that things had worked out as they had. He had never harbored a desire to be a farmer, and could never imagine himself settling down with a wife and babies. He would always have a yearning to see what lay beyond the distant hills.
With a clear conscience, he pushed on. There were no troubling thoughts of guilt over what he had left behind him. Outlaw in name only, he felt no remorse for killing the bushwhacker, figuring he had done the world a favor by ridding it of that small piece of vermin. He had been offered no choice in the matter, at any rate. If he were inclined to feel guilt, it would possibly be because of taking Tyler’s possessions. His choices in that matter would have been to attempt to return them to Tyler’s kin, or to leave them in the mountains. And only a damn fool would ride off and leave them, he concluded.
He guessed that it was late July when he topped a ridge one sunny afternoon to discover what appeared to be a small store sitting in one corner of a crossroads. He needed supplies, so he decided there was little risk in approaching. If Wanted papers had been sent out, he doubted they would have reached an isolated store like the one before him. Since he had no idea himself, he thought it would be a good time to find out exactly where he was.
“Afternoon,” the storekeeper offered in greeting as Matt dismounted and tied his horses up to the hitching post. Standing in the doorway, the proprietor eyed the stranger openly. “Looks like you been doin’ some hard ridin’, young feller.” He was looking at the two horses when he made the comment.
Matt followed the direction of his gaze. The horses were, in fact, showing the stress of many days without oats, his supply of feed having long since been exhausted. “I’ve been tryin’ to wean ’em off oats and grain,” he said. “But they sure ain’t gettin’ fat livin’ off grass.”
“Well, I can fix you up with some oats if you’re of a mind to give ’em somethin’ besides grass.”
“I reckon that would be a good idea,” Matt said. “I’ll need some coffee and a few other things, too.”
“I ain’t seen you around here before,” the storekeeper remarked, looking Matt up and down. “Where you headed?”
“West,” was Matt’s simple reply.
Nodding toward the empty saddle on Tyler’s stallion, the storekeeper said, “Looks like you lost your partner.” Judging by the look on Matt’s face, he decided the young stranger was not inviting questions. Most of the young men from these parts, who had gone off to war, had straggled back after the surrender. He supposed this stranger was just one of the many trying to get back home. He stepped aside and said, “Come on in. My name’s Porter. This here’s my store.” He held out his hand.
Matt shook Porter’s hand, and, realizing the man was waiting to hear his name, had to think fast. Not willing to give his real name, yet not wanting to appear unfriendly, he tried to come up with a name other than the obvious Smith or Jones. Remembering then that the men back at the turkey shoot had called him Shenandoah, he gave Porter a smile. “Shenan . . .” he started, but cut the word off, realizing just in time that Shenandoah would tell the man whence he had come. “Shannon,” he pronounced clearly, “my name’s Shannon.” He walked inside. “I’ll be needin’ a few things,” he said as he looked around the room. He glanced back at Porter, who was still standing by the door.
“That’s a fine lookin’ saddle on that bay there. What is that? Spanish? The pommel ain’t hardly high enough to be Spanish, though.”
“I expect not,” Matt replied.
“I need a new saddle,” Porter said. “Maybe you might be interested in a trade. You got no use for two saddles, do ya?”
Sensing an advantage, Matt scratched his chin and gave his mustache a little tug, as if thinking hard on the matter. “I don’t know, I’m mighty fond of that saddle. That’s the reason I’ve been carryin’ it along. I probably need a pack rig for that horse instead of a saddle”—he hesitated for a moment—“if I was a sensible man.”
Porter immediately rose to the bait. “I can fix you up with a dandy pack rig for that horse—make you a good trade.”
“I don’t know. . . .” Matt winced painfully.
“’Course I’d throw in a sack of oats and a sack of coffee beans—maybe some salt and sugar.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” Matt replied, “but I do need the supplies.”
“Done, then,” Porter quickly pronounced, before the young stranger could change his mind. They shook on it.
When his possibles were securely strapped on the bay stallion that had previously transported the late Mr. Tyler, Matt prepared to take his leave. The afternoon was aging fast, and he wanted to be on his way. With a final tug at the strap on his new packs, he stood for a moment at the crossroads.
“That there’s the road to St. Louis,” Porter said, pointing toward the north.
Matt considered that for a few moments. St. Louis was a sizable town, or so he’d heard. He’d never been there, but he suspected a fellow might go unnoticed. On the other hand, his name and description must surely have already been telegraphed to the sheriff.
“Where’s that road go?” he finally asked, nodding toward the south fork.
“Sawyer’s Mill,” Porter replied. “It’ll give out in about fifteen miles. Feller named Sawyer had a grist mill down there by the river, but it’s been shut down for a long time, before I was born. If you keep on goin’ south after you cross the river, you’ll be in Tennessee.”
“I expect that’s the way I’ll go, then,” Matt decided. He stopped to think for a moment. “Where am I now?”
Porter laughed. “Kentucky,” he replied.
Matt thought about that for a moment. “Kentucky, huh? Well I sure didn’t know that.” He stepped up in the saddle then and turned the blue roan’s head toward Sawyer’s Mill. “Much obliged to you, Mr. Porter,” he said, and gave the roan his heels.
“You take care of yourself, Shannon,” Porter called after him.
The days that followed were pleasant days for Matt as he dropped down into Tennessee before setting a course west again. The hills and forests of Tennessee reminded him of Virginia. There was plenty of game to supply his food, and plenty of water and grass for the horses. He traveled as long and as far as he felt like each day, stopping to hunt and rest his horses whenever it suited him. Late August found him on the bank of the biggest river he had ever seen. He sat motionless for a long time, eyeing the wide expanse of water that separated him from Arkansas. He felt certain that he had reached the Mississippi. There could be no doubt. The question now was how to get across. Up to this point, he had not come to a river he couldn’t ford or swim the horses across. This river looked to be a little too wide and deep, the current too swift. He might lose his pack horse and all his belongings if he attempted to swim it. There seemed no choice but to ride down river until he came across a ferry.
Following a wagon track that led along the bank of the river, he made his way downstream. As he continued south, he saw small farms here and there with most of the fields grown up in weeds, the result of losing all the country’s menfolk to the army. Cotton fields that spread almost to the water’s edge lay fallow, as dead as the occasional ruins of a house that had been burned to the ground. The scars of war would be a long time healing. He guessed that he must be approaching a town of some size. A mile farther, where the river narrowed and formed a bend, he finally found a ferry.
BRAMBLE’S FERRY, the sign read, the letters big and bold, painted on a rough pine board, FIFTY CENTS. “Fifty cents,” Matt commented to the stout old man coming forward to greet him. “That’s a little steep, ain’t it?”
“Everythin’s gone up since the war,” the man responded. “It used to cost ten cents.” He stood before Matt’s horse, peering up at the stranger. “I reckon it all depends on how important it is to get to the other side of the river. It don’t cost no more’n a shot of whiskey, and ain’t nowhere near as hard on your liver.”
Matt smiled. “I reckon not.” He nodded his head toward the south. “Looks like a town on down the river.”
The stout little man seemed surprised by the comment, astonished that anyone had to ask. “You must be new around these parts, mister. Them buildings you can see from here ain’t really part of the town. Memphis is about five miles from here.” He continued to gaze up at the young stranger, half expecting him to change his mind about crossing the river. “Looks like you been travelin’ a spell, young feller. If you’re thinkin’ about a drink of likker, you don’t have to ride all the way to Memphis. My brother runs a store less than a mile from here, keeps a barrel of corn likker on hand.”
“Reckon not,” Matt said. “I’ll just take a boat ride across.” He stepped down from the saddle and got fifty cents from his saddlebags. “Memphis,” he said, “I reckon I’m still in Tennessee. What’s that on the other side? Is that still Tennessee?”
“Mister, you are new around here, ain’tcha? That’s Arkansas on the other side, different as night and day from Tennessee.” He held out his hand to take the money.
“How so?” Matt asked.
“Why, hell, every way. Them’s strange folks over there—not like us here in Tennessee.”
“You must spend a lot of time over there,” Matt commented facetiously.
“Hell, no,” the man quickly replied. “I don’t never stay longer’n I need to load or unload passengers.” He turned then and led Matt down to a small dock where the ferry was tied. “My name’s Billy Bramble,” he volunteered, as he removed a single pole that served as a gate to the dock.
“Shannon,” Matt replied, and led his horses aboard.
Matt remained silent for most of the ride across to the other side, answering in mostly one- or two-word replies to Billy Bramble’s remarks. There was very little need for him to carry a share of the conversation, since Billy hardly paused for breath between comments. When the boat ground ashore in the soft sand of the bank, Matt wasted no time in departing. With a brief nod of his head, he nudged Blue with his heels, and the big roan was off. “Good day to ya, Shannon,” Billy called after him. He sure ain’t a talkative fellow, he thought as he watched Matt disappear over the bluffs.
* * *
“I swear, Jack,” Billy exclaimed, “I believe that’s the feller crossed over on my ferry yesterday.” He took a step closer to the wall where his brother had just tacked up a new Wanted notice. He peered at the drawing of the square-jawed young man with a full mustache.
His brother shrugged, not really believing. “Hell, what would he be doin’ down in this part of the country?”
“I don’t know,” Billy insisted. “But I knew there was somethin’ peculiar about that young feller. He weren’t much for conversation, and that’s a fact. He shore looked like that pitcher, though.” He took a swallow of beer while he sought to remember details. “He was a Reb, too, still wearin’ them gray army britches—said his name was Shannon.”
“Well, accordin’ to this notice, his name’s Matt Slaughter, and you mighta just missed makin’ five hundred dollars for yourself.”
“Damn,” Billy sighed, “five hundred dollars.” He shook his head in amazement. “He’s long gone now, even if I was of a mind to stop him. Maybe it’s a good thing at that. From the look of him, and the way he held that Henry rifle, it mighta been a little more work than I’d care to take on.”
* * *
With the Mississippi behind him, Matt felt a sense of freedom. In his mind, the mighty river served as a boundary for those who might pursue him, and there was a new sense of relief. His rational mind told him that he was still an outlaw, and was still wanted by the army. But the Shenandoah was so far behind him now that perhaps he was no longer important enough to warrant the army’s time and effort.
With no sense of urgency, for he had no real destination, he traveled leisurely across Arkansas, holding always to a generally westerly course, taking time to hunt when he wanted to. The country was pleasing to his eye, as long as he kept to the woods, with heavily forested hills and sparkling streams. Off to the north, he could see the distant mountains. He felt at peace with the world around him, his mind drifting less and less back to Virginia and the plight of those he had left behind.
There were things with which to concern himself, however. Summer was rapidly slipping away, and he would soon be in need of warm clothing. He had accumulated a sizable pack of deer hides, but had no thread to sew a coat. At this point, he was reluctant to stop in one place long enough to work the hides and soften them up. He was not especially handy with a needle and thread, and had never attempted to sew any kind of garment. But he was determined to give it his best effort, figuring that if other men could do it, then so could he. He had thought to dry some sinew for the purpose, but soon gave it up after a few unsuccessful attempts. Surely, he thought, there would be some place to buy some good stout thread before he left Arkansas. He would not only need a coat—his trousers were beginning to become threadbare in the knees. That job might be a bit more of a challenge. He had little confidence in his ability to sew a pair of trousers. Adding to the list, both horses needed shoes. It was with all these concerns in mind that he came upon the settlement of Boiling Springs.
Pulling Blue to a halt on the brow of a low ridge that bordered the eastern side of the town, he sat for a few minutes surveying the scene. It appeared to be a lively little town, with a cluster of buildings gathered around a crossroads. There were a couple of wagons with mules standing before what appeared to be a general store on the south side of the crossroads. A few yards below it, he saw a blacksmith’s forge. The road that lay in a north-south direction appeared to be a well-traveled route. Confident that he could find everything he needed here, Matt nudged Blue, and the big horse started down the slope.
As he had anticipated, Boiling Springs was able to meet most of his needs. A friendly storekeeper named Mathews supplied him with some stout thread, used to sew cottonseed bags, as well as a large needle used for the same purpose. Both horses were shod while he took his ease and made conversation with the smithy, an outspoken man named Bowers. If Matt had been of a nature to settle down, he would have given strong consideration to Boiling Springs. It was a peaceful place, and the two men he had met seemed friendly enough. According to Bowers, Boiling Springs was the exception to the state of things in Arkansas.
“I reckon you could say we were lucky. We had a couple of companies of Union infantry camped here, and their commanding officer was a kindly man. So they left things pretty much alone. Oh, they took everything that could be et or rode, but they didn’t burn us down. Most of the men from around here were paroled in June over at Jacksonport, and I expect everyone whose comin’ back is already home. God knows there’s plenty of work waitin’ for ’em. Without no men to work the land, most folks were damn-near starvin’ to death in this county. Hell, there was more trouble from the damn guerilla bands than both the Union and Confederate armies combined. Stealin’, burnin’, destroyin’ ever’thin’ they couldn’t use theirselves, they was the people caused Arkansas the most trouble.”
For the first time in days, Matt was prompted to think about the folks he had left back in Virginia. Settling down in a place like this little settlement was no more than wistful thinking for an outlaw, he reminded himself. The main north-south road was the Little Rock Pike, and sooner or later a Wanted paper with his name on it would come riding down that road. So he bade them good-bye, Mathews and the smithy, and continued his journey west. Following the Arkansas River, he set out toward Fort Smith. According to Mathews, Fort Smith was the last place to buy supplies before crossing into Indian Territory.