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  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.

  Chapter 4

  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 ban
k, 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?”