Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5 - 1858

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9 - Winter 1863

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  About Roy Chandler

  Books by Roy Chandler

  Copyright © 1988 and 2013 by Katherine R. Chandler. All rights reserved.

  Publication History

  ebook: 2013

  Katherine R. Chandler, Publisher

  St Mary's City, Maryland

  First Printing: 1988

  Bacon and Freeman, Publishers

  Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania

  Original title: Ted's Story

  This is a work of fiction. None of the characters represent any persons living or dead.

  All characters and incidents depicted were created by the author.

  Mr. Rob Shatto

  Little Buffalo Creek

  Newport, Perry County, Pennsylvania

  22nd Instant of May 1857

  Dear Pap

  An acquaintance Joe Darlin is traveling east at least to the Missouri, so I'll send this note with him. Could be it will survive the journey.

  Ted and Beth are fine. We wintered in the Mormon settlements north of Great Salt Lake City. We sent letters at times. If they arrive you will have the details.

  We are packed and ready to travel. Hard to believe we've been traveling for 2 years. Our direction this season will be south along the Rocky Mountains. We intend to see Santa Fe and perhaps roam a little way into Mexico.

  Ted still talks cattle raising but he decides settles on a different place every week. I'd rather live in a tree back in Perry County than settle out here. The west is exciting with something new over every mountain, but for staying? Not this child! - that's old mountainman talk like Joe Darlin and Grant Holloway use.

  We'll write when we can, but Ted will do most of it. I'll be busy holding off the hostiles. Tell Ma that's a joke. We've had no Indian trouble and I intend on avoiding any.

  Your son,

  Chip

  Chapter 1

  From his place on the mountain, Chinca, the Apache, could look into the Valley of Bones. From his eyes to the waterfall was ten miles. Miles were a white's measure; Chinca knew the distance as how far he could detect needles on a pine. Further, and he began to lose details and saw more like other men.

  During his warrior time, the eyes of Chinca had been important. Chinca counted riders beneath a dust cloud and could judge their weapons before others saw the dust. From a high place Chinca could detect an antelope's ear flick in a valley so distant that few could find the hollow's entrance.

  When Chinca became an honored old one his eyesight remained unchanged. As his body failed he chose his lookout to enjoy fully his only remaining ability. Beneath a rock overhang he settled on his comfortable robes, there to remain in contemplation of a vast panorama spread before him. Chinca slept where he sat and moved only to eat or to answer nature's calls.

  After his teeth fell from his jaws, young squaws chewed food to a fine consistency and delivered it for the old one's sustenance. And always, men who cared brought their sons to the half cave so that they too would know Chinca, whose eyes had been blessed by the maker of all things.

  When Chinca had chosen his place there had been only the natural things. Hawks circled and animals moved about. If wolves pulled down a deer there was no disturbance, for that violence too was in keeping with the Great Father's wishes.

  Seasons changed and Chinca dwelt within the earth's order. Occasionally men passed. They were of interest because they rippled the placid world the old one looked across. Chinca's own people were almost as the animals. Their passage was barely marked. But the whites, their appearance somehow stirred, as a stick did a bean pot.

  Whites had crossed Chinca's vision times beyond counting. A few were trappers who lived along the high mountain beaver runs. They left no traces and had become rare in recent seasons. Others were Comancheros, who traded from two wheel carts, and some were drivers of cattle who edged their wide horned herds into the greener valleys in hope of undisturbed grazing. Then Chinca told his people, and there might be feasting with soft bone marrow brought for the old one who saw many things.

  The Valley of Bones was always of interest. It opened to the east and the sun entered early to brighten the rising valley floor all the way to the waterfall. Each morning Chinca watched the sun touch the highest peak behind the valley and work its light swiftly down the slopes as though applying the fanciful colors of the cedar, pine, or mesquite. Rocks glinted and sandstone cast its reddish hue. Green clumps marked mountain meadows where water pooled and lichens flourished. The water became a stream and the stream a torrent before it burst across the cliff edge and fell in a shimmering veil to the floor of the valley and disappeared into the earth mother without a trace.

  A few feet from the waterfall, the Valley of Bones was parched, lifeless desert. Within the valley, snakes, lizards, and scorpions might endure but their prey was so scarce that even those hardy predators chose better hunting. That too was as it should be because the Valley of Bones was a haunted place.

  Before the time of Chinca, Spaniards had come to the valley. In search of gold or silver, they had driven shafts deep into the high cliffs that comprised three sides of the valley. Offended by their presence, the Apache had gathered and when their medicine was strongest they had attacked the Spanish.

  Though they were fewer, the Spanish wore shirts of metal that turned Apache weapons, and their knives were as long as an arm. The Spanish fought in clusters that surged about leaving trails of dead and dying. So great was the killing that no Spaniard survived. So vast was the dying that the strength of the Apache was weakened for a generation.

  Flocks of buzzards and vultures appeared above the valley and the people feared the spirits that some heard howling for release. And so, the valley became a place of death, avoided lest its taint reach out to mark new victims. Despite the water within, the Apache did not enter the Valley of Bones.

  Whites came at times. They poked among the skeletal remains of men and mules. They entered the Spaniards' caverns, but like the diggers they found no value. When they departed, men of Chinca's tribe might be waiting.

  To kill an enemy—and all were the enemy of the Apache—was powerful. To steal a horse or mule was also good. Either animal could provide many meals. The Apache took what they could, but if a party was too strong, Chinca did not mention its presence. The young would attempt anything; Chinca remembered his own hot youth. By chosen silences he saved Apache lives.

  When the three whites first came, they rode from the north and each trailed pack horses. Their weapons were so many and their ways so alert that Chinca spoke of them to no one.

  Two of the whites were as one. Though she rode beside her man and not behind, in a woman's place. The Watcher knew they were mated. The other, a larger man, scouted wider and appeared to be the leader.

  At the entrance to the Valley of Bones the whites paused. Then they turned and entered. Chinca was pleased. Whites interested him and from his place he could observe their activities all the way to the waterfall.

  +++

  1857

  Chip Shatto eased himself in his saddle and let his horse graze until Ted and Beth came up. Beneath a wide-brimmed hat, Indian black hair hung almost to his shoulders and eyes equally dark punctuated skin weathered to the color
and texture of his leather hunting shirt. A Colt Dragoon revolver was holstered butt forward at his waist and balanced by a wooden handled knife at the opposite hip. A second revolver was sheathed against the saddle bow and a two barreled rifle lay across his thighs. Behind the saddle, snug against the leather skirt, a second rifle butt protruded. A rolled poncho topped a pair of saddle bags made small by the bulk of horse and rider.

  Chip Shatto was twenty-two years old. His brother Ted, more than two years younger. Chip was tall and big-boned with rounded muscle that tightened his shirt at shoulder and bicep.

  Lighter built, but bigger than most, Ted Shatto better fitted a horseman's image. His was a supple quickness and cabley strength that never wore down. Armed like his brother, Ted's first gun was a heavy Hawken whose .50 caliber ball could stop a buffalo bull. Ted rode with the rifle upright, butt firmly planted on a muscular thigh.

  Riding between the men, Beth (Troop) Shatto could have been a sister. Dark as a Shatto, Beth had been raised with the Shatto boys. When the brothers left the valley of the Little Buffalo that nestled within the thickly wooded Perry County, Pennsylvania hills, Beth went along. She and Ted married the second day out and the three had traveled together for nearly two years.

  Beth Shatto held her end of things. Like the men, she had been born to the saddle. She rode and shot with them. Yet her presence softened her companions' ways and helped them keep in mind that there were larger and more permanent goals than just seeing country.

  When they came together, Chip pointed his horse toward the break in the cliffs where dry and lifeless earth seemed to lead deep into the base of the high mountain behind.

  "This is it all right, Ted. Just like Grant Holloway described. Said the canyon opened as though a giant had pressed his thumb straight down on the cliffs and squashed 'em flat."

  Beth said, "Desolate looking place. Do you suppose there are bones scattered all over the way Holloway described?"

  Ted touched his horse's ribs and moved out. "Let's go see, 'cause that's what we came for."

  They walked their horses abreast, feeling the canyon close about them. Ted's head tipped back and Chip read his thoughts.

  "Cliffs must be three hundred feet high and no getting up or down 'em. Caught in here, those Spaniards Holloway told about couldn't run for it."

  Ted thought before answering. "On the other hand, this entrance is only two hundred yards wide. A party with guns could keep an army out with no fear of being hit from the side or rear."

  "Guess the Spaniards didn't have much for guns back then. Probably took by surprise anyway. Apaches don't give warning."

  "Way Grant Holloway told it, the Spanish fought back to back and killed a pile of Indians before going under."

  Beth glanced over her shoulder before commenting. "The Apaches are still out there, so let's keep our own eyes open."

  "Spaniards should have backed up against a cliff or holed up in one of the diggings Holloway told about."

  Chip raised an eyebrow in mock disdain. "Probably weren't any famous generals like you among 'em, Ted."

  "If there had been, they'd have won." Ted sounded as though he meant it.

  Beth paid no attention. The brothers' hardest words and vigorous disagreements meant nothing. When it got serious, the Shattos stood side by side with no room to slip between.

  Halfway in they saw the first bones. Scattered by animals and bleached by sun, a mix of human and horse and mule skeletons clustered around and over a small rise in the ground. They pulled up and tried to make something from the ghostly clutter.

  "Made a stand here, all right." Ted pointed further in. "Looks like another over there." He frowned, perplexed by what he saw.

  "Strange way to fight, Chip. All split up like this."

  "Sure weakened 'em." Chip attempted a rough count. "Dozens must have gone down right here." He gigged his horse and they rode further.

  The bones strung in a long series and in their curiosity, the waterfall at the canyon head appeared and grew large before they noticed.

  Beth exclaimed. "Oh, isn't that beautiful!"

  In a parched land it was a thing to see. Chip suggested that it wasn't as much water as it appeared to be and that the whole stream could be poured through a barrel head.

  Ted was as usual thoughtful. "Wind blows up canyon so you won't hear the water till you're almost there. Wonder if it goes into a cave or just filters away?" He touched his mount. "I've got to see this up close."

  The canyon widened, as a thumb would until the walls were a half mile apart. Most of the Spanish tunnels showed at the canyon's broad ending where the water fell in a cooling rush, out of place in an otherwise arid land.

  When they pulled up close by the falls, Beth said. "You two take a look. I'll keep watch."

  "Holloway said no Indians'll come in here." But Chip's words did not get Beth off her horse.

  The water fell and struck the cliff on the way down, shooting out in smaller sprays until it splashed onto a broken rock bed on the canyon floor. Unrestrained, the flow slipped between stones and was gone without spreading.

  Chip and Ted stood on the stones searching in vain for even small puddling. There was none. Nearby shards of weathered planking lay mostly buried and Ted supposed the Spaniards or perhaps someone later had diverted enough water for camp use.

  Despite the canyon's grim history their camp was a fine one. There was security in the probability that Indians did not enter the valley. The Apache preferred not to fight at night and with three quarters of a mile of exposed approach the campers were not likely to be crept upon.

  They took their usual precautions anyway. Ted chose a tunnel mouth partly protected by the rock dug from it. They grounded their equipment and Chip dragged in enough of the old planking to supply their fire.

  The pack animals were hobbled and the riding horses staked close in. Each was fed a small grain ration and watered from a canvas bucket left under the falls until full.

  Before the sun lost its heat they took turns bathing beneath the waterfall. While Ted and Beth scrubbed each other, Chip took his rifle and wandered about the valley. At one spot a tiny rivulet ran from above and supported lush foliage for a few yards. Otherwise, the valley lay as dead as the bones dusting it.

  Before long Ted and Beth joined him and they read what they could of the valley's story.

  Ted reasoned, "Way I see it, the Spaniards were loaded up and leaving. That explains why their remains are strung out for near half a mile."

  Chip figured, "Likely the Apaches slipped in at night and waited until the train was moving. Probably hit 'em from both sides at once."

  Beth wasn't so sure. "How could so many Indians hide like that? Standing right here we can see almost every inch of the valley floor."

  "Could have dug themselves in. Covered with earth they might have waited a signal, then all came up at once."

  Ted said, "Mules and horses should have smelled 'em. Wind blows toward the waterfall."

  "Might not always, Ted."

  Ted added, "Of course the Spanish could have been coming back in and the Apaches were waiting."

  Chip liked it. "Makes more sense. Accounts for the animals not scenting them."

  Beth kicked at something metal protruding from the earth and they knelt to help her dig.

  Ted held the find aloft, shaking dirt from it. "Well I'll be danged. It's a breastplate." He thumped the armor with a knuckle. "Still solid. Looks like it might be hammered bronze."

  Beth was still digging and with a heave came up with the back half.

  Chip fitted the pieces together and hefted them. "Whew, I'd hate to wear such a corset all day. If the weight didn't break you down, the heat inside it would."

  "Be a good thing to have on if Indians did jump you." Ted again bonged on the armor. "This'd turn anything but a bullet."

  "Yeah, you wear it, Ted. Too small for me anyway."

  Beth snatched it away. "I found it, so I'll decide what to do with it." She hustled of
f to their camp with a piece of armor in each hand.

  +++

  Dawn arrived early with sun pouring through the canyon's narrow opening. Dusk came before expected. The high canyon walls first threw the waterfall into shade. Then the shadow line marched steadily down the canyon until only a batch of mountains miles to the east still glowed in afternoon sunlight.

  Chip had laid his telescope across his saddle blankets and was sprawled out studying the distant mountains. Beth hoped he didn't want to go exploring. Chip always wondered what was in the next valley. He'd been that way back in Pennsylvania, and the Rocky Mountains hadn't changed him any. Their course was south, deeper into the old Spanish land grants with stops at Taos and Santa Fe.

  Ted came from his own private wanderings up and across the valley. He dropped down beside his wife and took her hand, almost absentmindedly, as he often did when he was thinking.

  Ted was the quiet one. In their youth, he had ridden contentedly in his older brother's shadow. Chip, the boisterous, the ready-to-try-anything Shatto, had led them on great explorations along their Little Buffalo Creek and later throughout the friendly Perry County woodlands. Chip had brought their western adventure to life and he still gave most directions.

  Ted said, "I like this place."

  Chip snorted, "You liked the Popo Agie, the Mormon Settlements, and that Pike's Peak country. Now you like a desert. You're easy to please, Teddy."

  "There's water in that river a few miles out on the flats and there's good feed along it."

  "It'll dry up in late summer."

  "Then a man could move his stock into high valleys."

  "Uh huh. Indians would like that."

  "They might not be around here much."

  "Those mountains to the east are full of 'em."

  "Maybe not, Chip."

  "Then how come I'm looking at one of 'em right now?

  Chip slid aside so Ted could get behind the glass."

  "Don't jostle it now. You look where that big overhang takes up the center of the view. Now, under the left edge you'll see some color. Blue blanket, I think. See him? Wrinkled up old chief, I make him."