Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series) Read online

  He knew more. Her thought reached across to him as though she spoke. The woman's mind asked, "Who are you?" and Tiff found his own replying, "Tiff Shatto. Who are you?" For an instant, the silhouetted figure appeared to sway. Then her toe-touching skirt swirled, and she was gone without answer.

  Tiff blinked and physically shook his head. His mind reeled a little from the impact of the woman's presence. He had experienced many simple revelations—hints of what was or what might happen—but never had he approached reading the actual thoughts of another. He remained a trifle dazzled, jolted by the unexpectedness and improbability of the encounter. He did not question the reality. It had happened.

  The woman was gone, but she would be nearby. Had she known similar awareness, or had the passage of thought been only one way? He would find out. Bandanna wearing young women would not be common and . . . there had been something else. Tiff drew hard on the images burned into his memory. She wore earrings! Large golden hooped rings, he believed. His eyes had not seen them, but his mind had.

  Whew! What kind of women did old Perry County raise? He had not yet stepped ashore, and he was half mesmerized by a female barely seen at a distance. Spooky—and interesting as could be, Tiff accepted.

  Before docking at Millerstown, Tiff had eaten a light breakfast of bread and dried meat from his pack. The barge captain had rambled endlessly as usual, but at least he had worn out his excitement over Tiff's mauling of the Lewistown dock bullies.

  The barge man's version had been grossly distorted, and Tiff attempted to remove the exaggerations and explain the simplicity of what had occurred. To no avail, the old-timer knew a good yarn when he heard one. He repeated the small disturbance to everyone along the way, swelling and altering the fight to suit his audience. He usually ended with: "Yep, that's him sitting right there, and he's got that pistol holstered under his jacket day and night. Practices with it sometimes, and let me tell you, he makes a pouncing wildcat look slow and awkward."

  Then the teller would turn mournful. "No use asking to see. Tiff Shatto don't go showing his gun around. Them ten or eleven toughs he pistol-whipped and threatened to kill dead know about it, though."

  As it was not yet noon, Tiff saw no excuse to loiter in Millerstown. He would be around for a while and could locate the girl later on. More than likely, his Uncle Chip or his Aunt Tinker would know her. Perry County would be like every rural area. Everyone would know everyone else.

  Tiff bid the captain good-by, and they agreed they might run onto each other around the county. Tiff leaned his possibles against a bollard and headed for a sign advertising a livery.

  The livery stable was back north, up the canal a block. Tiff chose to go to the town square and turn left to approach the business from its street side. He used his eyes going along, studying the German-solid construction of stone buildings comprising the heart of Millerstown. Once, when canal building fought its way up the Juniata, the village had been a bustling headquarters. Then, dozens of hotels had flourished, providing safe sleeping and full meals to bosses and workmen. Most hotels had been jerry-built wooden structures, long demolished and mostly forgotten. A few, like the handsome stone hotel on the square's corner, still operated despite the canal's increasing somnolence and the railroad's cross river separation.

  A good place to live, Tiff thought. The village boasted a doctor and a bank. It had eating places and the usual blacksmiths through milliners to draw in trade.

  The town looked permanent with some stone curbs and convenient watering troughs. Horse chestnut trees still coming into bloom lined the streets along with towering elms and some stately oaks. A nice place and Tiff felt drawn to it.

  There was no sign of the girl. Once he suspected a warning touch of eyes upon him, but his wish for it might have created the sensation, for it was gone before he could be certain.

  What a wallop he had taken. That girl had looked clear through him and out the other side. Suppose when he found her, she hadn't even noticed? That would be unbelievable, but, she had turned away as though unaware. Well, once he located Uncle Chip and got settled down, Tiff resolved to find out for sure.

  Tiff rented an animal, little more than a nag if compared to the mounts he was used to.

  Once his grandfather Robbie Shatto had raised special mountain horses a dozen or so miles west of Millerstown, but that was now history. Chip Shatto had little use for horse raising, and Tiff felt about the same, not that Tiff cared for farming, the way Chip did, or cow chasing like his father.

  Tiff's game was to see what there was to see, to taste and smell strange places, but more importantly to feel the spirits of the people he touched. A special mind with unusual thoughts and approaches could stir Tiff Shatto as no great breeding bull or mighty stallion could hope to. A questioning reasoner or an enthusiastic observer could capture Tiff's attention as quickly as and more durably than a nicely turned ankle or an engaging female profile.

  Scholarly academics did not often grip Tiff's attention. Their interests usually lay in the labeling or assembling of often irrelevant or trivial data and detail. Tiff sought the sparkle of quick insights or the effervescence of challenging controversy. His was not the solemn, planned and controlled discipline of the gifted chess player. Tiff Shatto preferred rapier-like wit or scintillating introspections that burst like aerial bombs on his consciousness. Tiff did not seek knowledge. He was drawn to the excitement of initial discovery, but unlike the moth sucked into the flame, Tiff pulled away and sought new sources before he was caught and held.

  To most, Tiff Shatto's was a vagabond existence. His cleverness provided good living, but what of the future, when hand and mind slowed? What of the challenges when reflexes dulled and the pistol no longer came instantly to hand? What of the dangers of raging losers or envious compatriots? Tiff's game was not for most that was certain.

  Tiff's rental saddle was stiff and hard and needed oiling. The reins too lacked the supple softness that allowed effortless handling. Despite the hostler's patronizing advice, Tiff lengthened the stirrups until standing in them barely cleared his seat, the way men who lived on horses rode. He shook the mount into a reluctant trot, pleased to be astride, even on a hard-mouthed plug like this one.

  He slowed to a walk at the square. Despite oiling and some watering, street dust kicked high and any extra would not be appreciated.

  The saddle had pegging strings tied behind it. He would lash on his roll and head east. An hour or so to his Uncle Chip's would make it just a bit early for lunch. Tiff's stomach rolled a little at the thought of home cooking. He neck-reined his horse downhill toward the dock.

  In a horse length, Tiff's interest in eating vanished. With a sudden leap of excitement he booted his astounded livery mount's ribs and lashed its off shoulder a resounding crack. The animal stumbled into an awkward run and moments later, Tiff hauled his reins, setting the confused horse back onto its haunches. Tiff slid from the saddle, landing easily on the first dock planking, reins in his left hand, his right hidden just inside the waist of his open jacket.

  Two men stood facing six. The six were uniformed in tan sweaters and stocking caps. Each carried a foot-long oaken billie with a thong for fastening about the wrist. All six slapped their clubs rhythmically into their open palms, leaning forward aggressively, as though anxious to put their weapons to work.

  The two men holding the toughs' attention had not retreated. Their light wagon was tied just off the dock, but they made no motions toward it.

  The pair were older men with gray in their hair. One was tall with broad, muscled shoulders and powerful arms. The other, of average height, was also well-muscled and competent looking, but against a half dozen dub wielding thugs, who seemed trained as a team, the going could be hard indeed.

  Tiff Shatto had recognized the pair at first glance. They appeared little changed since their visit during his boyhood. The coincidence of encountering them almost upon arrival and engaged in a near brawl made Tiff wish to whoop with glee.
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br />   Uncle Chip Shatto stood a head above the others, his big fists closed like hammers ready to pound. Captain Carter Roth rocked on his toes acting as though he could hardly wait to get a crack at the uniformed bullyboys. If the rhythmic slapping of the clubs upset either man it did not show. Tiff saw no guns, and that let him smile. His ready Colt pistol would make far more impression than the sudden arrival of his less than one hundred and forty pound body.

  The horse's driving run and Tiff's lightning dismount turned the eyes of some of the six hard cases. Neither Chip nor the captain looked around.

  Dropped reins and a few quick steps took Tiff past the confrontation. With another two he was behind the line of uniformed fighters. He saw Carter Roth's eyes touch him without recognition.

  One of the club wielders resumed speech, apparently interrupted by Tiff's arrival.

  "You're disturbin' Mister Haycock, Shatto, and we're paid to see that don't happen." The clubs smacked palms with intimidating rhythm. "Maybe it's time we made a few things plain to you."

  As unexpected as a lightning bolt, Tiff's voice rose clear in the speaker's pause. "If they start for you, I'll begin shooting them from this side."

  The clubs lost their rhythm as heads jerked around. Tiff's left hand swept his jacket aside so the holstered Colt showed. There was sudden and uneasy shifting among the six. Guns on the street were not the way things were done anymore. A man could expect a club or even a knife, but pistols were not worn and had not been for half a lifetime.

  The tough's speaker said, "Look you . . ."

  Chip Shatto's voice drowned him out. "You won't need to shoot, boy. Haycock's men never face up to a real fight. Fact is, I'm surprised they're even out in daylight. Waylaying drunks at night is more their style."

  Tiff grinned inside. God, Uncle Chip was putting the spurs to them. Anger mixed with frustration on Haycock faces. Then one said in recognition. "Hey, that's the one that did the pistol-whipping up in Lewistown." Attention focused hard on Tiff. Like Chip, Tiff sunk in the spurs.

  "Glad you heard about that. Mighty disappointing it was. If they'd been more willing I could have put a few Colt .41 calibers into them." He smiled mirthlessly. "Knees are my favorite—unless the rush gets too heavy. Then I gut shoot." He half drew the short barreled Colt, holding his smile and letting his eyes run the length of the line.

  The club slapping faded away. Haycock's men were undecided even on which way to face. None wanted Shatto and Roth at their backs, but the stranger with the gun could hardly be ignored.

  Chip Shatto shattered the impasse. "We've enough of this damned foolishness. Haycock isn't here, so we'll be back."

  The Haycock spokesman sought to get back into the game. "Mister Haycock will have the boat open this evening. You want to see him, come then." He chuckled derisively. "Maybe he'll let you aboard, and maybe he won't"

  The speaker jerked a hand toward his men, and they broke formation, swaggering and shoulder swinging over to the gambler's handsome barge.

  They stepped wide of Tiff Shatto who watched them closely, his hand on the pistol's butt. Well clear, the bullyboys began loud laughing and slapping among themselves, but it was unconvincing face-saving. They had come up the losers.

  Chapter 11

  Until he had spoken, Chip Shatto had not recognized his nephew. He had called Tiff, "boy," because he had difficulty believing that the handsome and hard young man was the youth he had known years before. Tiff, it was obvious, was no longer a boy. Based on what he saw, and the letters from Ted, Chip did not doubt his nephew's ability to shoot knees or bodies just as he claimed.

  Ted Shatto had described his son's troubles, indicating that Tiff was headed east, but the nephew had not appeared. The high western mountains were distant, another world in many ways, and there was a lot in between. Chip expected that Tiff would show up eventually—and he had—at a most propitious moment.

  Leaving town, the three of them shared the wagon's seat. Tiff s horse had been returned to the livery. Chip had enough mounts at home to go around, and the hostler had been pleased to return "most" of the rental money to Mister Chip Shatto's nephew.

  Carter said, "I knew you right off, of course. Your Uncle Chip's always been a little slow."

  Tiff laughed openly. The two friends had been lacing each other with insults since they had met. They rarely ceased, and getting under the other's skin was considered a worthy accomplishment.

  Chip agreed with Carter—to a point. "The truth is, I didn't begin to guess who you were, Tiff. My sights were pretty well leveled on how I was going to handle six thugs willing to bounce clubs off of me. Of course, my big worry was figuring how to keep tangle-foot Roth from getting hurt. He's likely to charge straight in, flailing like a windmill, but not doing much damage."

  Chip's voice turned serious. "You landed like a cold wind on their backs, Tiff, and just in time. They were set and waiting, but I doubt Haycock put 'em onto us, 'cause out in the open wouldn't profit him. Haycock works real hard at appearing honest and straightforward. He never knows about the bad things that happen. Haycock's got his fingers in a lot of pies, and his bullyboys clubbing honest citizens at noon on the Millerstown docks would be hard to pass off." Chip paused to tap his team into a more interested walk.

  "Still, when we come back into town tonight, we'll watch ourselves. No matter who turned them loose, that bunch was Haycock's, and Carter and I were in way too deep."

  Roth said, "For God's sake, Chip, you're rattling on about Haycock as if Tiff knew him. Haycock isn't famous or anything."

  Chip answered, "Close up, Roth. Tiff and I are talking. If you're going to keep butting in, ride in the wagon bed with the groceries."

  There was time on the ride out Pfoutz Valley to discuss many things. The road was rough and in places steep. Some spring seasons were wet and the road could be a bog, but not this year, Chip explained. Above the crash and rattle of iron wheel rims, Tiff agreed that fields looked good, but except for winter wheat there still wasn't much to see. Before Chip and Captain Roth could get to explaining their troubles in town, Tiff got in his important question.

  "Uncle Chip, either you or Captain Roth know of a young woman who wears a bandanna on her head and has gold loop earrings?"

  Carter asked, "Now just where'd you run onto her, Tiff?"

  "Well, I didn't exactly run onto her. I sort of saw her between some buildings in town. I didn't even get a good look, but I'd swear she was staring straight at me."

  Chip said almost in admiration, "God, Tiff. You're hardly in the county and you're already tangled into everything unusual going on."

  Before Tiff could question his meaning, Chip continued. "The girl you are describing is our local witch."

  "Your what?"

  Chip laughed at his own description, and Carter Roth openly scoffed. "People who say that are ignorant. They're the same ones who believe in haunts, magic, and spell casting. Damned fools sneak through life scared of everything they see and more afraid of what they don't see, all the while passing foolishness on to each other."

  Chip agreed, but he wasn't about to let Roth know it. "Seems to me you had the Widow Mitchell pow-wow for you when you got those boils on your neck. That's sure as hell witchy kind of stuff."

  "Dang it, Chip, it was her salve I wanted." Carter turned to Tiff. "She boils down horse chestnuts and some secret things in lard. The stuff draws poison like water into a sponge."

  Tiff hauled the subject back on course. "So, who is she?"

  Chip again took over answering. "Her name is Lily Carver. She grew up across the river along Raccoon Creek. Strange but mighty attractive girl—dresses different, doesn't socialize much and, whether Roth believes it or not, she's known to have predicted happenings and maybe cured a few illnesses."

  Carter said, "Everybody knows Lily, but it's like knowing a wild bird. She'll appear out of nowhere and be gone just as suddenly. Lives in Millerstown with an aunt who keeps them both in groceries and kerosene.

  "Y
our Uncle Chip thinks he knows about Lily because now and then she visits my Hannah and your Aunt Tinker. Seeing I'm not uppity and snooty like your Uncle, I talk with Lily pretty often. So, I'm the one who can tell you about her."

  Chip put in, "Lily's as pretty as they come, Tiff, but she's as unpredictable as next winter. Though they keep trying, none of the young men hereabouts have caught her eye."

  Carter snorted, "Not just the young ones either. I heard old Judge Beaver came offering his gold and silver and good name, but Lily just patted his hand and said something about him not being the one." Both men laughed, "Heard she's said that to all them young bucks as well."

  In hope of more, Tiff repeated, "I didn't get a good look at her."

  Carter held forth. "Well, you'll run into her if you stay around. Somebody gave her an old plug of a horse that was about to die. She kept it alive somehow and rides it around the county. Wears men's pants when she's astride, enrages most of the women and drives the boys wild."

  "It's the earrings that get 'em, Roth. Local men aren't used to seeing a handsome gal decorating like a gypsy. A flash of those rings and a side glance from those dark eyes makes 'em all sweat."

  His uncle glanced thoughtfully at his nephew. "You taken by just the glimpse you had of her, Tiff?"

  Tiff bobbed his head in recognition of the possibility. "I'd of sworn sparks flew between us, Uncle Chip."

  Carter Roth guffawed. "Whoowee, maybe you're 'the one,' Tiff boy."

  The dock trouble had been brewing since winter ice had gone out. On the gambling barge's first trip upriver, Haycock had lured Roth's not overly bright hired man into gambling on which of three swiftly switched around cards was an ace. Haycock took all of the man's money and accepted IOUs until the debt was too great to ever pay off.