Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 20
The outlaw was charging like a longhorn but his eyes were on the wrong place. Escalante's trigger finger was already tightening when the man's eyes found him.
This time, Jesus saw his bullet hit. The impact stopped the bandit in his tracks and some reaction threw his pistol into the air and over the cliff. A spray of blood splattered a rock face behind the dead man. His feet tangled and he crumpled onto his face, an arm twisted so that an elbow stuck awkwardly upward. Escalante nudged him with a toe, but it was not necessary. There was no life within the shattered corpse.
Jesus Escalante let the others take what was worth saving. Then he ordered the dead buried beneath hastily piled stones.
His men followed his directions with a new and awed deference. Their friend, Jesus the Apache, had killed three while they had not gotten a shot. Jesus, the hunter, was to be respected.
Despite Senor Shatto's wish for hurry, Escalante raised a small cross of sticks and offered a short prayer for the souls newly departed. Then he led the way to the rope lift. The fight had wearied them, yet the day was barely begun. The real battle lay below, probably along the wall, and Jesus Escalante's rifle would be needed.
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Chapter 15
With grim satisfaction, Ted Shatto heard Escalante's description of the fight on the rimrock. Once, Mexican peons would not fight or, if driven to it, they performed poorly. Escalante's example would encourage others. If they expected to trample upon simple farm hands, Snyder's army had surprises ahead.
The ranch rested now. Lookouts would give early warning of the enemy's approach. Within their homes men cleaned weapons and rechecked powder and ball. Women certainly prayed and prepared extra food, for women always did but this was a time to doze and putter at small things. The night would be long and, if Snyder delayed, nerves would stretch and minds and bodies would weary. Then reserves of strength would be needed.
Ted checked his own weapons with care. He expected the work to be close, probably in the dark. His rifle was always ready but for short ranges a heavily loaded shotgun was best. Ted's was a two barrel. Into his pouch he placed caps, coarse powder, wadding, and buckshot of about .33 caliber. Dropping a half dozen of the lead shot on top of a powder charge gave each barrel a devastating wallop out to about twenty yards.
For this battle, Ted would wear two Colt pistols. He placed extra cylinders, each fully charged, in his lower vest pockets. If the going got tough it was far swifter to replace an empty cylinder than to try reloading.
During the training of his people, Ted had stressed that it was not how many shots were fired that counted, it was how many hits were made. Before he sent the families to their homes he had said it again.
"When they come it will seem like the opening of devil's gates. We'll think there are a million of them, each bigger than the other, riding like the demons were lashing them. That's when careful aiming is most important. Don't shoot into them. Pick a horse or a rider just as you would a particular deer or antelope. When you shoot, KNOW that your target went down. Reload or take another gun and do it again.
"Shoot carefully and shoot as long as you see movement." Ted quieted for a moment and let them wait in expectation. "Once they break and get beyond good shooting, go back to the ones that're on the ground. Shoot them again whether they're alive or dead. Think of them as wounded rattlesnakes that could rise up and finish you or your friend when you aren't looking."
Father Hector Gomez crossed himself but offered no objection. There were times to observe the sanctity of human life, but this was not one of them.
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John Snyder felt himself growing testy. By middle afternoon his dragged out column had staggered to a halt in their final camp. No fires were allowed and horses remained saddled. Frazzled by the previous night's confusion, men slept heavily or jawed dispiritedly in small groups. The confident, boisterousness of the day before was replaced by a sullen exasperation. Snyder liked that; his army's discontent would fall on those who stood in their way. Once loosed, his mob would be savage. John Snyder enjoyed that certainty best of all.
Snyder controlled his snappishness, recognizing it as his own hunger to get started. There was still a three hour ride to the Valley of Bones. Then they would wait while their scout made certain the wall stood undefended. Not that a few shooting at them would make a difference, but this time, John P. took no chances. As before, he would enter the valley just before dawn. The rush to the valley's occupied end would take only minutes. By then, if he timed it right, they would have light to shoot by. The cannon would be brought up last and the real fun would begin. Snyder guessed he would just blow the big Shatto house down no matter who tried to come out—except that, it would make the gold easier to locate if he had someone to question.
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From their heights, Ted's lookouts watched the enemy column straggle into their afternoon camp, and before dark Pablo Estaves came in to report on his scouting.
"The fires ran them into the river, Senor Ted." Estaves included Juan Santos in his reporting.
"But they are little wounded. The cannon is on wheels behind its own wagon and each man saved his horse and weapons. A few wear bandages so others may have been badly burned but I cannot tell.
"They do not camp, Senor. They merely rest with their horses saddled. They make no fires." Pablo hesitated only slightly. "I believe they will come during the dark, Senor."
Pablo's would be Ted's final report. The cliff top lookouts could not see after dark and to send out other scouts might expose the ranch's preparations.
It was enough, anyway. Ted's plan required only a final detailing and appropriate words of confidence and encouragement. He called his leaders together.
"Estaves is right, they will come in the dark." He grinned and added, "That is when all cockroaches travel."
The sally gained a laugh and men felt easier.
"Juan, you will have five men of skill and daring. When shooting begins, the cannon will be yours." Ted gave his foreman six soft iron nails. "Give one to each man. When you reach the cannon, hammer a nail solidly into the touchhole. Even if you cannot escape with the gun, it will be useless for many days."
Ted handed across a small bomb made from a can filled with gunpowder. A foot long fuse was sealed to it with pine pitch. "If you cannot rescue the powder wagon, set the bomb inside. But Juan, " Ted's voice was serious. "Do not wait.
The fuse is old and might burn swiftly. Place it and ride."
The Scholar joked, "I'd like doing that part, Juan, but I've other duties." Again the men laughed.
As sure as he was listening, Juan Santos would handle the bomb himself. Ted sighed inwardly, cutting out the cannon would take careful timing and dangerous riding and shooting. He should do it himself, but he could not be in all places. The leader could not go off attempting peripheral adventures. Defending the valley was the main point, so that was what he'd be at.
Ted had asked for a special man and Juan Santos brought him forward. Sexto Escobar stood nearly six feet but was thin as a ramrod. He held a cane knife in one bony grip and stood as quiet as a pond while Ted studied him.
Ted believed him the right man. Escobar sat with them and Ted described his duties. Ted explained in English and Santos repeated in Spanish because Sexto Escobar might hold keys to their success.
"Our enemy will come at night. If they are wise, they will send a scout. He must not discover us.
"Our plan is to have no one at the wall and to leave the gate barely open but we will be near. Hearing nothing and seeing passage, the scout should not be alarmed. But, if he enters, he will surely detect us. If he passes through our gate," Ted nodded toward Escobar's machete, "he must be silenced." The tall man accepted wordlessly and Ted touched his shoulder in appreciation.
There was little left to do. When the lookouts could no longer see, all would move into position. Then they would wait, probably most of the night. Safely in their houses, girls would care for babies and the old. Dogs would be
tied securely and there would be no casual roaming. For this work, every hand would be needed.
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Chinca was busy throughout the day. He had luxuriated in the Apache's execution of his cliff top enemies. Later the enemy's main band had come into view and he had seen Ted's watchers scurry to tell of them.
Ted's meetings had taken much daylight. There had been work at the wall but it had been hidden from Chinca's view. Occasionally, Ted or another looked toward him but Chinca did not signal. He had done enough.
It was clear that Ted did not choose to disappear into the earth, as Chinca's people would have. Chinca believed it unfortunate. From hiding, the cannon people could be taken one by one until they fled from enemy that was never found. It was the white's way to defend their wickiups but wickiups could be built again. Chinca thought it foolish.
Now night was blinding his eye and Chinca despised it. Again the fighting would be hidden and he could only hope that it continued until the sun rose. Surely, the cannon would not speak before then. It was said to rival the thunder and Chinca hoped he would hear its voice even at this distance.
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Finally it was time. Snyder's lieutenants organized the column and got it under way. For now, John P. rode at its head. He set an easy pace, knowing that for unexplainable reasons the rear of any column had the devil's own time keeping up. If the front made four miles in an hour, the last riders would be trotting at seven. They needed to reach the attack position in one bunch with time to spare. The cannon and its crew might catch up later, but Snyder wanted all his riders rested and ready when they charged.
By the time he drew to a halt a half mile from the canyon entrance, Snyder was feeling pressed. They had stumbled through the last of the night pursued by calls from the rear to slow down before they got separated. Snyder feared their progress could be heard clear into the Mormon settlements. While the stragglers closed up to blend with the rest of the cursing, canteen rattling mob, Snyder sent his best scout ahead. The man went on foot, moccasin clad and shadow silent. Mostly Indian, the scout sniffed the approaching dawn for foreign smells and his head turned slowly as his ears sought unusual sounds or lack of normal night noises.
He went down the hard packed wagon road, occasionally feeling dung piles for heat or moisture. Near the wall he moved even more cautiously, nostrils flaring and eyes seeking movement.
Like drifting smoke, Snyder's scout entered the between- walls passage leading to the gate. Once his moccasin scraped and he froze in place listening for response. Only tomb-like silence came to him. He moved again, gaining the entrance. The way lay clear, the gates partly open. Again he listened, but there was nothing. Deep within the valley a dog barked. The scout grunted satisfaction. The ranch slept. He turned and trotted swiftly back to the waiting column.
As soundlessly as the scout, Sexto Escobar lowered his cane knife. Another step, two at the most, was all he could have allowed.
Escobar stood close behind one door of the heavy gate. When he was sure the enemy scout was gone he hurried across the first firebreak to where Senor Shatto waited. Immediately, Ted sent him on to where his valley fighters rested another two hundred yards within the canyon. There, Ted had believed, their inevitable small sounds could not have been detected. His people were careful and the contrary breeze that blew toward the waterfall surely helped.
Now the people came in a nearly silent rush to the wall. A man fell and his rifle clattered. He held a leg in pain but uttered no sound as a friend led him limping to a firing position. At their places the people sat down. No weapons were cocked and no one peered out. Those were their orders. Until the Senor opened fire, they would wait. Ted prayed that no one faltered.
During the day the gate opening had been carefully adjusted. A man could pass through but a horse could not. Unless he had entered, the enemy scout could not have seen the heavy logs buried upright to wedge the doors against further opening. What appeared to be an unguarded entrance was only bait to lure their enemy. Horse or man attempting to widen the hole would find the doors immovable. At that narrow opening, Ted Shatto waited. Sexto Escobar was there as well for his silent weapon might still be needed.
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His scout's report lifted the last of John Snyder's unease. For a moment he considered leading the advance, but he was needed to help belabor the column into the double file necessary to pass through Shatto's gate.
Near the column's rear, Jud Carp's men stood ready to veer off and hit the wall at another spot—if resistance at the gate appeared. Thick bull hides were readied to throw over the embedded glass but attacking the wall would be difficult. Snyder was glad Carp's efforts would not be needed.
Again mounted, the scout led the ruffian army at a slow walk. Within yards the weight of the eager column pushed him into a trot. A short quarter of a mile from the silent wall the scout could stand it no more. He stood in his stirrups and lashed his mount into a gallop. Like a buffalo stampede the column surged into violent motion. A voice screeched in wild excitement and instantly the night tore with a maniacal release of savage roars. A hundred throats strained and the mindless bellow of sound struck the adobe wall and rebounded.
Like a double shafted arrow, Snyder's column flew along the face of Shatto's wall. Pointed by the Indian scout, the column slid between walls and the Indian's horse rushed the small gate opening.
Even behind the thick wall, the hard driven rush of a hundred closely packed horses shuddered the earth and the crazed shrieking from as many throats chilled the courage of Ted Shatto's unseasoned warriors. Waiting with drawn pistols, Ted feared that one of his people might run and draw others into panicked flight. He wished for Juan Santos's steadying hand but Santos and his men were out on the prairie. Even now they might be slipping in on the cannon's defenders. Ted had believed others could control his people. He still believed it, but truly, the din was terrifying.
Like a ram, the Indian's horse struck the gate's small opening—and stopped, crushed and wedged solidly at the shoulders. Like a projectile the scout was catapulted through and, like a streak of silver light. Sexto Escobar's cane knife met it. The scout's body tumbled lifelessly. His head rolled further.
The first pair of riders sawed frantically at their reins but tons of horseflesh pushed them on. Like a squashed cucumber, the charging horse column compressed itself within Shatto's walls. At its head, horses and men were crushed, their screams unheard amid the bedlam of shouts and bellows. The unyielding pressure burst the gates and Sexto Escobar barely leaped clear. In their place lay a barrier of mangled horses and men.
The way between the walls was choked with them and Ted Shatto began firing. He shot carefully, trying to pick targets in light barely better than night. None must get through to fight behind them. The column head was his responsibility.
With Ted's first shots, his men and their women rose to the firing ports. Outside, a vast tangle of riders fought maddened horses. So close they might touch, the valley's enemies struggled to survive the incredible crush of wedged animals. Along the wall, rifles began to crack and muskets boomed. The shots blended and became an endless roar as Ted's people opened all of their weaponry into the mass churning at their gun muzzles. Fresh guns were handed to the firers and, on the wall steps, reloaders hurried to prepare more.
His pistols empty, Ted Shatto took stock of the battle. Rapidly improving light showed Snyder's column slammed together beneath the wall's flaming gun slits.
Smoke billowed up-valley leaving the fighting clear. Horses and men sprawled in piles. Some fired back and Ted thought he saw others attempting to storm the wall. He got a fresh cylinder in place and turned back to his own task. A figure leaped across downed animals trying for the gate, and Ted used his yet unfired shotgun on him. There were others trying and Ted could not again risk looking away.
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Somehow, Snyder held his horse up. Until the entire wall erupted in gunfire he had thought horses ahead had fallen and caused the hellish pileup.<
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Rifle and pistol fire from the wall began as a ripple and exploded into an unrelenting hall of bullets. Distantly, Snyder saw men drive for the wall. Some faltered in the cactus and only one tried his bull hide. The rider leaped onto the hide and went no further. Whether glass pierced or shot dead, Snyder could not tell. Blind panic snatched Snyder's reason. He lashed his horse and those around him, fighting to get free of the deadly crush. Fear lent him strength and his horse gained room.
A sudden bitter fire seared Snyder's face and when his hand went to it his horse bolted, bucking and sunfishing out onto the prairie. Only bullet stung, the animal settled into a half-hearted run. Snyder's hand found what was left of his nose and his fingers slid in the gory mess. Safely out of range, he halted his quivery mount and wrapped his neckerchief around his head and nose. It was a poor bandage but with only one hand he could do no better.
From where they had started their charge, a separate burst of gunfire broke out but John Snyder's only interest was in avoiding it. He had had enough. Even an idiot would recognize a licking as thorough as this one. Snyder headed for his first escape point. If he survived, Jud Carp would also come there. For a while, John P. would need his help and have use for other companions.
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A few stumbled clear and more rode free of the Shattos' crushing fire, but some of those who escaped were wounded and, some, more than once. Carp had been hit twice. His horse dropped beneath him, but a rider fell and Carp mounted and rode away, uncaring if the fallen man lived or died.
Carp gathered three of his men and they rode as hard as they could manage for the Captain's rendezvous. If he lived, Snyder would go there and Snyder alone knew where the remounts were that could take them safely beyond pursuit.
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Juan Santos had waited with anxiety gnawing like a caged rat. After dark, he and his picked men had slipped from the valley. They were afoot in a land where only the Apache found it natural. Stealth would be their only weapon, at least until they were close to the cannon. They had to be on foot because men on horses could not easily be hidden and might be detected. Santos chose each man's position, close to the road, but not so near that riders bunching or swerving from the road could discover them.