Shatto (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 3

  There was a presence about Robbie Shatto that Elan found familiar. It was more than his close physical resemblance to old Rob. Elan supposed it a product of hard experience, earned self-confidence, and willingness to act no matter how stern the circumstances. Certainly there was more than ordinary intelligence working behind Rob Shatto's broad forehead. There seemed, however, a special awareness about the man, as though he was a step ahead and saw two steps beyond that. That would make some men wary and more than a few instinctively hostile and resentful. It was as though Robbie Shatto moved almost effortlessly toward successes while most struggled just to stay even.

  Of course, Elan knew it wasn't quite that way. It was Robbie Shatto who had fought through ten dangerous years in the far mountains to temper himself and secure his fortune. While others had tilled, prayed and chewed their small matters, Rob had fought savages, challenged nature's extremes, and traveled almost incomprehensible distances. While others sued their neighbors or schemed to gain advantage, Rob Shatto had battled for his life, suffered grievous wounds, and killed his enemies. It was little wonder that he walked tall and seemed a mite larger than life. By any measure he was more than most around him.

  Well, Robbie was back from those Shining Mountains and willing to put the rough ways behind him. Elan expected he'd do it in time, but meanwhile, locals would do well to talk courteous around Rob Shatto lest he cloud up and rain all over them. Folks weren't used to men that reached for knife or gun when tongues got mean. Elan reckoned they'd soon learn that mountain men were like all frontiersmen. Not having law to protect their interests, they stood on their own feet and were quick to act. Insult or challenge was never ignored and woe to the loose-tongued that vented their ire on Robbie Shatto. Elan hoped he was handy to see it,

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  Chapter 3

  It was good living at Elan's cabin. The old man's ways were comfortable and natural. Elan had no pretensions. He was what he was, and Rob admired that in a man.

  They ate simple meals, the kind both were used to, and they usually talked the evenings away.

  Elan enjoyed yarning about the old days. He told Rob of his first family's massacre and his own captivity among the Shawnee. Elan's second wife, his beloved Martha, had given him two children before her own death from fever. Their son had taken to the sea and they had lost track of his travels on the vast oceans. Their girl had married and was gone to Texas. There had been no word for some years.

  Rob told his own stories. They left Elan sighing for what he had missed, but he encouraged Rob to tell more— enjoying vicariously what he could never hope to experience.

  After a time, Rob told his own plans. It was the first time he had spoken them aloud and he stumbled more than a little trying to lay it all out.

  "More folks are moving west all the time, Jack. They are mapping out regular routes across the plains and through the mountains. It's brutal traveling, Jack, and a lot of people aren't going to make it.

  "The worst trouble many have got is poor animals. Oxen are best for the pulling of wagons, although they are slow. Most horses need grain to stay strong, and there isn't any beyond the Mississippi.

  "While I'm not interested in draft animals, I've got ideas about riding stock. The fact is, most horses aren't fit for plains and mountain travel. The distances are too great and the going is too rough.

  "Our horses break down. Some are too high spirited and burn themselves out. Most weaken on grass diets, mighty few are used to going day on day for months on end and too many give out part way along.

  "The mountains usually ruin most horses. Ours aren't bred and trained for that country. They fall and break legs, or they slip and go over an edge.

  "Good horses are my plan! I'm going to get me a place where I can raise horses special for riding to Oregon or California. My horses will be trained to mountains, able to live on grass, and toughened to long days of hard riding."

  He gestured toward his spotted-rumped horses in Elan's corral. "That Appaloosa mare's going to give me colts with mountain abilities in them.

  She's from the Nez Perce tribe, and they raise the best mountain horses in the world. I'll breed her to the right stallions. I'll train the colts with just one thing in mind, making them strong and true, no matter how hard the going.

  "Of course a western horse needs other training and I'll do that too. They've got to stand ground hitched because too often there isn't anything to tie to or time to tie if there was something. They've got to have no fear of shooting, even near their ears, and they've got to be cat-quick on their feet without getting nervous over snakes or crackling in the brush. It takes time, but horses can be trained that way.

  "Now, I don't plan on raising big herds, Jack. I'll just train as many as I can do right. Reckon I won't make much profit this way, but I will like it, and some people heading west will end up being mighty thankful for Shatto horses."

  Rob hesitated, seeming half embarrassed. "There is one other thing that's been on my mind. In the Spanish country, west of the Great Plains, the rancheros run huge herds of cows. To tell whose cow it is, they brand each animal on the flank with their own special mark.

  Of course, the burned-in brand stays for as long as the cow lives. I'm intending to do the same, so that a Shatto horse will always be recognized. I'm planning to use old Rob's mark. The one he blazed into the tree up on Tuscarora. Shatto horses will wear the mark of Quehanna, the Arrowmaker. I've made up a branding iron that will print the outline of an arrowhead about three inches high. There will be no mistaking it and it will be a hard one to change into anything else. I like the thought of that arrowhead brand being carried all across the continent on the best horses around."

  Elan, too, liked talking and thinking about it. He asked Rob questions at odd moments, showing he had been pondering over it. That was helpful to Rob. It made him clarify his ideas and brought new ones to mind, Elan asked about snakes and Rob told how the Crows tied their favorite ponies near captured rattlers so that the horses grew accustomed to snake sounds and smells. Rob planned to do the same, plus using seeds in a gourd and sudden sounds like pebbles thrown on a saw blade. Blankets snapped at unexpected times could startle animals as could the crack of a whip or sudden shouts. Rob planned to inure his horses to all of them.

  They talked often about other mares and worthy stallions; neither would be easy to come by, and Rob began looking around.

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  Chapter 4

  Rob and Cadwallader Jones stood on the courthouse steps watching a horseman cavort his mount on the market lot, across Main Street.

  The rider sat his horse in the military manner, back ramrod straight with elbows tucked in tight. His stirrups were short and Rob judged he rode his horse regularly in hunts. While working riders, those who spent days in the saddle almost stood in their stirrups; sport riders tended toward bent knees that allowed them extra control over rough ground or when jumping.

  Though the rider was interesting, his mount was the eye catcher. A stallion of mixed breed, the horse had the thick chest of a Morgan with the sensitive head of Arabian lineage. The animal's coat was a deep walnut that shimmered from thorough brushing.

  "Know that fellow, Rob?"

  "New to me, Cad. Sets a good saddle and that stallion looks the best I've seen in a moon or two."

  "Name is Troop, Abel Troop. Moneyed family from Cumberland County. Been coming in regular, looking over land holdings. Wants to move into Perry County, he says."

  "He raise horses, Cad?"

  "Not that I've heard. Races that stallion, though. Beats everybody, short distance or long. Fine horse, and Captain Troop rides to win,"

  "Captain Troop?"

  "Militia captain. Had his own company until recently, gave over his commission, but titles hang on."

  Troop had dismounted and stood with a few men. Rob and Cad Jones crossed to examine the horse closer.

  The stallion was a magnificent animal; full bodied, he had a look of endless endurance, yet t
he Arabian strain added a certain grace and style the Morgans often lacked.

  Rob caught Troop's eyes across the stallion's back and saw the man's courteous interest. He continued to study the horse while listening to the group's friendly banter.

  A man said, "Trade my mule for your stallion, Abel, if'n you threw in them bench-made boots."

  The men chuckled, Troop no less than the others, then said, "Why now, Amos, we might just make that trade, only I'd never stick you with boots too small for those big Perry County feet of yours."

  They chuckled together and, as Rob stepped closer, a listener added, "Any racing today, Captain?"

  Troop appeared disappointed. "No horses left to try, in these valleys at least. We've eaten 'em all up. Maybe we'll have to turn him out to pasture,"

  "Ain't whipped my mule yet, cap!"

  "That's cause you want a mile and a half lead in a two mile race, Amos." Abel Troop again caught Rob's eye and stepped forward smiling, hand extended. "I don't think we've met, sir. I'm Abel Troop, just getting set to move into the north valleys."

  Rob found the man's open interest disarming. Troop's grip was firm with a horseman's wiry strength. Though Troop was slight of frame and reached barely to Rob's eye level, his easy and confident manner engendered immediate respect and liking.

  "Rob Shatto, Abel. Just came home after some years my own self. Saw your stallion and had to look closer. Fine animal, Captain. Nearly the finest I've seen hereabouts."

  Rob felt a small twinge of guilt at tossing a baited hook to a good man at first meeting. He let his grin spread so Troop would recognize his awareness of laying out a tempting morsel.

  Troop rocked on his toes for a moment looking thoughtful. "Nearly the finest, Rob? You couldn't be referring to Amos' mule, now could you?"

  "No, and I reckon I shouldn't have put it quite like that. But, the fact is, my mare might give your stallion a little more than a run for his money."

  Sensing a horse race, the gathering perked up. One man said, "Watch him now, Abel. I seen that mare of his. Funny-colored horse. Big, too. Might run pretty strong."

  Disclaimers and counter-claimers spoke, but no one appeared to seriously support the mare's chances in a race with Troop's stallion.

  Troop shook his head in simulated disbelief. "Now, as I haven't seen your horse, you've surely got the better of me, Shatto. But I find it improbable that a mare will run with my horse under our Perry County conditions. On a special course, I've seen a mare or two that might make a race of it for a short distance, but across fields and down the lanes? I'm afraid not, my tall friend."

  Rob nodded, accepting the other's opinion. "Ordinarily, I'd agree, Captain, but as you say, you haven't seen my mare.

  "Fact is, she hasn't been raced much. On the other hand, I don't recall her ever losing out either.

  "You not having seen my horse sort of evens out with me never having seen your stallion run. Makes a man want to know who's right, doesn't it?"

  They stood grinning at each other like two pleased boys. A challenge given and accepted, both liking the competition and already figuring ways to maneuver the other into a disadvantage.

  Someone yelled, "Horse race!" And the cry was carried through the town. Men began moving toward the gathering, and Rob felt Cad Jones tugging at his sleeve.

  "Lordy Rob, that stallion's quick as lightning, and he never gets tired. You sure you got this all worked out?"

  Turning so that others could not hear, Rob said, "Only about halfway, Cad. But I'm working at it." He added a thought. "I wouldn't put money down on my mare just yet." Jones sniffed, indicating his intentions of betting on Rob's horse were mighty small indeed.

  Troop looked over the swelling crowd and shook his head ruefully. "Well, Rob Shatto, it looks like there's no way out. If we backed off now, the town might tar and feather us both." He looked suspiciously at Rob. "You haven't got in mind some foolish little old one-hundred-yard sprint or something, have you?"

  "No Abel, nothing like that. I think maybe we should run a real old-time Perry County race, not one of those silly out and back again romps just so everybody here can see the finish."

  Just as suspiciously Troop asked, "And just what is a real old-time Perry County race, Rob?'

  "Well, we race to some particular spot. Distance should be a few miles and each rider goes at it the best he can. First horse there wins. That's all there's to it."

  "And I suppose you've got just such a course in mind, Rob?"

  "Seems to me that we might race from here to . . . Oh, say to the forks of the Little Buffalo Creek over behind Limestone Ridge. That'd give us a hill or two to cross and a few long, flat stretches without wearing our animals plum out."

  Rob looked doubtfully at Troop's stallion. "That is, of course, if your horse can run anywhere but down a flat road."

  Troop nodded, grinning fiercely and seeing an opening. "That sounds fair enough, Rob. Of course we'll each ride our own horse." He let the statement hang waiting Rob's acceptance. Rob Shatto looked to weigh at least two hundred pounds. Rob would be a heavy burden for his mare to pack cross-country.

  Rob agreed without undo hesitation, and Troop felt a small advantage.

  "My mare is over at Jack Elan's. I'll get her and warm her up coming in. Take maybe a half hour or so.

  "Maybe a few riders will want to head on over and be on hand for the finish. If they leave now they won't have to hurry much."

  Rob started away but Troop's words held him up. "Come now, Mr. Shatto. Aren't we forgetting something—an important part of any horse race?"

  Rob made himself look confused.

  "The wager, Rob! How much faith do you have in your mare, and yourself? What will you risk to make our race more interesting?"

  Rob pretended to consider. "Reckon I could wager a few dollars, Abel, but I really don't want your money."

  "Take them fancy boots o' his, Shatto!" someone interjected.

  Above the laughter Rob said, "Tell you what Abel, if your horse gets to the forks first, I'll hand over ten dollars in gold."

  His offer brought howls of approval from the assembly.

  "If my mare wins, you'll owe me one colt by your stallion out of my mare."

  Troop's laughter rose above the pleased whoops. "Agreed, Shatto! If by some fate I do not win, why then my stallion does!"

  While Rob went for his horse, the crowd withdrew to Doctor Jonas Ickes' tavern to talk and sample the whiskey. Abel Troop prepared himself and his stallion.

  It took nearly an hour to get the race underway. Abel Troop spent part of the time examining the mare. The raw-boned size of the horse intrigued him. There was iron-hard strength in the animal. He looked for weakness in ham or hock and found none. He looked into the mare's eyes and the Appaloosa looked back. Troop's intentions got real serious. He expected his horse to win handily, but it might be wise to take no chances with Rob Shatto and his western horse.

  Rob took his mare to a dirt line drawn across the square with only minor reservations. On a straight run he had no doubts that the stallion would head the mare. His plan to win lay in other directions.

  The shortest roads to the forks of the Little Buffalo ran north on Carlisle Street, then east for a few hundred yards, again north across Limestone Ridge, to the Blue Ball Tavern on the Little Buffalo, and finally, a mile or more west along the creek road to the forks. Rob supposed the distance to be some four miles, and the roads were steep and rough. Rob intended to use another route.

  Rob Shatto had grown up on Little Buffalo Creek. He had run and ridden little known trails that crisscrossed the ridges in dozens of directions. Using these trails he thought he could dramatically reduce the distance his horse would have to travel. Though some of the trails were steep, he knew the steadiness of the mountain-bred Appaloosa. He figured on handing Abel Troop a memorable surprise.

  Cadwallader Jones acted as starter. He had placed a few cautious wagers on his friend Rob Shatto. Then, impressed by the looks of the stallion, he
had managed to lay a number of small bets on Abel Troop. To his own embarrassment, he suspected his timidity would leave him about even no matter who won the race.

  Armed with an immense old horse pistol, Cad Jones endured his neighbors' friendly insults waiting until both riders were equally ready.

  The boom of the starting gun startled the courthouse pigeons into flight and sent the two horses driving hard up the hill, past High Street, and on to the first turn.

  The stallion led into the turn, and concentrating on holding the best footing, Abel Troop was not at first aware of Rob's absence. Then, disconcerted, he glanced hastily over his shoulder. Rob and the mare were nowhere in sight. Instinctively, he checked his horse, looking behind in wonder.

  A watcher yelled, pointing wildly, and finally Troop understood.

  Shatto had cut cross-country. Furiously, he drove his heels into the stallion, bending low along his horse's neck, working to set the best pace the steep ridge would allow.

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  When Rob turned up the hill instead of following the road, the crowd on the square came apart. Cad Jones heard himself giggling in satisfaction. Some faces got red with anger as most began recalling the mountain trails and Robbie Shatto's probable familiarity with them. They still couldn't decide if the rugged trails would be any advantage. Most felt it was still a horse race.

  Alone on the ridge, Rob rode with his youthful memories and the experience of the mighty Rocky Mountains behind him. He drove the mountain horse at the steep slopes and unsure footing without hesitation. When the mare's breathing grew labored, he eased the pace just enough to keep her running without exhaustion.

  They had run this way before. Then, pursuit had been serious and red warriors would have taken more than his dollars.

  At times, memory failed him or old trails had grown over. Then, he crashed the mare straight through the brush and downed trees. They crossed into the narrow valley that divided Limestone Ridge at this point. A good trail ran west to the Clark's Run fork and Rob took it at full gallop.