Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Read online

  Through his telescope Ted could identify his people and he saw Beth stand for a while looking toward him. For the first time he could really see the work they had done and judge the immensity of the task still before them.

  He also saw how grand it could be. In his mind he painted in the crops and the fat cattle. Beyond the valley he chose small ranches for his hands and his sons. There, their town might be and across the flats and through the breaks he planned their road to Taos and on to Santa Fe. The sun was well up before he reslung his rifle and resumed climbing.

  Chinca heard the single horse during the late night. Sounds rise near morning, carried by winds as the earth cooled. Chinca knew when the horse stopped and soon he heard the climbing sounds of one man.

  There was time to consider, so Chinca allowed the sun to move while he thought. The climber was a white. The horse, shod with iron, and the scrape of stiff boots proved that. Chinca did not really wonder who the climber was. Only two seemed interested in his presence and the larger white had been gone for many moons.

  When the sun lighted the waterfall, the climber paused and Chinca knew he too gazed across to the Valley of Bones. The woman came from her adobe lodge and looked as though to see them on the mountain. The lips of Chinca smiled. A squaw should worry for her man's safety. Soon the sounds of climbing again reached his ears.

  Before the last elevation, Ted laid his rifle over a mesquite bush where he could grab it during a swift slide downward. Unless the old Indian was deaf as a rock, his scrabbling climb had been heard. The Apache were not friendly and Ted knew only a few words of their tongue. What then did he hope to accomplish? Ted wasn't sure. He just felt a need to take a close look at the one who seemed to watch him day in and day out.

  All that watching back and forth, more than a year of it, had invisible bonds thickened between them? The Apache might legitimately hate those he saw as despoilers of his land. Ted paused in his climbing to breathe a little and think on it.

  A small stone came skittering downslope and Ted instinctively touched a pistol butt. He looked upward, studying the hump of mountain hiding his destination. The climb was only a steep scramble but the whole Apache nation with clubs poised could be grimly waiting for his head to show.

  Another pebble came rattling down. Only a single stone? As Ted wondered a third tumbled past. Ted nodded and a mouth corner raised. He was being signaled. Signaled to go on up—he hoped.

  Chinca waited the white's appearance with patience. He felt no fear. Even a white would not believe his climb could go unnoticed. Even a great fool would not choose to openly attack an enemy who could in a blink summon warriors to his side. Therefore the white hoped for council. Curiosity quickened the beat in Chinca's breast.

  When the white paused closely below, the Watcher suspected increasing doubts. From his store of signaling stones he chose a few to encourage the climber. The first would give pause. The second might prove deliberate rolling. A third should encourage the white to continue climbing, because by now the Apache could be on him. That they were not, showed willingness to council.

  The white's head appeared and his eyes, Apache black, swept the half-cave of Chinca. As smoothly as a warrior the white sprang to the flat of the cave. If he had worn moccasins his movements would have been nearly silent. Chinca was impressed.

  Though smaller than his usual companion, the white was taller than any Apache. His shoulders were wide with muscle crowding a leather hunting shirt. The white stood proudly, powerful chest tapering into a slender waist and lean muscled legs. Chinca envied the legs' straightness. Men of his tribe would stand taller if their legs were not bowed. The Comanche and others claimed legs curved to fit the belly of a horse, but it was not true for Apache, also bowed, and they rarely rode.

  The white's eyes were as busy as his own but an Apache did not allow expression to expose his thoughts. Chinca waited, only the small stones rolled in a hand showing movement. Finally the white came closer. At a proper distance he raised a palm in a peace sign and without waiting dropped into the cross-legged seat of counciling. Then he raised both hands and began to speak in the hand talk familiar to all.

  Ted felt sweat trickling inside his shirt. Poking his head over the cave lip had been one of the harder things he had ever attempted. For a long moment he had considered tossing it all up, scooting down the ridges to his horse, and flogging for home as fast as his mount could manage.

  He had gutted himself through and was glad he had. Only a wither-legged ancient Apache waited him, and all his anxieties fled in a rush.

  Ted saw an old one, wrinkled by years uncounted until he resembled a raisin with two eyes. Ah, the eyes! Clear as a hawk's, they saw with an intensity that Ted suspected might bore an inch or more through his skin.

  The Watcher waited with patience as long as his years and Ted guessed the moves were up to him. He raised a hand and immediately sat down. As he began hand talk he suspected the old Indian's idle handling of small stones was far from pointless. Probably a quick flip of one of them through the rocks behind would bring help a-scurrying. Ted began to concentrate on his hand language. He wished he was as good at it as Chip, but he figured he could make out.

  The white man was called Ted, a name Chinca could form. At first the white's hands spoke of things already known but even in that telling questions long in the mind of Chinca were answered. The large white was brother to Ted. The brothers came from a land near where the sun rose. It was a place of many trees and great waters. Ted had come to the Valley of Bones to stay. There he would raise many children. In time his cattle would blacken the land west of the river.

  Chinca also spoke. He did not give his name, for such personal knowledge could give another strength. He called himself The Watcher, and the white seemed satisfied. Chinca told of his interest in all that happened in the land he looked across. The white understood that interest and listened closely, for he too believed the land a gift from a Great Spirit.

  With his hands, Chinca said, "The earth is for all, as is the sky or water."

  The white answered, "The Watcher is wise."

  Chinca signed, "The land belongs to all, but the whites drive away all but themselves."

  Before he answered, Ted pulled at a lip and rubbed along his nose. Chinca wondered if he searched for hand talk or for the thoughts behind?

  Ted said, "Do the Apache allow their cousins the Comanche among their jacals? It cannot be, because all tribes are in ways strangers to all others. Whites are new to this land. Because we are strangers, few can be welcomed to our lodges."

  Ted went on. "As these mountains are Apache, so whites claim their places to hunt and raise sons. Our ways are not the Apache's, as they are not Navajo's or Suni's. As some follow buffalo while others build pueblos, whites raise cattle and claim land where cattle will feed. Must only one way be right? Or might the Sky Fathers and Earth Mother smile on all?"

  Chinca did not need to answer because a young squaw appeared with food. Her distress at finding the old one in council with a white needed calming. By then thoughts had drifted and, ignoring the smashed and many times cooked beans, the speakers turned to other things.

  They spoke of peace and of war. Chinca lied about the might of the Apache and listed jacals long abandoned and some yet unformed. The white described the night attack and how his brother had ridden on the trail of the survivors but found them dead with Apache sign among them. Chinca knew all of this.

  Only once were the words hard. The Watcher said that in time the Apache might reclaim the Valley of Bones as they had from the Spanish.

  Ted asked, "Is not the earth for all as is the sky and the water?" Chinca wished to squirm as his words were turned against him, but the white went on.

  "The time of the Apache is past in the Valley of Bones. When the raiders came we were few and we were weak. Yet, of the attackers, none lived. Among my people, none died. Now we are too many and our guns are too many. Our hearts are strong and our eyes do not sleep."


  Chinca knew the white believed his words and they were almost true. One attacker had lived but, as it was an Apache error that allowed it, Chinca did not speak.

  Ted concluded, "Because we are strong with many guns we will return each raid upon us with two raids on those who attack us." He paused and shook his head in dissatisfaction that gave emphasis to his hand signs.

  "Because they are clever fighters, we could not know which Apache attacked us. Because we are strangers, most Apache look alike. When we answer attacks, many who are innocent will die, and that is not a good thing."

  Ted sighed heavily, "Fault for those deaths will lie with those who attack our ranchero. We hope those who plan war against us remember these words."

  Ted knew that The Watcher could see details within the Valley of Bones. The old one spoke of small things that had to have been seen to be known. That the Indian could see with his naked eyes as well as a man could with a telescope was astonishing and Ted wished for opportunity to test this marvel.

  Instead, he chose a gift that might bind the ancient Watcher to them. To one who lived through his eyes alone, it should be a present beyond measurable value.

  From his hip Ted removed his brass bound telescope. He held it to his eye and explained how by changing its length the world could be brought closer. He placed it before The Watcher, who nodded acceptance but resisted touching or looking.

  Chinca listened to the white's noisy scramble down the mountain steps and he waited until the horse appeared in his view before grasping the telescope and fitting it to an eye. Working the tube he saw only blur, until, in passing, he caught the focus.

  Wondrous was the closeness brought to the eye of Chinca. A coyote seen only as a familiar speck now scratched an ear and sniffed at a burrow. Chinca found the white in the round light and saw the sweat on his shirt and lather at the horse's mouth. When he looked into the Valley of Bones he could count the conchos in a belt and see the white woman's hands as they worked at mixing. Chinca lowered the telescope, resting his arms and planning sticks tied so that they held the telescope for him.

  Truly marvelous were the things of the white men. Chinca had always wondered at their guns, their woolen blankets, and their great wagons. His gnarled and ancient fingers fondled the smooth shaft of the magical Eye of Ted. Here surely was their finest possession and he, Chinca, The Watcher, had it to fill his days with pleasure.

  The Watcher's features crinkled with an inward awareness. Clever also was the white called Ted who had presented the gift of marvelous vision. Could the receiver of such a gift be less than friendly toward the one who gave so freely? Chinca thought not.

  +++

  Summer 1859

  Dearest Ma and Pap

  We are all well and happy. Tiff is walking and rides on the front of my saddle. We think he looks a lot like you, Pap (except for Chip, who claims he looks like him.)

  Guess I wrote you about riding over to look close at that old Apache lookout. Since I gave him a telescope I see it glinting in the sun real regular. He will likely wear the tube out looking around. No question he can see us now and that makes me stay aware of the Indians over there.

  Have not seen any Apache this side of the river since they finished off those raiders that hit us. I have to wonder if The Watcher saw them coming and set up the ambush that got them going out? I will never know, I guess.

  I have begun culling our close-in herd. These cows have special bulls and we keep them separate from our range cattle. They are already heavier and, given a few generations we might realize something special. Could not sell a cow out here at any price. Darn things are everywhere. But someday, the east will want them. I can imagine a railroad right into Santa Fe, though Chip and Beth say I better not buy tickets just yet.

  We have been thinning out the range bulls. There are so many that they spend their time fighting instead of doing what they ought to. We ship wagon loads of hides to Santa Fe where they tan for a percentage of the leather. Then the hides go east and fill up otherwise empty wagons. We hope some money will come of it.

  Ma and Pap, I have delayed this letter because you have yet another grandson. Named him John because Beth likes the name. Strong little bugger. Born with brown hair. All wrinkles, of course, but he will smooth out. Tiff isn't sure about him, but he is already losing interest. We hope they get along. Chip claims younger brothers are a continuing worry. That gave me a chance to tell him about older brothers. I won this one!

  Beth is fine, up and around. You can read her thoughts in the enclosed letter to the Troops. Give our best to them also.

  Pap, we would like a few pistols and rifles sent out. We have a Colt's catalog, but if there is something newer available let us have whatever is best.

  Two: model 1857 Heavy military 5-shot revolving rifles in .56 caliber

  We understand that Colt is also making a barrel-length telescopic sight. We would like a pair of those for use on the Colts or on our Sharps rifles.

  Please send us a pair of the side hammer holster pistols. We have not seen these, but the solid frame looks strong and practical, copied off the rifles, it looks like.

  The proud father,

  Ted

  Chapter 6

  With his single hand, Captain John P. Snyder, of The Volunteer Horse, maneuvered his mount skillfully, causing it to sidle handsomely before the bevy of admirers gathered to review his new command. The Captain cursed his inability to flourish saber as his Lieutenant did, but his wound, known to have occurred during heavy fighting in the Mexican War, gave authority and prestige to himself and his unit.

  Inspired by the rustle of handclapping and the enthusiastic waving of dainty kerchiefs, the Captain seized reins in his teeth and, managing to smile around them, doffed his broad hat in acknowledgment. His troop, thirty- five strong, broke into a trot and finally a gallop. They circled the plaza in a double column before forming in line for congratulations and reminders to increase their individual supplies of powder and ball and be on time for the next drill. The command dispersed amid Comanche whoops and wildcat screeches.

  Watching from a comfortably shaded seat outside Don Mano's mercantile, Chip Shatto nodded approval. "Good, tough looking bunch, amigo." Chip sipped at his warm beer and tipped his chair against the wall.

  Don Mano De Castella's answer was a grunt of disdain. His words were its echo. "Bandits, cutthroats, horse thieves, and a few youths with hot blood and empty heads."

  Chip rolled his head in easy laughter. "You're right, Mano, but that's what you need if you're going to fight. Shopkeepers don't usually measure up. It's the wild ones who'll ride all day and fight all night. Most've nothin' to lose and don't care who their battling. To them it's the fighting that's fun, and being applauded in between is just sweetener."

  Don Mano agreed, at least in part. "Perhaps they will fight well. Chip, but they will run like rabbits unless they win quickly. These are not men who will dig in and see a thing through."

  "Depends on their leaders, Mano. A captain should know his men and not expose them to more than they can handle."

  "Their captain may lead well, my friend. He is said to have commanded a troop under Houston, where he lost his hand and received other wounds."

  "Name's Snyder isn't it? I don't remember seeing him around."

  "John P. Snyder, elected captain. He came to Santa Fe, perhaps a year ago. He came over the trail alone, with one wagon. Snyder had money and bought the Zapatas' cantina. He renamed it Snyder's Saloon and he seems to do reasonably well."

  "Well, he sounds as likely as any for captain. Men must like him or he'd not have been elected."

  Don Mano chuckled. "Ah Chip, you are still innocent in heart. Snyder campaigned for his position. Inside his saloon is a large painting of him as a captain in the Texas army. It is an imaginative painting and in it he has two hands. Snyder secured votes with gallons of whiskey and lengthy discourses on how wars should be fought. It was he who provided the hats they all wear and suggested the red ribbon
s tied below the knee and above the bicep."

  "Not bad ideas, Mano. Make's 'em look alike and adds dash when they're moving." Chip stretched and watched Captain Snyder turn his mount from a group of admirers and trot toward them en route to the livery.

  As he passed, Snyder nodded and touched his hat brim with his stump. Chip touched his own hat and Don Mano bowed slightly in acknowledgment. Up close, Snyder didn't look like much. Chip thought. A huge dragoon-type mustache hid much of his face but Chip didn't sense any fire in the man's presence.

  It didn't make any difference anyway, Chip supposed. He wasn't sure which side The Volunteer Horse was committed to if it came to war back east. If the United States Army chose to reinforce its small garrison out at Fort Marcy, the volunteers had better be with the North or they would have a lonesome time of it. The South? Chip couldn't imagine an army from the slave states marching out the Santa Fe trail to subdue the Mexican inhabitants and the few ranchers, trappers, and miners.

  The Volunteer Horse was likely to spend its efforts wheeling and charging in sham battles for local entertainment. Better for everybody anyway, Chip figured.

  +++

  When he rode past Chip Shatto, John P. Snyder fought down the fire in his belly. He held his face bland and managed an appropriate greeting. But his stump throbbed like a fury and the puckered scars of his other wounds seared as though jabbed by hot pokers. He wished to charge his horse onto the porch and grind Shatto into pulp beneath the iron shod hooves.

  John P. Snyder nursed a monstrous hatred. Each time a wound pulled or he forgot his stump and reached as though he had a hand, rage flared and he fanned it to keep his focus strong and his direction certain. As sure as he lived, he would have vengeance for his suffering. The Shattos would pay and pay completely. Then, John Snyder would let the burning dwindle, soothed by memories of Shatto agonies and comforted by luxuries purchased by Shatto gold.