Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 8
When the Apaches had appeared, John P. Snyder knew he was about to die. One of his men had made a try, but Snyder and the others simply waited, like cattle for the slaughter.
The Mexican who fought went down beneath clubs and spears. While he was conscious the Apache dismembered him, chopping away legs and arms at each available joint. The man's screams ended quickly but Snyder had already collapsed beneath weakening from his own wounds and the certainty of what lay ahead.
A glowing coal laid on his stomach jerked Snyder into agonized consciousness. His frantic beating and thrashing dislodged the coal but started equally vicious fires in his gunshot wounds.
Apache bucks, expressionless as idols, squatted around him. His men had already been dispatched and the stench of their deaths hung low and sickened Snyder's soul.
A brutal looking buck clad only in ragged trousers and thick moccasins rose from among the braves and began a slow chanting and peculiar toe and heel dancing, in a bloodied hand the buck clutched a nearly empty whiskey bottle and Snyder supposed it had come from a saddle bag.
The brave thrust his face close to Snyder's and thumped his breast, screeching Spanish words that Snyder worked out as Coyote Boy. By then the Apache was back to his metronomic chanting.
The band numbered more than twenty. Young men all, they squatted unmoving, ignoring Coyote Boy's performance, waiting . . . for what? Snyder feared to consider.
Finally, as though impatient, another brave rose and interrupted Coyote Boy with a guttural harangue and violent gestures that depicted all too graphically the hacking off of limbs. To listen, Coyote Boy seemed to return from a great distance and the remainder of the band took interest.
As sudden as a Gila's strike, Coyote Boy had Snyder by the scalp and jerked him to his feet. Now the Coyote harangued and, as helpless as a rabbit, Snyder was shaken in the Apache's grip.
Words poured but Snyder understood none of them. He was violently sprawled face down on the hard earth and suffered a number of vicious rib-cracking kicks. A rope end was cinched around his right wrist and he heard a horse's nervous hoof beats close by.
The Apache were all standing and there was talk among them. Fingers again gripped Snyder's hair and his head was forced upward so that he could see his lengthy wrist rope tied to the saddle of one of the horses. Held by two men, its nostrils filled with the smell of death, the horse shied frantically about. Another Apache waved a glowing stick near the horse's rump, keeping the heat high, almost in flames.
Coyote Boy screeched more unidentifiable words into John P. Snyder's stunned hearing, then spat repeatedly into his captive's already fouled features.
Though little reasoning remained, Snyder knew what would happen. Without hope he almost wished it over, but when Coyote Boy's hand fell and the firey brand struck the horse's rump, Snyder screamed aloud in fear and horror.
The terrorized animal lunged into a stampeded run. The rope tightened and for an instant Snyder was airborne. Surely his shoulder left its socket. The rope sawed into his wrist and then he struck the ground and slashed across it, wiping aside brush and cactus, scraping away hide and clothing.
John P. Snyder did not hear the drunken whooping or the wrangling over whether to follow. Within yards he was mercifully unconscious and beyond caring.
Snyder did not fully recall coming awake, still attached to the runout horse. He somehow clambered into the saddle and remembered to collect the rope so that it would not tangle as he rode. Then he knew nothing until the men he called Frank and Bill brought him around.
Even In his nightmares John P. Snyder did not dwell on his long recovery. The knotted rope had chewed nearly through his wrist. Either Frank or Bill chopped off the ruined hand with an ax. One or the other got the Shatto bullet out of him. Both doctored their patient as their single wagon plodded eastward, back along the Santa Fe trail toward civilization's safety.
Before the Arkansas crossing, John P. Snyder was improved if still weakened. His rescuers had driven a train to Santa Fe and were returning home to organize a new caravan. Their profits were in their wagon bed strongbox. Their defenses were ready guns and clear eyes.
By the Arkansas, Snyder knew these things. He waited while his strength grew and he nursed his hatred of Apaches and the Shattos that had destroyed all that he had hoped for. John P. Snyder had a new plan. In the end, he would have the Shatto gold and revenge as well.
Snyder killed his benefactors at night when they trusted the watch to him. He clubbed the first as he slept and shot the second as he woke. Snyder abandoned the stripped bodies far off the trail. Since each had long and black hair, Snyder scalped them. He could sell the hair as Indian scalps and, if the bodies were stumbled upon too soon, the scalping would lay blame on Indians.
John P. did not hurry back to Santa Fe. He camped alone and methodically eliminated anything traceable to his deceased befrienders. He altered the wagon's appearance as best he could and painted it with a mixture of berry juices, using whiskey as a drier. He clipped horse manes and burned over old brands. If he could, he would trade off the horses. If Questioned? Snyder laboriously forged a bill of sale using a dead man's ledger for writing style.
When he believed he was fully healed, Snyder returned to the great western path. He moved slowly eastward and one crime, carefully executed, gave him valuable cargo. He drove his latest victims far into the wilderness, burned their wagons and reluctantly turned the teams loose. John Snyder was a careful man with a mission to which he was dedicated.
When Snyder came again to Santa Fe, only one man recognized him. Fortunately that individual was moving on and Snyder forgot about him. Snyder bought his saloon and began the war veteran explanations. As war between the states threatened, it was a timely fiction. John P. Snyder rose in prominence, dropped—perhaps forever—his humble demeanor, and bought himself a captaincy. Within The Volunteer Horse, he gathered a hard core of riders whose interests might someday serve his own.
Although not yet ready to act, the sight of Chip Shatto triggered John P. Snyder's need for vengeance. Killing one Shatto could be a sort of appetizer. Something to tide him over until his real vengeance ripened. In this killing, Snyder would risk nothing. He could savor its satisfactions while he drilled his troop until they were polished and attuned to crushing whomever he selected—as casually as they might a clutch of chicken eggs.
+++
Chip had been poking about in old Mexico. Don Mano De Castella's letter gained him entrance to activities and societies closed to most North Americans. The sights and sounds were entertaining but he had been away long enough. From Santa Fe he would move along smartly and reach Falling Water without delay.
Chip was out of the town before the sun rose. By dawn he was well out on the Taos trail. He rode easily, planning on a long day. He trailed a pair of pack animals burdened by his few camp items, the rest goods and gifts that Ted and Beth might use. His thoughts wandered, as they must on lonely journeys and, in ways, the long thinking time was part of his pleasure. Memories came clearly when hours blended into days with little human contact. Dreams came and went and plans grew, changed, and were filed away.
Lately, Chip's thoughts had turned more often to their home place in Pennsylvania. A half dozen years had run by since the three of them had ridden out. Beth and Ted had children and a ranch with promise. He, Chip, had ridden wide and covered about everything from the Mormon settlements to deep into Mexico.
The further he roamed, the sweeter the wooded ridges and the long valleys of Perry County appeared. The west was remarkable but in Chip's eyes a man couldn't get a real hand on it. No matter how you marked your boundaries you got lost in the immensity of sky crowding mountains beyond almost endless plains. There was an itch in him to handle his own ground, to put in crops and have them grow. Not this half-clay dirt that a man had to water year round, but the rich limestone loam of Perry County, where corn crowded too thick to walk through and if a planter threw out pumpkin seeds they sprouted until his fie
lds turned orange.
A rider had been coming up fast and Chip pulled aside when he came close. The man waved shortly as he passed and pounded away, plainly anxious to get wherever he was headed. Chip watched his dust for most of the day and saw it turn away toward the eastern mountains. That was Apache country and a poor place for a lone rider. Could be the man was hurrying back to partners prospecting out there, but he had looked familiar and Chip spent a time searching his memory. Later he placed the rider as the lieutenant of the volunteer troop. Probably the man had come in for the drill and was overdue at his work. Still, riding into the dry mountains was chancy and he hoped the lieutenant changed direction often and kept his wits working.
Don Mano had mentioned that Ted had been suffering irregular raids against his herders, and cattle had been stolen and driven into the maze of foothills that lay east of the river. Although Ted took the trail and had exchanged gunfire with the Indians, the rustlers had faded into the twisted wastelands and disappeared.
The raiders were said to be a half-outlawed band of Apache and mixed breeds led by a crazy called Coyote Boy. Some believed Coyote Boy possessor of magical powers that protected him and his men from harm. Don Mano guessed that as Ted became more familiar with the chaos of the foothills and, as Coyote Boy became increasingly bolder, Ted would catch up and the Coyote's charms would be tested by bullets from Sharps rifles.
Don Mano's speculations kept Chip's eyes roaming and his rifle stayed handy across his saddle bow.
+++
Jed Gooley rode hard all the way to his shack. He got in after dark but immediately changed horses and headed north into a winding canyon that led to an overlook where his signal fire was always built.
He moved slower now. The dark made the horse's footing uncertain and the small whiskey keg strapped behind his saddle regularly threatened its lashings.
Gooley built his fire high so that it reflected from nearby cliffs. Somewhere in the black void beyond the lookout Coyote Boy's band would see the signal. At their own leisure they would come. Gooley hoped they would not delay. Shatto would move steadily and unless the Apaches were in position and waiting, their approach might be detected. Even an Apache raised dust and disturbed birds. Gooley was not sure how alert their quarry would be, but Snyder did not favor mistakes. He wanted Chip Shatto dead and out of the way of some larger plan Gooley was not privy to.
Before first light the Apache appeared. Some said Indians did not fight at night. Gooley put little stock in the telling. Apaches moved as part of the land and were as deadly as anything in it.
For more than two years Jed Gooley had traded from his shack with whoever rode in. He swapped whiskey, powder, and bullets, cloth, knives, or guns if he could afford them for whatever gave him profit.
Coyote Boy was a valued customer. The Coyote came with coins and scalps. Gooley did not ask their source. Occasionally Gooley accepted a beef along with a squaw to butcher and dry the meat. It was easier than finding and killing one. Coyote Boy brought in animals wearing Don Mano De Castella's mark as well as the Shattos' arrowhead brand. Gooley doubted either ranch would miss the few animals.
Coyote Boy was a breed and he spoke Spanish. For the whiskey keg waiting unbroached, the Coyote would raid his own jacal. Gooley wanted only one man but in this case, Snyder, who provided the whiskey, would not care if he overpaid.
+++
Chinca saw the Apache band trot from the foothills with some surprise. Only two darks before, Ted and many big- hatted vaqueros had ridden from the Valley of Bones into the same maze of eroded gullies, obviously in pursuit of Coyote Boy and his men. The Coyote was either daring and clever or he was foolish and would soon pay a heavy price.
Using Ted's eye, Chinca watched the Apache take up ambush almost within sight of the ranch's lookout. Coyote Boy's dozen could not fight Ted's many who were also well armed. For whom then did they wait, Chinca wondered?
Then Chinca found the dust rising far back along the trail leading to the Valley of Bones. Later he made out a single rider leading horses. Before he came to the ambush, Chinca knew the rider to be the brother of Ted, returning after a long absence.
For The Watcher, there was no excitement. The white rode unsuspecting into the Apache circle, which rose close about him. No weapon smoke appeared and soon Coyote Boy rode a horse with the white roped behind.
The band was in view for a long time before it disappeared into the wasteland of twisted gorges that protected Coyote Boy from most dangers.
For Ted, who had given the magical eye, Chinca felt sorrow. The loss of a brother would be hard. Anger would fill the breast of the white called Ted and, as he had promised, his wrath would fall upon the Apache wherever he found them.
Would Ted come again to the place of The Watcher, this time to close the eyes that saw much? Chinca hoped it would not be so, but he rolled a stone to bring a woman. His people must know what lay ahead.
+++
Chip Shatto hung from an ancient, twisted limb of a single juniper that survived in a gully so heat- blistered that even lizards were absent. The gully was like a thousand others cut by wind or water into a trackless maze that wandered without direction across a score of miles.
The rogue Apaches crouched about, ignoring their captive's suffering, seeming impervious to the sweltering heat, as they listened to uninterrupted incantations from their leader.
Coyote Boy had chewed peyote beans and guzzled from a whiskey jug. In so doing he touched the spirits with his being and his mind flew with the eagles. Then, the band accepted, Coyote Boy's planning was inspired. Coyote Boy also became dangerous and sometimes unpredictable, it was a good time to watch and listen without drawing attention.
The march from the ambush to the gully had been long. Led by a noose about his neck, with his arms lashed crucifix-like to a spear shaft, Chip fought it through. To have quit would have been to die, but he had fallen repeatedly, to be scraped and strangled until he recovered. By his transfer to the juniper his strength was gone and hope abandoned. No one at the ranch expected his arrival and no search party could find him within the badlands. He figured he was done in and about the only satisfaction he would have was to deny the Apaches the gratification of seeing him crawl. He wasn't sure he would be up to it because they would not have dragged him this distance for a quick death.
Chip cursed the ease of his capture but the Apaches had been long in wait and there had been no hint of their presence. How they had known he would come riding through he could not guess, but one instant the trail had lain empty and the next a dozen bucks had leaped from carefully covered holes all around him. He hadn't been able to gig his horse or get off a shot. Taken like the greenest pilgrim—that rankled almost as much as the wounds from his pinioned march.
Coyote Boy would sacrifice the white to the sun which gave heat to this place, which drove all but the Apache into hiding or to far places. For four days he would prepare the sacrifice. Then he would tear the still living heart from the white and devour it.
In garbled Spanish and unmistakable gestures, Chip was given the meaning. Four days! Chip hoped he could provoke the breed into ending it sooner.
Throughout the day the Apache danced and drank. That the band used the canyon regularly was proven by crude wickiups of rock and brush scattered to improve the little shade available. While still on the plain the band had gathered wood and loaded the horses. They would have enough fire for Coyote Boy's four days.
Before sunset Coyote Boy chewed beans and smoked the crazy weed until he was one with his visions. He danced heel to toe flourishing Chip's long hunting blade until the spirits told him it was time. He touched the sharp edge near the white's shoulder and pressed until blood showed. The white spit in his face but the Coyote did not notice. He drew the knife downward, slanting to the opposite hip, keeping the slash shallow so that blood wept but innards remained untouched. The white lurched and heaved at his bonds, his breath hissed but no sound came forth. Respect sounds rose among the wat
chers but in his pain the white could not hear and, lost in his ecstasy. Coyote Boy did not listen.
The Coyote went to the fire and seized hot ashes. He pressed them into the cut, rubbing them deep, using more until bleeding stopped. Still the heart of the white was strong and in his courage the Apaches knew the sacrifice would be powerful before the sun spirit.
+++
At a high place, deep within the eroded foothills, Ted Shatto and Juan Santos watched and listened to the night. Below, where light would not show, a few men smoked and talked, but most slept, as worn and beaten by the harshness of the land as their drooping horses.
For days they had methodically scoured the mindless contortions of the rough lands. It was not enough to just ride through, find nothing, and plod on. Ted mapped every turning. Canyon by canyon he worked out the meanderings. Logic demanded downhill water flow but canyons torn by eons of wind did not follow rules and dried up rivulets ended in sinks and rarely fed into larger runoffs.
They had found water and Apache sign around it. The sign was old and had accumulated over long periods. Twice they had followed cattle trails to slaughter sites. Only bones and hide scraps remained and the rock and shale left no further trace.
Wearily Ted scrubbed at dust and beard stubble blotching his features. He looked south across more miles of the stuff they had been battling. He sighed involuntarily and heard Santos' deep chuckle close beside him.
"It is a harsh land that even God could not love, Senor Ted."
"It's south of the devil's backbone, Juan." Ted let his eyes roam. "Worst part is that them Apaches may not even be in here. I sure wouldn't choose it, if I was them."
"Nor I, but Apaches are not quite human and who can be sure of the devil's people?"
Ted grinned mirthlessly into the dark, wishing he could be back at the ranch, squeaking clean from a long douse under the waterfall, and sitting on the wide porch, relaxed and easy with Beth and the babes close by.