Chip Shatto (Perry County Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  The town was even less than he figured, but that was alright because it would make finding Walter Saleman just that much simpler.

  Stringer did boast a two story hotel that, although having seen better times, appealed more than another night with the mosquitoes. Chip pulled up and tied his horses alongside a handsomely-groomed animal that had the look of a hunter. First decent horse he had seen. The owner must have influence for the Army not to have snapped up the fine animal.

  He examined himself with some disgust. If he smelled as bad as he looked they might put his horse in a room and him in a stall. He beat himself with his soggy hat and swiped at the sweat that immediately started down his forehead. A man had to wonder how he could be soaking wet and still be traveling in a dust cloud.

  His moccasins made no sound on the board porch but the entrance door announced his arrival on hinges that had never known oil. Inside, the air was cooler and lay heavily with the rich smell of stale beer and ancient cigar smoke. Dust motes hung in sun shafts, glaring through dirt-encrusted windows that dulled the light enough to give the room and its furnishings an atmosphere of decaying comfort.

  A long bar ran the length of a wall on his left. A middle-aged woman tending it and her single customer turned toward the screeching hinges and Chip Shatto guessed maybe he'd be sharing the night with the bugs after all.

  Keeping his face expressionless, he reached the bar and returned the barmaid's nod of greeting with his own and a request for beer. He rang a Spanish coin on the oak surface before raising his glance to meet the hotel's other customer.

  Lean as a whippet, dressed as a dandy, with a nose of regal proportions, Jonathan Starling looked over Chip Shatto's dust-caked and sweated figure with a patronizing arrogance that under other circumstances would have raised hackles. As it was, Chip swallowed irritation and chose to appear a bit thickheaded and unaware.

  That Starling stood there, perhaps only yards from the man they both sought, shook him more than a little. It could be that Starling had already tucked Walter Saleman into hiding. He hoped that was not the case. He much preferred just easing Saleman out of town without having a confrontation with Starling or anyone else. The miles between himself and the safety of Union lines felt suddenly longer.

  His thoughts were hidden as he met Starling's cold eyes with an assumed air of weary friendliness. He tried to sound a little dull and just willing to talk for talk's sake.

  "Hotter'n a Santa Fe pepper out there. Ain't seen nothin' like it even crossin' the Mojave Desert." He swilled at his beer, slouching against the bar so his size would appear less threatening.

  Starling's mouth drew straight in a facsimile of a mirthless smile and Chip noted that his lips did stay closed hiding the bad teeth. "Most learn quickly to remain indoors during a day's heat. A gentleman rarely travels before the sun dies."

  Starling's eyes were glittery black alright. Chip wondered if his own looked to others like viper pits. He hoped not. Pap's didn't and Ted's didn't, so he was probably alright too.

  Starling continued, "What brings a western man into Mississippi, may I ask?"

  The man's tone did not ask, it demanded, but Chip chose not to appear too anxious to explain his presence and stuck with his discomfort.

  "Well, restin' up during the heat makes good sense. Mexicans all do that. Call it a 'siesta.' Takes up most of the afternoon. A man can't get a meal or a horse shod till it's over. Then he can't eat a reasonable supper till it's so late he can't half stay awake."

  Starling attempted to speak but Chip ran on. "Figured to lay up through the heat my own self, but every time I tried, mosquitoes about carried me off." He slapped the bar with glee adding bumpkinish humor. "Thought these old skins might stink so bad the skeeters wouldn't come around but they seem to like it."

  No one joined in so he let himself sound disgruntled, "Finally found a place down by the crick. Just thought I'd come by and have a beer first."

  "Quite interesting." Starling's voice didn't sound interested. "But I am curious. What brings a man like yourself to a town like Stringer? You are a long way from the mountains."

  "Ain't I though? Seems like I been travel in' a full year. Planned on lookin' in on some o'the fightin' an' then seein' the ocean. I already seen the Pacific." He mopped at sweat, "If it's goin' to stay like this I may just turn around.

  "You live around here, Mister? It always this hot an' sticky?"

  His curiosity gone, Starling answered shortly.

  "Just passing through." He turned to the barmaid, "Can you tell me which home belongs to Mr. Walter Saleman?"

  Chip almost choked on his drink and was glad he was looking away.

  "Oh, that'd be old Professor Saleman. Small house, next street over. The one with the vegetables growin' all around it.

  "You a friend of his? Poor old man don't get no company. Lives alone, buys a small bottle of wine about every month. Don't have much, I reckon. Gives everybody vegetables so he gets a chicken or some fat meat now an' then. He'll be pleased to have a visitor, that's for sure."

  Starling replaced his glass on the bar, nodded to the woman and with weakly disguised distaste to Chip. He turned away and with languid grace mounted the stairs leading to the second floor rooms.

  The woman watched him go with evident appreciation. "Uh-huh! Now that's a true southern gentleman." She turned her attention to Chip. "Notice he don't sweat a drop? Collar's as clean as a cloud, never moves a whit faster'n he has to, an' expects ever'body in the world to look to his wants.

  "Well, this war's a'changin' things. When our boys finish lickin' them Yankees an' get home, they'll not be quite so quick to step aside for them that didn't do their share."

  Chip didn't add much. He nursed a second cool beer and thought over what he'd best do. Starling would probably take his own advice and not appear until dusk.

  Then he would certainly seek out Walter Saleman. To do what? Throw him across the fine hunter's saddle and ride off? Didn't seem reasonable.

  He turned to the woman. "Fine gentleman, alright.

  "He travelin' alone on that fancy horse out there?"

  The woman was quick to reply. "Oh no, there's a party with him. Four men and a coach to ride in. When he gets rump tired he just switches to the coach, I reckon. Must be nice travelin' in style like that." She sighed wistfully envious, and added, "They're all camped beyond the livery barn. Owner's got a pump and a backhouse for people to use. You all can stay there too, if you're a'mind."

  Chip led his horses to the stream and let them snuffle in the water while he rearranged their loads. He hadn't brought much anyway but he needed a clear saddle for the old man. Beyond a few valuables, Saleman would have to abandon his belongings, but that should be a fair trade for his life. Once north the man would be wealthy again. Chip gathered that old Saleman was a cantankerous old cuss. To have gotten into such a fix and then to just sit here for years raising squash and such without finding his own way out was damned peculiar.

  He found Saleman's street and worked his way around behind it. The cottage lay at the edge of the village and a thick hedgerow separated Saleman's yard from small and overgrown fields before the real woods took over. Chip groundhitched his horse, tied the other one out of sight, and made his way through vegetable plots to the open back door.

  He went in as though he belonged there, one hand on the pistol butt behind his back. He surprised an old man sitting in a straight chair squinting at a book held to the window light. Startled, he nearly dropped his reading but quickly recovered and peered into the gloom of his own home trying to see who had appeared so soundlessly.

  Chip spoke first. "Mr. Saleman? I've come a long way to find you. Don't be afraid or excited. I'll explain everything real quickly."

  The old man snorted, "I'm neither afraid nor excited, young man. Now just who are you, and you had better have good reason for breaking into my home or I'll throw you into the street!"

  God, just like a fighting cock, Chip thought. Surely the man didn
't prance around the town showing his teeth like that. Chip had expected a sort of senile and doddering old fossil. Well, a little spirit would be useful on the long ride they had ahead.

  "My name is Shatto. Most call me Chip. I'm here about one step ahead of a party that knows who you are and intends holding you hostage for their own benefit.

  They're mean people and they are in town right now."

  Saleman said nothing but was listening closely so Chip went on, telling the story and mentioning the proper names. Feeling the press of time he glanced out a window, checking the street, and finished up,

  "So, you see, Mr. Saleman, we've no time to lose. Starling and his crew could arrive any time and the longer lead we get the better chance we'll have."

  Saleman's reaction was positive and vigorous. "Alright, Shadow, or whatever you call yourself. It's clear that you know what you are doing." He sighed, looking forlornly about his comfortable cabin, slumping a little at the uprooting ahead.

  "I can't simply walk away and leave my things to chance." He popped to his feet, slapping the forgotten book on the table, "I'll decide what to do while I am getting ready." He hustled into a small bedroom and Chip felt encouraged by his ability to decide and move quickly.

  His voice came to Chip above the squeak of drawers being opened and closed. "How much can I carry, Shadow? I have a few things that must go along."

  "Only a small pack, Mr. Saleman, and keep it light. I've got a rain covering for you tied behind the saddle but that's all." Chip again searched the sun-baked street for movement but nothing stirred.

  Jonathan Starling lay on the lumpy hotel mattress and wondered if the game was worth the discomfort.

  Stripped to the waist, his body was as colorless as the bleached muslin covering the cotton filled bed ticking.

  Long and lean muscled, there was a snakey look about him that warned of reflexes beyond the ordinary and added to a deadliness imparted by tar-black eyes and hair. Starling found the stark whiteness of his skin appealing and mildly resented the tan of exposed features that ended at wrist and neck.

  It was baking hot in the room and the sun appeared glued to the sky, assuring further hours of misery. He sat up, mopping at his body with the hotel's worn towel and considered dashing some of the tepid pitcher water over his head and shoulders. He stifled irritation, knowing the water would do little good and considering whether or not another hour in such a sweat box would drive him completely mad.

  It was hotter outside but he rose to look across the sun-blasted village without real hope of either relief or distraction. The roofs glared back at him and nothing moved within view. For a moment he watched nearby tree leaves but they too drooped without hint of even a vagrant breeze.

  The heat made him think of the big mountain man he had encountered in the lobby. Wild tales were told about that breed. This one appeared dull and probably difficult to rouse, but the well-worn pistols were carried with a comfortable familiarity and, as large as he was, the man probably fought with a bull-like tenacity and would be hard to keep down. The thought sent a little excitement surging and he imagined how he could step around such a burly lump with his saber slicing the oaf to pieces.

  The speculation held him for only a moment or two and in desperation to escape the heat, he resolved to walk to the creek and make certain that his men would be ready for their evening's work. His plan was simple. They would ride up and throw the old bundle of bones into the carriage and be off. No one would follow and if they did, his men would give them quick service.

  Still, time spent with the dolts he had hired was rarely pleasant and he hesitated on the hotel porch seeking another course. It came to him that he might make a social call on Professor Walter Saleman and scout out the situation. A dozen reasons for calling came quickly to mind. The hope for lucid conversation would be justification enough, but perhaps he should bargain for vegetables to feed his men. That sounded good and provided a reason for their return in the evening.

  He turned away from the livery and carefully adjusted his broad planter's hat. He tentatively poked his walking stick into the thick dust of the road before ruefully stepping in after it. He made his way casually, attempting to milk all of the interest he could from the miserable collection of shacks and cabins, but saw Saleman's hovel and vegetable gardens almost immediately. Sighing inwardly, he stepped between the plants and tapped firmly on the door frame with his stick handle.

  Almost immediately the portal opened and a small older man dressed for riding bowed him in with a courtesy that somehow appeared half mocking.

  Removing his broad hat, Starling dipped through the low doorway and tried to adjust his eyes to the home's dark interior. A sixth sense warned of something and jerked his head to the right raising his stick defensively. He was too late and a half seen maul smashed with incredible force into his face.

  For an extended instant his senses felt his facial bones crushing and folding inward before a wall of darkness blotted everything and he collapsed onto the yellow pine planking as limp as a swooning maiden.

  ++++

  Chapter 7

  Saleman was still not ready when Chip saw Jonathan Starling striding through the ankle deep dust of the short side street. The man was alone and Chip was grateful for that. He hurried the old man along and gave him simple instructions.

  "Well, we took too long, Professor. Starling's about to come knocking."

  Undismayed, Saleman peered at the approaching figure. "Fine looking gentleman, Shadow. Maybe I'd be better off going with him!" He stared at Chip with raised eyebrows,

  Chip grinned back at him. "I doubt it, unless you'd feel comfortable with fewer fingers and maybe some hot iron scars to help you sign things when he was a'mind."

  Saleman looked again. "He does not appear vicious."

  Tired of discussing it, Chip ordered, "When he knocks, you open and wave him on in, but step well back so I get a clean shot at him."

  The old man appeared aghast. "You intend to strike him down without warning, Mr. Shadow?"

  Annoyed, Chip whispered vigorously, "My name is Shatto, Professor, and I'm going to put Starling to sleep as quietly as I can. Get it in your head once and for all. This man is dangerous. He's got a small pistol up one sleeve and another in a vest pocket. I saw the bulge of them. No doubt his walking stick has a sword in it and my guess is he's got another blade on him, maybe tucked into a stocking garter."

  Standing well back from the window he saw Starling turn into the yard. He took a position along the wall and signaled Saleman to get ready.

  Starling's knock came immediately and the old man paused only an instant to shake his head with misgivings at Chip's cocked fist. He opened the rickety door and with an almost courtly bow, stepped aside. Starling entered and Chip let him have it.

  Even so, the man's reflexes were startling. He got his head turned and took Chip's big knuckled fist squarely on his magnificently bridged nose. It was a driving blow that carried two hundred pounds of rock-hard Shatto behind it. The sound was like a heavy slug striking a buffalo's shoulder and Starling went down with all of his lamps snuffed while Chip did a quick little dance shaking his stinging hand.

  Saleman lifted the man's legs clear and shut his door. His eyes appeared a trifle awe-struck as he looked at the perpetrator of the instant carnage.

  "Good heavens, Shadow, you've ruined his face. He isn't going to think well of us, I fear." He almost laughed, as if the excitement of the moment had gotten old juices flowing. "What now, Shadow? Do we slit his throat and bury him under the lima beans?"

  Chip grimaced, still shaking off the pain in his hand. "Hardly, Professor, though it would probably be the wise thing. Starling will come after us, but I'm just not up to murdering a man today." He looked sharply at Saleman. "Unless of course, you would be willing to do the job."

  Saleman appeared properly horrified so Chip went on. "You get set to go and I'll take care of Jonathan Starling."

  He stripped Starling of the weapon
s he had expected to find, including a nasty bladed folding knife held in place by a stocking garter, and dragged his unresisting form into a chair where his head could flop forward and allow less chance of choking on blood from his smashed nose. It looked as though the man's cheekbone had also caved in some and a fast-bleeding slit was opened along an eyebrow. Chip shook his head a little. He doubted he had ever hit anyone harder; it was no wonder his fist had hurt. He thought about how old Rob had pulled his mother's nose straight from where a horse had kicked it flat, but he guessed Starling would have to locate his own nose fixer. He lashed the man securely and tied a small piece of kindling in his mouth so that he couldn't yell loudly, but could still breathe around it.

  There was nothing he wanted among the assembled weapons so he stepped out the back door and tossed them out of sight beneath the house floor. Not having his familiar guns and knives would throw Starling off his game a little more and even little things might help their escape.

  Saleman finished the note he had insisted on writing to leave his place to a neighbor. He hung it where it would be found and was ready.

  Chip kept watching the street expecting Starling's men and coach to arrive at any moment. The instant Saleman was finished he hustled him out the back door and through the thick hedgerow. Saleman had gathered only a small backpack of things and Chip had to give him credit there. He adjusted the straps for his own broad shoulders and slipped it on while Saleman awkwardly mounted. He wasn't much of a horseman but Chip couldn't do anything about that. They headed out at a fast walk, avoiding the village and striking the back road to Taylorsville about a mile out. Then he settled them into a steady lope that would put some miles behind them.

  Five miles along they came unexpectedly upon a large drove of hogs, and in working through the pigs, the drovers got a good look at them. There, Chip feared, went their chances of leaving a confused trail. Again, he could do nothing about it and hurried along.