Chip Shatto (Perry County Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

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  Chapter 9

  They camped early along a stream that promised decent water. Chip stripped and waded in waist deep to give himself and his foul skins an overdue scrubbing.

  After watching a moment, Doug did likewise. Bare as a jaybird, his skinny arms filled with clothing, he picked his way into deep water and followed Chip's example of sloshing and rinsing each piece.

  Working on his doeskin pants, with his shirt draped around his neck. Chip grinned across at his industrious companion. "Skins are good mountain clothes 'cause it's dry an' cool and a man don't sweat much, but in this country only a fool would wear 'em."

  The boy's eyebrows raised quizzically and Chip chuckled. "No you don't! I planned on looking an' acting like a half-baked mountain man. Once we're out of this, off come the skins and on go civilized clothes." He shrugged, "Can't get loose from moccasins that easy though. Till I start farming I'll stick to them most of the time."

  He could talk to the boy like that. Giving him information in an easy way; sort of mixing the educating with lots of stories about his youth along the Little Buffalo, when he and Ted had trained horses, and more than a little about the mountains and the men who lived there.

  Doug Fleming was fascinated by the scars that slanted across Chip's body, looking as though a giant bear had raked him shoulder to hip. It took the boy a while to ask about them and when he did. Chip told the story in serious detail, not making light of his suffering or the satisfaction of his vengeance.

  Through the telling, the boy's eyes stood out like coals in a snow bank and Chip took the opportunity to add a few opinions he thought important.

  "I reckon that all sounds cruel and vicious to you, including my part." He nodded agreement and went on.

  "But a thing to understand is that men's ideas of fairness change with the circumstances. You could take this war, for instance. Men do things day after day that would get them hung in ordinary times. Generals square off their armies and duel as though war was a chess game while their men are shooting, gutting, and clubbing without mercy."

  "Now in the mountains, there isn't any law beyond what a man can enforce. There was no one to declare Coyote Boy crazy and have him locked away. How he died got told up and down the high country and served a lot of purposes. For example, it showed that nobody should fool with a mountain man expectin' to get away with it and it warned specially clear to keep peace around the Shattos. Those lessons will save more than one white man and probably already have."

  He grinned fiercely. "Then I've got to admit that at the time it was mighty satisfying." He shrugged, "Back here a man probably wouldn't even think about skinning out his enemy, but Indians understand that kind of justice and so do those that live among 'em."

  The boy asked, "How many men've you killed, Chip?"

  It was a question almost never raised and Chip was a little surprised, but accepted the innocence behind it. Men avoided asking how many, as though counting or remembering by numbers was somehow evil. Of course everyone wondered about each other, but they never directly asked.

  "I'll just say more than a few. I guess I could list them for you, but a man has a fear of sounding boastful or proud of having killed." His face turned a little grim and he scrambled onto the stream bank to stand wringing water from his skins with big hands that twisted with almost implacable power. "There's rarely pleasure in killing, Doug. A man does what he must of course, but just as often he does what he hungers to do at the moment. If it's killin', he may live with some bad dreams for all of his days."

  "You have bad dreams, Chip?"

  "Oh, once in a while an old enemy pops up during a sleep, but not often enough to bother."

  He stayed serious, "All things considered, I've had more than enough of it and I'm ready to hang up all these guns and spend my time thinking about calves and crops.

  "A man grows and changes, if he's normal, and I worked most of the wildness out and left it in the west. That don't mean I've lost heart or won't stand up if need be. It just means I ain't looking for trouble, and if it comes, I might not really enjoy it."

  They rode a tricky trail, leaving false leads where they could and telling the locals they met that they were heading for the Great Plains, but they ducked from road to road when they could and cut cross-country when that seemed reasonable.

  They left the river behind and moved out of the low country. On the third day they swung north, and without further pretense, rode for the Vicksburg pike. By now, Walter Saleman would be far on his way and Chip need worry about him no more. Probably Jonathan Starling had abandoned the chase, but if he hadn't, they would now just outride him.

  Doug Fleming wasn't much of a horseman to begin with and the fat barrel of the horse was really too much for his legs, but Chip got the stirrups so that he rode almost standing in the western style. Thereafter, the boy picked up the riding rhythm with the childish ease that could make a grownup despair. By the time they turned east to strike for Vicksburg, Chip didn't worry about him keeping up. Fleming might never be the horseman he and Ted had become because they had begun living horses before they wore pants, but he'd do to ride with.

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  The Army had torn the land across from Vicksburg into a morass. Though they had moved on, their bivouacs stained the low lying land, their axes had cut down everything useful, and their many roads had wasted into barely passable rutted bogs.

  Vicksburg itself had been heavily shelled and little repaired. Though the Army was gone, garrison troops were many and the Navy occupied the waterfront.

  Before seeking transportation north, Chip took them to a general store where he managed to purchase cloth garments. The clothing was unremarkable except that it was obviously sewn from military cloth. Chip guessed his pants were some kind of sailcloth and his shirt could have been cut from an old ground cloth. It was better than the skins however, so he bought Doug Fleming a slouch hat like his own and they walked their horses to the Provost Headquarters to report their presence and their needs.

  Armies change and the new Colonel knew nothing of Chip Shatto or of Walter Saleman. He agreed to verify Chip's claims with the Navy or Army headquarters—when he could. Until then, Brevet Lieutenant Shatto would have to cool his heels. Chip left his presence annoyed but not overly surprised. A man without papers making claims as he did required checking up on. Still, what did he do now? And what about the boy? Doug Fleming had not mentioned his old wish to contact his Captain. Chip figured the boy really wanted to come along with him, but taking on a youth was serious business and Chip hadn't settled it in his own mind,

  He stood on the front steps of the headquarters building thinking things over while Doug waited with the horses.

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  Captain Carter Roth stomped into Vicksburg with blood in his eye. The steamer had broken down, delaying his arrival. That kind of mishap was to be expected, but the arrogance of the assorted naval officers he encountered wasn't. They treated him with the minimum of respect due a ship's officer and exuded self-adopted importance as they thought befitted their naval ranks. Civilian shipmasters plainly stood low in their eyes and one without a vessel to call his own received deliberately short shrift. Roth needed someone to be mad at and just hoped he could run onto the man he sought. At this point he stood ready to lick him good and then lick him some more.

  Along the waterfront, no one recalled a frontiersman named 'Shadow' and a turn of the town proper proved fruitless. Various military departments failed to provide information and Roth was considering moving north to search again. Sooner or later, someone would know the man and eventually Shadow would surface and Carter E. Roth would be on him like tar on rope.

  Then his luck turned and a Lieutenant attached to transportation remembered more than a little.

  "Of course, Captain Roth, that would be Lieutenant Shatto. Off on some mission for Army Headquarters, I believe. Hasn't returned here at any rate and I doubt if anyone left in Vicksburg knows any more about him than
I do."

  Shatto! That could sound like Shadow to someone unfamiliar with the name. Roth's pulse quickened in anticipation, but the officer could tell him nothing more. He left, promising to return each day for any Shatto information that might develop. He planned to hang on a few days, as difficulties could have delayed Shatto's return, but soon he would go upriver and try backtracking the man. Eventually, he would find out enough about him to know where he might go or how he might act.

  So far he had a powerful mountain man, of large size who wore skins, was named Shatto, and probably had a boy with him. The transportation officer also claimed Shatto rode a horse with spots on his rump. Roth guessed if he saw the man he wouldn't need a horse for identification.

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  Chip was still standing on the steps when a young Lieutenant came bouncing up them. He glanced at Chip and then examined him more sharply.

  "Excuse me, sir, aren't you Lieutenant Shatto who came through a few weeks back?" To Chip's nod he grinned boyishly and exclaimed, "Why without your hide clothing I wasn't sure."

  Still full of himself and obviously pleased to be of service he added, "Just thought I'd tell you that a man came through looking for you only yesterday. Said he'd be checking back, but I didn't catch his name."

  The Lieutenant had only overheard the conversation and had little more to offer. He described the man as having curly black hair, a powerful build, and a pistol on his belt. The man also wore a large gold ring in one ear. The description didn't help Chip a lot, but if Starling's men had guessed his intent and were now in Vicksburg, his best course was to depart without attracting undo attention. An acknowledged Rebel, Starling would not be nearby and with a little luck, he and Doug Fleming could be away without their short visit being discovered.

  He thanked the officer and hustled Doug back to the poorly stocked general store where they supplemented their scanty camping gear and filled their saddlebags with adequate rations.

  As expected, the docks offered no immediate transportation north and Chip chose to again cross the river and lose themselves in the vastness of thinly populated Louisiana. The ferry was departing, so they hurried aboard and watched war battered Vicksburg fade behind summer mirage. Their pause had been brief, but Chip felt a thousand times more comfortable out of his skins. They had supplies to go as they wished and ... young Doug was good company.

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  At a crossroads on the west side of the river, Starling's men rendezvoused. They waited only the arrival of their fourth companion who was scouting the Vicksburg Road. Then they would rejoin their leader who waited in St. Joseph and inform him that Shadow's trail had been lost. They did not look forward to that admission.

  As he said he would, Carter Roth returned to the Army for news. That he had missed Shatto and the boy by only a long hour was vastly encouraging. It took him another hour to trace them down the bluff and onto the river ferry. Standing on the dock, Roth could see the ferry diminishing in size as it stood away.

  Frustrated but undefeated, he hunted a way across and was rewarded by the imminent departure of a lighter that freighted military supplies from bank to bank. With barely enough time, Roth sought a livery for a riding animal. No rentals were available and in desperation he bought a mule of doubtful quality. A battered saddle of a wrong size was thrown on and he dragged the reluctant beast aboard the lighter almost as the lines were dropped.

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  Carter Roth became a seaman when he was a bare sprout. His stepfather had marched him from their Berks County farm to a Philadelphia shipmaster and signed him before the mast.

  Roth had never returned home. Ashore he was awkward and out of place, but with a deck beneath him he could match any master. He had survived the vicious forecastle poverty with ready knife or clubbed marlinspike. As a ship's bosun he had without compunction broken heads or striped backs as needed. His move to a quarterdeck had followed a plague ridden voyage where all of greater rank had gone over the side with a round shot at their feet.

  As a ship's officer, Roth had proven loyal and competent, but further command escaped him until he had gained his own coastal trader. He parlayed that ship into a sizeable brig which was lost in a Hatteras storm.

  Battered but unbroken, he had begun again and had prospered hauling cargoes for Union armies.

  Now he sat a ridiculous animal, intent on an almost pointless mission. He was again shipless and without prospects. For the hard years he had gained a belt full of gold coins and a body of stone hard muscle. He had a ring in one ear and a tattoo on a husky forearm. His wit was as quick as his hands and he could run a crew or whip the toughest among them.

  Carter Roth had hung mutineers, shot boarders from his bulwarks, and fought raging oceans to solid decisions. Aboard a spavined mule he knew he looked the clown, but when he came up on Shatto he didn't intend making his fight from an animal's back anyway.

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  Chapter 10

  Chip didn't have much of a plan to tell the boy. He explained about the men waiting in Vicksburg and his immediate decision to avoid one more confrontation.

  In time the men should give up the search, but if they came on again ... well, he had already done enough to avoid trouble.

  His intention was to ride on north through what was left of Louisiana and most of Arkansas. They would cross the river at Memphis. As that city lay a good two hundred miles away, they would have a long ride and see new country on the way. He would request transportation from the Memphis military terminal and continue on east to terminate his mission and perhaps end his association with the war.

  Chip had another half formed idea cooking around in his head. If Doug Fleming appeared interested, he might take him on back to Perry County. Old Rob and Amy would take him in and the boy would have good upbringing. They would thrive on having a youngster around. His folks talked often of visiting Ted and the grandchildren in Texas once the war ended, but they needed some young blood close-by and the boy ought to fit in just right.

  He mentioned none of it to Fleming. He planned to give the boy a clear picture of what old Perry County was like before he made the offer. That would be the fair way and, to Chip's mind, once a person knew about Perry County he couldn't really say "No" to living there.

  By middle afternoon, Chip Shatto knew they were being followed. He couldn't say how he knew—there were no signs—but he could tell. It wasn't just someone traveling on the same road. His instincts, senses, or whatever they were wouldn't speak up under ordinary conditions.

  It wasn't a new thing. He had experienced it before as had many of the mountain men. Indians knew of it too and the subject was brought up around the fires with men giving startling examples of a warning sensed without reason. No one ever explained the reasons a man knew of danger without apparent clues, but they agreed that the more a man was exposed to danger and violence, the sharper his senses spoke to him.

  Chip let it ride for a few miles while he thought over what to do. He could turn off into the swampy wild country and lose whoever pursued them, but he had grown tired of running and had indicated to Doug Fleming that he was about done with it.

  He decided it was time to have a look at the hunter.

  How did he know there was only one? He had to wonder about that and chose not to trust his unexplained certainties that far.

  He chose a wide place in the road and sent the boy and the horses into deep cover. He tucked both rifles in handy nooks where they would remain unseen but reachable. Then he checked the loads in both pistols and got comfortable to wait. It might be wiser to just step out of hiding and put his pursuer under the gun, but all he would receive then would be forced and therefore questionable information. Meeting face to face under circumstances he had selected would be advantage enough.

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  When Carter saw a figure sitting on a huge tree root alongside the road he didn't at first associate it with his quarry. Why should he? There was no boy and there were no horses. Certainly Shatto wouldn't be
idly sitting along the roadbed. Closer up he saw the Colt pistol holstered butt forward on a wide belt and detected the size of the man. When their eyes met he knew him as instinctively as he judged wind on his cheek.

  Coal black eyes met eyes of raven black. Roth almost expected sparks to jump but strangely he felt a peculiar warmth of spirit, as though he had unexpectedly encountered an old friend. He got his resolve in hand and scrambled from his mule.

  Shatto didn't appear unduly disturbed and let his eyes follow the mule that began to crop noisily at tough grass.

  "I believe you are Lieutenant Shatto, sir, of the United States Army?"

  Shatto looked a little pained. "Well, you're right enough, friend, but this is Rebel country and it might be better if you didn't let the whole county in on my secret."

  Roth thought maybe this Shatto was laughing at him so he got down to business.

  "I am arresting you for the abduction of my cabin boy and the murder of one of my seamen. Now you can drop that pistol belt and come quietly or I will use whatever force is necessary." Carter placed a broad and gnarled hand on the butt of his pepperbox.

  Shatto choked and almost laughed before he got speaking. "For God's sake! You must be that Captain Roth Fleming keeps yammering about. Hell, I thought you were from another camp entirely."

  So he did have the boy. Roth tugged at his side arm an instant before Shatto's right hand appeared from behind his back pointing a double-barreled pistol squarely at his middle.

  "Just hold it up. Don't do anything foolish before we powwow awhile. Now just take your hand off your gun and step over here out of the sun where we can see each other better."

  Roth did not hesitate. He gulped down his embarrassment and stomped to another root which he sat on, fists clenched defiantly on his knees. He'd have sworn Shatto was leaning on the arm that appeared with a pistol in it and that he had had the advantage. He didn't know what powwow meant but he hoped it had to do with discussion.