Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Freighters usually delivered Tiff's packages, but occasionally a passing rider dropped off a small package that Tiff Shatto had given to a friend months before. When opened, tightly packed paper money would astonish and gratify. Ted Shatto changed the paper to gold and silver—the kind of money that a man could feel. Real money, Ted called it

  Success was hard to argue against, and although they wished Tiff would turn his talents to a more conventional work, the Shattos accepted their son's choice and did not allow Tiff's gambling to divide the family.

  The adobe wall the men sat on was twenty feet high. It closed the mouth of the Valley of Bones like a cork in a bottle.

  Once the wall had been topped with broken glass embedded in the adobe, but as times grew peaceful and buffering ranches developed between the Shattos and marauders, the glass had been broken loose and lay glittering in the ditch outside the wall. Children could now play on the fortification in safety, and men could sit there and discuss important subjects.

  "So you put three shots into him, Tiff?" John said.

  "Yep, with him trying to cock another hammer I couldn't wait." Tiff's voice was resigned.

  Ted Shatto sighed heavily. Violence and death were too common for recriminations. Theirs was a physical land and hard men rode it. Here at the wall they sat on, men had been slaughtered until they lay in piles. Ted had downed his share in that wild melee. A century earlier the Apache had ambushed Spanish adventurers here, killed them all, and given the Valley of Bones its name. The Shattos could be grateful that Tiff had won his fight.

  The father said, "Sounds as though you gave these Shades the slip. Wouldn't do 'em any good to come here if they did work out your trail."

  Tiff remained thoughtful. "Well, Pap, I was moving fast because men that knew said the Shades would come in a bunch and wouldn't be looking for talk.

  "I threw up a lot of dust and maybe tricked them." He smiled grimly, and John laughed at Tiff's conclusion. "At least I fooled 'em enough to get away. Unless a hundred or so fighting men come riding along the mountains, I can figure taking ship was worth selling a darn good horse."

  John's mind stayed on the gunfight itself. "Dodging that shotgun had to be like lightning, Tiff. Doubt I'd have made it."

  Tiff's frown darkened his features. "Well, brother, I expect you know how it happened; you've heard me explain things like that before."

  Ted quickly put in, "Well, it's a blessing, Tiff." He shook his head almost in disbelief. "I wish to heaven I could experience it just once. Then maybe I could understand what it is like."

  John said, "Explain again, Tiff. Maybe you've learned better words for describing."

  Tiff chuckled ruefully. "I doubt it, Johnny." Tiff thought a moment, then requested. "Explain how you see." He waited before going on. "There just aren't any words, are there? All we can say is, "I just see, that's all'"

  "It's that way with me some of the time. I just . . . I just know something." Tiff grinned again. "Sometimes I'm dead wrong, but more often I am right. I "see' things that others can't." Tiff groaned a little. "I wish I could explain it, but I cannot."

  "So you saw this Baker Shade coming at you?"

  "Well, not that clear, but I . . . I sensed something menacing. Maybe I felt Shade's double gun coming up. I think I knew what was going to happen about a heartbeat before it occurred. I know I was moving while the rest were still staring at their cards."

  Tiff's eyes grew distant as he relived the fight.

  "It was as if everything had slowed down, only I could move just a tick ahead of everybody else. Shade's gun got level, and he kind of poked it at me as he pulled the trigger. I could see smoke start out of the barrels as I was dropping aside. I felt my Colt come up, and I could feel my finger squeezing the trigger. It's a long pull because the trigger has to cock the pistol before the hammer falls. The gun recoiled in my hand, and I saw dust jump about Shade's middle. He was still working at his gun, so I kept going with mine."

  Tiff shook himself from his remembering. "When Shade went down, everything snapped back like it should be." He thought, "You know, I don't remember any sound during the shooting. Noise came back after the time got right again."

  The men were silent thinking about it before Ted said again, "Well, it's a blessing, son. Sounds almost like a Biblical second sight." He mused, "Wonder where it comes from? Maybe a little from your grandma Ami. Maybe not, though."

  John laughed. "Whatever you call it, Tiff about drove us wild growing up. The girls and I were always complaining about him cheating in games or knowing something he shouldn't."

  It was Tiff's turn to laugh. "Well, to tell the truth, John, most of the time I was cheating or pretending I knew something I didn't. Having you three believe I had special powers kept me in charge and held you all in line."

  It was good to be home. Tiff slept in the familiar bed in his room in the great adobe house nestled beneath the headwall of the canyon. Nearby the waterfall tumbled from the canyon rim to spread its life-giving waters across the Valley of Bones, and to give the place its newer name of Falling Water.

  When he stepped into the morning's light, Tiff saluted the distant mountains where the Apache watcher had once overseen the ranch's activities. Even the ranch hands' small children knew the story of The Watcher and waved to the distant peak, as though the ancient one was still there.

  Ted Shatto had once met The Watcher. He had ridden close and climbed high to visit the Indian they saw through their telescopes. Ted had given The Watcher his own glass, and the Apache had warned the ranch when outlaws came raiding.

  Since those early times, the Arrowhead had flourished. Shatto vaqueros built their own small spreads at the ranch's borders and ran their brands with the Arrowhead herds. Their sons now worked the big ranch and lived in the adobes their fathers had built along the valley's south wall.

  The Apache were gone from the mountains, and villains no longer massed in threatening bands. Occasional outlaws, drifters, peddlers, and men bent on business made Falling Water a planned stop. Differences were left beyond the adobe walls. A safe night's lodging, a meal or two, and a sack of supplies were certain at Shatto's. Just as unfailing would be swift and violent reprisal for any transgressions on Shatto land. Visitors paid their fare with news from the world beyond the mountains and stories of things seen and done.

  When visitors came, the Shatto table and porch held other regulars. Father Hector Gomez, David Cooper, the school teacher, and Juan Santos, the foreman, were usually in attendance. Unless the guest lacked the language, only English was spoken within the canyon.

  Ted Shatto had long decreed that his riders must know the language of their country. Equally vigorous had been his insistence that the Shattos learn Mexican. Ted's own Spanish had never matured, but the children became truly bilingual, and Tiff and John could converse in either tongue with natural ease.

  Living was good on the Arrowhead. To improve the herds, to open new markets, to marry the snapping-eyed daughter of Juan Santos had been all John Shatto had ever desired. Tiff's willingness to surrender both the work and its rewards made John's life complete. Not for big John Shatto were strange sights and stranger people. Tougher than a saddle girth and with about as much give where the ranch was concerned, John rode his father's trails and liked them.

  Tiff's peculiar ability to know the usually unknowable did not drive him from the Arrowhead, but the peculiar talent opened possibilities unavailable to others. Card playing was the clearest example.

  As a child, Tiff had astonished his family and friends with his ability to guess a card's suit and value. Intrigued, his mother had played special games with Tiff. On a good day Tiff guessed rightly on nearly a fifth of a well-shuffled deck of cards. When his ability was working, from a fanned out hand of cards he could often select the highest card. In Blackjack, where twenty-one is the essential total, Tiff could sometimes be uncanny. He almost never drew to a too high a number. When his skill was working, only an opponent s lucky draw was
likely to beat him. No one who knew played cards with Tiff Shatto.

  His son's unusual insights became meaningful to Ted Shatto while horse trading. Tiff leaned close and said, "He'll only go twenty-two dollars, Pap." Ted had paid no attention, but Tiff had been right. When the boy did it again, Ted took notice. Armed with his opponent's thoughts, Ted wasted no time on some animals and drove hard bargains on others.

  Often, however, Tiff's senses brought him nothing. No special signals appeared, and try as he might, he could produce no insights; Tiff Shatto's personal skills could be exasperating as well as rewarding.

  Once, Tiff swore a strayed cattle band was deep in a brush choked box canyon. Two hours of miserable brush whacking proved him wrong. John wanted to fight and swore he would never again listen to Tiff's dumb guessing.

  Yet, Tiff might point to where antelope bedded or know a stranger's gun caliber as certain as he knew his own.

  Neither practice nor age improved Tiff's abilities. Usually he received no insights, but at a card table his mind could open, and he might know another's intentions or see his cards, or even know the weight of his wallet. Those were exciting moments. They drew Tiff and offered an occupation that could allow adventure beyond the confines of ranching. When he was old enough, Tiff rode away.

  Tiff began his play in Denver. Only eighteen, eager and fresh of face, he was taken lightly—until he began winning with disconcerting regularity. Professionals tried him, then backed away. Theirs was not a losing game. Tempers jumped at Shatto's table, and hot words were too often exchanged. Men with ordinarily winning hands were routinely beaten. Tiff folded too often when other players would have confidently fed the pot. New cards were regularly demanded.

  Finally, an enraged loser came at the young gambler with a knife. Until others rose to stop the fighting, Tiff held his attacker at bay by using a chair as a shield.

  It became difficult for Tiff to find a game. A number of gaming parlors barred Tiff from play. There was no evidence of cheating. That could have been quickly settled. Shatto was just uncannily good, and his presence deterred normal play. Tiff Shatto was directed to gamble elsewhere.

  Tiff chose to move. Mining towns drew him strongly. In those wild communities, men gambled recklessly. There was going and coming without facing the same players night in and night out. Among the miners, gold and silver flowed freely. Men were rich today and destitute by morning. Few noted or cared.

  There was also violence. Rages were poorly leashed, and weapons were on every hip.

  Gradually, Tiff learned how to control the games. In winning, he could make a friend or an enemy. Some he should not win from at all. None should he clean out completely.

  He learned to salve a loser's wounds. Sometimes a free drink could suffice. Occasionally, he staked a down-and-outer who believed he had prospects. Word spread that Tiff Shatto was hard to beat, but a player would be treated right in Shatto's game.

  Sometimes Tiff lost. He did not deliberately lose a night's play, but he let go hands that he could have taken. Denver had taught the error of grabbing all that he could. Greed could suck the well dry. It could also get him killed. After the knife attack, Tiff carried a pistol. In a mining camp too small to boast a name, Tiff learned that simply carrying was not enough.

  The gambler who shot Tiff Shatto had expected an easy mark. The game had turned against him, and he grew sour. When he lost big, the man had simply pulled a .32 caliber derringer from his vest and shot Tiff across the table.

  The gambler was as poor a pistol shot as he was a card player. The small bullet struck beneath Tiff's right breast, slid along his ribs, and lodged beneath the skin of his back. Bystanders froze, and Tiff got his gun out. The gambler was on his feet, plucking a fresh cartridge from his pocket. Still sitting, Tiff leveled his pistol and shot his attacker between the eyes. The .44 caliber lead bullet blew away a piece of skull and sprayed an onlooker with blood and brains. The gambler's body dropped below the table rim and Tiff never saw him again.

  The camp's barber used his shaving razor to slit Tiff's skin and pop out the gambler's bullet. Fever did not strike, and the wound healed cleanly. Volunteers buried the gambler's body in an abandoned digging by toppling a shale bank over it, and the incident was forgotten.

  Tiff, however, did not forget how close he had come to dying. He left the lawless camps and chose his games with increased care. Ugliness still appeared, but less often, and Tiff was more prepared.

  The Colt Lightning was part of Tiff Shatto's preparation. Practice with the pistol was another. He had received no advance warning when the gambler had shot him. The extra sense did not always appear when needed. The gambler's bullet had smarted, as if a hot wire had been run into him, and he had fumbled out his clumsy old Frontier model so slowly the gambler should have shot him three or four more times. Never again, Tiff decided.

  His special holster was made in Denver. It took the saddle maker three tries before Tiff said it was right. Practice became daily. Within a pair of months, Tiff could release his cards and get off his first shot before they struck the floor. Given any warning, Tiff Shatto could have an enemy looking down a pistol barrel before the man could complete his draw. On a few occasions, he had done just that. Until Baker Shade had tried with his shotgun, no one else had shot at Tiff Shatto.

  Chapter 5

  In Denver, Luke Shade hired a known gunfighter to side him. The shooter called himself Brazos. Shade's lip curled a little at the name—half the people he met had adopted the names of towns or places. Cheyenne Kids, Denver Charlies, Laramies, and Texas Jims were everywhere.

  It was known that Brazos had killed at least twice, and that he was deadly with both rifle and pistol. At least as important to Shade was Brazos's willingness to kill for money with no questions asked. When they found Tiff Shatto there would be no dueling or fair fight foolishness. Shatto would be gunned down and probably left where he fell.

  Luke knew where Shatto had holed up. The discovery had been ridiculously easy. The Shatto ranch lay in high country almost down to the Taos pueblo, and Tiff Shatto had gambled in Denver only a year or two past. Half the city seemed to know that much.

  A cow buyer knew more. He had just come in from the south. His mouth fairly watered at the mention of the Shatto Arrowhead with its specially bred cattle. He rambled enthusiastically about the Shatto's irrigated meadows and the great adobe home sheltered beneath the loom of the Valley of Bones cliffs. And yes, Tiff Shatto had been there. Recently arrived from somewhere, the buyer recalled.

  The descriptions of the Shatto home place were intimidating. Falling Water was no ordinary ranch's simple building cluster; the place sounded like a fortress. Digging Tiff Shatto out could prove difficult.

  Luke Shade had no intention of dying in a shootout with Tiff Shatto or anyone else. Shade cared nothing about Shatto. He sought no personal vengeance for his brother's death, but no one took from the Shade's without paying a terrible price. Shatto had killed a Shade, so he would die for it. Old Saul demanded revenge, and the task was Luke's. Luke was willing and saw the necessity. He had killed before and expected to again. Horse thieves and rustlers would be run down and hung or shot. Finding and finishing Tiff Shatto was the same thing. It was just taking longer.

  Shade hired a horse handler and headed south. He used the name, Jim Long. If law became involved, the Shade name need not surface. Brazos knew their destination and their intention. The pay was right; Brazos was content. The horse handler was an old man, deaf, saddle hammered, and grateful for any employment. He knew only that they were going south and would return sooner or later.

  Falling Water, the Shatto home place, was indeed a fortress. A hole in the face of a mighty escarpment opened into a dead end valley fertile with meadows and gardens. At the valley's head a waterfall dropped from the cliff top giving the place its name. Once, Spaniards and Apaches had battled to the death in the vertical-sided canyon, and the land had been called the Valley of Bones. Thereafter spirits were known to h
aunt the valley, and the place was avoided by the Apache. That had been long ago, but a high adobe wall still pinched the entrance to the valley, marking where the Shattos had held off more recent raiders come to pillage.

  Luke Shade led up the valley road without hesitation. Tiff Shatto did not know him and would have no reason to suspect Jim Long, a man just looking over country. If opportunity appeared, Luke would shoot and ride out, but vaqueros lived in houses along the south wall of the valley, and pursuit would be close. Shade wanted a good look at Tiff Shatto. Once he knew his man by sight he could wait in Santa Fe where the Shattos traded or . . .

  Because horses were kept distant, flies were few, and the Shattos often entertained in the cool shade of their porch. The waterfall rustled nearby and created soft breezes that were welcome in a hot, dry country. Heavy Mexican furniture gave comfort to guests and their hosts, and the vista of the valley and the distant mountains of The Watcher lent grandeur to the setting. Ted and Tiff Shatto were joined by Juan Santos and David Cooper, the ranch's school teacher. A pair of rifle armed vaqueros loitered nearby because Ted never took chances with strangers.

  Jim Long appeared to be knowledgeable and earnest in his search for a ranch where civilization would not crowd him. The man Brazos was clearly a hard case, hired on for personal protection. Brazos and the ancient horse handler were fed and watered at a bunkhouse. Only Long enjoyed his noon meal at the big house.

  Ted Shatto could offer information and advice. Long, he stated, was too late. All land to the south was in use. Some was legally owned, but all was claimed. Unless Long offered exorbitant payment, it was doubtful if anyone would sell. Montana was the place to look,

  Shatto suggested. To the north there was open range for the taking, and even though winters would be severe, a man could prosper. Civilization would never crowd Montana ranch land, Shatto calculated.