Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

Tiff Shatto offered little during the ranching talk, but when the conversation turned general, he joined in. Jim Long was careful with his words.

  When Long described his California ranch, he moved it a few hundred miles. Even then, Tiff had a question.

  "You know a ranching family named Shade, some distance east of San Francisco, Jim?"

  Long frowned in pretended thought. "Name has a familiar ring, but I can't place it. Doubt I've met 'em. Friends of yours?"

  Tiff's lips straightened. "No. I had a run-in with one. I gather they bear grudges, so I don't want to meet any more."

  Luke Shade rode out, satisfied with his visit. He would know Tiff Shatto, and Shatto would be unsuspecting of Jim Long. The advantage was great. No matter how fast Shatto was, his hand would never reach his pistol.

  Brazos had information that shifted Shade's planning. An Arrowhead hand spoke of Senor Tiff riding south in the morning to check progress on a spring being opened into a cattle pond. Brazos had pretended amazement that there was water along the escarpment. The gunfighter smirked as he repeated the hand's description of the spring and how to get there.

  Luke Shade snorted in pleased astonishment. Brazos had shortened their trip. Instead of an indefinite wait in Santa Fe and gunning Shatto down in public, they would pick their spot and ambush the two riders. Quicker and simpler, Shade recognized. He slapped Brazos's shoulder in satisfaction and promised him a fat bonus.

  They quickened their pace, and the old horse handler swore at his pack animals as they tried to lag.

  Shade found the spring easily, but men worked there and were camped nearby. The ambush would need to be at least a pair of miles distant. Shade retraced their route, searching for a perfect ambush.

  It was open country, and the horse trail to the spring held to the easiest ground. Ranges from good cover would be longer than ideal but easy enough for good riflemen. Shade chose a small rise about two hundred yards off the trail. Brush choked the ridgeline and would disguise their silhouettes. The trail itself was level and smooth so their targets would not be bobbing or twisting. By the time Shatto and the hand appeared, the morning sun would be high enough to be out of the ambushers' eyes. Wind should not be a problem, and escape would begin by riding into rough country and losing their tracks on hard ground. Shatto would never know what hit him, and the distance to the spring was far enough that the shots—there should be only two—would not be heard.

  Easy, Shade decided. He led the way to where they would leave their animals with the deaf, old horse handler.

  Tiff and Pedro Noches made a late start. Tiff had known the older Pedro all of his life, and they traded lies of their prowess with the maidens of the Arrowhead down the valley and through the gap in the adobe wall. Turning south, each without thought, waved to the mountain of The Watcher, and as they passed the ranch's church, Pedro crossed himself, touching lips to a knuckle in an equally automatic response.

  It was a bright day with the high country's low humidity. The morning had not heated and the sun's warmth was welcome. They tossed their hats to their backs and nudged their mounts into a comfortable canter. The spring being developed lay only a half dozen miles to the south and there was no hurry, but the horses were fresh and answered willingly to gentle urging. Tiff led. On the Arrowhead, Shattos always rode first, but often Pedro rode alongside to make conversation.

  On such days, Tiff liked being on the ranch, straddling a good horse, sided by a friend, and riding to an easy task. When it got down to real ranching, where there was branding, brush bucking gathering, or the onerous hay making, Tiff despised the business. Cattle were stupid and they stunk. Men sweat, struggled, and cursed. Why his family chose cow raising escaped him. Far better, Tiff believed, were the civilized comforts of modern hotels, fine restaurants, and the companionable challenge of shadowed gaming tables. Dangers like Baker Shade or the gambler who had put a derringer bullet into him could rise, but compared to the continual risks of charging bulls, flailing hooves, or stumbling cow ponies, they were rare. Rattlers, scorpions, and vicious spined cactus did not threaten poker players. Guns could speak out-of-doors as well as within, and rustlers, outlaws, and a few bronco Indians still lurked about.

  Within a few miles the talk fell off, and Tiff let his horse choose a swift walk. On a day without dust, Pedro Noches was content to follow and soon fell into private thoughts and rode silently.

  The mounts followed the horse trail without urging, and Tiff pleasured his senses in the tangy scents and handsome vistas of the high plains. Only along the distant river were there trees, but brush grew in almost impenetrable thickets and the land rose and fell in confusions of gullies, hollows, and ridges. To the west, the escarpment rose, unclimbable for miles, blocking view of the mountains beyond. Late morning sun still glared from the cliff, exposing each crack and cranny in the vertical face. The air remained crisp without a lowlands heavy moisture. Tiff sniffed appreciatively at the spices of sage and rough grasses borne on a soft eastern breeze.

  The wet, smacking, soul-sickening splat of the soft lead bullet that drove completely through Pedro Noches' body and the tortured blast of shock-expelled air came almost with the dull boom of the rifle shot.

  Tiff Shatto's mind did not have time to digest it. A violent blow that shook him in his saddle sent his panicked mount crow-hopping and sun-fishing. Unprepared, Tiff lost a stirrup, fought for balance, then felt himself going. He hit hard, skidding face first, mind still struggling with what he had heard.

  An eye saw Pedro Noches sprawled along his horse, a leg cruelly bent beneath him. The mount's head was turned to its rider, as though also wondering what had happened. Tiff knew. His own horse still fought its saddle, and from a small rise, blackpowder smoke rose in small clouds.

  They had been shot. Noches was down hard, and Tiff was not sure about himself. Instinctively, he sought cover. A fold in the earth little more than a foot deep offered the closest protection, and he slid into it as fast and as flat as a desert lizard.

  They had been ambushed and shot! Tiff's mind reeled with it. The Arrowhead had been free of such shootings since his childhood, but . . . here it was. Tiff began thinking straight.

  With his cheek rammed tight against the earth, Tiff could see nothing. He could not be sure if the shallow ground fold even concealed him. His back might still be showing, and the realization pressed him even lower.

  He felt no pain, but dared not try to examine himself. At least two ambushers lay waiting, or they might already be circling to where they could get clear shooting. He longed for his horse, or Pedro Noches's animal which was closer, but to raise up would be to die. The ambushers were using heavy rifles. The old black powder guns were losing favor, but a big Sharps buffalo rifle would always do the job. Even if he survived to gain the saddle, the riflemen would pick him off long before the horse reached cover.

  Tiff could not just wait to be killed. He began skidding his body along the shallow fold. The shooters' attention would be mostly on where he had disappeared. Not being there was a slight improvement. The earth fold continued and became a hint deeper. Twisting his head to see, Tiff judged his hollow might even go somewhere. With only small hope, but desperate for anything, Tiff scrambled faster. His mind turned to the Winchester scabbarded along his saddle. With a rifle he would have a chance. Might his mount choose to come close? Tiff heard himself snicker, about as much chance as having a squad of cavalry come riding up. He kept pulling himself ahead, ignoring the scrape of elbows and knees, staying flat, giving himself every chance he could manage.

  When Tiff Shatto and the ranch hand rode into view, Luke Shade felt himself flush with the certainty of impending victory. Just as he had planned, exposed and within comfortable shooting range, Shatto was as good as dead.

  Shade stayed low and whispered into Brazos's ear. I'll plug Shatto. You take the Mex. Hold off until I get my bullet in. Then, don't miss. We want 'em both down so there won't be any chase for a day or more." Brazos nodded and got comfortable
behind his gun.

  Luke made a quick review of his plan and found it good. He would let Shatto get straight out from them, where the range was shortest. After they shot, they would go close and make sure. Then they would tie the dead men's horses to brush so they wouldn't wander to where someone would find them too soon. The deaf horse holder probably wouldn't even hear the shots. What he didn't know, he couldn't talk about. That thought gave rise to another that Shade had often considered. Maybe neither the horse handler nor Brazos should be around to tell stories. Shade's eyes squinted a little. He would think more about it once Tiff Shatto was down.

  Shatto and the Mex were well across. Shade adjusted a little and felt Brazos getting his sights on their targets. Shade laid his front sight on Tiff Shatto's armpit and began to squeeze. Shatto's mount hopped an uneven obstacle, and Shade lost aim. Undismayed, he again got it right. His finger tightened smoothly, and—Brazos's Sharps went off like a cannon stuffed in his ear. Jarred, Shade pulled his shot, feeling the gun fire at the wrong time, doubting he had hit squarely.

  The Mexican fell from his horse like dead meat. Shatto slewed sideward, and his mount threw him. Shatto was not done, though. Fumbling for another cartridge, Luke saw him snake into the cover of a tiny hollow.

  Shade cursed Brazos aloud and the gunman took it, knowing he had fired too soon.

  Brazos cursed himself but raised an excuse. "Damned shot got away from me. Hell, I didn't figure you for holding so damned long."

  Both men had dropped their rifle levers and slid a fresh cartridge into their chambers. As one, the actions snicked closed and hammers clicked to full cock. Neither ambusher had taken his eyes from Shatto's pathetic cover.

  Brazos said, "Well, you got a ball into him. He came down hard."

  Shade fought himself calm. They still had Tiff Shatto where they wanted him. Luke considered a moment, then decided.

  "You're likely right. I expect he's hit somewhere. His horse looks all right." Shade studied Tiff's mount which had stopped its bucking and stood waiting, ground anchored by the dropped reins.

  "What we'll do is, we'll wait a few minutes for him to stiffen up, just like we would a wounded animal. Then we'll circle a little, staying well out of his pistol's range. When we can see him, we'll finish him off."

  Brazos put in, "He might try for the Mex's horse. It's closest."

  Luke's lips quirked. "Let's hope he does. He'll never get mounted."

  They watched quietly for a few moments. Then Brazos said, "Wonder what he's thinking?"

  Shade chewed a grass stem considering. "If he ain't hurting too bad, he's wondering if we might figure he's dead and maybe ridden off. More likely he's got his pistol out and is prayin' we come close enough for him to have a chance."

  Brazos snorted. "Nobody'd be that big a fool."

  Luke nodded agreement and let his eyes roam. "He's wishing help would appear, but he knows it won't. So, he's also wondering if he could get to a horse without taking a Sharps .50 caliber through his guts."

  "Maybe we should shoot the damned horses."

  Shade said, "We could, but I'd like seeing him try for one. Less shooting the better. Wouldn't want to arouse a lot of interest if someone else was in these parts."

  Luke spit aside. "Fact is, I hope he's hurting and suffers plenty knowing he is going to die. It'd square up a little for all the time I've wasted running him down."

  Tiff wriggled like a snake, feeling his cover deepen and broaden. Then it dipped into a genuine water channel, and Tiff felt new energy surge.

  The hollow became a shallow but dry stream bed, and then, with little warning, emptied into a deeper draw that ran almost perpendicular. Tiff fell into the chest high channel with a gasp of satisfaction and paused a moment to examine himself and to decide on a next move.

  The inside of a thigh burned like fire and there were rips in his pants. His leg worked, so for now he looked no further. His elbows and knees were scraped raw from frantic crawling, but they did not matter. What counted was what he would do now.

  Tiff studied the dry gully. The waterway deepened as it pointed away from the gunmen and shallowed swiftly in their direction. His gut hunger was to run down the draw as hard and as fast as he could go, but he could not believe the ambushers would just ride away. If they had shot him for what he carried, they would still come for it.

  But that was not the reason for the ambush, Tiff was certain. It was the Shades, as sure as he crouched there. They had run him down, just as the San Francisco police captain had said they would. Ordinary outlaws would not attempt murder for what little a pair of riders might carry. Nope, it had to be the Shades. Tiff controlled the sudden pound of anger, but the emotional tide helped him decide.

  Tiff Shatto drew his pistol and checked it quickly. Then he started up the draw, toward the ambushers.

  Going for his enemies was not entirely foolish. They might not expect it, and he might get within pistol range. His horse could even wander closer. If it did, he could consider a try for his rifle. With a Winchester, he would have a fighting chance.

  If he ran deeper into the draw his enemies would ride him down. They would trot along until he was exhausted or pinned. Then, staying well out, they would shoot him into rags.

  Bent at the waist, Tiff went up the draw.

  Within a hundred yards, he was on his hands and knees, but still moving fast. His mind cringed at the possibility that at any moment a gunman might peer into the gully and blast him as easily as he would a dead stump. The fear kept him trying.

  The gully shallowed rapidly, but it passed beside the low ridge where the ambushers had lain. Tiff was again on his belly fighting for quiet but shoving ahead as hard as he could go.

  The sound of a man hawking and spitting came almost in Tiff's ear. He flattened, his back crawling with the expectation of a bullet's smashing impact.

  Someone said, "About time we dug him out."

  The voice was beyond a fringe of brush only a half dozen yards away. Tiff's grip on his pistol tightened.

  "We'll give him a minute more."

  "Most likely he's starin' at the sky, anyway."

  "Likely, but circle wide. Don't get near pistol range."

  "Hell, I ain't stupid."

  The ambushers were still there. They believed him wounded and lying where he had fallen. Tiff eased cautiously ahead. If he could get a few more body lengths undetected, he would be more behind them. He wanted that edge.

  The swale ended a little way along, and only low brush separated Tiff from the shooters. A tangle made further progress impractical anyway. Tiff gathered himself, let out a little air, and rose facing the voices. He cocked the Colt coming up, holding the pistol at arm's length and pointing hard.

  Two figures sprawled comfortably, facing almost the other way. They held their rifles pointing the way they looked. Broad backs offered obvious targets, and without recrimination or hesitation, Tiff opened up on them.

  He fired coldly, mercilessly. After the first shot, he double actioned his pistol, seeing a shirt jump with every hit, each impact seeming to drive an ambusher down onto his own rifle.

  Tiff put two in each enemy. He aimed high between the shoulders, and he hit where he aimed.

  Still holding steady, Tiff studied his results. One ambusher was clearly dead with his head twisted and eyes staring sightlessly. The other clawed dirt with a hand, coughed a bloody froth, and died beside his companion.

  Pistol ready, Tiff moved in. He rolled the bodies over, looking close, not overly surprised to recognize Jim Long and the man called Brazos.

  Realization jarred him. There had been three of them! Tiff dropped to a knee, his eyes searching wildly.

  The third man was not in sight. Tiff reloaded his Colt and snatched Long's rifle. Extra cartridges lay ready, and he pocketed them, just in case. Then Tiff went looking for the last gunman.

  The horse handler was sound asleep, propped comfortably against a grass hummock. Tiff's voice did not disturb him, and it took
a sharp nudge to waken the oldster. He had no weapon, and after a moment of confusion, he smiled a guileless welcome that helped Tiff believed that he had no idea of what was going on.

  Shouting and hand signaling got the deaf handler into motion. When they reached the scene, Tiff watched carefully and judged the man stunned by the ambush and his dead companions. Fear began leaking through the oldster's slowed senses, and Tiff took time to calm him and listen to repeated protestations of innocence. Tiff guessed they were legitimate.

  Jim Long's wallet proved him to be Luke Shade. The late Luke Shade, Tiff corrected. Brazos had no wallet or papers.

  Helped by the oldster's wiry strength, Tiff loaded the bodies across their saddles and lashed them in place. Finally, he went to tend to the friend of his youth, Pedro Noches.

  Tiff had left Pedro for last, allowing himself time to brace for the ordeal. That Pedro Noches was dead had been obvious from the first. The lax, contorted body completely unmoving allowed no doubt.

  Once, when his father, Ted Shatto, was new to the Valley of Bones, he had survived ambush while a companion died. Strange that Shattos fumbled through where others were killed.

  There was no better way to carry Pedro Noches. Like his ambushers, Pedro was lashed belly down across his saddle. At the church, they would unload Pedro and prepare him the best they could for his family's grief and mourning.

  Tiff wished the rest of the Shades were close. He would kill them all.

  Tiff trailed only Pedro's mount. He let the horse handler struggle with his three pack animals and the two ambushers. Unlike the brisk ride out, Tiff went slowly, letting his horse pick its way. Sorrow and anger clogged him. He used the miles back to Falling Water for thinking and planning.

  Chapter 6

  The Shatto men slouched comfortably in deep chairs shaded by the porch roof and the cliff's giant overhang. Their booted feet rested in line on the porch's low adobe railing, and Tiff ruefully surveyed his tattered boot toes.