Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Look behind you, Shade." Saul did not turn, but his men did. Dozens upon dozens of armed riders were closing them in. The valley fairly crawled with riflemen all heading toward the gathering. A gunfighter cursed once. Then he was silent. Smirks faded and pretended combativeness crumbled, for they held no cards at all.

  Ted said, "If you or yours ever again interfere with a Shatto, we will come for you. I will bring two hundred men anxious to wipe the name Shade from existence. We will strike like a summer storm, Shade, and your dead body will swing from a tree limb."

  Ted gripped his pistol and eased the gun in its holster. "If I believed you could find Tiff, I would kill you now and be done with it. If you try, you will not succeed, but if you hunt, I will come for you."

  Ted stepped back and concluded. "Do not speak with me, Saul Shade. A man who would raise back-shooting ambushers has nothing I wish to hear. Your son killed one of my people. For that, he and his hireling died.

  "Turn your horse and ride away. Return the way you came. You will be watched. Do not linger or you will be shot. Never return to the Arrowhead." Ted turned and disappeared into the adobe.

  Shade's mouth worked, but both the big man and the Mexican were turning away as though he did not exist.

  Shade ached to shout, to bellow, to tear his shotgun from its scabbard and to start blasting. Rage turned his face black, then receded leaving frustration's sickly pallor. To act would be to die. Shade choked on his own bile and forced his horse's head around. His men turned with him, and even through his blinding hatred he could feel their relief.

  For the first time, Shade saw the army of horsemen summoned by Shatto's bells and horns. The sight jolted him into a shocked awareness. Row upon row of rifle wielding horsemen trotted up the valley. Groups of riders bunched together, while individual horsemen swept in waves toward them.

  Staring almost numbly, Saul Shade spurred his horse to a faster walk. At their approach, the Shatto riflemen halted in expectant waiting, and Shade's group rode along a silent, threatening avenue of ready rifles.

  Shatto's hordes ranged from young to old men. All were handsomely armed and each handled his weapon with familiarity. They were all Mexican, but this was no ragtag band of banditos. Clothing, bearing, and mounts spoke of pride and purpose. No liquor-swilling part-time pistoleros here. These, Saul Shade unwillingly recognized, were men.

  The demonstration was stunning. If Shade had assembled all of his hands, cooks, and servants they might have numbered forty. With a ring of his bell, Shatto had summoned hundreds, and out on the plains beyond the valley, more were galloping in.

  Even Saul Shade understood the magnitude of his blunder. Mortification overcame hatred. If compared to the awareness of overwhelming domination, rage could barely simmer. Shade tucked his tail and rode swiftly away. No bluster, no posturing could stand before the raw power of hundreds of willing guns.

  Ted, John Shatto, and Juan Santos watched them go with open satisfaction.

  John said, "My Lordy, Pap. You laid that man's liver open and poured on the salt." He looked at his father in admiration. "Why, you even offered to gun fight him, Pap. Suppose he had accepted?"

  Juan Santos said calmly, "Then Senor Ted would have shot him."

  The certainty in Juan's voice silenced John, and he only exhaled in excited relief.

  Ted was pleased with the show. The arrival of his mob of riflemen appeared spontaneous, but it was not. As Saul Shade had ridden south from Denver, Ted had assembled his troops. From the surrounding rancheros, men old and young had gathered. Most owed their successes to Ted Shatto and cherished the heritage. The small army camped out of sight just to the south. The assemblage was nearly a fiesta with friends re-meeting to hash over younger times. When the signals sounded they rode in, spread out, looking stern and genuinely ready if called upon. Shade rode through a double column of hungry looking riflemen. A regiment of cavalry would have been less intimidating.

  Ted chuckled to himself, but was already thinking past Saul Shade. Now, the ranch cooks would bring forth their accomplishments. Music would be made, and hundreds of riders would create a memorable fiesta from their answer to Senor Shatto's call.

  Ted gave a final consideration to the Saul Shade problem. Probably Shade was suitably chastened. If he were not . . . Well, Tiff was long gone. How could he ever be traced to Perry County, Pennsylvania? Hell, a western man like Shade likely didn't even know where Pennsylvania was.

  Tiff would be safe until he returned. By then, Shade's attention could be turned to other things, or he might even be dead—he was old enough.

  Saul Shade had not even asked for his son's body. Shade did not rate high on Ted Shatto's admiration list. Ted let the last of the Shade worries drift.

  Saul Shade rode from the Valley of Bones in silence. His gunfighters stayed wide and conversed only quietly at safer distances. There was a touch of madness about old Shade's eyes. Men with that look could become berserk and kill or lash out without direction or cause.

  Shade spoke only rarely and in Denver the gunmen were paid off without curse or thanks. Shade left them standing by their horses, and they guessed he had departed for wherever it was he ranched. The way things had turned at the Arrowhead, the hired guns were glad to have survived and pleased to be done with a boss who would lead them into an impossible showdown.

  Saul did not immediately leave Denver. He had eaten his soul the first days after the Valley of Bones. He imagined marshaling a huge army of gunmen and savaging the valley once and for all. His saner side recognized the plan's implausibility. Ted Shatto would learn of the recruiting of hundreds of men, if such numbers of gunfighters even existed. The Valley of Bones was almost unassailable, and Shatto would be forted up and waiting. Worse yet, and at least as likely, Shatto would come for him. Shatto had promised that he would, and even through his killing rage, Saul Shade recognized that Ted Shatto would keep his word.

  No, Shade had a better plan. It was easier and it was smarter. To hell with hired guns and sun-high face-offs.

  Ted Shatto, despite his biting insults, meant nothing. Tiff Shatto, who had murdered both of his sons, meant everything. Shade figured he knew how to find Tiff. It might cost a great deal, but it would be quiet and confidential. Once Shatto was located, Saul and his shotgun would do the rest. Shatto might run and hide to his damnedest, but Saul Shade knew how to find him.

  They were called Pinkertons. Their agency had been in business for decades. They investigated crimes, guarded valuables, and provided armed escorts. Pinkertons would, for a price, raise a body of marshals to put down riots. They also found missing persons and ran down hunted men. The Pinkerton name was recognized worldwide. The company had guarded presidents. Its arm was long with agents across the land, and its reputation was impeccable.

  Saul Shade found the Pinkerton office in a two story brick only a block from the rail station. The rooms were solidly comfortable without ostentation. His interview was swift, efficient, and conclusive.

  The agent said, "Finding your man may prove costly, Mister Black."

  Shade had chosen another name to help obscure any possibility that Ted Shatto could hear of a Pinkerton search for his son and learn for certain who was behind it.

  The agent continued. "That our search must be secret compounds the difficulty. Spreading the word with promise of reward is often our best tool."

  "Well, Tiff Shatto won't be hiding out or using a false name. He will be out in the open, probably sitting at gambling tables like he usually does."

  "You have no idea where he has gone?"

  "No, except that he is least likely to have gone to California. He killed a man out there."

  "He is wanted by the law in California?"

  Shade shifted irritably. "Not exactly. He claimed self-defense and rode off. Nothin's been done in the matter, yet." Saul's voice hardened. "Once you've found him, we'll get a warrant out and have him picked up."

  There were hosts of added questions. Shade could answer
few. The Pinkerton desired a physical description, of course. They were also interested in personal habits, daily routines, life history, and distant facts like where the Shattos had come from—even in the old countries.

  Shade was little help, but the Pinkerton was undismayed. "Believe me, Mister Black, we have started with less. The blanks will be filled, and we will begin to understand Tiff Shatto. In time we will narrow the search, then we will find him."

  Shade curled a lip. "In Scotland or maybe Germany? Hell, he could be a million places. Finding Shatto ain't going to be that easy."

  The investigator remained unperturbed. "You may be right. That is why I remind you of the expense and require a substantial retainer. The Pinkerton Agency is proud of its record. We do not wish to accept tasks that are dropped unfinished.

  "That Tiff Shatto is using his own name and is not in hiding will certainly lighten our task. Do not despair, Mister Black. Pinkertons plan on succeeding."

  They left it there. Saul Shade put his money down and went home. The Pinkertons would contact Mister Black via San Francisco and through a third party. Saul did not want to look up one day to find Ted Shatto and a hundred men riding down on him.

  Chapter 8

  Tiff Shatto almost stopped at the Mississippi. For a gambler, the handsome riverboats plying their port-to-port journeys the length of the great river offered steady play and almost opulent surroundings. A continually shifting table of opponents, as destinations were reached and new travelers boarded, kept games alive and fresh.

  The mighty Mississippi split the continent and provided a best route for goods and services through the port of New Orleans. Men of eastern business boarded as far upriver as Pittsburgh on the Ohio, while westerners piled aboard at Omaha and at Springfield, Missouri. Some travelers rode south cash heavy and returned broke or with their wealth invested. Others reversed the process, steaming down to New Orleans with their mercantile cargoes and returning north with money bulging wallets. Many desired a game or two to pass the time. Tiff and others obliged.

  The train ride across the Great Plains, with countless halts at single building communities and unremarked cattle pens, had given Tiff a sense of removal from the west and the trouble that had dogged him. He had clouded his trail by detraining at Salina, Kansas, well before his announced destination of Abilene. He had backtracked and reboarded a day later at a cattle loading site a few miles to the west. This time his goal was Kansas City. From there a Missouri River workboat floated him east to Saint Louis.

  Tiff chose the Mason Dixon, a Mississippi River queen, luxurious in appointments, swift and smooth in her passage, to begin testing his skills against those of the legendary riverboat gamblers.

  At night a hundred lamps lighted decks and cabins. Musicians played, and couples danced. The ship's bars were crowded and men discussed business while their ladies took the air beyond cigar smoke and tobacco spitting.

  Professional gamblers waited like dark spiders, uniformed by black suits and contrasting snowy linens as white as their pallid features and quick-fingered hands. At those tables, players had no doubt who was professional.

  Tiff Shatto was harder to label. Tanned, leather jacketed, and fancy booted—with the butt of his cross draw Colt showing—Tiff smacked of western outdoorsman, perhaps a cattleman, but more likely a prosperous young adventurer. Tiff's friendly disposition and interest in all conversations differed markedly from the typical professional gambler's studied reserve, but when cards were dealt, Tiff's practiced expertise was clear. By the second hand, few took him lightly.

  Professional gamblers did not enjoy playing other professionals. Their games were not adventures or entertainment. Gambling was livelihood, and they played to profit. When they won, life could be sweet. Losing was not a form of amusement.

  Many of the riverboat professionals were good at their trade. Others were barely adequate, and a few were masters of their games. Tiff worked his way through the players, discovering and seeking out those most expert. Among the best, he found the sought for challenges to skill and heart.

  Because he was new to the river and made no claims of professionalism, Tiff got his games. Traveling south to New Orleans, he barely held his own but gained a reputation for tough, smart play equal to any. Returning north on another boat he began winning frequently enough to find even the better professionals reluctant to regularly include him at their tables. It was clear that by a third trip on the river, Tiff Shatto would be known, and his skill would be unwelcome at established tables. Then he would have to initiate his own and be challenged only by travelers who wished to risk against the new professional aboard.

  Still, the river was tempting. Life moved quickly in an ever shifting kaleidoscope of music, laughter, argument, and gaming. New faces and new places appeared, gained recognition, and were left behind. Aboard the river queens the cutthroat viciousness too often encountered in common saloons or Denver and San Francisco gambling hells rarely surfaced. If he wished to prosper within the riverboat culture, Tiff Shatto could find a niche.

  But, he moved on. The desire to see the land between Tuscarora and the Blue Mountain had somehow strengthened. Tiff reasoned that he could always come back to the rivers. Until he had scratched the itch to visit the place of his forbearers, Tiff doubted he would be content.

  Tiff's Perry County expectations were not great. What excitements or adventures could there be in small valleys of settled farmers and tradesmen? That his Uncle Chip, once a fighting man of huge reputation, was satisfied to gentleman-farm in Pfoutz Valley bemused Tiff.

  Chip Shatto had roamed the west in his early years and fought Apaches while the Arrowhead ranch was taking shape. Chip had later visited the ranch, and young Tiff had thrilled at the four whitened scars running from his uncle's chest to his hip. Inflicted by an Apache torturer, Chip had killed the Apache with his knife and cut loose a square of his enemy's hide for a souvenir.

  Chip Shatto had also done something heroic in the Civil War that Tiff was not clear about. That such a man chose to settle in the old county required looking into.

  There was also Captain Carter Roth, who Uncle Chip claimed had been a pirate and a slaver until the American Navy drove him ashore. Roth labeled Chip Shatto a bald-faced liar, but Captain Roth was not exactly gentle either. When a bad man ripped a gold loop from his ear, the captain had kicked the man's skull into pulp and took his ring back.

  Carter Roth farmed beside his best friend Chip Shatto, so, Tiff guessed, there must be something special about a county that could draw and hold such wild men.

  Tiff left the rivers at Pittsburgh. A new spring touched the air and forests were fresh in their early greenery. Once clear of the city's stench, the earth and woods' loamy odors gripped Tiff's senses with surprising intensity. The air was solider than the thin dry stuff of the high western lands, but it lacked the cloying, perfumed heaviness of the southern Mississippi delta country. Allegheny mountain air had a special bite to it, Tiff concluded. He could smell the hard and soft woods and farmers' freshly turned fields. He could feel the vigor of a nation of people leaned into pacifying and making livable a sea of mountains where a hundred years earlier only the Indian had hunted.

  Tiff sniffed hungrily. The Iroquois, the Shawnee, and the Delaware were gone, but the land they had held was still strong with their aura. Here they had camped; there they had fished and hunted. Everywhere the Indians had fought, and their bones lay nearby in unrecognized graves. Villages, mountains, and rivers bore Indian names, and a man with an eye for it could still find their forest trails. A field could not be plowed without arrowheads turning up. The Indians' mark would be long in passing from these lands.

  The hand of the frontiersman also lay upon the Alleghenies. Scotch-Irish borderers had punched their crude holdings into the mountain valleys and, perhaps more than the military campaigns, had driven the tribes from their ancestral lands. The Scots were still up in the mountains, some of them—children and grandchildren of riflemen-farmers who
had been little tamer than the red men they had challenged.

  Of course, the Shattos were of them. Old Rob, the first Rob Shatto, had lived among the Delaware before white men ruled. Arrowmaker, the Iroquois had named him. Tiff's grandfather, the second Rob Shatto, had died only a few years past, and he had known old Rob and learned at his side. Because his name was also Rob, and a third Rob Shatto became confusing, Tiff's uncle was usually called Chip—like a chip off the old block. And, there was Chip Shatto, after all his roaming and adventuring, returned to Perry County to stay.

  There must be something unusual to hold the Shatto clan like the county did, Tiff reasoned. Of course, most of the Shattos had drifted down into the Carolinas, but Uncle Chip had claimed a lot of that bunch had thin blood anyway. His Pap, Ted Shatto, had thrown off whatever spell Perry County held over Shattos and was not about to come back, but he remembered often.

  The solidly-wooded mountains with flowing springs on every slope and streams gushing all the water in the world were mightily inviting to the soul of a western man used to parched country. Tiff did have to admit that much. He resolved that whatever was in that Perry County drinking water would not affect him, though. Tiff Shatto had a million miles to roam and a hundred thousand games to play.

  Once across the Alleghenies, Tiff found two convenient transportation modes. A railroad paralleled the Juniata River affording swift travel east. Far slower, erratic in schedule, and obviously on its last legs, the aging canal system offered leisurely passage atop cargo boats with nightly stopovers at villages dotting the way. Tiff could also have purchased a horse or linked together almost defunct stagecoach lines to reach Perry County, but he had come to see and experience. The weather appeared cooperative, providing sun and warmth, so he chose the canal route.

  Barges journeying downriver in the spring traveled irregularly. During the fall, cargoes of grain could hurry boats along, but most other loads avoided tight scheduling and chose almost random starts and rest stops.