Table of Contents
Foreword
Introduction
Chapter 1: 1830
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19: 1833 & 1836
Chapter 20: 1835
Chapter 21: 1833 & 1840
Chapter 22: 1833 & 1840
Chapter 23: 1842
Chapter 24: 1845
Chapter 25: 1846
Chapter 26: 1847
Chapter 27: 1847
Chapter 28
Chapter 29: 1849
Chapter 30: 1850
Chapter 31: 1850
Chapter 32: 1855 – 1862
Chapter 33: June 1863
About Roy Chandler
Books by Roy Chandler
Foreword
As I read Shatto for the first time two very brief, but true, accounts of exceptional courage and determination kept recurring to my mind.
Amundsen, the bold arctic explorer who found the northwest passage, was dog-teaming and walking his way back to his ship, frozen in the arctic ice some six hundred miles north of Eagle, Alaska, where Amundsen had gone in order to telegraph his society the news of his discovery, when he detected, far away on the bleak, frozen tundra a tiny black spot etched on the stark whiteness. Hours later, he could distinguish that the spot was a lone man pulling a sledge and sometime later, he reports, he came face to face with a single man pulling a sledge of mail, who was not in the least impressed or concerned that he was hundreds of miles from the nearest human and was simply, in his own mind, performing an assigned, regular task.
Amundsen, the intrepid explorer, was greatly impressed, and wrote later that " . . .should we have more such men, struck from the same stuff, we shall surely go to the moon."
John Coulter accompanied Lewis and Clark on their historic exploratory trip of the northwest as a hunter, trapper, guide, interpreter, and mountain man. On the return trip, Coulter asked permission to leave the party and ". . . scout around north of here for furs and such. Coulter left, alone and with few provisions, to scout the area we now know as Yellowstone. Self-sufficient?
Why have I told you of Coulter and the unnamed mailman? Because as I read about Robbie in Shatto by Roy F. Chandler, I felt as though I were visiting with another courageous and bold spirit—a spirit as tough and free and self-sufficient as we will ever see. A spirit that is virtually extinct without ever having had the distinction of being placed on an "endangered species" list. Let your imagination have free rein. Be free and bold. Enjoy this story.
You will recall that we first met Robbie Shatto in Arrowmaker, when old Rob trained his favorite grandson in the ways of the woods and Indians. We meet again the spirited Blue Moccasin from The Black Rifle, still spirited; and visit again in the familiar countryside of Perry County, Pennsylvania.
Speaking of Perry County countryside, I know of three people who know the exact location of the buried gold cache. I am one of them; and I have permission to give you this hint: if you draw a line from the square in Bloomfield to Saville; the gold lies within twenty feet of that line. If you can't find the gold, keep buying Chandler's books. A complete set in good condition is valued at about fourteen thousand 2012 dollars—a nice little cache in itself!
Arthur B. Troup, Jr.
Introduction
As author, I can only hope that you have read the novels already a part of this Perry County series. To know what has gone before will enrich this book and add meaning that others will miss.
Shatto is the sequel to Arrowmaker. That novel, written in 1975, ended with old Rob Shatto's death in 1820 and young Rob's departure for the Shining Mountains. The Black Rifle sort of paralleled Arrowmaker and included some of the same characters. Shatto and a few others tie it all together.
I have written these novels, and included them as increasingly important parts of my Perry County series, for a number of reasons. For example:
Storytelling will help increase readership, which in turn will create interest in the "fact" books of the series. Novels can often describe life styles of a time more thoroughly (and perhaps, for many, more engagingly) than can antique, historical, or photographic collections. Fact and fiction can complement each other and together give Perry County, Pennsylvania a series of books unmatched by any other county in our commonwealth. It might be true that this series will be unique even within our entire nation. Frankly, I like that thought.
These are not "troublesome" novels. I write to inform and to entertain, not to appall, disgust or distress. I want the reader to enjoy these stories and to like the people in them. The result should be an increasing appreciation for, and understanding of our heritage.
Too often, in a popular novel, nothing seems clear cut. No one is good or bad. Nothing is plainly right or wrong. Motives are blurred and confused. The story is obscured by endless descriptions of what someone thought, might have thought, or would never have thought. The plot probably runs a poor third behind the author's enjoyment of clever phrasing and artful meanderings.
Obviously, my novels do not fit the above descriptions. My heroes are clear and my villains, unmistakable. I can only declare that it is my wish to deliver a rousing yarn, to spin a tale that holds the reader by its story, not by titillation through cute wording, artificially profundic (a neat little word that I created to exemplify the point) reasoning, or semantic gymnastics.
I do not wish my readers to "exasperatedly" flip pages to get past lengthy, but barely relevant, vagaries that seem included more because I enjoyed composing them than for their promotion of the story.
Although this novel is intended to accurately depict an earlier time, and many of the inclusions have been plucked from actual happenings, I am not writing history. I am an author, not an historian. Although I attempt to interest our people in their heritage, and consider that interest vital to retention of that heritage, I do not possess the credentials of a dedicated scholar. I simply wish to tell an interesting tale.
I think you will enjoy Shatto. I think you will like Rob Shatto and the folks around him. Some of the people in this story existed and flourished in our county. Cadwallader Jones did work for our county government and his signature is on some Perry County scrip. Doctor Jonas Ickes is a well-documented figure. Researcher Don Briner located a photograph of Doctor Ickes taken during his later years in Illinois. I include it because it is the only known picture of Jonas Ickes, and a few thousand copies will help insure that it will not be lost or forgotten.
As usual, I have used current place names even though they were not in use one hundred and fifty some years ago. It is doubtful that many names will change again, so our great grandchildren will still recognize the ridges, valleys, and towns as we knew them.
Roy F Chandler
Author
At Bob Shearer's cabin on the Juniata River
Doctor Jonas Ickes, as he was in his later years in Illinois.
Doctor Ickes was born in 1793 and was still living at age 94.
We assume he is buried near his final home in Illinois.
Chapter 1: 1830
The old man saw dust rising long before the traveler came into view. Most wouldn't have noticed the few dust motes rising on hot summer air but after a lifetime of watch
ing and looking, a man got so he saw things others passed by.
First, he had seen birds flying off the path of the valley road, so he knew something was coming his way. Then, he saw the dust, and out of long habit, he moved into deeper shadows of the chestnut grove.
It wasn't necessary, of course. There hadn't been much trouble in Sherman's Valley in over forty years. Hadn't been a hostile in all of Pennsylvania since the turn of the century, thirty years past now. Fact was, nobody even carried a gun anymore, except himself and them damned Ruby's that had drifted into the county.
A horse and rider appeared well up the road and he spied a packhorse trailed close behind. His interest quickened as the horses showed to be more than a mite different than any he had seen before. Their markings ended in spotted rumps and haunches—as though someone had daubed paint on them. He figured himself as experienced a judge of horseflesh as most around, but the markings were new to him.
He put the horses aside as the rider drew closer and he felt his breath grow a little tight in his chest. It wasn't that the rider wore Indian-decorated skins. That still turned up occasionally. It was more the look of the man.
The rider had come a long way—that was plain enough. His body slumped easy, rocking gentle without any of the stiff-backed prancing the locals liked to put on.
The man rode with one leg hooked over his saddle and a rifle lay across his lap as though it belonged there. A glint of reflected light showed a tomahawk thrust into the rider's belt, and the watcher felt a touch of kindred spirit. He had carried a tomahawk that way for many a season himself. The horses walked awful soft, so he knew they weren't shod. That was the old Indian way.
Although a wide-brimmed, slouch hat shaded the rider's features, the old man figured as how there was something familiar that he ought to be recognizing. He watched expectantly with an old man's patience, waiting until the rider cleared the closer woods and he could look him over better.
+++++
The horseman came into view, slipping lightly to the ground to let the horses snuffle water from the stream. The Little Juniata Creek wasn't more than a big step wide here a mile above the village. The rider stood with the horses between himself and the closest cover. The old man wondered if that was accidental or just natural care from years of living close to danger. When the rider's eyes swept across his own spot, the old man knew it was no accident, and that quick, he knew who had come riding home after ten years or so in the western mountains.
He watched a little while, just pleasuring himself in seeing how the boy had grown into a man. He was a big'un all right! Not quite as heavy as his great grand Pap, but with the same powerfully muscled frame with big hands and thick wrists.
When the man knelt to drink, the watcher saw that he moved with the same panther-like smoothness he remembered in his old friend, and he found himself wondering anew how such big men could move so quick and easy.
He could wait no longer, so he pursed his lips and let the old owl hoot float across the valley.
Instantly, the rider disappeared. His body seemed to melt into the long, summer grass. After a little, an owl hooted back a good distance from where he had taken cover, and the old man grinned to himself. He hadn't seen a blade or twig move.
''Jack? That's got to be you up in them chestnuts."
The old man nodded contentedly and stepped into view. He raised his old black rifle over his head in greeting and called, "Waugh, Robbie Shatto!
"Git on up here and greet your old friend like you ought to."
+++++
When the owl hooted, Rob Shatto had been thinking about Jack Elan. He had been wondering if the old man was still alive and he was remembering the times when his great grand Pap, Elan and a few others had taught him the old ways and talked long of how it had been during the first years north of Kittatinny Mountain.
He saw the lean old figure step from concealment with his black gun held high in greeting. An unexpected thickness tugged the back of his throat and he gulped it away, surprised that his feelings would break through after all he had seen and done.
Never a big man, old Jack looked much the same. Elan must be more than ninety years old by now. He just might be the last of the ones that first came into these endless mountains. It was good to lay his eyes on his old friend.
Rob stepped across the brook, letting his horses stand ground hitched. He could feel the old man's eyes measuring him and judging what he had turned out to be. Didn't bother him any. He knew pretty well how tall he stood and was content with it.
They gripped hands, keeping strong feelings hidden, and gathering Rob's horses they headed for Jack's cabin, walking slow and catching up on the other's life.
+++++
Elan's cabin was sixty or so years old. The peeled logs had darkened until their color closely matched the black earth of the surrounding forest.
Rob bent to clear the low doorway recalling how Elan's Martha had so often struck her head on the heavy lintel and had just as often let her husband know her feelings on the matter. Martha was long in her grave and with his wife's passing, Jack Elan had sort of ground to a halt as though nothing mattered too much thereafter.
Robbie Shatto loved the old cabin. In his boyhood, he had visited often at Elan's. Jack had helped old Rob teach him frontier ways and he expected that some of that learning had helped him through more than one tight situation.
The cabin was dim inside. Although some of the original loopholes had been cut away and windows let in they were small, and a man felt his way around during daylight about like he did at night when the fat lamps glowed.
The cabin smell was the same. Rob knew the mixture of smoke, skins, cooked meat, and human sweat as familiar odors of most cabins, whether in Perry County, Pennsylvania or his own cramped quarters in the high meadows of the distant Rockies. Smells were important to a frontiersman. A man got to using his nose about as good as an animal did. It warned when things weren't right just as it could tell friend from stranger in the dark.
White men smelled of gunpowder, leather, and horses. Indian scent had more smoke and animal grease mixed in, but Rob liked that, too. If a man worked he sweated. If he lived on the frontier, he wore hides or homespun, and he soaked up a lot of wood smoke. Raised among people that opened new lands and bared new ground, Rob Shatto preferred the ways and the smells of the frontier. He wasn't much familiar with the scented and powdered city people. Old Rob hadn't bothered with them, and his great grandson shared that disinterest.
Elan's cabin was laid up of foot thick logs that had been flattened a little top and bottom. The low-pitched roof was shingled with cedar shakes so long exposed that moss had grown and died often enough to leave a thick layer of humus.
A large chimney opened into a fireplace capable of devouring huge logs. It was cluttered with cranes, trammels, and chains for holding pots and kettles. Elan's bed appeared to be an uneven pile of furs and blankets lumped in a far corner, and Rob supposed that as his joints and muscles stiffened the old man had abandoned the sleeping loft.
The table was the one Rob remembered from his boyhood. Log legs had been driven deep into the packed earth floor and the top was made of two thick planks worn smooth by a lifetime of use.
Elan leaned his black rifle in a chimney corner and sank gratefully into an old ladder-back chair to which rockers had been added. Rob chose to sit before the empty hearth, legs crossed Indian fashion, letting the feeling of arriving home settle into his bones, as though some inside cord long twisted and tight had begun to loosen.
"Been a lot o' changes in these parts since you went west, Robbie. New towns are cropping up, new people're moving in, and a lot o' the early folks're movin' out."
He paused to ruminate. "Expect I don't like it as much as I used to. Reckon that's the way of all of us though. Change don't rest easy on older folks. We get to thinking our ways is the only ways. We ain't always right, I suppose, but I'd make it like it used to be if I could."
He turned his tho
ughts to Rob. "Well boy, it's been ten years since old Rob passed on and you lit out for them Shinin' Mountains. Suppose you've seen a powerful number of sights and moved across more miles than most of us can even imagine. You're going to have to pass on a lot o' stories to cover them ten years, Robbie, and I'm hopin' they're good yarns. 'Cept for them damn Rubys, there ain't been much excitement touching these valleys."
Rob grinned, remembering the man's pleasure in a good story. "Reckon I have a few tales, Jack. Mostly though, I've just been roaming around, looking at the lands and the Indians. Big country, Jack! So big, a man can't get a proper grip on it.
"I trailed west into the Rockies as eager as a bear cub at a honey tree. Looking back, I figure I got stung about as near bad, too.
"I can't begin to tell you all that I saw out there. The land is too big for describing. Why, there are more Injun tribes than a man can count. Seems as though half the tribes that lived back here raised their lodges again in the Shining Mountains.
"There are more mountain ranges than there are Indians and more rivers than there are hills. Getting there, a man rides the plains for weeks with his horse the highest thing as far as the eye can see. When you sight the mountains it still takes days of riding to reach 'em.
"These Alleghenies wouldn't make foothills for those real mountains. It's an all stood on end kind o' country, Jack, mountains with snow on year round and valleys so high that breathing comes hard.
"I swear it's true, Jack, that I saw a lake so salt a man couldn't sink in it. I saw a canyon with cliffs raising on both sides a mile high.
On the plains, there are buffalo in herds so big you can't see across them and the mountains are crowded with moose, elk and sheep. Why Jack, they've got bears out there that are bigger than oxen and their tempers aren't too good either."
Rob paused to sum up his thoughts. "It's almost too much of a country for a man to stand, Jack. It's got more than anyone's got a right to expect."
Shatto (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 1