Shatto (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series)

by Roy F. Chandler

  "Well, the fact is Shatto, my brother an' old pap might still be drinkin'. Findin' 'em in that shape wouldn't do no good, no how. No siree." He firmed up his argument. "Wouldn't do no good a'tall, that wouldn't.

  "I'm headin' into Newport my ownself. Thought we might ride on a'ways together seein' you're headin' that way."

  Rob gathered Asaf Ruby had more talking to do, and while he didn't hanker for the man's company, he figured the real reason for Ruby's presence on the valley road hadn't come out yet. Rob reckoned he ought to learn what he could.

  They turned their horses together, Rob holding the gelding to the farm horse's pace and Ruby apparently content to let his animal walk. Rob elected to ride to Asaf's right where the muzzles of his short, double-barreled rifle lay across his saddle pointing in Ruby's general direction.

  If Asaf Ruby minded the obvious threat of Rob's rifle he didn't show it, and he appeared content as they broke from the tree shadow into the brightness of the long meadow.

  Instinctively, Rob let his eyes study the borders of the field, but he kept Ruby close in mind. He listened to the back trail, but they were not being followed.

  He turned toward Ruby, shifting in his saddle a mite, and caught a gleam of malignant triumph in the man's eyes even as Ruby reined his horse away from Rob's gelding.

  Rob reacted with an instinct born of years of mountain survival. He had no time to figure how, but he was instantly certain he had been tricked. His heels drove into the gelding's ribs and he leaned hard toward the suddenly panicking Ruby who clawed frantically at the strap holding his shotgun.

  The gelding jumped, startled by its rider's hard jab, and sidled crossways along the road. Rob's rifle was coming up when a tremendous blow sledged the wind from his lungs and drained his strength, turning his vision instantly fuzzy, and Rob could feel himself losing the saddle. He saw Ruby's rising shotgun and the man's flaring triumph, but as he fell, Rob eared back a rifle hammer and squeezed a trigger. He toppled into his own cloud of powder smoke hearing a grunt of anguish and the blast of Ruby's shotgun.

  Unable to break his fall, he hit hard, and felt his rifle skittering away. He knew he had been shot, but his mind was on Asaf Ruby, who suddenly thumped down through the smoke cloud stone-dead, with part of his face blown away.

  Rob's thinking was blurring, and he couldn't seem to do much to clear it. He knew he ought to be trying to get his rifle and find some kind of cover, but a thick weakness was soaking through his body leaving him too weary to move. He had felt it before—the time he had taken the war arrow, and once before that when he had been all set to give up and die in the killing cold on a high pass.

  Whew, that had been a time! He remembered how old Bogard had leaned over and breathed right in his face saying, "It only takes a little extra to keep alive, Younker." He had gotten himself together, and they had fought on through.

  Rob could smell the grass crushed beneath him, and he could feel his shoulder hurt where he had landed on it. He guessed he hadn't been laying long. He focused his eyes on Asaf's dead features, recognizing that his shot had gone as true as could be, and he heard distant yelling. After a moment the drum of a horse running came through the ground into his ear, and he knew that whoever had shot him was coming hard to make sure.

  "It only takes a little more to keep livin'," Bogard had said. Rob forced an arm weighing a long ton behind his back to the short-barreled pistol. The gun slid smoothly from its leather. He cocked the hammers against his thigh and struggled to roll onto his back. The rider seemed about on him, but the tall grass hid his movements.

  The horse thundered to a halt, and the rider hit the ground running. Rob squirmed desperately to work into a position where he could see, but the weakening numbness made him terrible slow.

  He heard the rider shouting "Asaf," and all of a sudden, Grandon Ruby was standing near looking down on both men.

  Rob was still struggling to get turned when Asaf's brother appeared. Grandon's eyes took them both in and his long rifle came up lightning fast, Rob looked into the yawning muzzle and down the length of brown barrel to Grandon's glaring eye. Unable to pull himself clear, he saw the rifle's hammer fall. The resulting flash of the flint on an empty pan astounded them both. With a frustrated snarl, Grandon Ruby reversed his rifle and swung the heavy butt for a crushing blow.

  The blast of Rob's pistol took him near the middle sending him staggering about and clutching his stomach. Rob barely hung onto the recoiling gun, but finally fought it level and fired the second barrel into Ruby's chest.

  Still the man refused to go down. His feet stumbled in a mad dance that took him in senseless directions. Too weak to do more, Rob could only watch the ambusher's final struggles. Balance finally deserted him, and Grandon Ruby sprawled heavily beside his dead brother. From where he lay, Rob could see the cluster of holes where his charges had driven home. Ruby's chest remained unmoving and Rob knew he was dead.

  They lay in silence, two dead and one still stunned by the impact of a rifle ball. Rob felt no pain. He knew that would come later after the initial shock wore away—providing he was still able to feel anything.

  He could feel some strength returning, but so far he could only hope he wasn't hit so bad he couldn't get to his horse, or that his life's blood wasn't leaking unseen into the rich earth. He scrabbled around, trying to see if he was bleeding badly. His shirt was soggy all right, and trying to sit up left him dizzy. He figured he had better wait a spell until the worst of the weakness passed. He lay back trying to relax and gather all of the strength he could. Flies already buzzing at the Ruby bodies reminded him of the other time.

  +++++

  The horses were heavy, laden with the gold picked from the Uintah ledges. Old Bogard's horses were about sway-backed and hock-buckled from the load the old mountain man had slung on them.

  They'd been moving extra careful, avoiding contact with Indians or even the few whites they knew along the way.

  The Sioux war party had popped out of a ravine across their line of march without so much as a fly giving warning. One minute the plain looked empty, the next, a dozen-and-a-half well-mounted warriors were looking at them from way too close for comfort.

  Generally speaking, mountain men did not run from Indians. First, because it only got the warriors excited and made a fight right certain. There also was the matter of any pair of Green River boys figuring they were equal to almost any number of red sticks, anyway. Still, when eighteen or so painted Sioux came sudden across your path, it was good thinking to get something thick and strong to stand behind.

  A way off to the right a cluster of boulders offered close shelter, and old Bogard was turning his horses that way about as quick as Rob was. The Sioux looked as surprised at the meeting as the mountain men. Their numbers caused them to mill a moment, but then they came with a rush all screeching and unlimbering bows and lances.

  Rob was doing best with his lighter-loaded horses and he pulled up to let old Bogard labor on by. An arrow came close, signaling that it wasn't just a horse race, and Rob emptied the leading pony with one barrel of the Shuler rifle and spilled a horse and rider with the second.

  Old Bogard was off his animal by then. He was kneeling and aiming his big Hawken as Rob went by and into the rocks. The blast of the .50 caliber was quickly followed by the lighter report of the old hunter's second rifle.

  Rob swung a leg across his gelding and hit the ground dumping powder wildly down the Shuler barrels. Some got in and he dropped loose-fitting balls atop the unmeasured charges while he thumped the butt on the ground to knock powder into the pans.

  Old Bogard seemed surrounded by Indians on horses, and Rob plunged toward his partner lending his own scalping cry to the din. Horses lunged and reared, so Rob knew Bogard was working on them with his knife and tomahawk. He dove into the melee emptying his rifle at painted figures, getting his pistol out, and swinging his own tomahawk at everything within reach.

  He came up against Bogard with a crash and th
ey turned instinctively back-to-back. There was blood on the old man but he was still on his feet, swinging and yelling.

  They got a little daylight and charged toward the rock pile trying to reach any Indians in the way. The braves in front broke away or went down, and the rocks were there looming big and comforting,

  Rob could see two arrows hanging loosely in the back of Bogard's hunting shirt and guessed they hadn't done much damage. He thought maybe he was bleeding some himself because he felt streaks of fire burning here and there.

  The arrow drove into his back with a shock that straightened him clear up and bent him back like a tight strung bow. All his air went out and he turned numb all over. He guessed he was still standing, because old Bogard was looking at him at about the right height, but he felt awful slow and ponderous.

  Bogard spun him around and ripped the arrow out of his back. The arrtowhead stayed in, and he could hear Bogard cussing as he flung the shaft aside.

  They remembered the Indians and got to work reloading. There seemed fewer of them than there had been, but being numb like he was, Rob couldn't think too clear about it.

  The warriors came again, and they both shot straight and true breaking the charge just as it reached the rocks. The Sioux rode off a distance to talk it over, and Rob found he could breathe again with a lot of pain starting in his back.

  He turned to old Bogard and found him slumped against a rock with his eyes already glazing. Blood still gouted from where an arrow or lance had sliced half his neck away, and he died while Rob was trying to comprehend it.

  The Sioux were busy chanting and arguing, so Rob took Bogard's weapons and his scalp, so the Indians couldn't claim them, and got ready to ride out.

  He dumped Bogard's gold and spread his own on three horses. Riding the fourth he headed out the back of the boulder field and had a good lead before the Sioux woke up.

  With his better horses, the warriors could not hope to catch up, and they soon turned back to hack up old Bogard's body. Rob rode with nagging pain in his back, but his other wounds proved small. Flies gathered and clustered in huge numbers on his blood-soaked shirt and swatting at them didn't do much good. He got to thinking that every fly on the Great Plains had come buzzing over to torment him.

  The stone arrowhead ground into him with every stride no matter how he paced the horse, but he kept at it a day and all night until he reached a small Arapahoe village. A squaw worked the arrowpoint free from where it had wedged between two ribs and he felt like he might live after all. He gave the squaw Bogard's scalp as thanks and figured his old pard would have liked that.

  +++++

  Thinking about how hard it had been that other time made it seem easier now.

  Rob judged by the sun that he had been resting more than a few minutes. He again tried sitting up, and after a moment's dizziness felt strong enough to stay there.

  He rested some more looking at the two bodies and wondering what to do about them. The obvious answer was to ride on in and tell how it happened. Rob reasoned that there were two troubles with that. First of all he could not be sure that his version of the shooting would be accepted. People unaccustomed to killing might find it hard to believe that he had done in two men after being shot himself.

  Then, there were more Rubys! As sure as he sat here, they would be laying for him till hell froze over. He judged they wouldn't be any more interested in fair fight than this pair had.

  It seemed plain enough that Asaf and Grandon Ruby had better just disappear—permanently. He wondered if he could pull off such a disappearance, and he lay back to gather strength while he planned it out.

  By the time he had figured out a good way, Rob had also decided he wasn't hurt too bad to try. Bleeding seemed to have stopped, and the pain was mostly a heavy throb. When he stood up it snatched his breath away, but he was ready for it and kept his wits about him.

  The gelding stood rock solid, ground anchored by the dropped reins. A mountain man rode with his rein ends separated. If a rider lost his saddle for any reason, a rein would drop and the horse would stop and stand. Rob thanked his stars for not abandoning the practice.

  Both Ruby horses grazed not far distant, and Asaf's animal allowed Rob's approach. The blood smell made Grandon's animal skittish, but it didn't go far.

  Getting the two bodies slung across Asaf's horse finished everything Rob had in reserve. He finished leaning against the gelding, wheezing, gasping, and too beaten to even mount.

  It took too long getting into the saddle. He feared being seen by a traveler on the valley road. When he finally made it, Rob crawled onto the horse as though he had passed his hundredth year. One arm was stiffening and getting hard to move, but he gathered his reins and led Asaf's burdened animal into the woods north of the road. He hoped to Hannah neither body slipped, as he doubted he could ever get them reloaded.

  Grandon Ruby's horse followed along but never got too close. That suited Rob just fine. He sat within the woods edge for a few minutes, making sure that no one had seen him and thinking back to make certain he hadn't left a hat or something that could mark the spot. Except for trampled grass and blood smears, things looked all right. A frontiersman could easily work out the story, but no farmer or townsman was likely to notice. If they did, they would figure a hunter had taken a deer.

  There was quite a way to go but Rob took it slowly. He husbanded his limited energies and watched to see that he was alone. He kept to the woods and followed game trails and relied on youthful memories to find his way.

  +++++

  The crevice lay on the north side of Limestone Ridge. As a boy, Rob had slithered into the crack in the ground testing its depth and hoping for a hidden cavern leading into the earth's mysterious bowels. There were no caves however, just the long narrow crack, as though a drying earth had parted beneath a summer's baking heat.

  He found the crevice easily enough and it was as deep as he remembered it. He tumbled the stiffening bodies from the horse, dragged them to the lip and toppled them into the darkness.

  He had to rest awhile, his small strength quickly spent. Then, using only his good arm, he stripped saddles, bridles, and blankets from the Ruby horses and dropped everything atop their owners. The rifle and shotgun followed, leaving only the horses in evidence.

  The Ruby mounts seemed content to stand near Rob's gelding and he turned his efforts to dumping earth and fallen timber into the slit earth until he felt the bodies to be deeply buried.

  A need to rest had come on him increasingly often, and although he had worked slowly his clothing was sweat-soaked and the pain in his side had grown to throbbing fire.

  Mounting the gelding was again unexpectedly awkward, but once astride, he was able to relax and plan his next move.

  He doubted there was a tracker other than Jack Elan who could trace the horses to the crevice, but he wanted the Ruby mounts found well away where no one would examine limestone ridge.

  Reluctantly, he led off to the north heading toward the headwaters of the Big Buffalo Creek. Avoiding trails and making sure he was unseen took a long hour. The Ruby horses finally scented the water and clopped on ahead to nuzzle and slurp in the stream. Rob edged away then, making sure the docile animals did not follow.

  He settled himself in the saddle, resigned to a long, painful and circuitous route to Jack Elan's. His side felt afire, but riding easily, he guessed he could make it. The important thing was not to be seen up close where his blood-sopped hunting clothes would raise questions.

  +++++

  Jack Elan knew about bullet wounds. When Robbie Shatto came stumbling and dragging to the cabin, the old hunter did the important things first.

  He got Rob's shirt off and saw that the wound wasn't bleeding hard. He gave Robbie a stiff jolt of John Bower's good whiskey and watched color come back to Rob's features.

  He left Rob sipping at cold spring water while he took the blood-soaked clothing outside and burned it all. He looked over the horse real close for bloodstains,
but except for a few on the saddle which he wiped away, the gelding appeared clean. He unsaddled and turned the horse into the pasture.

  Rob had explored his wound with his own fingers, but waited stoically while Elan made his own examination.

  "Huh, looks to me like the ball hit your ribs and slid along your side. That hard lump in front is probably the ball layin' just under the skin."

  He poked about some more. "Chances are one or more ribs is busted, but it don't look like the bullet got into a gut."

  "Pears to me that if we just cut that ball out, you got good prospects." He added, "That's one good thing about wearin' a leather huntin' shirt. Whole mess o'cloth don't get carried inside to poison a man."

  Rob got himself propped where Elan could see and reach easily. He offered his razor-edged blade but Elan preferred his own familiar knife. Rob took another strong pull on the jug and gritted his teeth anticipating the bite of the knife's edge.

  Elan's cut was quick and only as deep as need be. Rob grunted a little and sweat popped on him again, but it was not as fierce as he had feared. He supposed his side was already more than a little numb.

  Elan leaned close and flicked the ball neatly into his free hand. He slopped John Bower's whiskey lavishly into both exit and entrance wounds, and Rob groaned and thrashed, and growled menacingly. Unperturbed, Elan held the ball to the light and spat into his hearth reflectively.

  "Yep Robbie, 'bout as I figured it. Damn little old squirrel gun! Damn fool goes in for killin' people he ought to know to use a bullet heavy enough to go on through. If whoever laid this ball into your back had been using a forty-five or fifty caliber, that little old rib wouldn't have turned it, and they'd be tampin' sod on you about now."

  Rob examined the ball and figured it for maybe a .36 caliber. Old Jack was right. A bigger bullet would have done him in. The Rubys had paid heavily for relying on a light rifle. He let Elan wrap his body tightly, and like a wounded grizzly Rob crawled into Elan's tumbled blankets and furs to sleep away the pain and exhaustion.