Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier)

by Roy F. Chandler

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  With Chip gone, Ted had to make occasional runs into Santa Fe. If Beth wished to come in, Ted left Juan Santos to run the ranch and loaded his family into a spring wagon. On those trips he used a cordon of outriders all heavily armed and willing to fight anyone even looking hostile.

  On other trips, Ted came in, riding light, with only a companion or two. They trailed pack horses and loaded whatever supplies they needed for an equally swift return. Ted's business was usually with Manito De Castella, the son who had accepted Don Mano's mercantile as part of his inheritance.

  For nearly six years the De Castellas had enjoyed Ted Shatto's business. As a favored customer, Ted's requests were heeded and his needs anticipated. When he appeared unannounced on a cool spring morning, Manito De Castella dropped his intended schedule and sat down with his friend.

  Ted had only a single rider with him, so Manito knew the visit would be short.

  Within minutes, John P. Snyder also knew of Ted Shatto's arrival. His man went immediately to dig Jed Gooley from whatever bunk he had fallen into. Snyder waited impatiently to instruct Gooley in the few remaining details he had to know.

  Ted groaned in pretended misery as Manito balanced old Bogard's raw gold against the counter-weights that determined the number of Mexican Pesos he would use as a base of exchange.

  Ted leaned around the scale, glaring in blatant suspicion at De Castella's hands. "Dang it, Manito. Are you hooking a thumb over those scales? I swear I get fewer gold pieces every time I come in."

  Manito smiled beneath his thin and razor-straight mustache, teeth bright against brown skin and eyes shining with enjoyment of their badinage.

  "Now Ted, do I complain because your gold includes dirt and sand to add weight? No, I do not because you were the friend of my father." He smiled even wider. "And do not question the scale. It was carefully checked during my grandfather's time. Or was it in his father's youth?" Manito sighed heavily. "I am probably losing money each time we deal."

  Ted snorted and stuffed the heavy gold pieces into a wide money belt strapped beneath his shirt. "All I know, Manito, is that I come in dragging a saddle bag and leave with a belt so light nobody notices I've got it. If people would accept raw gold, I wouldn't have to make you rich every time I need cash."

  Manito shrugged with assumed indifference. "What is gold to hidalgos such as we, amigo? To ride great stallions and to wear fine clothes with buttons of silver, those are the real things of life."

  Ted looked ruefully at his thin and bleached out shirt. His eyes worked down across pants that were bagged and patched, to worn boots with run-over heels so scuffed that polish would be wasted. He got up, heavy with his gold coins, and slapped his battered hat against a dusty thigh.

  "Tell you what, Manito. We hidalgos—you and me that is—that don't care anything about gold are going out into your store where my man, Pedro Gonzalez, has been choosing a few ranch supplies. Now, when we get out there, amigo, you keep this hidalgo stuff in mind and don't worry about counting every little old thing that Pedro's included." He fixed Manito with a jaundiced eye. "Counting close is certain-sure beneath us high riding, fancy dressing kind o'men."

  Jed Gooley came quickly and John P. Snyder was pleased that he did not appear whiskey sick and hung over. Gooley's shooting eye needed to be clear and his thinking had to be sharp. The rewards promised Gooley for shooting true ought to be enough to keep anyone sober. Snyder judged Gooley was ready for the job and he carried his Sharps .45 caliber rifle, which showed he had guessed what he was being summoned for.

  Gooley came in the back door and Snyder hustled him into a side room where they could talk unheard and undisturbed.

  "All right, Jed, we've come down to it. Ted Shatto's in town. He's over at De Castella's loading supplies. He's only got one Mex with him so this is our chance.

  "Now we've ridden out twice to look at the right spot, so you know just where to lay and the exact instant to shoot. It'll only be one hundred yards so you can't miss. Don't get fancy, shoot him in the middle. When he's down, go in and shoot him twice more. Once with that Sharps is enough for a buffalo, but this time I want it finished.

  "When you're done, ride in through the draws, same way you went out. Put your horse in my stable. Rub him dry and get in here. I'll hide your rifle and you sit out in the bar. If anyone asks, I'll swear you were here all day and the bar man will back me up. Hell, half the drunks out there'll agree. They don't notice who comes and goes anyway."

  Snyder considered for a minute. "You're supposed to have Apaches to take down the Mexicans. Happens there's only one so they'll have it easy. Your men ready?"

  Gooley had only one man, a breed called Juan-Juan, camped out in the brush. He lied a little, because it wasn't important.

  "They're ready, Captain. They'll claim the hair and whatever else they want. Then they'll make for the mountains. I'll peel off on hard ground and anyone trying to follow will end up chasing shadows back in the wild country."

  Snyder nodded satisfaction. "You shoot first and you shoot straight so that this can't go wrong, Jed. Mark me, from then on, you'll be living fat and easy. You've got John P. Snyder's word on it."

  Gooley went out the back and Snyder settled into his office chair. Gooley wouldn't miss. The man could shoot and he didn't shake easy.

  Then? Well, Gooley would live well—for a little while, until after the ranch taking and probably into the big cattle drive. Then Gooley would get an ice pick in his ear, as any would who knew too much.

  John P. Snyder rocked on the back legs of his chair, gripping his stub with his good hand comfortably behind his neck. Next would be the swift move to take over the Arrowhead Ranch—before the Shatto woman could move any gold. He would claim to be protecting her interests with his volunteer horse. He could spread rumors of other Apache killings to make it look good. Who was there to question or rise up against him?

  Nobody!

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  Although he had planned to head straight back to the ranch, Ted got held up a few hours. Pedro Gonzalez discovered unexpected duties among his people and Manito De Castella had someone special for Ted to meet.

  Manito said, "Ted, this is The Scholar. He has a name but few use it. We call him The Scholar because he knows something about everything." Manito grinned, "And, he is willing to comment at great length on even the things he knows little about."

  If The Scholar was annoyed by De Castella's questionable introduction, his smile did not falter. His hand grip was firm and his voice manly. Ted saw a younger man, perhaps in his twenty-first year, slender, almost to the point of emaciation. Suntanned skin and an alert eye gave him presence.

  Manito continued, "The Scholar's interest to you is that he is a teacher and, like most teachers, he lacks students. After all, here among the totally unlearned, who can concern themselves with the foolishness of reading, writing, or the study of history? Instead, The Scholar places his gems of wisdom before the swine of Snyder's saloon or in even worse pens."

  The Scholar had heard enough and broke into De Castella's harangue. "Senor De Castella is mostly correct. Mister Shatto. I am a teacher, only a year out of Harvard College. My name is David Cooper and I was raised on Cape Cod in the Bay State. You are making my acquaintance because, in the east, I suffer severe asthma. To live I have been forced to seek this high and dry climate."

  Cooper's thin features widened with his smile. "And, it has worked. Here I have no congestion. It appears that if I can find employment I can survive." His hesitation was almost imperceptible. "And that is why Senor De Castella is subjecting you to this extended, and unnecessarily colorful description of me and my circumstances."

  Manito went on as though Cooper had not spoken. "Now Ted, you've talked for years about opening a school at your place." He spoke behind his hand in a stage whisper The Scholar was sure to hear. "He is desperate, amigo. He will work for nothing. Feed him beans and sour corn and he will follow you like an old ranch dog."

 
De Castella was right; Ted had long wished to have a school. Perhaps Cooper's arrival was fortuitous. Ted explained to The Scholar how he saw things.

  "The Arrowhead Ranch is as far out as you can get. Some might find it just as convenient to go in to the Denver settlement as to Santa Fe. To the east lies Apache country. Behind us are high mountains. We see few strangers and there are no neighbors.

  "We like it that way for now. Later, our own people will open the land to settlement. Someday we'll have a town. Which brings me to why I need a school.

  "Except for my wife and our children, everyone on our ranch is Mexican. Their language is Spanish and they too often think and act in the old peon ways. They cannot read or write and they count on their fingers. History is a word they've never heard and the only geography they know is what's around them.

  "I'm wishing to change all that. My hands will own cattle and land. I want them to think North American. They should learn about the world and understand their place in it. Part of it is, I want them to quit walking round-backed and bowing and hat-tipping to anybody with whiter skin or more silver on his belt.

  "We've made progress. They're already a few cuts above their relatives back here. Within the canyon we speak only English, but they've only Beth and me to use as examples. They should speak English naturally because that's the language that this land is going to use. Anyone that can't handle English is going to get walked on and will probably lose out. I'm figuring on preventing that.

  "Now, the best I'm willing to offer is food, shelter, and a hand's pay. I'll give you people to build your school and order in whatever slates, books, and maps you'll need. You'll teach all you can handle. Most will be children but you'll take on the grown-ups as well."

  Ted cleared his throat and expected he'd said about enough. "If you're interested and figure you can stick to it for a few years, now is the time to say so, because I've got riding to do. The only thing I've got to add is that I'll expect results. I don't intend having a lot of my people milling around, getting nowhere." He thought again. "A year from your arrival, I'll expect to hear English all the time. Otherwise, you'll have failed and can start hunting a new situation."

  David Cooper did not even hesitate. He stuck out a hand for shaking and said he wanted the position. They thrashed a few details and decided The Scholar would place orders for his school through Manito De Castella. In a week or two, Ted had a wagon load of empty bottles coming to the ranch. Cooper would travel on the wagon seat. Empty bottles? The Scholar longed to question but decided he would know in good time.

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  Jed Gooley found Juan-Juan's camp near a tiny seep well off the Taos trail. The breed Apache appeared from cover so sparse Gooley could not have expected concealment. Apaches scared Jed Gooley, and mixed breeds, like Coyote Boy and Juan-Juan, were the worst. Flat faced and expressionless as lizards, their eyes glittered like sun struck mica. Lank greasy hair and a body stink different from whites set them apart. Deadly as rattlers, they gave less warning and no more mercy. A terrible race of people, Gooley thought.

  Gooley was pleased Juan-Juan was his man for this job. The breed had a decent muzzle loading rifle and would not miss. Two against two, with him and the breed in close ambush? Juan-Juan would have whiskey and Gooley would enjoy the good life guaranteed by his captain.

  Gooley left his horse at the breed's seep and slipped into Apache moccasins. Whoever found Shatto's body would uncover no white sign. Gooley took only his Sharps and a few loads. Juan-Juan had his own rifle and the knife for scalping.

  Ted and his young Mexican rode from Santa Fe. There were a few hours of daylight left and they could move swiftly, knowing the horses were fresh and would have a full night's rest before dawn found them again on the trail. Each pack animal carried a one hundred and fifty pound load. In deadweight that was about all a horse could manage. Each pack trip, Ted thought about mules. Mules had a lot to recommend them. Stronger than horses, they could pack an additional fifty pounds and mules were more surefooted. They could be uncooperative however and some said one stubborn mule could turn a man against the breed for life.

  Ted led with Pedro Gonzalez behind. He rode easy in his saddle, pleased to be finished in the town. Old Santa Fe was being pushed aside by the North American instinct to hustle. The Mexican had been willing to drift but the American shoved. As one of the pushers, Ted understood the drive of ambition and resentment of needless delay, but the old ways, the old De Castella life, had been a comfort. Then, Ted had welcomed a night in town. Now, the saloons were too loud and the plaza promenading was only an echo of what had been.

  If he kept moving they would reach Taos ahead of schedule. They would not approach the pueblo, but its location marked half the distance to Falling Water. Falling Water, Ted liked the name for the ranch but everyone called it by the cattle brand, so the Arrowhead it had become.

  Ahead the road ran beside a washout, without curve for a half mile. Although rising, the land was flat and Ted kept his eye roving for dust or sign of life. Mostly, he watched the arroyo. It was the only cover around and he always thought of Pap's description of how mounted Sioux had come out of such a hollow to start the fight that put old Bogard under. He, Chip, and Beth had found that gully when searching for Bogard's gold and it looked a lot like this one. That incident was also a reminder to never overload a horse. If old Bogard had not weighed his animals down with gold, he and Pap could easily have outdistanced the Indian ponies. Of course, if that had happened, Ted, Beth, and Chip couldn't have come west and found the scattered wealth, and Falling Water would never have existed.

  Jed Gooley's shooting place was dug into the desert floor. It had been ready for months so no new dirt showed. Brush and grass crowded the sides so no sun sparkle could give him away. Across the road the arroyo ran deep. Likely Shatto's attention would be on it.

  Closer to Santa Fe, Juan-Juan lay in his place. Shatto and his man would ride past the breed. After Gooley plugged Ted Shatto, Juan-Juan would drop the Mexican. The plan was to tumble both bodies into the gully and walk the horses in at a low spot. When they were finished, they would ride out along the gully bottom. Jed would step off and Juan-Juan would take both horses and ride for the badlands.

  The scheme was simple and just about foolproof. Gooley's greatest worry was that Shatto might hook up with other travelers. Unlikely, but possible, Gooley would have to decide to shoot or wait for another time, waiting would infuriate Captain Snyder, so Jed worried a little about it.

  Gooley wanted a frontal shot. Shooting closely past the horse's neck, with his man riding almost straight in, Gooley could pick his instant. If for some reason he could not get a shot off, he might still rise up after Shatto passed and drill him hard from behind.

  There was dust down the trail and Gooley relaxed letting it come closer. Shatto came into view, riding at a fast walk, head turning, looking close. There was no way Shatto could see him. It made Gooley want to wriggle in satisfaction. He cocked the Sharps early, so he need make no motions when Shatto got close, and began easing his sights onto his target. Gooley waited, as patient as the breed, letting the distance close to the one hundred yards he wanted. The front sight slid down across Shatto's chest and settled on the body, center of mass, soldiers called it.

  Shatto rode into it, as unsuspecting as a parson on Main Street. Gooley's trigger finger tightened and he held the sights dead on until the hammer fell. Recoil jarred him and the report shocked his ears but through the gunsmoke he saw the soft lead bullet sledge into Ted Shatto and slam him double, so hard that his head fell to his knee and his hat dropped into the road. As limp as death, the stricken rider lost his reins and slid from the saddle. The dropped reins stopped the horse and Shatto struck the earth, sodden as a flour bag, and lay sprawled with a foot still twisted in a stirrup.

  Gooley reloaded like lightning. He dropped the Sharps' lever and stuffed a paper cartridge into the chamber. Without looking down he closed the block and replaced the fired percussion cap. He k
new his shot had been perfect but he took no chances.

  Juan-Juan's aim had been just as good. The Mexican was face down in a heap and the breed was coming up from his hiding, knife in hand.

  Gooley hadn't heard the breed's shot but now he hurried to prevent Juan-Juan from butchering the dead in the middle of the trail. First, pitch them into the gully as planned and quickly obliterate any incriminating sign. Then, the half- breed could cut and hack to his heart's content.

  Jed Gooley spared his shooting spot only a glance. He had not smoked or chewed. Even if someone worked it all out, the ambush would still look Apache.

  He called to the breed to catch the Mexican's horse which was acting skittish. He wanted no time wasted rounding up panicked animals. Shatto's pack animal was prancing about, tugging at the line looped around Shatto's saddle, but the Appaloosa riding horse stood like a statue. A hell of a fine animal, Gooley thought, and wished he dared keep it. Juan-Juan would probably eat the horse once he was into the mountains. Gooley sighed, but horses came and went, there would be others.

  He held his rifle ready as he got close. Shatto would not need a second and third bullet, as Captain Snyder had ordered, but Gooley would do as he was told, after the bodies were dumped into the arroyo.

  Gooley took a quick look up and down the trail. No dust rose and Juan-Juan was quieting the Mexican's horse. Jed Gooley took a hand off his rifle and reached for the Appaloosa's reins.

  Alert as a threatened cat and still charged by the success of his ambush, Gooley saw Ted Shatto's body move. Gooley's mind did not dwell on the impossibility of it, or that the motion could be due to the Appaloosa shifting its weight. He dropped the rein and leveled his rifle, thumbing to full cock in the same instant, his trigger finger already squeezing.

  The heavy .457 caliber Sharps bullet blasted Ted Shatto dead center, just above the belt buckle. The tremendous smash set him back in his saddle and paralyzed his body. His mind reasoned and his eyes focused, but his muscles were like lard and he saw himself sag forward and slide off the horse like a dropped meal bag. He hit loosely, unable to save himself, and lay half on his back, looking up at his foot still trapped in a stirrup.