Ted guessed he had been body shot and had been hit killing hard. Despite numbness, the stamp of their horse's hooves on the earth vibrated through his skull and he wondered about it—until a tremendous jolt of belly agony snapped his mind awake.
The pain was internal and his body lay inert. Yet . . . feeling was returning. Pain from his twisted leg touched him and he felt the grind of something sharp into an arm He lay upon. There was movement near the edge of his vision and a voice called in Spanish; instant fear further woke his thinking. Enemy approached and Ted Shatto stilled the slightest life signs. He was probably blown apart but he could feel his right hand lying free and close beside it would be his holstered pistol.
He listened with closed eyes until the soft footsteps paused almost over him. He managed to peer from one eye, concealed by his head's twisted position. He saw moccasined feet and feared his heart leap might show against his shirt, but the feet shifted a little and the barrel of a lowered rifle entered Ted's narrow view.
It took all of his courage to make his move, other guns might be pointing down on him or his pistol belt might have moved beyond quick reach, but he had at least an instant of chance.
Ted snatched at his gun. His hand closed gratefully around the walnut grips and his thumb eared back the hammer as he drew. His actions felt ox slow but he focused both eyes on the rifle carrier's chest and aimed by instinct.
Gooley's mind registered the rise of the revolver in Shatto's hand, seeing it cocked and realizing with a disbelieving corner of thought that he was already too late. He saw the bloom of smoke and flame at the Colt's muzzle and suffered a staggering blow to the chest. Gooley fought his eyes back to the sprawled figure, with a foot still trapped in a stirrup, and struggled to raise his rifle, grown monstrously heavy.
Ted's mind saw the ambusher's desperate move to raise his rifle, but the pistol bucked first and dust leaped in the center of the rifleman's chest. Ted thumbed to full cock and slammed a second shot but his haste drew it a little and the heavy ball struck off center.
Gooley was hit again, this time turned, and his legs took him in a stumble away from the horse. A failing grip let the rifle fall and he did not feel the third bullet that entered his side and expanded deep within his chest. When Gooley fell, his face smashed the hard earth with bone breaking force, but life had already departed.
Busy with the horse, the half-breed Apache ignored the first shot, supposing Gooley was following his plan. The second and then a third shot, fired closely, jerked him around. Juan-Juan saw Gooley falling and the white's pistol still high in recoil. As instinctive as a cougar, the breed leaped at the trapped white. His maniacal shriek sent horses plunging and dancing. Even the Appaloosa shied a startled step as the breed lunged, unloaded rifle forgotten, knife ready, held low for cutting.
The action had used but seconds and Ted still lay on his back, leg trapped, with pain knotting his guts. As the ambusher crashed to the ground a mind shocking shriek rent the silence and the Appaloosa moved a little as Ted sought to see. With his head rolled awkwardly back, so that his eyes looked almost behind him, Ted half saw, half sensed, a figure lunging at him. He pointed his pistol, upside down, just above his own face and dropped the hammer. It was a desperate effort, a shot possible because of thousands of others fired since he was large enough to hold a gun.
It was not a perfect shot. Blast from the pistol cylinder stung Ted's face making it hard to see, but the lead slug slammed into Juan-Juan's right shoulder. It destroyed the joint and flung the breed's arm so that the knife was lost. The breed took a moment while his eyes searched for the blade. When he looked again, the white had rolled onto his belly and Juan-Juan saw death in the pistol pointing at him.
Ted's position was agonizing; every part of him seemed twisted and strained. The Colt wobbled almost uncontrollably and he saw the Indian setting himself to come again. The distance was only a dozen feet, so Ted shot. It was his fifth and last bullet because no one was foolish enough to carry his gun with a fully loaded chamber beneath a hammer.
Ted played it safe and aimed well below the attacker's throat. The bullet stopped the new charge as it began. He saw the Indian look downward at the almost unnoticeable hole nearly centered in his chest. A hand lifted as though to touch the wound, even as the legs folded. For an unbalanced moment the Indian appeared to sit in a disconsolate heap, then he fell sideward, limp and dead looking.
Ted Shatto realized he was gulping for air. He struggled to free his foot from the stirrup but lacked the strength to get up. He felt as though a dozen other Apaches would leap on him any instant, though reason told him that he would already be dead if more were nearby.
He could not understand how he lived. Gut shot, with heavy pain m his middle, he seemed to be regaining strength with each breath. Barely daring, he let a shaky hand search his wound. At first he felt nothing. Then, with dawning relief and sudden, fierce exultation, he fumbled at the torn remnants of his heavy money belt, spilling gold pesos about the road as if they were pennies.
The rush of hope lent strength and Ted got up enough to wrench his foot from the stirrup. Now he could look. He tore away his shirt and slumped against the Appaloosa's leg in awe. The heavy Sharps bullet had struck the gold filled belt. It had flattened itself harmlessly and reshaped more than a few of the thick coins. Beneath his belt, Ted's stomach glowed as though sunburned and was tender to the touch, as well as painful within. The skin was not broken, and although he would have an immense bruise, Ted guessed he wasn't seriously hurt. He sat unmoving in massive relief until the horse tired of his weight and moved his leg away.
Belatedly aware of his inactivity, and seized by a massive guilt, Ted got himself erect and looked to his companion. He had known what he would find, of course. There would not be two miracles this day. Pedro Gonzalez lay face down, shot through from behind. The Indian's muzzle loader had thrown a huge ball that had plowed a murderous hole. The Mexican had never felt himself falling. Chip cursed the carelessness that had made the ambush easy. Yet, a hundred men rode this trail each month without incident, and had for the last two hundred years. The truth was, only a large band could be really safe and, even then, individuals could be picked off by willing ambushers. The violence went with the wild country, Ted supposed, but the admission would be little solace to Pedro's survivors.
Ted wrapped his companion's body and lashed it across his saddle. He was astonished to recognize Gooley as his ambusher. He had seen the man riding with the Volunteer Horse and wandering about town over the years. Beyond that meager knowledge, Gooley was a stranger. He supposed Gooley had been after his gold, expecting Ted to carry it in a saddle bag. The way Chip did, maybe. Many men would kill for a small part of the money Ted was carrying. Gooley was plainly one of them.
Ted went over the ambush with care. It was a simple scheme, couldn't have missed it would seem. A delicate touch of his tender belly reminded him of how close a thing it had been.
He mounted and backtracked the ambusher to a camp where the Indian had spent some time. He brought Gooley's horse to the ambush and loaded both bodies. It was already growing dark and he had a three hour ride back to Santa Fe. Ted figured to use the time thinking and maybe sending up a prayer or two of thanks. Someone had been watching out for him this time.
Riding tiredly beneath a thin moon, his woven poncho unrolled from behind his saddle and draped to keep the night cold at bay, Ted Shatto gave consideration to the ambush. He found himself making connections between it and the troubles they had known over the years.
Other ranches suffered a little. Cows were run off or hay burned now and then. Men, even families had been wiped out by Indians, but the incidents were spread over both distance and years. With the Arrowhead it seemed different. There had been the first raid when a mixed band of frontier trash had hit them. That bunch had been after anything they could get.
The rustling that had drawn him into the rough country was the kind of annoyance ranchers expected, but the attack o
n Chip was not. Then, as now, their enemies had seemed to know just where to place their ambush. Maybe they had been after gold and found Chip did not have any. Perhaps Gooley had been behind both attacks. That possibility led Ted to wonder if someone might even be backing Gooley. Seemed a little complicated to be imagining some dusty old spider spinning schemes across all those years. Ted supposed a man just naturally wanted attempts on his life to be more than unrelated grabs at gold pieces. Conspiracies gave importance, he guessed, and there wasn't much substance to support this one. Still . . . Ted guessed he'd keep it in mind.
Ted Shatto's return to Santa Fe woke the night. As word of the unsuccessful ambush spread, the plaza regained its life. The villains' stiffened bodies were displayed against propped planks and photographed by the town's only camera. Interested parties posed with the violently deceased and the paper rushed out a special one cent flyer describing in lurid detail a deputy sheriff's summation of Ted Shatto's explanation. Saloons began a hefty, late night business as the repeated explosions of flash powder supplemented the many reflecting lamps placed to highlight the corpses of Jed Gooley and Juan-Juan, the Apache breed.
The paper's editor sought new sources for the complete edition that would appear later. Captain John P. Snyder was quoted as completely baffled by his former lieutenant's bizarre act. He could offer no motives. Drinkers shed light on Gooley's penchant to trade with Indians and, a few Mexicans knew of Juan-Juan, who had gone to the Apache as a youth.
Ted Shatto was not available for comment. He had retired to the old De Castella hacienda, which did not permit entrance. It was rumored that his clothing was torn by numerous bullet holes and that he had suffered a serious wound to the stomach. The editor decided to include these details as fact.
Ted and the De Castella sons thrashed through the facts but none knew more than Ted. They arranged for Pedro Gonzalez' final resting and saw to the comforts of his people.
Ted laid out the torn money belt and bent gold pieces for inspection and the De Castellas examined in amazement the bluing bruise spread across Ted's hard muscled stomach.
The sheriff made notes and left quickly. The town was still noisy when Ted snuffed his lamp and eased his stiffening body onto a high Spanish bed. Cotton hangings held off the few flying insects and softened the chill of the night breeze. Ted slept with a Colt beneath his hand. He slept as a plainsman always did—with an ear cocked for wrong sounds and eyes that opened to see without memory of having done so.
Ted delayed his return to Falling Water because his body was sore and lame beyond expectation. He sat on De Castella's patio, reading the astonishing detail of his adventure. If his pain had not been great he would have laughed aloud. As far as he could determine, only the names were accurate. That the gunfight had raged over much of the road between Taos and Santa Fe was news to him. In print, Pedro Gonzalez had put up a tremendous battle until brought down from behind. Ted thought that part acceptable as the Mexican people could use a current hero.
The editor assumed that the gold that had turned Gooley's bullet had been in a purse carried in a pocket. As many ranchers wore leather vests to make such pockets available, the story rang true. Ted was again pleased. He preferred that his carrying of large sums was not generally known, lest others try Jed Gooley's scheme.
Ted rested two days. When he left, he sat his big Appaloosa painfully, but guessed riding would loosen him up. He took his pack animal in tow and left the other supplies and animals to accompany the bottle wagon.
When he rode out he avoided the plaza but took the Taos road as he had before. The ambush site had been trampled by sightseers who, he expected, hadn't seen much. Ted's gold was in a saddlebag because his sore belly could not stand a belt. For his ranch's entertainment he had a few copies of the ambush special. He expected his own explanation would eventually be lost and only the newspaper's version would survive.
Ted grinned wryly to himself. So much for accurate history, he thought.
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Chapter 10
There was stunning news from the east. In early July the might of the Union had finally swung the tide of war. Vicksburg had fallen before Grant's dogged assaults and the North gained control of the entire Mississippi River. The Confederacy had been split through the middle.
Then there was Gettysburg, in distant Pennsylvania. Ted and Beth Shatto could only wonder at the South's incursion to Perry County's doorstep, but again the weight of the North crushed the South and the formerly undefeatable Army of Northern Virginia fled to nurse wounds of spirit and supply that were probably beyond healing.
To the Shattos it sounded as though the great Civil War was about over. Blockaded by Union navies, battered by Yankee armies, and increasingly short of fighting replacements, it seemed that Southern leaders must furl their banners and salvage what could be saved.
Then, it seemed to the westerners, the nation could, and surely would, again turn its attention to the frontiers. The limitless energies of uprooted war veterans would join the armies of never slowing emigration to spread onto the prairies and into the mountains. How many years before that human tide would wash to the mountains to provide markets for Shatto beef? Not too many, Ted suspected.
The personal news was at least as overwhelming and closed a wound that had wept for nearly two years. Without announcement, Chip had ridden into the old Shatto place on the Little Buffalo. Only days following the Gettysburg fighting he had come in riding like a Sioux on a magnificent Appaloosa. Chip was alive and well. For Ted and Beth, that news beat the importance of the Union's triumphs.
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Others did not find the war news as appealing. Southern sympathizers attempted to shrug aside the devastating Union victories. They vowed the South would never be defeated and that, in time, the North would tire and choose to negotiate a peace.
John P. Snyder did not agree. With the Yankees holding the length of the Mississippi, his dream of a vast cattle drive was gone. No herds would cross the river to resupply the hungry South.
Even worse, from Snyder's view, a cessation of hostilities would end the facade of his volunteer cavalry. Though their community standing did not shine, the war gave Snyder's band legitimacy. Without that tenuous reason for assembly, his company would become only roughnecks riding around in a threatening manner. Inevitably, men would drift and John P. Snyder's power would diminish. The Captain weighed his options.
Of course, his men need not be told that a cattle drive could, not succeed. While they drove east, he, John P., might gallop west and take ship from San Francisco to New York and then, to ensure complete safety, to Europe. He could not imagine his ill-assorted pack of border bandits seeking vengeance beyond oceans. If he planned properly, they could be led to believe he was dead. That assumed, of course, that any of The Volunteer Horse survived their misguided efforts to trail a stolen herd eastward.
For John P. Snyder, the key to his future still lay on the Arrowhead Ranch. Shatto gold would open his way. The steps were simple.
He would prepare his men for a long cattle drive to the Mississippi. Snyder's legitimacy and loyalty to the venture would be proven by the sale of his saloon and the investment of that money in rifles, ammunition, and support for the army he would assemble. The rest of the stores, including remounts, would come from the Shatto spoils.
He would take the ranch. While his men pleasured themselves with the Mexicans, Snyder would corral the gold. The Shattos would give it to him. Snyder had no doubts there.
The raiders would round up a large herd and start east. The drive would edge along Apache country avoiding contact with civilization. With luck, they would travel far before the massacre at the Valley of Bones was even discovered.
John P. would not be along. He and a few for security would ride to purchase supplies and divert inquiry. That would be the men's belief. Instead, he would flee with the gold and his few trusted. Along the Pacific, the guards would die and John Snyder would disappear. In his place would appear . . . ? Sn
yder enjoyed selecting new names that rolled comfortably and provided innate dignity.
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A day from the ranch, The Scholar's wagon began encountering the Arrowhead brand. Small groups of branded cattle gathered on grassier patches or stood within available shade. More cattle were along the river and beaten trails showed regular routes from the hills and draws to the water.
It was a dry and harsh land and The Scholar wondered how many head it could support. In the east, such ground would have been worthless, but cattle were here, proving they could survive the meager feed and harsh climate.
The Scholar had seen the Arrowhead brand on the rump of Ted Shatto's horse. Only two inches high, it had been a small brand, burned cleanly. The cattle brand was huge and an extended hand would not cover it. It was highly visible and anyone attempting to blot or reshape the Shatto arrowhead would fail to disguise the altering.
David Cooper had heard rustler stories almost since reaching the plains. Why anyone would bother to steal branded cattle escaped him. Unmarked cows and bulls were everywhere and markets were nonexistent. But, ranchers rode their holdings with ready guns. They claimed vast acreages simply because they had arrived first or had the most men to back their claims. Any four-footed creatures on their land were theirs and two-legged poachers could be subject to violent demise.
Compared to some, Ted Shatto's Arrowhead was a modest operation. Shatto claimed only twenty thousand acres and policed only a part of that. Shatto was important because he had enough money to do things right. Where most ranches were family operations with sons and in-laws working for subsistence, Ted Shatto paid a large crew and was able to tackle projects others only thought about. There was resentment that Shatto used Mexicans when there were white men needing work, but the Arrowhead was not hiring. Riders came work hunting and left, belly full, but still looking. Ted Shatto already had the hands he wanted.
Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 13