Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier)

by Roy F. Chandler

  Along the river, The Scholar's wagon held up while everyone pitched in to help ranch hands complete a small coffer dam which would allow flooding a broad meadow. Hay, Cooper's driver explained, as they shoveled industriously. There had been a series of mild winters but Senor Ted did not believe they would continue. The range cattle would have to survive on their own but the special herd could not be risked.

  Bulls for the special herd had made the wagon's journey from Santa Fe to the Arrowhead barely walking speed. Two short horn bulls, slogging their way, determined the bottle wagon's pace. Each bull was led by a nose ring attached to a wooden pole with a strong "T" handle. A twist of the ring could curb a bull's most fractious moments. The young bulls had survived a ship's journey around the Horn. They had plodded eastward from their debarkation on the California coast and had worked their way across deserts and mountains. No risks were taken on this last leg of the journey to their new home. The bulls chose their pace. They were watered often, and fed precious grain.

  David Cooper had entered arguments in Manito De Castella's mercantile. A pair of hard-bitten ranchers were disdainful of Ted Shatto's cattle breeding scheme.

  One said, "winter cold will kill 'em in that high country. If it don't, the summer'll cook 'em and it'll be all over. Them puny horns won't hold off wolves either. Ted Shatto would do better to spit 'em over hot coals and hold a feed. They'd likely be tender eating."

  Eventually the arguers turned to The Scholar. No one doubted he would have something to say. Cooper knew things all right, even if most of it wasn't good for much.

  "Men have bred cattle since before history was kept. Your longhorns were once a Spanish breed. In Ireland, cattle breeding is an honored profession engaged in by the wealthiest. In Egypt cattle have been perfected that resist heat and need little water. The short horns Mister Shatto has purchased will give weight to his herd. I would suspect they will also prove less temperamental and be easier to control."

  "Yep, and less able to fight. A longhorn is in a war out here, Scholar. Them short horns'll not survive even the coyotes, much less the wolves, lions, and bears. Don't doubt rattlers will pizen 'em as well. Bet the 'Patches'll take to 'em though."

  Cooper said, "Shatto will likely pen his bulls and bring his cows to them."

  A grizzled cowman grinned. "That'll be real handy for the bulls but it won't build a herd very fast."

  Cooper couldn't argue with that. In the east, cattle were husbanded in closed acres in small numbers. Here in this giant country, men thought in mighty herds and they spoke in thousands. To The Scholar it was irrational. A half million cows, scattered over millions of acres of untracted wilderness, without men to count, corral, or drive them, and no markets to aim at anyway. The westerner would be beyond explaining. Cooper feared, even if he learned to understand them.

  They traveled with two wagons. One wagon carried the bull's feed—enough for many months. The Scholar rode on the first wagon beside the driver. His wagon contained the bottles, glass whiskey bottles, all empty and rather casually packed. Cooper was sure many would be broken before their journey was over. What was their purpose? Ted Shatto had not gotten them free. Whiskey was freighted in kegs and barrels. The cheaper was mixed in saloons using alcohol, flavoring, water, and exotics like pepper or even a touch of gunpowder. Bottles were reused by filling from the larger containers. David Cooper could not imagine another use for so many bottles. He had resolved not to ask. He expected to discover in due time, but he could not deny his curiosity.

  The Arrowhead's Mexicans differed from most he had met. Shatto's hands all used English. Though they chattered in their native tongue more often. The Scholar felt their effort to speak American. His driver explained.

  "Senor Shatto requires all at his ranch to learn English. Once within the wall, we speak more American than Spanish. In this way Senor Ted believes each of his people will be prepared to stand proudly in his new country."

  The concept was enlightened. In a nation still undecided about public schools, that mixed a dozen major tongues across all societies, to find an employer who gave a half penny about his workers' welfare was surprising.

  Ted Shatto was digging deeply into David Cooper's conception of the frontiersman's breed. Shatto was carving a place far from his own kind and battering aside any obstacle in his way. It was said he had killed many Indians and decimated a white renegade attack on his ranch. Cooper had seen the bodies of the two who had ambushed him. Ted Shatto could be violent.

  Yet, the same man spoke lovingly of wife and children. He hired a professor to create a school, to teach all of the people on his ranch. Now, Cooper discovered, even the common hands were required to improve themselves and each expected to, in time, be awarded land and animals of his own. Earned rewards from the employer? The Scholar was intrigued and waited with impatience for his first glimpse of the ranch Ted Shatto called Falling Water.

  The last miles were covered more quickly as the wagons left the bulls behind and rolled within sight of the break in the high cliffs that marked the entrance to the Valley of Bones. What a name. Cooper underlined the words in his journal. He knew the story and hungered to see.

  The canyon entrance was wider than The Scholar had imagined but it was soundly plugged by a high adobe wall that looked as strong as the mountains it butted against. Figures worked atop the wall and when words could be exchanged, the greetings were shared in English.

  Then, David Cooper discovered the reason for the bottles. Atop the wall, broken glass was being embedded in an adobe mix. Jagged edges threatening, the width of the three foot thick top was aglitter for more than half its length. The wagon load coming in would probably complete the coverage.

  It was a soul-chilling protection. Defenders fired from the cover of shooting embrasures but an attacker need go over the top. Waiting like razored daggers were long, jagged shards of bottle glass. Securely seated, they would not rust or dull. For a hundred years they would wait for the careless or unsuspecting. Cooper discovered again that Ted Shatto was not to be trifled with.

  +++

  John Snyder had not forgotten his first raid on the Shatto ranch. Each twinge of stitched flesh, or phantom pain where no fingers remained, reminded him. So, this time, he would plan as Napoleon might have.

  First, familiarization. Snyder sent riders to visit the Arrowhead as he himself had once done. Before spring, at least a dozen of his cohorts would have some familiarity with the layout inside Shatto's wall.

  Other men rode to explore the cliffs above the valley. There could be a way down or his riflemen might be able to fire into the valley from above.

  Messages went out to Snyder's owl-hoot contacts. Assemble where the big thicket touches the river a day north of Taos Pueblo. Be there on the first day of May. This, it was whispered, was the big one. Everyone would be coming and the payoff would be enough to last a long while.

  Word seeped into dark mountain hollows and back street stews. Men so wanted they feared to show themselves planned to ride, and wild youths, to whom it was still a game, marked the date so they would not forget.

  But spring was distant and winter slid its icy pall across the high plains. John P. Snyder sought a buyer for his place and arranged for late winter deliveries of stores, weapons, and ammunitions. Snyder spread the purchases so none but he knew their magnitude.

  A hundred men might appear to cast their lot in a game reputed to be the largest of all. Some would be poor in every way. Captain Snyder would equip them with magnanimity. He would organize them. When they struck, they would use surprise and overwhelming numbers. This time, his bullets would hail upon the enemy.

  When the first thaws touched the earth, Snyder's battalion would ride. One slashing, all devouring assault and the rest would be easy.

  +++

  The Scholar stood in the door of his single room house, breathing deeply the crisp cold of winter air. The valley spread before him as a panorama of what man could do when he joined mind and soul with dilig
ent physical labors.

  Although the fields lay brown, with the up-valley breeze barely stirring, the land only slept, waiting in patience for the sun's warmth to again stir growth. Across the stubble fields, hay was stacked. Strong fencing barred the one hundred head of choice beeves that Ted wintered within the valley. Those cows were part of the satisfaction David Cooper experienced when he thought about the Arrowhead.

  Five years of careful selection and breeding had already produced a heavier more closely cropped animal. The cows had lost some of the long-legged ranginess of their longhorn ancestry. With the introduction of the short horned bulls, the next generation would be very different. It should pack significantly more meat and it might be more docile. Both attributes could make Shatto beef far more valuable if, or when, markets developed.

  A band of his students rushed by, intent on a game mysterious. They showed cheek splitting smiles to their teacher and staccatoed a "Good morning, Senor Cooper," before pell-melling from sight. Their game was in English, although Spanish phrasing fell through. Senor Cooper? The Scholar found himself smiling. The language mix had appeal. Mister was a stiff accolade, more suitable to a button-on celluloid collar and unforgiving demeanor. Senor, denoted dignity and respect, but it was broader, a more manly and inclusive recognition.

  A younger woman rode in from the valley entrance. She would be coming home following her stint as ranch lookout.

  The girl rode bareback, sitting astride, using only a hackamore to control her horse. Brown calves and bare feet below a vast swirl of bright skirt gripped the horse's barrel. Enchanting, thought the teacher. The rider swept to a halt, slipping effortlessly from the horse and flipping the hackamore free with unconscious grace. The horse, accustomed to the often repeated trot to the wall and back, entered its corral and nudged a place among neighbors. By then the girl was gone, although Cooper could hear her voice joining others within her adobe.

  Although winter gripped the high country, snow had not yet accumulated. Wagons still traveled in pairs to the distant tree stands where wood was sawed and chopped for cold weather use. Ted was in a continual grumble about the consumption of hard-to-get firewood. Cow chip gathering parties made scheduled forays to supplement the wood, and Ted swore he'd have to send wagons north to follow the buffalo if his people didn't hold down their burning.

  Where others kept eyes peeled for precious metals, Ted Shatto encouraged his hands to look for coal. Ted claimed there was coal everywhere, if people would just hunt for it. If they had coal, Ted believed, they'd have almost everything they could need—though a decent salt lick would be valuable as well.

  Thinking about the ranch's self-sufficiency, The Scholar could agree. The vegetable patches produced astonishingly and old Spanish diggings stored corn and baskets of wheat. Cows and goats provided milk and meat. They had a sizable sheep herd and too many cattle to count. Every family had a few laying hens with the roosters

  roaming, strutting, and fighting flock to flock.

  Ted limited the hogs to what the ranch needed because the pigs got loose and rooted the hell out of things, but the sows reproduced so often there was always pork to be had.

  The Scholar supposed that part of his satisfaction with the place was because he felt so good. He could swear his lungs had doubled their capacity and he knew he had gained both strength and body weight.

  Ted Shatto liked to run. Ted said his people had always been runners, way back to the first Rob Shatto that had opened the Pennsylvania frontier. Some mornings Ted would give a warning war whoop and within minutes come trotting by clad only in moccasins and an Indian loincloth. Ritualistically, Senor Ted's whoop was answered by a wild (if high tenored) cacophony from every house and, when he appeared, a tumble of young "braves" similarly attired, pranced and postured alongside.

  On impulse, David Cooper had stripped to the waist, drawn a sooty slash across his face, and stuck a chicken feather in a cord around his brow. When the motley band of runners approached he burst forth and into his most imaginative war dance. His appearance was enthusiastically received, and although he lasted only a few rods, the occasion was fun and he began—if without adornment—regular attendance.

  The Scholar's endurance increased almost in bounds until he ran easily. His skinny body grew wiry and then gained weight. Often David Cooper imagined how his reserved and staid Harvard contemporaries would become slack-jawed if they could view either his antics or his appearance.

  Cooper's school would have appalled them as well. That a Harvard graduate would demean himself by teaching ordinary school—an occupation suitable for two year participants of "Normal School" or "Teaching Institute"—was degrading enough. To condone, indeed foster, an academy so base in standards that the name Shakespeare was not mentioned, would . . . words failed.

  On occasion, The Scholar too experienced philosophical uncertainties, but his employer had made his desires clear and, David Cooper admitted with some glee, the results were measurably astonishing.

  Ted Shatto had insisted that students, no matter how tiny or how mature physically, assist in building the school building. The senor said it would make the school theirs and demonstrate the importance of what they would learn.

  Ted said, "Eliminate the useless, David. These students do not need to learn the British Royal succession or the Greek's various wars and battles.

  "Teach them to think in English. And, you might learn Spanish—their Mexican Spanish—while you are at it. Teach them about freedom and let them understand great heroes. We all need heroes, scholar.

  "Let them learn history that closely affects their lives. Have them study geography and put it into our valleys and rivers. They must figure, in American and Spanish. That means measuring, weighing, and arithmeticing. Stuff they'll need when they own their own places and do business."

  Ted had paused, "I'd like to see a school where the professor isn't a stuffed shirt that couldn't enjoy honey or see another side. You'll be teaching toddlers to grown-ups. What's wrong with sitting out under a tree or taking a wagon to go look at things?

  "Back in Perry County we had a military man come to visit us. Name was McClellan and he made General. You remember him from early in this war?

  "Well, Lieutenant McClellan took sand and laid out scenes of battles. I remember being impressed with how easy it made things. You could teach some things that way. I'd guess.

  "Finally, don't insist on your students memorizing a lot of useless buffalo manure. If they've just got to know, like multiplication tables, go at it hammer and tongs. Otherwise, leave 'em be. I'm remembering from my own schooling how bad I hated some of the stuff I had to memorize. And, I was right—it's been useless. You be wiser than that."

  So, The Scholar sat on his desk, leaned against buildings, and even sprawled on his back. At night they lay out, studying stars. In ways, the high plains were like oceans and a bit of astronomy could be useful. They applied geometry to heights and distances within the valley. Often they sat in shade while he made the outside world come to life through imaginative storytelling. The students corrected his Mexican as he labored over their English.

  During one gathering a sober faced child tugged his sleeve and reminded him that within the valley they spoke only English. Cooper savored the memory. Increasingly he treated his students with respect for their knowledge—so different from his. Everyone profited from relationships increasingly symbiotic.

  Ted and The Scholar often rode together. If they ventured beyond the walls others usually came along. All carried weapons and Ted insisted his teacher learn guns and then carry them.

  "This is wild country, Scholar. Apaches raid now and again, and more than a few outlaws hole up in the mountains. Back east a man can ride heavy in his saddle, letting his thoughts roam. Nobody carries a gun, and if a man got attacked he'd likely be too astounded to act.

  "Out here, nothing can be taken as friendly. Sit down and you're probably settling onto a cactus or a rattler. On foot you're liable to be charg
ed by the first longhorn, cow or bull that sees you. Never approach a stranger without having more men than he's got or without having a gun ready. There's men out here that would kill you for your hat and, in this big country, no one would ever discover what happened to you."

  The gun handling lessons were interesting and The Scholar recognized their utility.

  Ted directed, "Since revolvers got small enough, a thinking man carries one on his hip. They're still heavy, so a wide belt will help to keep from getting cut in two.

  "A man can get charged by a crazy cow and use a pistol to drop the critter a'fore he'd have a rifle unsheathed. Or suppose you got throwed with a boot stirrup caught?

  "One of our hands had his horse panic over a rattler.

  Tossed the rider and took out for some far place, kicking hell out of the man who was dragging along by the foot. Man got his pistol out, couldn't aim but kept shooting into the horse till it keeled over. Pistol saved his life as sure as I'm telling it."

  When talking of using a gun against a human, Ted Shatto was equally direct. "If it ever comes to a gunfight, make up your mind that you're going to shoot and make certain you get the first shot.

  "Now Scholar, I don't mean just to get off the first bullet; I mean hit with the first one. Loud noises won't stop most enemies, nor will a bunch of near misses. Fact is, if you want to stop a man, particularly an Apache, you'd best plan on hitting him dead center more than once. A pistol bullet won't knock a determined man down every time. Oh, he might die later, but if he gets lead into you meantime, it ain't as satisfying."