Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier)

by Roy F. Chandler

  There was a mean element in town as well. The man Carp had been at the bar. He had handled the Spencer and pointed it at a far wall before passing the gun along. Ted had felt the man's flat stare, but when he turned to meet it Carp was already looking away.

  Jud Carp was only one. Snyder's old saloon belonged to someone else but a stream of gun carrying strangers still passed through the entrance. The Spanish somnolence of old Santa Fe was being shaken, that was for sure. Ted doubted it could ever be as it had been. He was glad the Valley of Bones lay days away. Change would come slowly to their ranch and he could probably keep some sort of rein on it.

  +++

  John P. Snyder had rooms a block off the plaza. When Jud Carp left De Castella's he went there.

  "Shatto's in town, Captain. He's over at Manito De Castella's showing off new rifles." Snyder was interested.

  "Called Spencers, shoot seven bullets and you reload by shoving a new tubefull in through the butt."

  Carp's smirk was wolfish. "He's only got two so we'll likely find 'em both in the big house." The smirk widened. "I'm putting in a claim for one of them guns and a share of the ammunition, Captain. It'd be a mighty handy piece to own, later on maybe, after this raid is behind."

  The Spencers did not worry John Snyder. If his lieutenant wanted one, he was welcome. When they rode off with the gold, Carp would be one of his guards. A repeating rifle would add security.

  Snyder's smile was hidden. In the end he would have the rifle and anything else he wanted. Jud Carp's reward would be drying into a husk far out on the desert floor, until even that poor remnant blew away on the relentless wind.

  Only a short month remained until his outlaw army swarmed like ants all over Shatto's Arrowhead. None of the ranch people would live to describe their attackers. Snyder's planning did not separate women or children. They were eyes that saw and voices that could speak. They would all go. Snyder was anxious to begin.

  +++

  Though his wagons were more lightly loaded during his homeward trek, Ted Shatto chose a leisurely pace. One wagon carried glass panes. He had ordered small, thick sheets so their chances of surviving the rugged Santa Fe Trail would be improved. The panes were packed tightly into thick blocks and wrapped in multiple layers of old quilting.

  The glass had made it safely to Santa Fe and Ted took no chances on the journey's final leg. He half-filled a wagon bed with oats and spread soft buffalo robes on top. The blocks of glass panes, wrapped in their quilting, were settled on the hides and the wagon bed filled with more oats. Each noon and night, drivers reached into the load and felt around to make certain the glass was not shifting. The safety of that wagon determined the train's daily progress.

  Glass windows were long overdue. They would hold out summer heat and wintry winds. Shutters could do the same, but the house became so dark Beth couldn't see her hands.

  In summer the windows would also keep flies at bay. That might even be the greatest blessing. Flies got into noses and eyes and fell into the soup. Some kinds bit like Furies.

  Windows would be mighty fine and they would sort of make the ranch complete. Ted imagined how the glass would shine in the morning sun and greet anyone coming up the valley.

  He wondered what The Watcher on his lonely lookout would think of them? They'd get his attention, that was certain.

  +++

  Ted also thought about the padre. The priest had come in, walking ahead of his donkey and one Indian who acted as his servant.

  All Catholics, the hands and their families milled enthusiastically about the trio. Even the burdened donkey was deemed special and, by the time the priest sat with the Shattos, the humble animal had been fed, watered, brushed, and garlanded with the canyon's flowers. The Indian sat nearby, keeping a suspicious eye on the padre's meager possessions, as well as on those who gathered to listen to the talk.

  The priest was a small man of middle age. His cassock was brown and of a rough woolen weave. A cross of wood swung near his waist and his only weapon appeared to be a head-high walking staff, so worn its rubbed wood shown like ebony.

  Ted thought the Lord must surely be on the priest's side or, long before his arrival at the Arrowhead, he would have succumbed to a longhorn charge, bitter winter cold, a roaming Apache, or a rattlesnake sunning along a trail.

  They spoke in Spanish and Ted enjoyed the talk. The padre had not known of the many unserved souls at this ranch but God guided his direction so he was not truly surprised by finding many in need. He asked to minister to the flock and Ted heard a hopeful rustle within the gathering.

  There was no dilemma for Ted or Beth Shatto. The religion was not theirs, but the Mexicans were powerful believers. It was their right to worship as they chose; Ted's only question was how far he should go?

  On the following day the priest conducted masses and heard confessions. He married and he baptized. For Ted, his people's hunger for their church's ministrations was revealing. Old graves were blessed and animals were brought forward to receive the priest's benedictions. Ted gave serious thought to a condition he had never before considered.

  Late in the second evening, Ted drew Juan Santos and the small padre aside. The Indian servant followed as they strolled in the crisp night air. Ted blew his breath and he could see it against the house lanterns. He had not chosen an exercise walk so he got on with the talking.

  The priest's name was Hector Gomez. Ted guessed it would be best if he stuck to calling the man Padre.

  "You're a traveling priest, as I understand it, Padre. You just keep traipsing along until you find people that are needful."

  "That is true, my son."

  Ted felt a few twitches at the "my son" part but buried them.

  "When will you stop wandering and have your own church with a parish to care for?"

  The priest sighed. "Our Lord will tell me when it is my time. The signs will be clear and I will recognize them."

  Ted turned to his foreman. "What do you think, Juan?"

  Santos had been with Ted Shatto for six years. He knew Ted better than he did his brothers. No explanation was needed. "The people would be made happy, Senor Ted. It is something we often dream about."

  Ted heard the "we" in his foreman's words and that added weight.

  "Maybe around that little nose in the cliffs about a quarter mile south of the wall?"

  "A fine choice, Senor Ted."

  They walked, the priest unconcerned that his companions had spoken in a language he did not understand, Ted thought some more and Juan Santos waited expectantly.

  Finally, Ted was ready. "Padre, many of my people have been six years without seeing a priest. As you know, they have married and children have been born. Some have died and few have attended mass or said confessions. Is this a good thing, Padre?"

  "No, my son, it is not." The priest sighed heavily.

  "This is a wide land and priests are few."

  "Now Padre, there are more than one hundred souls in this valley and more will come to settle nearby. Later we will have a town and men from here will have ranches and they will hire other men who will bring their families.

  "Is it right that these many remain without a priest for . . . only the Lord knows how many years?"

  "It is unfortunate."

  Ted figured the priest knew what he was getting at but a hand should be played until all the cards were face up for looking at.

  "Well, I'm agreeing that it isn't right.

  "Padre, I'm not of your faith and I'm not planning on switching over. Still, there's a need here that we might fill, providing we all work together.

  "The happier my people are the better things will go around here. I figure having a church will make them happy. So, providing three conditions I've got are met, this is what I'd like to see done.

  "First, you agree to stay on as their priest. Next, I'll give land to build a proper church or mission, if that's what you'd prefer to call it. It'll be outside our wall because I don't want outsiders roaming th
rough here from now until eternity. Juan and I know a spot close by that is suitable.

  "Our people will build your church—which will be their church. I'll give them time to work and Juan will schedule the putting up, just like we've done with all our buildings. I'll help pay for a few things inside and maybe provide wagons and teams to bring in lumber for pews and such. We can work out those details. I'll also see you through food and shelter until your own place is up—out by the church.

  "You've got to agree to stay on as this place's priest, unless the people themselves, or your superiors of course, tell you to move on. I'm not planning on a lot of work going into a church that'll stand empty.

  "That is one side of it. Now, to my three things, and Padre, I'm not sparing feelings here.

  "The first is that I'm more than a little suspicious of your religion's money collecting ways. I've got to be sure you won't get big ideas about gold plating your church or sending large sums to help other places. My people need their earnings and I'm insisting that they get to keep them. I want that clear without wondering if I'll have to bring it up again sometime down the trail." Ted hoped his Spanish was up to the task he was giving it. Juan Santos was hiding a grin so Ted guessed he had it about right.

  "Second point is, I don't want you or your church stirring up any troubles around here. I want my ranch to run smoother because you are here. It's my experience that priests and ministers get to sticking their noses into a lot of things beyond soul saving. If it's truly uplifting, we'll all profit, but if it's just agitating or putting up other points of view, I won't have it. I intend having a section in the land deed that lets me have the whole kit back if I get unhappy with goings-on.

  "Finally, it's important that all of these people speak English and use it as easily as Spanish. They've got to think North American because, if they don't, Yankees will walk all over them and brush them aside. Even though we're all foreigners to this place, North Americans believe everybody in God's creation stands lower than they do. If you can't speak their language, you'll be looked on as fair or unfair game. When this war is over, North Americans will pour into the west as though a dam had burst. Most Mexicans won't know what hit 'em. The law won't bother to protect them and without English no one would listen to them anyway.

  "So, if you choose to stay, I'm insisting that you too learn English and use it in dealing with my people." Ted grinned. "I'll tell you straight out. Padre, if you have as much trouble mastering English as I've had learning Spanish, you may have more than a few bad thoughts for your own confession."

  Beyond his religious training, Father Hector Gomez was not a highly educated man, but he was also no fool. To have his own church, with a ready flock hungry for his attentions was the dream of most who chose the priesthood. To have as benefactor an owner of a great ranchero lent importance to the opportunity.

  He must gain his bishop's approval. Father Gomez foresaw no difficulty. A new and thriving church would add to the bishop's luster.

  Of course, the church itself must be carefully planned. There must be an altar specially suited for his wilderness parishioners. Could he hope for a glass window? Perhaps stained with a picture of the Madonna with child? Ah, the dreaming, At least a mighty cross atop that would announce the glory of God to all who passed. A bell?

  Ted Shatto and Juan Santos assumed the little priest's lengthy silence meant deep consideration of the proposal. It did not. Father Hector had enjoyed instant acceptance. His silence was only a savoring of the marvels to come.

  That had been in early March and the church had been staked out and an elaborate clay model produced for all to comment on. When the weather broke, adobe brick making would again be organized. By mixing and drying just outside the valley's wall, the protecting ditch abutting the wall would be deepened and water would be available. Finished brick would be carted the short quarter mile to the building site.

  In the meantime, Father Gomez lived with a ranch family and held services as he chose. Each Sunday, the flock marched to the church site for mass which, the padre assured all, would help sanctify the land as a holy place as well as, Ted recognized, develop the habit of going there every Sunday. Clever, these monks, Ted noted.

  +++

  Just as they reached the church site, Ted's wagons met unseasonal rain that swooped with little warning down the mountains and out across the plains. Any moisture was appreciated but with only a mile to the shelter of homes and families, groans and mild curses were unanimous.

  Before lowering clouds took the last of the sun, Ted rose in his stirrups to salute the ancient watcher on the distant mountain. Most of his men followed suit. At some time all had peered through Ted's telescope to wonder at the old Apache who watched them. Over the years the friendly wave at the unseen watcher had become ritual and the smallest children might turn when others did to wave at the one who was always there.

  From behind their saddles and wagon seats men unrolled their wool serapes. The ponchos would not long resist water and they became heavy as lead vests, but the wearers would be warm in their wet and, so far, wool was the best material found.

  Ted had a new serape to try. It was made of a slick waterproof material some called oilcloth. He donned it over his wool poncho with the expectation of staying mostly dry. The oilcloth was an eye-hurting bright yellow and a vaquero rode close to say, "Senor Ted, every Apache in the mountains will see your serape and each will wish to present such a marvelous gift to his woman." The man smiled and added, "Perhaps you should wear it only within the valley."

  Ted nodded in seeming serious consideration. "Could be you're right, Manuel. If Apaches are interested we'd best find it out. So, tomorrow you put it on and just ride east until . . . The horseman turned away, laughing aloud with water pouring in rivulets from his hat brim.

  +++

  30th Instant of April 1864

  Dear Pap

  All is well here at Falling Water (I still like that name although we have registered our brand with the new stockman's association as the Arrowhead). Beth and the children thrive, as do I on the climate and the adventure of building our ranch.

  There has been little excitement. The Apaches seem content to stay in their mountains. Though a few are seen now and then. We exchange signs and avoid close contact.

  We now have a priest on the place. He is building a church on land we have given. I admit to some doubts, but they may be due to my wish to be the only authority in these parts. So far Father Hector Gomez has made things calmer. Women are more content and families are drawn closer through their services.

  Santa Fe is full of riff raff. Shootings and stabbings occur regularly and drunkenness is as common as sobriety. The meanness does not touch us out here at the ranch, but going to town is unpleasant. Beth is not much bothered. She carries her quirt and would be quick to apply it. The rough crowd tips their hats and walk wide. Mexican women are not so fortunate. Our hands carry rifles and move in groups. The happy and gracious times are gone from Santa Fe.

  We hope you are thinking of visiting us as soon as the war ends. We cannot leave, as the ranch needs all of our attention.

  Get Chip to come along. Tell him not to worry. I will stay between him and the Indians. The window glass is mostly in place. For a few days even the cows came as close as they could and seemed to watch the morning sun's reflection. We should have got glass years ago. My fault, just never got to it.

  Attached is a list of a few things we would appreciate receiving. The stores we deal with often have little to offer.

  So, peaceful times surround us and the horizon shines. If you all will just get the war settled, we think things will prosper.

  Hello to the Troops and all who remember us.

  Your loving son,

  Ted

  Chapter 12

  Near the end of April, John P. Snyder rode from Santa Fe for what he expected was the last time. He led his volunteer horse with the announced mission of chastising Apaches who had been reported raiding nor
th of Taos. The troop rode out with little fanfare. Their alleged intention was to be gone a long time, to follow the Indian renegades into their mountain lairs if necessary.

  To support their campaign a number of heavily loaded wagons accompanied the volunteers. Unknown to the Santa Fe citizenry, the wagons carried food supplies for an army of one hundred men, arms for those who might need them, and a P.D. Balsworth gift from the east to John P. Snyder, who would use it to square things with Ted Shatto.

  Only Jud Carp knew that Captain Snyder had also dispatched a Mexican helper to a secret rendezvous a hard ride from the Valley of Bones. The helper drove horses and a number of strong pack animals. When John P. and his chosen few fled with Shatto's gold, fresh remounts would be waiting. It was improbable that the raiders would be chased or even followed, but this was Snyder's big play and he took no chances.

  The army's rendezvous was a river bend where heavy brush extended to the water. Larger trees offered shade and pinpointed a camping site. When Snyder's wagons bucked through the narrow cow paths into the clearing created by brush hacked for campfires, men were already waiting.

  Snyder rough counted and guessed his army now numbered more than sixty hard cases. Surely others were en route. John P. still hoped for one hundred fighters to simply overwhelm anything Shatto might have.

  The men already in camp had slaughtered a cow and its butchered carcass hung from a tree limb. Snyder was mildly gratified to see the large Arrowhead brand burned into the skinned off hide.

  "Better be careful which cows you're taking boys. That critter would have ended up being one of ours."