A little to one side two men argued heatedly, their bodies exposed from the waist up. Toby marveled at their carelessness even as he laid the cross hairscrosshairs on one of them.
He thumbed the safety and began to squeeze but sudden tension jerked his sight away, and he closed his eyes and breathed deeply into his jacket front trying to calm himself.
This time the rifle stayed solid, and the recoil drove hard into his shoulder. He worked the bolt, trying to stay smooth, but half botched the job.
Ready again he searched for a target. The men were gone. Had he hit one? If the scope was on, he had.
Movement caught his attention and he centered on it. A single figure was running hard away. Dodging trees it put distance rapidly between them but compared to a flashing whitetail the shot was not difficult.
He placed the crosshairs high on the figure's back about where a hunting license usually hung and touched the trigger. This time he saw the man go down as though struck by lightning. A .308 slug at 150 yards was just about that effective.
++
Chapter 12
Glenna Holman went in after the pellet in Toby Shatto's calf as if she had done a hundred before. She hummed to herself, concentrating on the task, using firm and confident movements that made the watchers trust her competence. The wound throbbed so severely that Toby almost welcomed the sharper pain of her cutting and probing. Jesse and Chop watched, adding sympathy or comforting harassments as they saw fit.
While Glenna thoroughly dusted the wound with one of the many antibiotics he had stored, Toby gulped a similar tablet and tried to be pleased with himself.
"Good thing you came out, Glenna, or I would've had to cut this out." Fingering the misshapen lead ball Chop sounded mildly disappointed.
"Huh! I'd have left it in a long time before going through that, Chop."
"Well, that makes a good joke, Tob, but the ball had to come out or you'd have infected for sure.
"Not much of a thing to complain so much about, Toby." Chop rolled the pellet between his fingers. "A number four, I'd say. Too far to do much damage. It's a wonder it went through your pants."
"Well, it hurt enough. I'll tell you that. Felt like a burning brand. Still, I got off damned lucky!"
A man came to the cave entrance. "We've got 'em all laid out proper, Toby. You want a look?"
Glenna laid on a last strip of tape, and Toby tried a gingerly step. "Feels a lot better, Glenna. I owe you something big for this one." He gave her a long hug and limped to the cave entrance.
Lined up like tumbled toy soldiers the six bodies lay stiffened and unnatural. He studied their faces finding none familiar and all strangely washed of expression.
"Anybody recognize any of 'em?" No one did.
"Well, they damned sure stopped at the wrong house this time." Bill Long said, and there was nervous laughter.
"Where do you want 'em, Toby? We can't dig no grave in this weather."
Unprepared, he was momentarily at a loss.
Chop suggested, "We can put 'em out of sight until things thaw, Toby. Then I'll come over and help you plant 'em."
Toby had a thought. "Nope, for right now we'll just drag them behind the shed. As soon as I'm able I'll prop them up on different trails leading in here as warning to others."
Suddenly angry with a new wave of fear at how close it had been he added, "Damned animals tried to shoot me down without a word said." He stifled a desire to go over and kick the stiffened bodies.
"Well, they paid a heavy price." Chop did kick at one of them. "Good idea leaving them out. Be a warning not to come up Shatto's way."
They dragged the dead from sight while Toby went inside to stay warm and elevate his leg. It amazed him how callously they could treat six recently killed men.
No guilt pangs touched him, and he sensed only satisfaction in the others. His leg pounded viciously with the agony of an ice cream headache and he gulped a pair of codeine pills to dull the pain.
A short month ago such killing would have seemed impossible, and if they occurred, police would have swarmed like angry bees and news services would have beamed the awfulness of it across the nation. Now the shootings were unremarked with the bodies piled as casually as cord wood. Man was surely adaptable.
The strangeness of it got him to thinking about the absence of police of any kind. The state police just melted away the same as the National Guard had. Individually they had families and possessions to worry about, and when the pay stopped, they stopped. Left a man on his own, that was for sure.
When the last departed, Toby threw the heavy door bolts and retreated to his bed. He had hung thick drapes just within the steel door to insulate against cold penetrating the cave and he had a good fire going in his airtight. The smoke rose nicely up the more prominent ventilation shaft while just enough air crept around his entrance sealing to provide a good draft. The cave was cozy warm, but this time the security it usually offered had been disrupted.
The codeine left him dopey and numb. Leg pain had receded but throbbed in distant heavy pulsing as though preparing a renewed assault.
With time to consider the afternoon's viciousness he again grew disturbed. He took little satisfaction in defeating six heavily armed men. Luck had been with him the whole way.
If the first rifleman had taken the necessary instant to aim, he would have died then and there. If a dozen other shots that had missed him had been more carefully taken he would have been hit, and certainly it had been only luck that prevented the man in the swale from seeing him first.
He could take some satisfaction in moving quickly and thinking clearly once he had gotten going, but that might not be enough the next time.
Would there be a next time? The idea made him shift uncomfortably, but he chose to look squarely at the question.
Others would come, some only scouting around perhaps, but word of the cave's treasures would spread both as fact and rumor. As winter wore on and conditions worsened there would be other attempts. He could imagine them appearing in rags, holding forth their starving children, or armed and raging, smashing in fury at his steel door.
He woke from dreaming, bathed in sweat, and his leg throbbing like all the Furies. In his nightmares he had probably given it a good whack.
He reached for his codeine, again blessing its developer, and forced himself to relax while awaiting its welcome relief.
+++
He used the enforced respite to catch up on anything requiring little movement. Sifting through his father's papers was one of them. He doubted many would have value in this new world, but looking them over brought him close to old George and in the cave's loneliness that was specially welcome.
Among the outdated insurance policies and forgotten receipts were old letters and some photographs. He found his own cards and letters held neatly in order by thick rubber bands and cursed the smallness of the bundle. It would have been so easy to have written more often and certainly better than the duty correspondence he had performed. Too late now, much too late.
There was an old family bible with names and dates of earlier Shattos and a large, thick book bound in worn leather. The book was handwritten in the old quill pen style, the writing bold and with little flourish. There was a title page that read, "The Memories of Chip Shatto" and folded within was a note from George to Toby. He held it to his lamp with shaky hands, recognizing his father's ragged penmanship and suffering unexpected thickness in his throat.
The letter was short and as plain speaking as old George had been.
Dear Toby,
This book explains itself and it tells all we'll probably ever know about where we Shattos came from.
You weren't ready to get interested in this sort of thing so I haven't said much about it, but if you are like most, family background will get important as you get older.
You'll discover that the old Shattos were mighty good men in their time. They lived bigger and stronger than we have more recently, but the way things loo
k to me, those days may come again. If they do, well, you could do worse than act like the ones you'll read about in here.
Your loving father,
George Shatto
He placed the letter aside and opened the thick book with some trepidation. A lot of Shattos he'd heard of really hadn't made wide tracks, but maybe the old ones had done better. The book began:
This book is covered with leather made from the hide of an Indian I killed in the high Rockies.
Toby's eyes shot open and his hands almost burned holding the book covered with human skin. He studied the leather more closely, but having no experience, it looked ordinary to him. He continued reading.
I begin this journal in dramatic fashion to emphasize the hazards encountered by Shattos and the manner in which we faced them.
This journal deals primarily with the first Rob Shatto who, in 1749, opened the lands now called Perry County; his grandson, also Rob Shatto (who is my father); and on a lesser plane, my brother Ted and myself, the third Rob Shatto of our line.
These are our stories and I record them so those Shattos who will follow will understand their bond to this land and stand as strongly upon it as did the early family.
The journal held Toby Shatto as no other had approached doing. He read of the first Rob Shatto who came as a boy to the Endless Hills and lived among the proud Delaware Indians while hacking a homesite from virgin wilderness.
The second Rob Shatto had traveled to the Rocky Mountains and returned to raise fine horses along the Little Buffalo Creek.
Finally the writer, nicknamed "Chip," who with his brother scouted the west and returned to face the violence of Civil War.
All had been strong men willing to dare and large with zest for life. They had planted their feet over what they claimed and did whatever was needed to stay there. When it was required they had killed men without pleasure, but with equally limited regret.
From the journal, Toby learned about the old pistol he had inherited and he dug it out to handle as he read. Answered was his question of the pistol's use. Three Rob Shattos had used the gun to deadly purpose and gripping the mesquite wood stock carved by the second Rob. Toby could sight along the stubby barrels and feel an affinity with those who had killed with it.
For the first time he learned how the Shattos and old Carter Roth had come to Pfoutz Valley so long before. Hanna had always claimed her earliest known relative had been a fierce pirate outlaw until he had settled in Perry County and the writing proved her correct.
The Journal of Chip Shatto required many hours of reading and more of consideration. For Toby Shatto, the timing was fortuitous. Confined to his cave as his leg healed, with winter snows drifting deep across the untrammeled valley, an opportunity to think beyond the moment was available and he took full advantage of it.
The story of the old Shattos grabbed his soul as his own circumstances closely paralleled many of theirs. His too was a land now without civilized order and as they had often been, he must now be a law unto himself and do what he felt right or necessary.
He smiled grimly reading of the first Rob Shatto's hanging four raiding Shawnee bodies to warn others away and compared his own intent to strew his dead along likely approaches. The old ways still seemed useful.
The journal helped bury the ghosts of the men he had killed and steeled his resolve to defend his own though the bodies rose ridge high.
+++
As winter closed ever tighter only unblemished snow showed through the view port of his steel door. Occasional animal tracks marred the smooth surface but he doubted anyone ventured along the valley road. He assumed Chop and the others were securely bedded, but no one appeared to verify his belief.
His radio rattled on about terrible times with no prospects of relief in the spring. Worldwide, cities were dead or cauldrons of starvation and violence. Still, governments somehow continued and the feared Soviet invasion of Western Europe did not materialize.
Why should it, Toby wondered. Europe died a little more each day. Why campaign in winter when it would all be ripe for spring plucking?
If the Russians survived intact, their time was ahead. Yet surely they too starved en masse. Had their armies melted away as those he heard of had? Without payment, their families dissolving, the American regulars and National Guards had vanished almost as though they had never been. Armories were looted, supply warehouses were pillaged (probably by some of those who knew them best), and motor pools were stripped. Could it be better in the bitterness of a Soviet winter? For decades the Soviets had required massive aid in wheat shipments. This year they had received little and starvation certainly ravaged their populace. If it were not so, countless thousands would not have smashed through the border cross fires in search of bread.
Spring would come and with it increasing movement as those who survived the cold sought continued existence. They would be like starving wolves and as cunning as cornered rats. Gone would be the weak, the considerate, and the accommodating. Those who came in the spring would be the hardiest and most deadly To a man, they would be merciless takers and users.
Toby Shatto planned to be ready for them,
+++
Chapter 13
The first nuclear explosions destroyed Cairo and Alexandria in January and few people cared. Starving and freezing in the Northern Hemisphere, they shared more immediate concerns. Below the equator, freezing was still ahead, but starving and anarchy had already decimated the unstable republics and tin soldier dictatorships.
Toby caught the first shrill reports of the disasters and listened fearfully for more. No one claimed responsibility, but the Middle East, with knee jerk response, blamed Israel. Toby thought that bizarre reasoning as the two nations had been at peace since Sadat's time.
Why Cairo and Alexandria had to be the questions?
To summon some sort of Arab unity? Islam versus the infidels? Even if it worked (which would be a first in Arab politics), the price was monstrous.
He mentally bid farewell to Hanna Roth Weigel and Ken. The loss was sickeningly personal and Toby's determination suffered a severe weakening before he could regain control. If only they had heeded his advice and fled while they could. To where, was a moot question, but at least away from ground zero. Still, no one would have predicted Egypt as a probable nuclear target.
Johannesburg was next. The great city disappeared at high noon in a mighty surface blast that was estimated in megatons, and that blast was someone's error. Although a wasteland miles in area was created, South African government was in untouched Pretoria. Only a few nations possessed such giant bombs, but nuclear bombs could be sold. South Africa recognized its enemies. South Africa possessed their own nuclear arsenal as well as a special unflinching dedication to survival. They went to work precisely and efficiently.
South African bombs were small by superpower standards and they were not many, but each was used with exactitude, and the black nations, so long thorns in South African hide, were overnight returned to the Stone Age while extremely dirty nuclear fallout drifted eastward to further decimate unprepared black African populaces.
Pretoria's follow-up announcement did not mince words. It stated with German clarity that all of those destroyed cities were not worth a single block in devastated Johannesburg, and that more South African bombs were waiting if anyone cared to continue.
No one did for the moment, and the world prayed that those still armed could appreciate the futility of further nuclear exchanges.
Toby Shatto charged his radiation counters and erected his sandbag wall. He skied to Chop's and a few other places to give warning, He left an extra Geiger counter at Clouser's. They already knew how to take shelter if the count began rising.
+++
With the entire world in convulsion it appeared that some special accommodations were being attempted. Through the thinned and scattered United Nations offices, the Soviets offered to barter oil for wheat. Acceptance would be minimal because wheat was desperate
ly short everywhere. Still it was something.
Armies traveled on their bellies, so it also seemed probable that only small wars could develop. It was reported that oil was again moving through some pipelines, and a few tankers were churning the sea lanes. Refineries might soon attempt production but for now there was no fuel. Armies also needed fuel to attack and resupply, so large scale warfare appeared ever more unlikely. A superpower nuclear exchange could be considered utterly pointless, for who could consolidate a victory? Some observers began to anticipate recovery.
Then Tel Aviv was destroyed by nuclear explosion, and the world cringed anew. With panicked sincerity Arab capitals screamed innocence, and every surviving government pleaded with Israel not to retaliate.
From the remains of their devastation, holocaust survivors and their descendants gagged on shattered dreams and ghostly memories and vowed anew, "Never again!" They too had long known their enemies, and in massive grief they gave eye for eye.
Ancient Damascus, Tripoli, Amman, and the harshest strike of all, Mecca were first to become memories and, even as the news clogged the world's disjointed and failing intelligence services, the mindless, hopeless carnage continued.
Who began the final nuclear escalation was also unknown. Some would speculate that inconsolable Israel had dispatched a suicide flight all the way to Moscow to place the beast of nuclear war in the aggressor's heartland. Others would claim that the Soviets emptied their cities before launching a long calculated first strike against American missile sites and population centers.
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