Shatto's Way

by Roy F. Chandler

  Shatto led the way at a brisk walk heading east along the ridge. He talked as they moved, explaining how he saw it.

  "Seems as though they'd have had to be in that woods, John, or else they'd have been shooting almost a thousand yards, and that doesn't seem likely.

  "Assuming they were, they'll retreat either back south over Wildcat Ridge or they'll turn east toward the Susquehanna. They won't go west because they'd have to make a big loop around the open fields and they'll avoid that.

  "People shooting from ambush into anyone that shows aren't likely to be the bravest around, but that just makes them more dangerous. We'll have to watch close once we get where I think they'll be going."

  He led silently for awhile, pausing to glass a little when they could see across the valley.

  "My guess is they snuck off as soon as they finished shooting." His eyes grew speculative, not really seeing the valley. "They'd have run a ways, all charged up and excited about what they'd done. Then they'd have slowed and congratulated each other on how smart they were. They'd have kept moving, though, because they'd fear that we'd be coming after them." Shatto hesitated, nodding to himself in satisfaction before continuing.

  "They'll go east a long way and then come out on Route 17. That's easier than working all the way south to the next road. People like these are lazy. If they amounted to anything they wouldn't be lying out killing for the hell of it."

  They started out again, Freet mulling over Toby's thinking and liking the reasoning. After a mile or more they drew up and Toby pointed off to the south.

  "About now they're holed up, giggling about how clever and dangerous they are. If they were half as smart they'd be putting a lot of distance behind them, but that would be hard work and they are pretending that they are real cunning and are letting any pursuit die down before they move on. Chances are good that they are just about over there right now." Toby pointed toward the valley's far slope.

  Moving again, John Freet wondered how Toby Shatto could be so sure. Hell, a hundred things could make the whole scheme a pipe dream. He'd surely never have the confidence to go tearing off like this, putting all his eggs in one basket. In between those thoughts he wondered what they'd do with the killers if they found them.

  Seeing the quiet rifle swinging from Toby's shoulder he thought he knew, and he got a little pukey inside again.

  After another hour they cut down to the highway.

  They were both breathing hard from fast hiking but Toby took them across the road into good cover before they rested.

  "Here's where we'll wait. With all the turnings and woods between our place and here, they'll feel safe, and if I've figured them right they'll come out on the road where it's easier and they can make better time."

  "Maybe they're already past, Toby."

  Toby considered but said, "Not likely. We've come straight and hard. They've wound around and rested a lot. We'll wait 'em out."

  After awhile he went on, "If there are two of them we want them separated right away. More than two, you take one aside and I'll hold the others.

  "We want to be sure we've got the right people, John. They won't have a great alibi ready. If we question them separately they'll tell different stories about where they've been, and then we'll know for sure. Ask your man details like where they camped, how far they've come, what they saw, and where they are going. Then we'll compare." Freet nodded, hoping it would go that easily.

  "Too many people come looking for us, John. It's almost as if someone kept telling them there was easy pickings or, like this time, that we were fair game somehow. We'll have to ask about that, " he finished off softly.

  They waited a long time. They ate what they'd brought and waited some more. Freet guessed they'd missed them and almost felt relief, but Toby just leaned back and kept waiting.

  The two appeared almost before they were heard.

  They were walking steadily with their rifles slung and appeared completely astonished when Shatto stepped out with his rifle held waist high, pointing squarely on their middles.

  For an instant it seemed they might attempt some desperate move, but Freet's ready rifle siding the other quelled such thoughts.

  Shatto's voice chilled John Freet as much as it must have the two riflemen. There was a deathlike coldness to it that raised Freet's neck hairs and got prompt response.

  "Stand real still, you two! Now ease those rifles onto the road slow and careful. Now that's just fine.

  Step back away from them and make all your motions extra slow so that I don't get startled and blow your guts out your back." They moved as carefully as men handling fire. Their hands trembled and their eyes darted. They licked at suddenly dry lips, but they moved as silently as they knew how, for the greatest fool alive could not fail to see their challenger's readiness to shoot.

  They were ordinary looking men. A little starved so that their clothing hung loosely, but they could have been neighbors out hoping to get a shot at something and their plainness threw Freet's emotions a little.

  While Freet held them motionless, Toby checked the rifles. Both showed signs of recent firing and he could still smell the powder at the muzzles. Saying nothing he laid the two guns aside and again leveled his rifle.

  Freet could sense the two cringe a little at the coldness of Shatto's eyes, and he felt himself wondering how friendly, reasonable Toby Shatto could change so instantly into a sort of killing machine that would freeze an icicle. Toby motioned Freet to take one of the men and Freet could feel the relief flow through that man. Well, he couldn't match Toby's deadliness but he intended getting the answers he wanted just the same.

  Toby put his man face down on the road so Freet did the same. Then he began asking the questions they'd agreed on. He tried to keep his voice earnest but not particularly threatening. The man answered sometimes quickly, often after a short hesitation, as though he had to remember, or maybe make something up.

  When they got back together it was clear that one or both were lying. As Toby expected, nothing agreed. They hadn't shot—or they had just zeroed-in. They had been out for two days—or since yesterday. They were going to Liverpool—or on down the river. Nothing matched.

  Toby brought them out to stand side-by-side on the faded yellow line. He studied them a long moment before he told them how it was.

  "You've both lied. Now you know that we know it, you can tell us the truth easy or you'll tell us a hard way. Either of you care to start now?"

  The older of the two might have been thirty or so.

  He began to bluster about having rights and his left knee suddenly exploded in bloody fragments. He went down hard, too shocked to scream, and the second ambusher wet his pants and trembled violently all over.

  John Freet's hands turned numb and his eyes watered mightily. The only sounds had been the knee shattering, a ricochet or two, and empty cartridge cases plinking on the blacktop.

  Acidy bile rose in Freet's throat and he gulped it back down, hearing Shatto's words like a voice from a tomb. He hoped he looked steady standing there, but with his mind churning like a whirlwind, he doubted he could do much.

  Toby's voice remained emotionless. "This game is over for you two. There are no rights here, so concentrate on what I am saying.

  "Now, who is ready to tell the whole story?"

  In shock the man on the ground cursed and groaned. He threatened and suddenly began weeping.

  Toby spoke directly to the second man. "I don't think he's going to tell me, do you?"

  Dumbly the man shook his head, willing to agree to anything. Toby nodded acceptance and his finger touched the trigger. Bullets tore the stricken man's chest to ribbons and the empties again clinked onto the road. The smoking silencer turned its ugly snout onto the younger man, and his legs turned to jelly dropping him to his knees as though praying into the rifle muzzle.

  John Freet stared numbly at the dead man, his mind desperately fighting to clear itself and catch up. He supposed he'd known all along
just what would happen if Toby Shatto found the shooters, but the actuality of its merciless efficiency kept him reeling.

  He knew they'd killed and wounded a few attackers since the collapse had started, but execution was greatly different. The thought rushed at him that Toby might expect him to kill the second man. He shoved the possibility around in his mind until he could handle it.

  The surviving sniper was babbling at a frantic rate, but Freet concentrated on getting control. Actually this should be his job. He'd taken on the responsibility for the village security and Toby shouldn't even have had to come along.

  There had been no condemnation by Toby of his guard's careless exposing of himself, but Freet knew in his own heart that it shouldn't have happened. The truth was that he too had been playing games with it. Deadly games, sure, but still half-assed efforts not taken seriously enough.

  John Freet gritted his teeth and gulped down the bitter lesson. Probably Toby Shatto had somewhere along the line suffered the same shocking awareness that all the rules were off and you did whatever served you and your people best.

  Shatto had learned well and, if he could, John Freet would also.

  The man's story was clear enough. They'd come up from south of Duncannon where they had a strong band living in the ruins of the old Kin Kora Pythian home. He claimed the dead man had done the shooting, but both rifles had been fired and Toby didn't believe him.

  They were supposed to scout things out and cut down the odds if it was convenient. If it looked as profitable as they had been told it was, the band might move up and take over. The man didn't know who had initiated the idea. It was just told around that Pfoutz Valley had a rich community and they'd been given their part to do.

  Toby got all the facts he could think to ask before he stepped back to talk with John Freet.

  "I think we've got all he knows, John. You think of anything else to ask?" Freet shook his head, his jaws tight clenched, and Toby started to turn back to the ambusher who was whimpering, head lowered onto the pavement as if waiting for the final shot.

  Freet touched Toby's arm stopping him. He managed to look Toby straight in the eye and said, "I'll do it, Toby."

  Shatto's mouth moved in appreciation and he nodded in what might have been assent, but his body blocked Freet's and his eyes stayed as cold as ever.

  "I'm the leader, John, and right now this kind of thing comes with the job." There was a heaviness in his voice that hurt Freet to hear, and any brooding suspicion that Toby Shatto might enjoy what he did was gone.

  "It's a rotten world, John, but maybe all this will help make it better." Toby snorted through his nose as though in disbelief, "Well, one thing is sure, these two won't try again."

  Toby raised the rifle and Freet looked away, not wishing to see the details. He heard the soft whir like bird wings, followed by the tinkle of falling brass. He picked up the two hunting rifles noting their reasonably good condition. Toby took what was valuable from the bodies, and they left without backward looks.

  The way was easier walking up the road, and they remarked hopefully on the continuing good weather. After awhile Toby pulled out a roll of thin pancake bread wrapped around some meat. He tore it in two and handed over half.

  Freet ate walking, pleased that his nerves had settled and thankful he'd gotten the courage to offer to shoot the second man. Now he chewed as comfortably as ever, his stomach steady, as though nothing had happened. He figured he had licked the worst of it.

  They only went a short way on the road before they ducked back into the woods. The day's lessons had been costly and in the future they would take more care.

  +++

  Chapter 23

  When Shatto's Way got its doctor, it actually acquired two. Unlike Dallas Kretzing, who slipped in from hiding, the doctors virtually paraded their entrance.

  Security guards heard them from afar and watched their approach with amazement. They saw two men pulling a cart on bicycle wheels who talked more or less continuously and gesticulated wildly. When they were close, the guards challenged them as they did all movers.

  The two managed an uncoordinated and uncertain halt and stepped from behind the T-shaped bar they had pushed against. The taller, older man drew himself erect in grandee style and waved an imperious finger in their faces.

  "Knaves, brigands, are you everywhere? This wilderness sags beneath the weight of thieves and cutthroats.

  "Here," he gestured theatrically at the burdened cart, "rob us, steal what you do not need and cannot use. Take what you will and stand aside that we may continue our journey."

  The smaller man had remained aloof, head cocked in listening, as though rejudging a familiar performance. When the older man ceased his harangue and turned contemptuously away, he sighed as though in resignation and presented his own explanation.

  "We are medical doctors; the cantankerous old fossil is Doctor Bernard James and I am Doctor Amos Ginsberg."

  The elderly doctor ignored both insult and introduction, so Doctor Ginsberg continued. "We expected to find the community of Shatto's Way along this road." He looked past the guards toward the fields where people worked and where a modern windmill turned slowly in the light air.

  "I hope you are that village's representatives, for as my companion suggests, we have nothing worthwhile left to be stolen and we search only for a place to resume some semblance of medical practice."

  "You are doctors, real doctors?" The guards could scarcely accept it, and the elderly doctor re-entered the fray with acerbic vigor.

  "Yes, real, genuine doctors! Should I examine your ears or do you require a display of diplomas?" He ended with a Shakespearean flourish and added, "Take me to your leader!"

  Doctor Ginsberg groaned in embarrassment and shrugged a palm-up denial of responsibility for his partner's behavior.

  Toby Shatto could hardly believe it. Feast or famine, he thought. For months there had been no one, then two arrived at once. He supposed there must be thousands of normal medical men out there and he had to wonder why the two who came his way had to be so damnably peculiar. He dragged his mind back to the doctors' presentation of themselves and tried to judge if either would suit his needs.

  As he had from the outset, the elder Doctor James spoke for the pair. Then, Doctor Ginsberg was obliged to explain what James had really meant. They were a weird pair all right and Toby suspected they were either very good doctors or the most outrageous of con men.

  They had operated a New York clinic, he discovered. They had worked primarily among the poor and therefore had been among the first turned upon when the rioting began. Vehemently, Doctor James pronounced his intention to never again attempt to help anyone unwilling to help himself, and the quieter Doctor Ginsberg nodded unequivocal agreement.

  Destruction of their clinic drove the doctors forth, so they had survived New York's repeated destructions.

  What internecine warfare had reduced to ruins, Russian missiles turned into ashes. The doctors had seen this from afar before scavengers again sent them fleeing with only a few salvaged medical instruments left to pursue their essential profession.

  Soured by humanity's insistent self-destruction, they had moved on, hoping to find some overlooked island of civilization. Instead, they had encountered self-seeking, greed, and barbaric brutality.

  Then they had heard rumors—mere whispers of stories passed over many campfires—of places to the west where arts and sciences continued to flourish. They had searched for them unsuccessfully.

  There were other communities of course. Many were utterly barbarous and some were only gatherings of the already hopeless. Later rumors had directed them down the Susquehanna's north branch and Shatto's Way began to be mentioned.

  So they had come. Doctor James glared across the village and declared it possibly adequate. Doctor Ginsberg smiled disarmingly and, as usual, discounted his friend's words.

  Eventually they got down to serious discussion and Toby clearly laid out the facts.

&
nbsp; "We need a doctor. Two might be more than we need.

  As you see, we are a small community and we do not intend to expand greatly. We seek security and stability, not power or influence."

  He chose to speak frankly, "You two appear less than likely to me. There is no room here for stroking egos. When he is not medically occupied our doctor will do other work and he will live no better than anyone else on the place. At this point we are almost a commune. Mainly we share, and anyone seeking to advance himself above or beyond his neighbors should not stay here. Anyone can leave at any time of course, but he departs with only what he brought, plus anything the community wishes him to have.

  "The same rules will apply to our doctor. Therefore, as our discussions continue, keep these details in mind because they are iron bound and will not change.

  "The final thing is that this village is called Hope. People refer to it however as Shatto's Way, perhaps because everything here is done my way. If I do not approve, it does not continue."

  The doctors accepted the harsh language, and Toby split them up. Chop took Doctor James for a tour and he sat alone with Doctor Ginsberg.

  "Mr. Shatto, there are things you must know about Doctor James and myself. Our competence will demonstrate itself, and we do not fear those tests. Our personalities are another thing." He smiled ruefully.

  "You have probably judged Bernard James as a pompous old blister who might still apply mustard plasters for pneumonia, God knows he can give that impression.

  "But that nauseating arrogance he adopts somehow translates into a most comforting bedside manner. Please do not ask me how. I have attempted to understand it for a full decade. All I can state is that his patients love him—just as I do. As you point out, he is highly peculiar but also a superb practitioner in the old sense. In fact, Doctor James was on his regularly scheduled house calls when our clinic was mobbed and looted."

  Doctor Ginsberg sighed and steepled his hands. "As for myself, what can I tell you? I performed most of the surgery and dreamed the bigger dreams. I also administered and resupplied. I believe I am more technically qualified than my friend but he can almost return life to the dead, while I only repair their breaks and gashes."