An evening rain shower drifted across amid mighty rumblings and vivid lightning. Forewarned, they took shelter under thicker trees with ponchos on and hats pulled low. The rain passed quickly leaving the air cooler, and with the sun already low in the west, the heat did not return. They slogged westward through mud until beyond the course of the storm. By then it was dark and the horses weary. Walter Saleman was exhausted and saddle sore.
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A neighbor lady found Starling about dusk. She dropped the bundle of clean wash she had been returning and fled screaming like a jaybird. Within minutes an increasing crowd cut Starling loose and stood around to gawk and exclaim. Through throbbing pain, Starling sent a boy for his men and pushed aside his rescuers to douse his bloodied features beneath the yard pump.
The cool water did nothing to ease the rage searing his soul. Hog-tied and helpless, he had endured hours of pain while attempting to reconstruct what had happened and what he would do about it. His face felt as though the end of a railroad tie had been driven into it, but all he could remember was Saleman's mocking smile as he lured him into the trap and a glimpse of something brown coming at him.
What to do was easier settled upon. He collared the local barber, who, in the absence of a regular doctor acted as surgeon, and prepared to submit to his ministrations. Plainly his nose was badly broken and it required immediate setting. What else the man could do was questionable, and with his face swollen into goose jowls, Starling could not even tell how severely he was hurt.
Before the barber began, Starling dispatched his men to discover the direction Saleman had taken. It was inconceivable that the man had not fled and, as there were only three roads from the village, each could be checked. If Saleman had taken to the woods, he would find that out too. The man was not alone of course, and Starling prayed that the one who had clubbed him remained with Saleman's party. He vowed they would meet again. When they did, he would turn him into a helpless cripple without tendons to walk with and his face.... The visualizations helped Starling through the barber's ungentle adjustments.
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Walter Saleman was a tough minded old buzzard.
Chip was quick to grant him that, but his body wasn't up to his courage and they had to go slowly. By riding around each hamlet and occasionally cutting cross-country to strike other roads, Chip hoped to delay pursuit. Unfortunately, their general direction would still become clear and thereafter the possibility of being headed off short of the river had also to be considered.
Another way of handling close pursuit was to hole up, let it thunder by, and then lie quiet until the hunt died down or turned elsewhere. The problem was that they couldn't know whether Starling could raise the countryside against them. If that occurred, their chances of slipping through undetected or unremarked would be mighty slim.
All things considered, Chip guessed it was best to just keep chewing away until the river showed. Then they would strike for the spot he had designated for pick up. If the Navy gave up on them, by God they would steal a boat and float down to Baton Rouge if need be. He didn't like abandoning the Appaloosa but maybe he would have to. That was still ahead so he put those worries aside until later. First thing was to get Saleman through the next day or two.
It was funny in a way. Riding herd on the old man, he spent about as much time resting under trees as he did riding. Alone, he would have switched horses or run beside the Appaloosa until he wore any pursuit into exhaustion. On the other hand, he could have faded into the stinking swamps that surrounded them and stayed in until he felt it safe to reappear.
Saleman was interesting enough. He was an opinionated old devil with ideas about every subject from taxation to slavery but he had been willing to put his money and his life right where his mouth led him and at his age, Chip found that Impressive,
The man could also be deliberately cantankerous. He insisted on calling Chip "Shadow" despite having been told enough times and it became easier to understand why the powerful family had allowed their patriarch to proceed with his schemes despite their fears for him.
Well, if he could hold his old body together a few more days, Walter Saleman would be back in safe hands.
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Jonathan Starling's pain was too great to sit a horse. His head throbbed mightily and even the subdued pace of his coach jellied his courage and turned him uncaring. The man who found the hog drovers now led the men in pursuit. They had thundered off on good horses and Starling had reason to hope they would quickly come up with Saleman and his companion.
The mountain man! He could hardly believe it. The man must have heard him ask about Saleman and gone immediately to the man's home. Starling ground his teeth in rage and regretted doing so as agony shot through his face. Something more than his nose had broken, he was sure. He could talk adequately so it was not his jaw, but until the swelling went down he could not tell exactly where the pain centered.
The barber had performed surprisingly well and, if not perfectly reset, his nose was at least reasonably straight. How it would look when healed troubled him.
He had been handsome and he had enjoyed the arrogance of being more than others. If that stinking mountain animal had permanently marred him.... The threat was useless. Starling intended having his life anyway. He would take it with his own hands. When his men found the mountain man they would have to hold themselves in check until he could come up to them. Until then—Starling drank deeply from one of a number of rum bottles he had purchased—strong spirits would dull the agony of body and soul that threatened to overpower him.
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It looked as though they had made it. The Mississippi flowed turgidly only a few hundred yards beyond their camp and they were just a short way below the point from which he would signal the Federal gunboat that patrolled this section of river. The boat would appear after dark and would push its nose into the bank to take them aboard. From there, Saleman would be heavily protected all the way back to Washington. Chip began to relax a little.
Saleman lay on his back, his mouth wide, sleeping in the depth of exhaustion. There was still an hour before dusk, but if the river had been further away they would have had to wait another day. The old man had been falling from his saddle and could not ride further. A few hours rest would perk him up enough to board their gunboat. Then he could rest as much as he liked.
He wondered how close Starling was. He didn't really know the man, but he doubted that a punch in the face was enough to stop him. Despite their zigging and zagging, he expected their enemy was not far away. He had carefully hidden their tracks when they had turned off the broad trace that paralleled the river. Even with a skilled tracker, Starling could not locate them before they embarked.
Raucous voices interrupted his thoughts and he came up swiftly, a hand on his big Colt pistol. The sounds came from between themselves and the river, and that was peculiar as nothing lay there except marshy ground and thorn thickets. Voices called again and this time he heard thrashing in the brush. It sounded as though a skirmish line of men was closing right in on them. Improbable as that seemed, he woke a dazed and haggard Saleman with a cautioning hand over his mouth and signaled him to hold the horses' muzzles against nickering. Then he eased silently into the thickets toward the noisemakers.
Moving cautiously so as to see before being seen, he tried to figure who would be searching out here in the middle of nowhere. It wouldn't be Starling, he was sure of that. Anyone hunting them would try to pin them against the river; unless that succeeded they could easily escape into the barrens behind them. A runaway slave perhaps? That was quite possible. He judged the search party wasn't large, perhaps a half dozen men.
Close ahead there was frantic crashing in the brush as though an animal was attempting escape. The beaters converged on the sounds in a wild rush, and exclamations of satisfaction and triumph told that the chase had ended.
Chip squatted in position, content to wait and make sure the victorious hunters did not withdraw in h
is direction. The sharp splat of a blow followed by a childish whimper made him grimace but he waited it out. Slaving was bad enough at the best of times so beatings were common.
A voice rose in anger and he could hear the words distinctly. "Led us a merry chase, you little rat, but now you'll dance to the cat the way you should of a month back."
"Now hold up, Jack. The boy can't show marks or Captain Roth'll have us over a grating."
"Captain Roth! Hell, he ain't even got a ship."
"Well, he's payin' our lodgin' an' some might figure us as still signed on. Anyhow, you ain't plannin' on standin' up to the Captain, are ye?" The voice was mocking and Chip guessed Captain Roth to be a hard nut.
The man called Jack appeared undeterred. "Roth or no, I'm leavin' my mark on this little weasel. The Captain may think him special but he's overdue for his turn in the barrel, just like any other ship's boy."
"Captain finds out he'll hide you proper, Jack!"
"An' who'll tell him? You boys stand by old Jack an' take your turns if you're a'mind." His laughter was hoarse with anger and frustration. "It'll be the boy's word against ours an' not a mark'll be showin'."
There was coarse laughter and again the sounds of struggle. A man called out in pain and there was more slapping.
"Alright, get his pants down an' bend him over that there log. Hold him still, dang it."
Chip stepped to the edge of the small clearing, seeing the boy bent forward over a rotting log and held securely by a number of men. He ought not to concern himself with this. He already had enemies enough on his trail but the brutality of it was too much to ignore.
Exposed to the failing light, the boy's white buttocks appeared embarrassingly vulnerable and, though aware of the tensions of long months at sea, Chip found his anger and disgust growing.
"Let the boy go!" His voice startled the sailors, turning their heads toward him and stopping Jack's fumbling with his drawstring pants. They looked him over carefully before their eyes shifted about to see if there were others. Deciding that he was alone, their wariness departed and almost gloating arrogance took over.
Chip could read their thoughts. Six to one they believed. The man called Jack wore a huge old pistol in a broad belt and the others had long knives about them. They saw one man, a Colt revolver at his side but not in his hand. The odds seemed in their favor.
They were a hard looking lot. Striped shirts and similar flat topped hats made them crew members, and missing teeth, numerous crude tattoos, and calloused, broken-nailed fingers showed them long before the mast.
The one called Jack was a loutish figure with broad shoulders and ape-like arms. If he was dismayed by Chip's appearance he disguised it and spoke sneeringly as his companions ranged up beside him.
"Now who'd of guessed there'd be a wild man this close to the river?" He planted his feet and placed ham sized fists on his hips, thrusting his heavy jaw forward aggressively.
"You'd best back away while you can, country man.
This is sailor business an' we don't take to interference."
Forgotten for the moment, the boy hauled at his clothing and wisely backed toward the clearing edge.
Chip's voice was hard enough to give warning but he doubted the sailors intended listening. "I'm in and I'm ending your game. You can take it peaceable an' back away or try your luck an' get hurt bad."
One of the sailors made quitting sounds but their leader snorted disdain and waved a man forward. The sailor came at Chip with another close behind. His thick arms hooked to close his man in a crushing embrace while the others went to work on him. Chip's right hand appeared from behind his back with the Shatto pistol cocked and pointing into the sailor's face. The man jerked to a stop, consternation replacing his sneering smile. Instantly, Chip took a step forward and slapped his pistol barrel alongside the sailor's head and he went down rag limp, his flat hat flying across the clearing.
Jack grunted in anger and clawed at his awkward horse pistol. Almost casually Chip turned his pistol on him and warned coldly, "Don't try or you're dead."
For an instant Jack hesitated, his pistol almost clear. Then he hurled himself sideward behind one of his own men bellowing for them to attack.
Chip waited the moment it took for Jack to flop back into view behind his frightened shipmate. Then he shot him high in the chest and Jack's huge pistol went off in reflex action, adding a booming roar that re-echoed across the flats.
The four seamen still standing froze in their tracks. The boy dove into the brush and Chip heard him thrashing away.
"Alright, Shadow, we've got 'em covered!" Saleman's old voice crackled with excitement and Chip saw him crouching behind a bush with the old black rifle held ready.
There wasn't any fight left among the four anyway. Chip sheathed his pistol behind his back and took a look at the one called Jack. The heavy charge had killed him almost instantly. Accustomed to violent death, Chip was little affected, but the sailors were visibly shaken and perhaps feared they were next.
He fixed them with cold eyes before he spoke. "You people pick up these two an' take 'em with you. Go back where you came from and don't even think about lookin' over your shoulders. Forget the boy and be glad you're alive. That clear to you all?"
There was nodding and quick scrambling to gather Jack's body and their unconscious companion. No one reached for the fallen horse pistol or the pair of hats. From behind his bush old Saleman added his warning. "We southerners don't like your kind, so you're lucky to go without a flogging."
Chip picked up the pistol and carried it dangling by the trigger guard. The sailors struggled and cursed their way through the brush and shortly Chip heard them clambering into a small boat and the sounds of rowing as they headed away.
Walter Saleman was standing with Chip's rifle, looking proud of himself and even a little less tired. A compliment wouldn't hurt so Chip nodded satisfaction and added, "Right well done, Professor. You came up just in time. Made certain none of 'em acted foolish."
Pleased with himself, Saleman insisted on carrying the rifle the few yards back to their camp. He looked quizzically at Chip's undisturbed expression.
"You're a hard man, Mr. Shadow. You have just pistol whipped one man and shot another but you appear unaffected. I hesitate to guess the life you have led to become so accustomed to brutalities."
Chip smiled grimly, "You wouldn't believe if I began telling, Professor. About all I can say is that sometimes violence gets real personal and the other man's life real cheap. A lot of it was so mean it's best forgotten anyway. Once you're safe away, I'm putting all this behind me an' settin' myself up on a decent farm among people that don't turn to shooting all the time."
Though talking, Chip's mind was on the boy. They could just ride off, of course, but this was hardscrabble country and he judged he might at least give the lad a choice. He left Saleman with the horses and cut across to where he had heard the boy heading.
Though light was fading, he easily found the boy's track. It wound through the brush with the deep toe marks of running. By the time the tracks showed walking the boy had half circled and wasn't much farther away than when he had started. Not very woods smart, that was sure,
The boy had hidden beneath a scrubby tree and Chip could see the loom of his body within the tree shadow.
He sat on a handy grass hummock and picked up a long twig to scratch in the sandy soil. After a minute he spoke softly so as not to scare the youth into another run.
"They're gone, son. Went away in their boat. It's safe to come out now." After thinking it over for a while, the boy scrunched around and poked his head from the questionable safety of the tree branches. He didn't seem to know what to do next so Chip helped him along.
"Come on out and we'll sit and talk a bit. You've got to figure what to do now that you're loose, and I might be of some help to you."
He was a small boy, perhaps ten or eleven years of age. He wore the same striped jersey, so he was part of Captain Roth's crew
. Towheaded, with eyes of deep blue, he was an attractive youth and, though still wary, he stood well and moved with the unfettered grace some children possess. He squatted a dozen feet from Chip, where he thought he would have running room, and began making his own scratchings in the dirt.
"You're a bit young even for the sea, aren't you, boy?"
The answer was defensive, "I'm almost eleven and Captain Roth says I pull my share."
Chip smiled as disarmingly as he could manage.
"Well, I reckon Captain Roth knows his seamen." The boy appeared mollified.
"My name is Chip. Don't seem right just sayin' 'boy'; how are you called?"
"Most call me Doug, Mister." He paused and his face flushed with embarrassed remembering. "I got to thank you for pullin' them off me. That Jack's a bad one and the others aren't no better." Another pause then, half-fearfully, "You shot into Jack didn't you?"
Chip nodded solemnly. "Yep, shot him dead. He won't be botherin' anybody anymore." The boy gulped and Chip added, "That worry you, Doug? You said yourself that Jack was a bad one."
The boy answered seriously, "I sure ain't mad that Jack's done in. Just ... seems sort of sudden, I guess."
Chip understood that alright. He'd been struck often by the same realization. One instant a man was alive with all his hopes, rages, and fears. The next he was gone and all that he stood for gone with him.
Chip put those thoughts aside; it was possible that Starling's men had heard the shooting so, as soon as it was too dark to track, he and Saleman would ease on up to the point and settle in until signaling time. First though, he'd see to this boy.
"Well, Doug, with Jack off your trail you've got to lay a new course. This isn't the friendliest of country no matter which side Captain Roth's on."
"He's Union, Mister."
"You'd better start calling me Chip. 'Mister' just don't sound right.
Chip Shatto (Perry County Series) Page 6
