It was late August before Jonathan Starling returned to Washington. During the years of war the city had grown and it exuded a powerful energy that had been lacking before countless thousands had poured into the Capital and on to the blood lettings.
Regiments still marched through en route to deactivation but politics was again gaining supremacy and Starling felt familiar among the many angling for power and position. Old animosities were neglected and new cabals formed and transformed as fitted the moment, and self-interest replaced any patriotic incentives that had survived the fighting.
But it was not the same for Starling. Before the war his regal features and bladelike physique complemented his reputation as a duelist. Now that was past. The era of personal arrogance that had indulged duels at dawn died with the rise of a more cynical war-born realism.
New waves of hawk-eyed young stallions had arrived to titillate the ladies, and among the countless war heroes and aspiring politicians, Jonathan Starling was of small notice.
Starling struggled against the tides, but little came his way. He lacked his former certainty and others detected it. He inspired no confidence and his schemes failed to gain support. He was unable to develop a base of influential or moneyed associates and without them, he was reduced to picayune finagling that barely kept him in quarters and respectable attire.
As he had since the fall of 1863, Starling ignored the need to lay the past and continued to brood about the man who had destroyed his life. Yet, until a typically muggy afternoon outside his modest hotel, his dreams of savage vengeance seemed unattainable.
The passing of prominent figures from the immediate conflict could still stir spontaneous applause and the appearance of the popular General McClellan raised an appreciative spatter of handclapping that caused Starling to take notice. The General, handsomely clad in civilian attire, saluted his admirers with casual dignity and continued a conversation with a young aide who maneuvered his horse to stay close to the General's.
Lost in his own thoughts, Starling barely cared until his glance settled on the spotted rump and arrowhead brand of McClellan's animal. Jolting astonishment stunned him for more than the moment it took the General to pass and for Starling to become aware that he was out in the deep dust of the street almost running after the trotting horses.
The obvious ease of locating George McClellan brought Starling to his senses and, his mind racing, he slipped back into the anonymity of the pedestrian stream. McClellan! The closeness of the General to the family of Saleman was common knowledge, and the horse—the same markings and the same brand—it was beyond coincidence. McClellan had more than a little to tell Jonathan Starling.
It was easy to learn about McClellan's horse. The General's stableman willingly bragged about the special Appaloosa blooded geldings raised by Rob Shatto up in Pennsylvania. The name Shatto almost suffocated Starling with its sweetness. Of course the man he had known as Shadow was this Rob Shatto and he did not hide a continent away but lived openly only a few days travel to the north.
Satisfaction vied with anticipation in Starling's twisted soul. Only the details of his vengeance would need working out, for his course of action was plain.
He would travel to Perry County, Pennsylvania and examine the situation. It was not enough to execute this Rob Shatto. The man would need to pay in a thousand ways and suffer torments at least equal to those he had imposed. Only then would Shatto be granted death and, Starling vowed, a lengthy, painful one it would be.
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1865 had become a good year for Chip. There were times when memories of the high, lonesome western country left him hungry to see it again and occasionally the nightmare of his tortures under Coyote Boy's knife jerked him awake, sweat drenched and heart pumping, but he could feel his roots digging in and recognized that he was becoming a permanent part of Pfoutz Valley.
About the only aggravations he could count began with the damned coal vein that stayed just large enough to keep them digging, but never grew to be worthwhile.
He expected that minor annoyance would be with him many a year.
More worrisome was the fire starter. So far the arsonist had struck only at his farm and many people doubted either fire had been set. His big wheat field had gone first. His neighbors thought the burning accidental, but he had looked closely and located at least four starting points. He did not know who to suspect so he just kept his eyes open.
When the new barn burned only a week later a few people frowned thoughtfully but the rest believed it an unfortunate coincidence. Chip didn't, but there had been a thunder and lightning storm in progress and he couldn't find a lick of evidence. He and Tinker had driven the stock to safety but not much else was saved.
Since then there had been no trouble. As things were, the young Shattos could only hope the arsonist—if there really was one—had moved on.
When he had lived out of what he carried, the possibility of having important possessions destroyed was remote because to get at what little he did have, they had to get over him. Owning property made Chip vulnerable and he didn't like just hoping trouble would go away.
Tinker understood his feelings but Tinker's lifelong poverty had affected her differently. To Tinker, property bordered on the sacred. Having lived with little, she valued their things greatly.
Still, Tinker had the knack of making herself part of Chip's thoughts and even if her feelings differed she did not tire of adopting his worries and concerns the way some wives did. If Chip suggested they might just pack it up and move west to Ted Shatto's country, Tinker was interested in talking about it. He knew he wasn't going and somehow she understood that. She was wise in not ridiculing his dreaming or rejecting even the wildest of his schemes. She figured that common ordinary horse sense would weed out his wildest ideas without her stomping around on his feelings—and she was right.
She suffered the most under the arsonist's threat and had to control her wish to push Chip out into the night to stand guard over their things. To Chip, the barn was a valuable but not irreplaceable object. He was already interested in improving the design of the new and bigger barn they would put up.
If Tinker fretted and woke to listen to night sounds, Chip was busy thinking ahead. Given another year or two for organizing his interests and they might just take a ship out of Philadelphia or Baltimore clear to the Gulf. Then they could go on to visit with Ted and Beth at the ranch. Carter and Hella would like that and, come to think of it, his Pap and Mother might be waiting for just such an adventure. He resolved to talk it over with Tinker and at least get the idea cooking. Planning a long trip would help get her mind off the barn burning as well.
No doubt about it, with a little time to shake things out, a lot of opportunities could be enjoyed. He mustn't forget young Doug Fleming on that Texas trip.
The boy would jump on the chance like a duck on a June bug.
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There were times when Jonathan Starling knew he was mad but he did not care. If madness insured revenge, then he welcomed the insanity that purged all other interests.
He arrived in Harrisburg and took residence in the hotel on Market Street square. It was an expensive address that remembered President Lincoln had slept there. Starling registered as Walter Saleman of Washington, D. C. and smiled darkly to himself at humor no one else would detect.
Starling had brought a man with him. The man was skilled at gaining information and was not above illegal acts, providing payment was good and murder was not involved. For a time Starling could afford to employ the man and when it came to killing, Starling would act alone.
The spy was an innocuous middle-aged man of medium stature that few would notice. He came to Perry County as a peddler of gold plated watches for both men and women. As a doorknocker, he gained access to most homes, and from the many who enjoyed social chatter he was able to learn all that his employer wished to know.
"I spoke with Mr. Rob Shatto, Mr. Starling, but he is not the man you seek."
/> Starling was stunned and disbelieving. His soul shriveled and for a moment his eyes lost focus, but the man continued.
"Mr. Shatto is elderly and has a peg leg that he has worn for decades. He is not the one you want." The spy paused, and something behind his pursed lips caused Starling's hopes to rise.
"But there is another Shatto. This one does not raise arrow branded horses but he rides one. A few years back he returned from the Rocky Mountains and it is said he served the Union for a short time as a Lieutenant of scouts."
Starling felt saliva dribble across his chin and he wiped it away with a not overly clean sleeve, promising himself to strangle the man if he did not get on with it.
"This Shatto is a big man who seems the right age and.... "The spy drew it out, enjoying the suspense. "He is the son of old Rob Shatto and both are known to be friends of ... General George McClellan."
Starling's man had seen Chip Shatto in Millerstown and he went on describing him but his employer was already sure and barely listened. Finally it could begin and those thoughts devoured him.
Starling's plan was simple enough. He would slowly destroy all that Chip Shatto possessed. He would accomplish this from afar, using his man to do the work and face the dangers, while he savored each step along the way. Only after Shatto was reduced to a pauper would he personally intervene to administer a final and painfully prolonged termination.
He began with the field burning and followed that with the barn fire. They were only beginnings and in themselves small in his plan, yet Starling found them surprisingly dissatisfying. The problem was that Shatto did not realize what was happening and, more importantly, who was causing his disasters and why. Starling had believed that accomplishment itself would provide sufficient gratification and that it was not, severely upset him.
Before he could decide on a new course his spy explained matters that initiated even greater turmoil in Starling's deranged mind.
"Fact is, Mr. Starling, there is little harm we can do these Shattos. Chip Shatto has western money behind him. How much, no one seems to know, but more than he needs apparently. Then, the old Shattos are rich by any standards. They don't show it, but there is Philadelphia wealth in their name.
"If we burned all they had twice over they would just build better each time and keep right on. It isn't going to work, Mr. Starling. Soon the people up there will become aroused and strangers will be suspect. Then it will be too dangerous to do much and foolhardy to keep trying."
For nearly a week Starling drank his rages and disappointments into apathy. Once his man dragged his employer's besotted hulk from a shabby back street saloon, but thereafter he kept his distance. A man of the shadows, he did not willingly bring attention to himself and, despite the rewards to date, he feared Jonathan Starling was not one to been seen with.
Money shortage roused Starling from his drunken rounds. A morning of relative sobriety and his man's request for current payment demanded that he take stock. He paid because he had to and estimated his increasing hotel tab with a desperate awareness that he could delay no longer.
He scrubbed his eyes clear and raked a comb through matted hair and beard until they regained a semblance of order. The grooming gave him opportunity to consider. His grand scheme was obviously not the right course and he now saw it as only wasteful procrastination. Yet, until Shatto was dealt with he could know no peace and settling that debt required suffering on Shatto's part. For the moment, a solution escaped him.
For the first time in days, Jonathan Starling ordered and devoured a breakfast. Financial pressures forced him to act quickly and that implied a need to begin personal retribution. Anticipation of immediate action savored his meal and he rose with a new determination to dig out this Chip Shatto and force him to understand the magnitude of his error in disfiguring Jonathan Starling.
He dismissed his man and saw him to his train. His course now required no witnesses. He purchased a railroad ticket to Millerstown. There he would rent a horse and abandon it later in Liverpool. He would be long away and far beyond reach before anyone discovered what had happened to Chip Shatto.
On schedule he checked out of his hotel and caught the earliest train running. He would be in Millerstown by noon and it was only a few miles to the Shatto place. There, he would take longer.
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The day was about as fine as God made them and with Doug Fleming up from the Little Buffalo, Chip thought they should walk off Tinker's satisfying noon meal.
Tinker didn't care to come along so he and the boy wandered up the ridge smelling the good woods odors and expecting that Carter would see them going and catch up before they went too far.
It amused Doug Fleming to hear of Chip's problems with his former Captain. During the summer Carter had gone through a spell of joke telling. His attempts were awful and all were grateful when he quit.
Next he attempted to grow a beard but it came out in patches and looked like a spring-rubbed bear hide. Despite general disapproval, Roth persisted until Chip commended him on it.
"Carter, that beard is all right. Sort of makes you look like most of the other men around here. Makes you look a little bit older, too. Sort of mature-like."
Roth had no intention of looking like everyone else and he didn't need to look older. The next time Chip saw him he was clean shaven, and like most men, he looked better for it.
There were other stories and the boy had more than a few of his own from the horse training. He had adopted the same postures and hand gestures that Chip used and that gave Chip's heart a few tugs. It was good being out like this on their own land, free of worries, and able to enjoy the perfect day. Chip sucked in the warm odors and guessed life in general was about as good as it could get.
Chapter 19
The house showed its newness in bright paint and perfect roof line. The porches afforded deep shade that disguised their contents, but a man along the road had said he had just seen Chip Shatto and someone else walk into the woods above the house so Jonathan Starling was unworried. Only Shatto had ever seen him and he sullenly acknowledged that his changed appearance would keep almost anyone from his earlier years from recognizing him.
The small young woman who stepped out to meet him was probably Mrs. Shatto and Starling forced his most engaging manner.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Shatto. I've come to see Chip on matters of mutual interest. Does he happen to be in?" Behind his doffed hat he watched to see if the woman noticed the omission of his name but she merely stepped forward to stroke his horse's muzzle and point up the wooded lane beyond the house.
"No, but he's not far. Chip and Doug Fleming just walked up to look at a bee tree we're hoping will stay occupied until next winter. They're only a little way along so you can't miss them."
He stepped down, cursing the weight that made him clumsy, and silently vowed that once he had finished with Shatto he would starve himself until he was again lean and rapier quick. He forced a few pleasantries and commented on the barn ruins, blackened and spread about where the timbers had been dragged to salvage what was left.
Tinker watched him turn up the ridge path with a sense of relief. There was something about the stranger's manner that made her fearful. His eyes were too wild and shifty for one thing and he exuded a smell that warned of tightly wound nerves causing unusual sweating.
Starling's coat was too hot for walking but he kept it on to cover the .36-caliber Colt holstered along his hip. Anticipation made him wish to hurry, but he deliberately slowed himself to savor and extend the satisfaction so close ahead.
Carter met them near the bee tree and they poked along to it, each claiming it stood on his land but offering to share a little if the other dug out the honey come winter.
Doug Fleming was used to their endless banter and just walked along enjoying their company. Carter and Chip treated him like a grownup, though Carter often reminded him that, seeing he had never signed off, he was still crew, and a ship's captain did have hanging and flogging
rights if he chose to use them.
At the tree they sat on a log to whittle and talk, but Carter reached for his knife to find it wasn't there.
"Huh, some seaman you are. Whoever heard of a sailor without a knife?" Chip was disdainful.
"Can't believe it myself, but I remember laying it on the sideboard and clean forgot about it.
"Now a proper cabin boy would run down to his captain's quarters and fetch it for him, but since discipline has failed, I suppose I'll have to pay some sort of exorbitant fee for a simple courtesy."
Doug was already off and running, hearing Chip say, "You slavers get too used to having people wait on you—and don't start bellowing and claiming innocence. Someone's coming up the lane and you'd surely scare him off."
"I see him, Chip. Don't recognize him though, do you?"
"Stranger to me. Must ride more'n he walks. He's as clumsy moving as you are."
Chip couldn't see the stranger's face because he kept his head down watching where he stepped and walked right up to them before he looked up.
His head rose and Chip's first look into his eyes indicated clearly—crazy man. Beside him, Carter stiffened but the muzzle of the Colt revolver that appeared from beneath the stranger's frock coat froze them both where they sat.
For an instant Chip feared the man would pull the trigger and he became acutely conscious of the hunting knife still gripped in his hand.
For a long moment, as he held them under his gun, Jonathan Starling feared to speak. The wish to kill thundered through his brain, and until its first wild surge passed, he could do little more than hold his pistol on the pair.
He saw the knife gripped in the bigger man's fingers and almost wished he would try with it. Then he got himself in hand and spoke his first words.
"Lay the knife down real slow and careful, Shatto, and you, Fleming, don't move at all." Neither Chip nor Carter thought it the moment to discuss Roth's proper name.
Chip Shatto (Perry County Series) Page 16
