Tiff listened in on street comer philosophy and barber shop gossip. He found little interest in either. Discussions were of local concerns and humor was heavy handed and crude if women were not about—just as it was in every town and city he had visited.
Bright conversation was always hard to find, but Tiff expected some would appear, as it usually did, in the right game at the right table. Amid the mental gymnastics of poker, the stimulus of competition with an aura of good fellowship could sharpen wits, and ideas surfaced for chewing over.
On this particular evening, prospects for inclusion in such a game appeared slim. Games were underway, but the ones likely to produce worthwhile reasonings were regularly scheduled affairs and closed to outsiders. Tiff kibitzed at a table or two, judging the quality of play and the levels of repartee. Not too good, he decided.
Slower living did not contribute to either scintillating thought or imaginative five card stud. They were found in the cities and on the big rivers where many lived by their wits and where the most successful congregated. Tiff expected that his Perry County stay would not include much excitement.
Tiff knew he attracted attention. When he looked, eyes fell politely away, but in a land where men dressed uniformly in black suits and shirts with stiff, high collars, Tiff's open throat and soft leather jacket were strange. He had abandoned his tight and flared vaquero pants for more common straight legged attire, but his broad brimmed double beaver hat was not unlike the recognizable cavalry slouch hat, and that rakish model was not often worn on rural Pennsylvania streets. The butt of the Colt Lightning belted to his waist rarely showed, but when it did, eyes widened and necks stiffened. Men no longer carried guns on the streets of Pennsylvania towns.
At the Lewistown stop he had not been drawn into conversations that sooner or later led to who he was and where he was from. Tiff was willing to tell it all again, but he had not encountered a discussion he wished to enter.
As the street traffic thinned and died, shops closed and only a few street lamps flickered around the square. Tiff sat on his barge roof for a while, then wandered toward the bright lights of a number of dock front saloons and a single hotel. He ignored a knot of tough looking louts who slouched against loading cranes and perched on oak bollards. Hard eyes challenged, but Tiff had known far more dangerous ruffians. These were welcome to their turf. A dozen years from now they would still be there, squabbling among themselves and hoping someone would notice how intimidating they were. Their like was found at the edges of every community. Tiff supposed that a certain percentage of all males were destined to end up as lay-abouts, living small, gritty lives and dying young from too much bad whiskey.
The hotel's bar was busy, but card games were few and of no challenge. Waiters, however, entered and departed an upstairs room with noticeable regularity. There, Tiff thought, was the real game. He approached an aproned bartender with his question.
Tiff tipped a thumb toward the closed door at the top of the staircase. "Is that game open, friend?"
The barman's eyes followed Tiff's thumb. He wiped at a few wet rings before answering civilly enough.
"That's Mister Haycock's game and the stakes are mighty high." The man leaned closer, imparting his special knowledge. "J.P. Gring, the railroad man, is in there, and so is Clyde Deson." Tiff must have looked a little blank because the man explained further.
"Deson owns half the county including three mills and two stores on Main Street." He stared admiringly at the paneled door. "Big money changes hands in there, and the game's already settled in." The bartender was sure the young man in the leather coat could never stand the high stakes gambling he spoke about.
Tiff nodded acceptance. The gambler, Haycock, apparently made regular stops along the river. Sometimes he used his barge, but at Lewis town the game was in a hotel. An interesting operation, Tiff concluded. Instead of the gambler waiting at his table, the professional moved to the game. Tiff wondered if other card handlers had staked out regular routes along rivers and roads. Why not? Moving on gave everyone a breather and brought fresh money and new faces to the games. Returning on schedule kept the games alive and corralled any loose money that had accumulated during the interim—providing the gambler kept winning, of course.
Tiff finished a single beer and bid the apron a good night. He followed a lurching figure onto the porch and paused to breathe in the fresher air and to decide if other lights were worth investigating. Haycock's gambling barge was not at the docks. It could be far downriver by now. Harrisburg seemed likely. There wouldn't be a lot of money flowing from the smaller river towns between here and the state's capital.
Sudden racket from the group of lounging toughs diverted his thoughts. Looking into the dark he could not see well, but it appeared that the bunch was cornering the drunken man who had just left the bar. The raised voices were taunting, but there was an ugly undercurrent that set Tiff's teeth on edge. The drunk was shoved and went to one knee with figures crowding close and their coarse laughter rising in volume and excitement.
Tiff stepped back into the lighted room and called loudly. "Say, one of your people is getting knocked around by that tough bunch down the dock. He needs some help right now."
Everything stopped, men waited for direction. The barkeep shrugged and said, "That'd be Frank Dodge. Hell, he's been worked over before." Men's eyes fell away, and Tiff could feel their relief. The barman stared defiantly at Tiff.
Tiff Shatto was not surprised. Few sought trouble and fewer knew how to handle it if it came. A cry of pain came from outside, and there was threat in the increasingly loud voices. A man shifted uneasily, but no one got up.
Tiff let the door close behind him, wishing his night vision had time to recover. This was not his battle either, but it would grind his soul to be one with the gutless locals unwilling to help a man they knew.
Tiff stepped fast off the porch. The drunk was down and sobbing. He grunted as a heavy boot drove hard into his body. Behind him, Tiff heard the saloon door reopen and feet shuffled, but none came in his direction.
There were five toughs, younger men, but older than he was, big and meaty, mean drunk from whatever they had been guzzling. The beating was close to the dock edge, and Tiff took advantage of it.
He came in light-footed and fast. His shoulder caught the closest bully chest high and drove him stumbling away. The tough's feet struck the plank edging the dock, and he barely got out a squall as his body toppled backward into the black water.
Tiff's hands caught the belt of the smallest thug, and using his weight, he swung the man into a tangle-footed spin, off the dock and onto his just surfacing companion.
Then there were three astonished but angry ruffians. Already keyed up to hurting, they saw only a single average-sized attacker. One said, "Why you . . ."
His voice died without finishing. He stared into the muzzle of Tiff's .41 caliber Colt Lightning. The man froze, and Tiff's voice was cold and certain. "Make one bad move, and I'll kill you where you stand."
Beneath their feet the injured drunk stirred. A tough slightly to Tiff's right said, "Why, hell, you can't . . ."
He too never finished. Tiff half-stepped closer and the Colt swung in a vicious arc. The barrel slammed along the bruiser's skull, and he dropped to his knees before collapsing stunned onto his side.
Tiff's pistol was already back on target. He thumbed the hammer to full cock, the clicks of the action loud in the strained silence.
Tiff said, "Your friend is wrong. I can shoot you, and I will." His pause was almost unnoticeable, but anger and new hardness came to his voice. "Now pick up that man and help him to the porch. Do it gentle or I'll make you hurt a lot worse than he is."
The pair of roughs left standing made no further resistance. They gripped the drunk under his arms and half carried and half dragged him toward the lamp lit hotel porch. Canal thrashing lessened as the two Tiff had put into the water reached a short ladder and began climbing out. Tiff paid them little attention.
There were lookers on the porch, and with the fighting safely over, other drinkers and players crowded out to take part. Willing hands took control of the injured man, and one of the toughs was pushed violently aside.
Tiff heard a voice exclaim, "My God, you should have seen that"
Another put in, "I thought sure as hell he'd shoot 'em dead."
"Who is he, anybody know?"
"Came in on Roth's barge. Just going through, I think."
Tiff turned away. He held the Colt at his side, but the canal-soaked toughs crouched like whipped dogs, offering no challenge, pretending interest in their pistol-whipped, head-holding companion.
Captain Roth's barge was well along, and Tiff holstered his pistol long before he got there. A marvelous invention, the Colt revolver. It made a small man equal to a giant, and if no one else had one, a man and his pistol might handle a crowd.
Tiff frowned a little to himself. He had been lax with his practice, and the gun had not had quite the old certainty in his hand. Like piano playing, or card handling for that matter, pistol practice should be a daily affair. Unlike other things, being right with the pistol could mean staying alive.
Alone on the barge roof, Tiff went through his pistol drills. He drew and recovered from various positions until sweat ran and his hand grew clumsy. One practice would not help much, but he would make it a point to miss fewer opportunities. Even tonight, his draw had not seemed slowed, but he could sense the rust beginning to form. That, Tiff resolved would not be repeated.
Chapter 10
The Pinkerton's report was almost complete. The task of locating Tiff Shatto had proven remarkably easy. Although he had hidden his destination well, once on the Mississippi, Tiff Shatto became high profile. His travels on the river were easily documented, and men with whom he associated were interviewed.
Tiff Shatto, it was discovered, spoke often of a home place in Perry County, Pennsylvania. When he chose a Pittsburgh bound boat, Tiff's probable goal fell into place. Telegraphs clattered, and when Tiff disembarked, a local agent watched from a distance. There seemed little doubt, Shatto was heading for Perry County.
It was enough. Mister Black could have his arrest warrant served by the Perry County sheriff. Tiff Shatto could be brought back to California in chains to face trial.
Only that would not happen. The Pinkerton investigation had been thorough. The report on the San Francisco shooting was also complete.
"Shatto shot in self-defense, and the case is closed, sir. No police authority would consider reopening it. The deceased, one Baker Shade, fired at Shatto with a shotgun. The man got off both barrels, although his second went into the ceiling. Shatto was sitting down, but he got out a pistol and drilled his man three times. There are any number of reputable witnesses. Shatto can come back to San Francisco any time he chooses."
The senior agent nodded acceptance. "Mister Black will have to deal with that end of it. We will send off the report. If our client desires more, he can notify us, but when he reads the details of the Shade shooting he will undoubtedly decide against further action."
The junior agent began organizing the many paged report. "If Black gets a warrant and wants us to transport the prisoner, I would like the job. I've never been east of the Ohio River."
The senior man did not reply. The case was surely closed. No warrant would be forthcoming.
Saul Shade did not seek a San Francisco warrant, and least of all did he need a Pinkerton to escort a leg-shackled Tiff Shatto back to California. Shade packed a pair of carpetbags and met the train. His sawed-off shotgun was nested within a soft nightshirt in one bag. Its weight was balanced by a box of shells in the other. The 12 gauge loads were heavy charges of single aught buckshot. There was also a small bag of 12 gauge round balls and some ready cut greased cloth patches. Saul had tested his gun with special loadings, and although it kicked like fury, the weapon stayed together.
Shade's plan called for breech loading his buckshot shells, then muzzle loading a patched 12 gauge ball in on top of the cartridge. The result was the old-time buck and ball killer he had grown up with, only the modern charge was a lot more powerful.
He planned to be close when he pulled trigger, maybe both barrels at once, although his gun might be ruined. Shade wanted to have Shatto straight on, so his sons' killer would know it was coming.
On the long train ride east, Saul Shade drank whiskey and reread the Pinkerton report on Tiff Shatto. What a fool Baker had been to miss at such close range. The supposed facts of Luke's death did not sit any easier. To have clear rifle shots at unsuspecting targets and end up dead, killed with a pistol after being injuned up on defied understanding.
Each time he read the details, red rage again clouded Shade's reasoning. To calm himself he swilled more whiskey and often studied the words of a seaman included in the report.
The sailor had come down with measles only hours after Tiff Shatto had gone ashore at the Los Angles mission. The Ajax had hauled its wind and dumped the unfortunate hand into a fishing boat. The last thing Captain Ables and the Feather Company desired was a plague ridden ship with thousands of sea miles ahead.
The Ajax crewman reported Tiff Shatto's presence, his friendliness, and his cleverness with cards. He spoke in awe of the gambler's practice with his pistol. Saul Shade gave that practice serious consideration. Baker had been shot three times. Saul had seen the bullet holes. Shatto had marched his shots straight up Baker's body. Both Luke and Brazos, the hired gun, had been shot in the back. That too enraged Shade, but at least as important was the report that again the bullet holes were in the upper body. Saul Shade's mind turned cunning.
Great foundries belched black smoke in and around Pittsburgh. Mills shaped steel into thousands of railroad and machine parts. Pittsburgh could make anything.
Saul Shade hated the stinking, crowding bustle of the place, but here the simple device he required could be quickly manufactured, and he was, after all of the long days and many train changes, drawing close. Perry County and Tiff Shatto were just over a bunch of the squatty looking mountains surrounding the city.
A blacksmith pounded out Shade's armor. He reshaped a flat steel plate until it more or less matched Saul's chest and belly. A leather strap around the wearer's neck held the armor high, and another cinched the plate tight. Shade tried his protection for fit. The weight was discouraging, but he did not plan long wearing. His arms moved comfortably, and that was necessary.
Saul Shade laid over extra days while the smith ran the body armor through a large mill's tempering process. Finished, the armor rang like a bell. Three-sixteenths of an inch thick, the tempered plate would stop a pistol bullet. Or would it? With interested spectators along, the gunsmith took Shade to find out.
The armor was propped in a shallow quarry and pistols were fired at it. The heaviest balls dented but bounced away. Shade did not smile his satisfaction. His lips had forgotten that movement, but he felt it inside. So far, Shatto had aimed for the body. He likely would again. If, with all his reputed speed and accuracy, Shatto managed to get a shot off, it would be deflected by the armor. Saul Shade felt his confidence lift another notch.
Tuscarora Mountain loomed like a fortress wall barring easy access to Perry County from the north. Tuscarora was a formidable barrier, and its presence had always channeled passage, whether friend or foe. Only the narrow Juniata River water gap provided a comfortable route past the mountain and into the heart of the county.
The canal held to the eastern or northerly bank, but the railroad had chosen the other side. It was as well, the canal and the coach road took most of the available flat. A mountain river like the Juniata could rise high in flood. Squeezed by the mountain, the normally shallow and tranquil flow could become a raging torrent. If winter cold hit just right, monstrous ice jams could form, crushing trees and ripping away banks. Lakes could spread behind such jams, and if the ice moved out suddenly, downstream flooding could be devastating. The canal and railroad engineers h
ad studied the ancient scars of such catastrophes and placed their constructions high.
Tiff's barge floated through the mountain gap on flat water, sun dappled by the overhang of giant trees. The pass created a small breeze that rustled leaves and cooled the air. No other sounds touched the ear.
Beyond the mountain, the land opened and Millerstown lay hard against the bank. The docks were long, but many were in disrepair. A trio of factories, obviously placed for canal convenience appeared idle, and as the barge eased to its tie-up, little activity appeared.
Haycock's gambling barge was tied in the choice position, almost below the covered river bridge. Tiff was surprised to see it. Millerstown did not seem a stop to find worthwhile gambling. The barge was unattended, but a canopy had been extended onto the dock and a balustered boarding plank was in place. A number of flambeau placed in heavy sand barrels were ready for night lighting, and paper covered Chinese lanterns were strung about the craft. It did not appear that Haycock's stop was casual.
Millerstown was Tiff's destination, and he felt his senses keen and excitement's stimulating touch. A few miles to the east, on the road leading straight through the square he had been told, lay his Uncle Chip's farmstead. Just this side of it, Captain Carter Roth, the barge owner, also farmed.
Tiff guessed he would rent a horse to get there. He wondered ruefully if he still knew how to ride. He had been rooted to boat seats for far too long.
Something sizzled like a hot spark across Tiff Shatto's senses. Instinctively, he backed a step and his fingers closed around his pistol's grip. His eyes sought danger, but found nothing. Town folk moved about their business, and no one appeared interested in the arrival of a tanbark barge.
He felt it again, a tingle of sharpened awareness, unlike anything he recalled experiencing. There was something.
He saw the girl, a young woman really, dark against the morning sun, standing between buildings. He felt her unseen eyes, like lanterns peering directly into his soul. He fined his concentration and knew without being able to really see that she was a slender woman with an even featured face framed by dark hair beneath a black cloth bandanna.
Tiff's Game (Perry County Frontier Series) Page 9
