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It hurt awful bad to work his way upright and out into the morning sun. It had to be done though. Other than Jack, no one must know of his wound.
Old Bart Harris surely knew what their plan had been. When the Ruby boys turned up missing, he would try hard to prove that Rob had met up with his relatives. If Rob showed up with a bullet hole in his side, old Bart could make a lot of claims and maybe start people looking around,
Rob shaved and fitted himself out in an extra shirt while Jack saddled and bridled the gelding. Rob mounted using a stump with his breath whistling through his teeth. He walked the horse through Bloomfield nodding and passing the time with some he knew. He even managed a jaunty canter leaving town as though heading for Newport. A little way out he dropped to a walk and spoke to a wagon struggling along the new road that crossed Limestone at the big spring.
Figuring he had thrown up enough smoke, he swung to the right, forded the Little Juniata, and eased along Mahanoy Ridge until he came to Jack's.
He used the same stump getting off the horse. He listened to his breath whistle painfully and let Jack care for the gelding while he crept back into his sleeping robes.
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The Ruby horses weren't noticed for three days. Bart Harris had come into town looking for his boys. No one, including Rob Shatto, admitted seeing either Asaf or Grandon, and although old Bart had glowered suspiciously at Rob there was little he could say.
It had rained hard the day before the Ruby horses had turned up and Rob had no fear that the animals could be backtracked. Old Bart raised Cain with the Sheriff, but no one knew where to look, or really what to look for. A few suspected some sort of foul play, but most figured the boys had turned their horses loose and lit out for distant parts on a canal boat. That all of their belongings, even their saddles were gone sort of proved it, most figured. Few that knew them would miss the two Rubys anyway.
After a while, even old Bart quieted down, but Robbie Shatto watched his back trail and the distant wood lines as closely as he ever had in Indian country, and old Bart still grumbled vaguely to his cronies about setting things right when Maddoc Ruby came back from the west.
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Chapter 7
A gut shot is the meanest way of killing. Death is slow and agonizing. When an animal has been gut shot, he is likely to move only a little way before stopping and standing head down, with his feet splayed and his body all hunched in the middle, as though he hurts real bad, which he probably does.
A man acts the same way; only he lies on his side and sucks himself tight with his knees tucked under his chin.
When Rob saw the gelding standing that way in the fence corner he figured the horse was sick. He called Elan, who hadn't crawled from his blankets, and loped quickly to the fenced meadow.
When he was halfway there he could hear the gelding's labored grunting and saw frothy sweat drooling from the gray muzzle. He vaulted the snake fence voicing soothing sounds and saw the feathered length of arrow protruding from the gelding's paunch.
He said, "Oh damn!" aloud and instinctively stepped close to the shelter of the horse's bulk. He supposed whoever had driven the arrow into the gelding was long gone, but he still looked around. Elan was stumping down from the cabin carrying his black rifle so Rob figured it was too late for any would-be bushwhacker to shoot.
He ran a calming hand along the gelding's flank feeling the tremble of exhausted muscle. The arrow had gone deep. Touching no bone, it had buried half its length in the animal's guts. Rob muttered E'shan's old curse, "A fat man's father!" and waited no longer. He stepped softly to the slobbering, grunting gelding's head, placed his pistol close behind the ear and touched the trigger. The gelding's legs collapsed in instant death.
With the unexpected shot, Jack Elan disappeared behind a tree. He came on again, automatically holding his rifle high while Rob stood, pistol dangling, above his dead horse.
A seething anger reached full boil in Rob Shatto's soul. His mind could see the gelding as a young horse in the high Rockies and in long rides through timber and across plains. He had outrun Indians and plodded steadily under desert suns. The gelding had carried him the thousands of miles back to Perry County without faltering, only to be struck down in a manner even an outlaw would disdain.
While Elan examined the arrow and prepared to cut it loose, Rob scouted for sign. It was easy to find, the archer had climbed the fence and walked up to the horses. The mare and Elan's old plug had skittered away. Both seemed unharmed, standing alert but distant.
The killer had knelt, making sure of his shot. The range was only a few yards. The gelding had leaped, rushed to the fence corner, and stayed there until he died.
Elan came up holding the bloody arrow. It was a crude affair. The head was good, probably an old Indian point picked from a plowed field. The shaft was a skinned green sapling with turkey feathers stuck on. It all looked very new, probably assembled for this purpose.
Elan grunted at the sign by Rob's feet and handed over his black rifle. Rob muttered his own "Waugh!" checked the rifle's priming and began trailing the archer. The tracks joined another set that had been waiting at the wood's edge beyond the fence. The pair led way toward the creek where they met a third party.
Rob judged the tracks about three hours old. The archer and his companions ran in clumsy boots to the creek edge. Rob paused, grimly studying the narrow bed of the Little Juniata. This late in the year, the gin-clear water ran shallow, but the fleeing trio had intended to hide their tracks by wading in the streambed. Their plan might have confused a pursuing Sheriff's deputy, but their course lay clear to the experienced frontiersman.
Stone with moss scraped away, disturbed gravel, and crushed bottom grasses disclosed the route to Rob as clearly as their boot prints had on the forest floor.
Rob saw where they had milled for a moment, clumsily faking a downstream course. They retraced their steps and tried to walk lightly upstream.
Moving swiftly along the bank, Rob followed the narrowing stream for nearly a mile before one set of tracks left the stream and cut away south, toward Clouser Hollow. Rob marked the spot in his mind and stayed with the remaining pair.
A half-mile further, they too left the stream, heading north toward the valley road. In a copse of woods near the road, the pair mounted horses, joined the road, and turned back toward Bloomfield.
Rob studied the tracks, imprinting their shapes and imperfections in his mind before returning to the trail of the first ambusher. The man fleeing on foot had headed across Mahonoy Ridge and crossed the summit using a winding woods road. Halfway down the opposite slope the man had drawn aside. There Rob uncovered the clumsy bow and a second arrow. He replaced the concealing leaves and resumed tracking.
In the bottom of the hollow, the trail entered the open ground of a small farm. Rob circled until the front porch of the cabin came into view. Drying in the morning sun was a pair of heavy boots still soggy with creek water. Rob smiled grimly and turned away.
Elan waited, rocking slowly on his front porch, Rob's Shuler rifle across his knees. Rob appeared soundlessly from the near woods, and the old hunter gloried a little in being again with a man that knew frontier ways,
They swapped rifles, each silently checking his own. Rob sat on the porch edge cleaning and recharging his fired pistol barrel. "Three men, Jack. They headed upstream walking in the water. One turned off a mile or so along and stopped at a farm over in Clouser Hollow."
Elan nodded. "That'd be Floyd Ruby, sure enough."
"He had the bow, Jack. Hid it along the ridge." Rob continued, "Other two had horses. They headed back toward town."
They were silent until Rob finished loading his pistol. He looked up then at his old friend. "In the mountains, they kill a man for stealing a horse, Jack. Leaving a man afoot is near leaving him dead. I don't reckon the Sheriff would look on it quite like that around these parts."
"Nope! Might be most would believe your trackin' an' the
bow would be purty fine proof, but the Ruby boys would claim it wasn't them, and the most they'd get would be a callin' down and maybe pay for the horse. I wouldn't expect the law would teach 'em any serious lessons, Rob."
They were again silent, mulling over their thoughts. It was Rob who broke the silence.
"As long as the Rubys are around there will be trouble, Jack. They will pick and poke until they figure they are safe to lay in wait for me." He hesitated. "So, I'm going to smoke them out, Jack. I'm going to make things so miserable for Rubys that they will either pack out of here, like my people did, or I will bury them in holes all over these mountains."
Elan rocked, thinking on Rob's words. "'Of course, you're right as rain, Rob. It's what we'd a'done in the old days. Old Rob would've lit into 'em like a den o'panthers, an' you're more than a little like him.
"You got to be real Injun in whatever you do though, Rob. There can't be sign pointin' your direction. This is tame country now. Too many people've turned their safety over to the Sheriff and don't figure anyone else's got a right to do his own protecting a'tall. If they get a chance, them kind will have you a'fore the judge in a minute.
"O'course, there's others in these hills would gladly lend a hand. Some good, tough hunters out there. But the way I see it, it's your job and the less knows about it the better."
They dug a hole beside the gelding and levered in the stiffened carcass. Elan spat against the mounded earth and said, "I don't know if you're still ahead or not, Rob. That horse was worth more'n them two Rubys planted up on Limestone."
Rob agreed.
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> Bloomfield was only four or so years old. When he had gone west, there had been a log church and some clover fields on the spot. Now, there were upward of two hundred townspeople poked into twenty or more houses. There was a town square with a courthouse, a strong county jail on one of the cross streets, a number of hotels, and five taverns.
Craftsmen had swarmed to the new town and there was a blacksmith, a tinsmith, a dressmaker, and even a silver worker in residence.
More than a few people remembered Robbie Shatto, and anyone long in the land had known and admired old Rob. There were, therefore, many to spread whatever word Rob chose to let out.
He told people about his gelding taking sick and dying suddenly. It wasn't a rare happening, and listeners clucked in sympathy and understanding.
Outside the Rising Sun Tavern, he found the two horses he was looking for. In the tavern room, two Ruby men loitered over warming beer. Rob told his story and caught their sly glances and cautious smirks. He marked their looks for repeating to Jack Elan.
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Elan named the two Rubys and showed he had been doing some thinking while Rob was in town.
"'Pears to me, Rob, that while there's four families of Rubys in the valley, one family ain't a part o'this.
"Old Bart Harris, he's the clan leader alright, but there was a breakin' off a year or two back. Sam Ruby moved his people over toward the Sulphur Springs and they've kept clear of the other Rubys. I figure Sam Ruby won't lend a hand even though you're workin' over his close kin.
"I'm thinkin' you'll want to strike hard, clean 'em out as complete as can be, and then keep leanin' on 'em, so's they can't get started again in these parts.
"Meantime, I'll take to the woods right here. Anymore o'them come skulkin' around while you're busy, I'll cause 'em a little pain."
The old man's eyes danced in anticipation. "Way we'll do it, Rob, I'll keep the animals close in. We'll use the old owl signal, so's I'll know it's you.
"It'll be important that no one sees you movin' around. As 'tis, nobody outside us an' them damn Rubys know anything about any o'this. The Rubys'll howl, but they'll look poor claimin' you're doin' it all alone. Specially when I'm claimin' you ain't stirred a hair all night!"
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Rob rested and prepared through the afternoon. He planned on carrying little more than a supply of Elan's sulphur matches and his pistol. He figured to strike and be gone. Done right, there should be no shooting on his part. He tried to plan simple but mean. Fall chills would be settling in, and he intended leaving some Rubys without even cover to crawl into.
At dusk, Rob sooted his features and hands from the fireplace and eased into the nearby woods. Old Bart Harris's place lay in Pleasant Valley, a long three miles distant. The second Ruby farm was in the valley of the Little Juniata, but close to the Elliotsburg settlement. He'd go there first, then cross over to the Harris house, and finally back to the arrow shooter's place in Clouser Hollow. He carried three packets of animal grease that he knew would flare up quickly.
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Old Rob had been a great runner in his youth. It seemed like the old timers ran great distances without tiring. Jack Elan had once run most of the way from the Ohio country in the dead of winter with little to eat on the way. Robbie Shatto expected he could have run right alongside any of them. Around Perry County no one else ran like that anymore. Few would ever believe a man could run across the ridges at night as fast as a horse could cover the roads, but Rob Shatto knew he could.
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He spent some time scouting the first Ruby place. There appeared to be no one at home, and that suited him fine. He wanted the first fire to be a big one that would draw people in from all around. That way, the roads and trails would be full of riders who would know that Rob Shatto had not been on their path.
The Ruby place boasted a small pole barn, a large cabin, a few shacky outbuildings and some good stacks of summer hay. With his ear cocked for approaching riders, Rob carried hay to every building and shanty. He drove the two cows well away and lit everything using a pitch pine torch. The haystacks were lighted last and went up with satisfying whooshes of flame.
Rob was off and running hard onto the ridge and the wild forests crowning it. He worked at his running, ignoring the glowing sky behind him. Well before he reached Pleasant Valley, there were riders on the roads hallooing back and forth, and in the distance a number of farm bells had set up fire warning clangs.
Panting lightly, he crouched in brush close to the Harris place. A rider came pounding into the yard shouting the news of some place burning over in the valley. The Harris and Ruby women and children clamored to go look. They soon clattered and creaked off in a rickety wagon with the family dogs prancing along, but old Bart Harris and the Ruby that Rob had seen in town stayed on. They sat on their run-down porch while Rob went to work preparing his fires.
The farm was much the same as the first, although the barn was larger and had a strong log addition. There were horses and cattle penned in, but this time Rob left them to their owners.
By the time the two men saw the first flames, Rob was back and crouched close at hand. Old Harris leaped up swearing and gazing about. He snarled, "Damn it all, we're bein' burned out!" He grabbed for a rifle beyond the door and chased after the younger man who was rushing to free their stock.
Harris's cursing helped Rob keep track of his whereabouts, and he was into the cabin before the two men reached the barn. The cabin had a closed-in loft. Rob bounded up the ladder, heaped the straw ticks into a pile and touched them off. He was into the woods and well away before the flames reached the tinder dry shake roof. The exploding flames lit his way along the north side of Limestone Ridge.
Rob still had his bags of grease. The way things had gone so far he might not need them. More horses and yelling riders thundered past as he leaped the valley road and bounded across the fields leading to Mahanoy Ridge.
By the time he crossed the summit, he was blowing hard and slowed to a walk to get his wind back. There was some excitement in the Ruby yard. Someone claimed a lot of places were burning all over the county. The news-bearer galloped off and Rob could detect only one Ruby man among the women and children. Rob figured it had to be the bow shooter.
The man hustled his brood into their cabin and stood awhile on the dark porch. Rob waited him out and after a bit the man moved in
to tree shadow. A musket was cradled in his arms.
Alert though he was, Ruby neither heard nor saw the mountain man's silent approach. Rob's pistol barrel drove his hat down over his eyes and left him as completely unconscious as a living man could get. On impulse, Rob jammed the musket barrel into a tree fork and with a single powerful heave bent the barrel into a "U".
He quickly laid his fires. He fired the cabin last, touching off straw he shoved under the cabin floor along with his grease bags. He shouted, "Fire!" and disappeared into the woods. The cabin door popped open, and the people poured out carrying what they could. Rob headed back over the mountain.
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Elan was waiting in the timber near the house. He answered Rob's owl hoot and Rob went to him.
The old hunter chuckled, "I seen three fires lighting the sky, Rob. Went alright?"
Rob told the story quickly and slid into the darkened cabin. He changed from his sweat-soaked hunting clothes and scrubbed the black from his face and hands before he donned fresh garments. He left Elan on guard and trotted quickly into town.
He mopped the last sweat from his face and made his presence known among the stirred citizenry. Only the glow of the Clouser Hollow fire showed in Bloomfield, but rumors were rife and horsemen kept arriving with their latest news and speculations. Rob stayed until early morning listening and being seen. Obviously, he could not have been a participant. With the dawn he was abed, but Jack Elan was out with his old black rifle ready.
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It didn't all work out quite that easily, of course. The Ruby men stomped around the county seat demanding action. Outwardly, they avoided accusing Rob Shatto, but they leaked word to cronies who saw that the rumors got to Sheriff Hipple. Word came back to Rob that the sheriff had asked around. So many had seen Rob in the town that it was plain he had not been present at the burnings. Many recalled the fires and troubles that had sent the Shattos packing and others speculated on the continued absence of two of old Harris's sons-in-law. Still, Robbie Shatto had no outlaw band that could go dashing around to burn three places in one night. The fires remained a mystery.
Shatto (Perry County, Pennsylvania Frontier Series) Page 6
