John P. Snyder came up hard against the temporary safety of the house front wall. His men were already inside but he heard only cursing and an occasional shot from an upper floor. The expected fusillade finishing off the defenders did not come.
Snyder could not believe how badly it had gone. Stumbling across the courting couple was poor enough but the incredible blast of rifle fire that came from the house tore his attack apart. Men were down and others were hit. Though he had been behind, a bullet had gotten through and scoured a line across the top of a shoulder. The wound burned like fire and interfered with his thinking.
Firing died and Snyder slid cautiously inside the house. It was pitch black and he could not make out how many men he had. A voice he recognized said, "They're up above and they took the ladder with 'em."
Someone cursed and panicky talk spread.
"God, there must be a bunch of 'em. Bullets flying like hail."
"Some kind of fast firing guns. Damn! I've got a ball inside me."
Someone wondered what to do next and Snyder got himself going.
"Quiet down!" He got results.
"A pair of you go out the other end and climb up onto the roof. Somebody try this end. There's only two of them for God's sake. They can't cover every opening." A long rip of fire sent bullets ricocheting around the room and a hit man groaned hollowly.
"Where in hell did that come from?"
"Outside, damn it. One of 'em's outside."
It couldn't be. Snyder knew at least two guns had fired at them. One from the ground floor and the other from atop the building. There shouldn't be more. Fear slid into his guts. Like a chilled blade it took the will right out of him. What had they gotten into? Instead of easy targets, the Shattos stung like wasps. Doubts clogged Snyder and his wound was discomposing. The safety of their horses and the canyon mouth seemed suddenly a long distance away.
A shot came from above and there was a falling sound from the building's further end. Feet pounded through the rooms and the runner struck a wall before sprawling full length among them. His voice was hoarse with tension and he gasped as though he had run a great distance.
"They got Larry, damn 'em. He popped his head over for a look and took a ball between the eyes. Hell, they was just waitin' for us." He added with certainty, "No one's going in from that end."
A new hail of bullets swept through a window and a few ricocheted. The raiders lay flattened beneath the fire and afraid to move.
One asked, "What kind of guns're they shooting? Sounds like all of that came from one barrel."
John P. Snyder couldn't answer but, pressed tight into a corner, scrunched as low as he could get, he knew they had to do something and do it fast before daylight trapped them with enemy all around.
A man's voice from above echoed his fears.
Ted called across, "Hold up on your fire, Juan. When it gets light, we'll finish 'em off. Send some men to see about their animals, but be careful, they'll have horse holders."
There was no answer from outside but Snyder knew they had to move and it had to be now. Without mounts they would be done in. He hoped there weren't too many guns outside. Armed Mexican field hands? He would have disbelieved if he had had time.
"Get up, everybody up." Snyder heard men moving.
"We're going out. Back to the horses. Just run like hell and kill anything in the way. When I say, we all go at once."
A voice cried, "I can't move, somebody give me a hand up." Snyder ignored the plea and peered out the end window. It was lighter and he could see a few bodies sprawled where they had come in. He gathered his guts and vaulted the sill calling, "Go," and hoping those behind would draw the fire.
Shooting down, the Shattos could see little. From the roof, Chip had nailed the man trying to reach the second floor, but when the raiders ran for it, he still couldn't see his sights and had to point as he would a shotgun. It wasn't good shooting but he let the dimly seen forms have all the Volcanic held.
Beth had been watching a window while Ted reloaded with one eye on the ladder hole. When the raiders burst forth she called "Ted!" and began shooting. Ted scrambled to an opening but got off only a pair of shots at figures so dim he had little hope of hitting.
When the remaining raiders broke cover, Juan Santos was waiting. He allowed the stumbling men to pass so that he had good targets. Close to the ground, rifle across a small hummock, Santos had the runners silhouetted against the eastern sky. He steadied his aim and squeezed his trigger as Ted had taught. The hammer fell with a dull thunk. Quickly Santos recocked the rifle and tried again. Nothing! A bad cartridge! To remove the faulty round he had to poke it with a ramrod. Long before he had finished, the raiders were gone. Cursing his luck, Santos went after them, but he heard their horses' hooves and knew his chance was lost.
Only five of them tried the run from the house but John P. Snyder wasn't counting heads. He ran as hard as he could manage with bullets snapping past and some whining away like bees. He was hit and then again but kept going because there was no choice.
The horse holders were ready and had brought the mounts closer. Snyder grabbed the first saddle and clambered aboard. Two others had survived the gauntlet but both needed help mounting. John P. let the horse holders assist. He spurred his mount toward the canyon entrance as though the devil himself were close behind.
Of the dozen that had confidently crept into the Valley of Bones, five rode out. Three of the survivors were hard hit but they kept up because daylight would surely bring pursuit and only distance could save them.
John P. Snyder rode alone, the horse holders handling the reins of the more seriously wounded. Snyder had been hit from behind in the ribs and into the meat of a thigh. The body hit was serious with the bullet still inside, but, for a time, numbness allowed hard riding.
They made a few miles before slowing their blowing mounts to a walk. Snyder led them along the route he had planned. He had expected to lead loot laden wagons and to be looking ahead to counting gold and eliminating those not essential to his escape. Instead, Snyder led one white and three Mexicans. The way things had gone, Snyder suspected he would be fortunate if the unwounded did not finish him off before they made their escape.
The five rode into a rock jumble where Snyder had planned a lengthy rest and reorganization. The spot would do for wound treating. John P. slid from his mount, wondering how he could trust a companion to dig the bullet from his unprotected back. When he looked up, John Snyder saw more Apache bucks than he thought existed surrounding them with raised weapons.
John P. Snyder wished he had died under the Shatto guns back in the Valley of Bones.
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The Shattos waited until full light before scouting their downstairs and the raider's route. Juan Santos was just as careful and remained out of sight until he saw Chip drop from the roof and slide through a ground floor window.
The four of them assembled beyond the house where bodies lay. Ted said, "Five here, one inside, and another at the end of the house. Any idea how many got away?"
Juan guessed a half dozen but he could not be sure.
"I figure we got three coming in and those two when they ran." Chip pointed at the furthest bodies.
Beth said nothing and hid the shake of her hands by gripping her rifle. She wondered if her bullets had found any of the raiders. In death the attackers looked small and unimportant. She turned away and walked stiffly and tiredly to a seat under the porch roof. Letting go of the rifle was difficult, with her fingers almost glued to it, but putting the gun aside was relieving — as though it made the awfulness over and done with.
Santos was describing his chagrin over the jammed rifle and Chip admitted disgust with how puny the bullets were. "We hit some of these people two or three times, Ted. Bullets don't have enough wallop."
Ted nodded agreement but added, "On the other hand, we don't have any wounded either. Those that went down are dead and some others are probably nursing wounds. The Volcanics were just w
hat we needed, Chip." He poked a corpse with his toe. "Even in the dark, we put it to 'em, brother." His lips quirked, "I'll bet those left alive think we had a battalion in there."
Mexican's were appearing and Ted waved them forward. Suddenly worn out, he turned to Santos. "Have all this cleaned up, Juan, and start a new graveyard over where we buried the bones." He thought for a moment. "Don't put these in with the old ones. Put 'em all in one hole. They don't rate any better. Later we'll raise a marker telling what they were."
Ted walked over and eased down beside his wife. After a while he spoke tiredly, "We're earning a right to claim this place, Beth." She nodded and leaned against him.
Ted smiled as he heard Chip talking inside the house. "Damnation, Juan, you shot this room all to pieces. Place will never look right again."
"We can fix it, Senor Chip." Santos sounded pleased by the attention.
Chip said, "Guess I'll give those raiders time to stiffen up if they're wounded and get to feelin' sort of safe. Then I'll go after them. You interested in coming along, Juan?"
To ride equally as a fighter was a mighty offer and Santos straightened a little. "I will have horses readied, Senor." He turned away to give directions to the cleanup parties, and Chip came to squat for a minute beside his brother.
The first sun heat was already touching the valley and the day promised to be hot. Ted said, "Don't chase 'em too close, Chip. They'll be lookin' back."
"If we can come up on them I'll keep things at long range." He paused, then went on. "We stung 'em pretty hard, brother, but a little more will show we're mad about it."
Ted had to laugh. "We were awful lucky. Young Garcia's got a sore head and Maria Lopez is catching it for sneaking out of the house. Otherwise we weren't hurt." He shook his head in wonderment. "Our lookout should be moved right into the entrance at night, Chip. Seems so obvious after it's over."
"Well, we weren't ready for anything like we got, Teddy—but, lucky or not, we handled it. While Juan and I are out poking around you can make sure it won't happen again. Shutters, Ted, put on the shutters."
"We'll do more than that, Chip." Ted rose and stretched widely. He looked down the valley and across to where the mountains loomed.
"I wonder if that old Indian could see any of this? Too far I guess, but if he could see, what went on would have held his attention."
When the sun lighted the valley, Chinca had seen. He counted the few riders escaping and found it hard to believe. He saw the familiar figures at the waterfall and counted the dead that were unceremoniously gathered and wagoned to a place not within his view. Later the large white and a Mexican he knew to be a jefe rode on the raiders' trail.
Chinca was awed. Only five of the attackers lived and some of those rode wounded. Surely the valley whites were ferocious fighters. He adjusted his estimates of how large a party would be needed to defeat them.
The Watcher's only satisfaction was that the five survivors paused where he had predicted and the Apache band closed like a cloud around them. Later dust rose from that place but Chinca could not see into the hollow. After a time men would come and tell what they had taken and what they had enjoyed.
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Chapter 5 - 1858
Each day, Ted Shatto rode to the fence that separated the valley from the open plain. The fence posts were thick logs and the rails, already dried and twisted by the sun, had been wagoned in from a tree stand two day's distance. The fence was four rails high. It stopped roaming cattle or horses. It could also prevent night riders from slipping through.
After dark the ranch lookout came from her perch and positioned herself near the fence. At night, the task could be dangerous because an enemy might attack silently, without hint of warning. The lookouts chose different positions to help prevent surprise. Ted chose young women for his guards. They were more reliable than the boys and their hearing seemed sharper. Their duty was to fire a warning shot, then flee to safety.
Since the Garcia raid—named for the courting couple stumbled upon (now married with a son)—there had been no attacks. The fence might have helped but Ted had taken other precautions. Each Mexican household had guns. All of the men were trained in their use and many of the women were proficient shots.
The workers' adobes were strung along the valley's southern edge where shade was best. Each building was equipped with thick shutters and a heavy door. It was the Spanish way to secure everything during the night and each home was a veritable fortress guarding the valley's only road. There were also dogs. A pair of them, whose barking could surely raise the dead. By allowing only the two, both females, the dogs were loved by most and tolerated by all.
The main house was protected by the large pond before it and an impenetrable cactus bramble along its north side. An attacker could choose only the road approach and from behind their shuttered windows, the building's occupants could concentrate a withering fire.
During his inspections, Ted usually climbed from his saddle to sit on the top fence rail. The perch was comfortable because the rails were adz-squared timbers a foot on a side. The size of the barrier alone proved that the Shattos had come to stay.
Even Ted's strong fence was a temporary measure however, and across the canyon's entrance the beginnings of an adobe wall were slowly rising. Although only a few courses of brick had been raised, Ted knew what the completed barrier would look like.
First an attacker would struggle through yards of spiny cactus. He would drop into the ditch created by the adobe brick making and before him would be the wall. Straight up it would rise, but within, the wall would be stepped so that defenders could easily reach the firing steps. Ten feet thick at the bottom, the wall would narrow to three some fifteen feet above the ground. There riflemen would stand protected by four more feet of adobe, while they poured their fire through narrow shooting slits.
The ranch's defenses would be as strong as the best of the old haciendas that had resisted Indians, outlaws, and renegade armies, and Ted planned a few special additions.
One was a line of cottonwood trees already planted just inside the wall. They would provide shade for his defenders and their height looming above the wall should make the attacking of such a fortress appear even more questionable.
The obvious weakness of any fortress was its gate, but Ted's entrance would discourage most attackers. Ted's wall would be offset and overlapped. To enter, wagons or horsemen turned and traveled a few yards between walls. Then they would encounter a gate so massive it would rival a castle's, a gate with firing ports to enfilade while bullets rained from above. Deterring, Ted expected.
Looking up the valley was Ted's greatest satisfaction. Irrigation ditches crossed and recrossed. Between them grass grew, grass already thick with a green unknown in a land parched for water. Up close it would be seen that roots were still young and thin spots vied with bare areas for attention, but it was coming. Grass was growing in the Valley of Bones and that proved to both Beth and Ted that their great scheme could work.
Boys gathered cow and horse manure and spread it in planned order. Women and girls weeded the wild things that sprouted within the seeded areas. A crew of oldsters relocated ditches and adjusted water levels keeping the essential moisture flowing. Sometimes light would catch spray as water-filled gourds were hurled to wet down neglected spots. Ted's people took genuine interest and their diligence showed.
Certain strips lay naked and as worthless as before. The first of these uncultivated rows crossed the valley just within the border fence. It was a fire break. With the prevailing wind sucking toward the waterfall, fire arrows into prairie grass could sweep the valley. Ted's fire swaths were wide and if flames threatened, his people would be quick to backfire and widen the safety lanes. Fire could make the next crop thicker, but planning, not carelessness or enemies, would control the burning.
Most mornings Ted gave the Indian watcher on the distant mountain a ritualistic wave. With the sun in the east he could not see the figure, but he was there
. He was always there, and now Ted Shatto knew the old Apache, and believed he might also know some of The Watcher's thoughts and interests.
For a year they had lived beneath the distant figure's unending inspection. Could the Apache see across the many miles and know what they did in the valley? Ted Shatto wished to know.
The river wove its sluggish path halfway between The Watcher's place and the Valley of Bones. Shatto people did not cross the river. Ted had decreed that. For now, lands beyond the river would remain Apache or whatever tribe claimed them.
Apaches were rarely seen on the valley side. Only during the Garcia attack had the Apache warred on Shatto land. Chip and Juan Santos had seen their work and their description stirred the Mexicans' interest in gun handling. Now, although their instructions were to flee or hole up until help reached them, the herders were armed and ready.
It appeared that the Apache, too, at least for now, accepted the river as a boundary.
When he went, Ted rode at night. He followed his compass to the base of The Watcher's mountain and judged it a mile or two further than expected. The air's clarity still fooled eyes accustomed to the thicker atmosphere over the great forested lands of the east.
Ted rode until the footing became treacherous. Then he left his Appaloosa ground-hitched with the girth still tight. He might be coming back with half a tribe hot on his heels, needing all the edge he could get. Ted didn't expect that but it paid to be ready.
The way steepened and Ted rested while the sun lifted over the mountain. He saw it touch the peaks above the Valley of Bones and work downward until it silently descended the valley walls and lit the front of the big house and the veil-like waterfall beside it.
Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 6
