The statesmen had failed. What would come of it? Surely southern hotheads could not fight a nation equipped with armies and a navy. It would probably end quickly, perhaps already for the news was old. The question at the Shatto ranch lay in what sides might be taken in the great southwest before the brawling ceased. There were southern sympathizers in numbers about everywhere.
Ted Shatto stood with the Union but he also planned on keeping out of it. He hoped influential hotheads did not seek him out, especially right now when his brother's agonies took his attention.
+++
Beth woke in morning sun to hear Tia Santos' laughter coming from Chip's room. She heard a man's answer and, hardly daring to breathe, rushed to see. She had to get around Ted who was bouncing on his toes, the way all the Shattos did when things were going right. And there was Chip, face and eyes alive, propped up in his blankets, talking and listening for the first time in too many days. She hustled to his side and Chip's fever cracked lips smiled as he said, "Ted says he's tired of me just layin' around getting all the attention, but I don't see any hurry to change things."
Beth felt his forehead and it was cool, like it should be. When Chip lifted an almost skeletal arm to wonder if he shouldn't just be tossed out like any other chewed over bone, his hand was steady. The fever was gone and that meant a giant step toward living. Now they had to keep it away while Chip rested and regained strength.
The battle wasn't yet won. Beth shooed Ted away so that they could get food into their patient and let him drift off into a healthy sleep.
Ted was outside, still bellowing the good news halfway down the valley, when the nurses looked across their sleeping patient, smiling and nodding, pleased and content with their labors.
+++
Chip's recovery was as slow as a season's passage. He tottered to the porch, puny as a calf, and went little further for weeks. His big frame gradually filled out and he took to sprawling in the sun, clad only in an Indian clout, letting his skin brown and his scars toughen. Otherwise, Chip ate and slept. He dozed days away in a soft
lounge placed on the house porch and seemed to concern himself only with watching and listening, much as an elder statesman might.
Chip was interested but detached. Beth believed he was thinking a lot while his spirit healed along with his body. Ted, without rancor, observed that Chip always had been lazy and was just enjoying all the attention he got. Chip claimed they were both right and kept on doing nothing at all.
+++
Chip changed the day P.D. Balsworth appeared. Balsworth came in a light wagon with a fringed top, driven by a large man with the face and physique of a saloon brawler. Behind the wagon rode a United States Cavalry detachment of six, commanded by a three-striped buck sergeant.
When the lookout's word came in, Ted was sweating like a pig, dehorning some of his special cows. He was dirty, tired, and already half mad. He listened almost irritably then ordered six of his best men to loiter close to the big house with their rifles in hand.
Ted said, "We've never had army in here before. Most likely they're on our side, but word from Fort Marcy is that there's a lot of southern sympathy among the officers. We'll do our smiling after we're sure these soldiers are friendlies."
Ted grinned at his men. "Wear your hats low and look mean as Apaches sitting on an ant hill." The vaqueros laughed and practiced their mean looks.
Chip got up and put on his moccasins, stretching widely, and coming to the porch edge.
Ted raised an eyebrow. "Don't stretch too hard, brother. Nothing you've got has moved far since that Apache carved his initials on you."
Chip gazed down loftily. "Really dangerous people don't go prancing around, Ted. Does a rattler need to exercise? Or take a mountain lion, sleeps all day but when it moves . . . well, it's as quick as I am."
Ted snorted, "Quick? Chip, quick people also have quick minds, like I've got, and they for sure don't move around like turtles hunting shade."
Chip changed the subject. "Wonder what the soldiers are coming in here for? Bearing war news most likely. Maybe they'll want to know where you stand, Ted. You going to tell 'em?"
Ted didn't answer directly. "The soldiers are just to keep the Apaches away. The army doesn't bother me much, Chip. Men in suits and round hats always do. They'll be the ones to deal with."
P.D. Balsworth clambered from his rig, removed his round hat, and beat at the dust caking his black suit. Balsworth stood about Ted's height and weighed fifty pounds more. He was dusty, sweaty, and tired of all that was around him. He despised about everything he had seen beyond the Mississippi and, if it wasn't for the profit to be gained, he wouldn't waste a minute among the sun blackened ignoramuses habitating the few useful acres he knew about. He looked around, recognizing the canyon's potential. As he had been informed, this one at least would be worth an effort.
Without introduction, Balsworth thrust a small card at Ted, who took it mildly and read the printed words.
P.D. Balsworth
Land Purchases
1 Front Street
St. Louis, Missouri
Chip had come off the porch and stood near the wagon's team looking up at the flat featured driver with a sort of open and innocent-eyed stare, as though he hadn't seen the likes in all his untraveled experience. The saloon fighter looked back without expression or acknowledgment.
P.D. Balsworth had pig eyes. They sat a little too close and looked a lot too cunning above his sun-pinkened jowls. His eyes roamed the Shattos' place as though he owned it. They paused briefly on Beth who had come to the porch and lingered at the waterfall and the slanting sluice that diverted the water through the cactus bed and into the nearby pond.
Ted quit watching Balsworth and paid attention to the buck sergeant and his five men. Mounted infantry, Ted thought. The sergeant looked seasoned and competent, but his men sat uncomfortable in their saddles and their weapons were obsolete, full length muskets. Ted hoped the Apache did not stumble across them. He doubted they could put up much of a fight.
Ted saw the sergeant's mouth turn down as he studied the half dozen rifle-fingering vaqueros glowering at him from way too close. The sergeant made a point of settling his hands solidly over his saddle horn, where they were in plain sight and far from his short-barreled carbine.
P.D. Balsworth turned his pig eyes back to Ted and decided it was time to talk. Ted gave him credit for one thing. When P.D. got down to it, he didn't waste words. That suited Ted. He didn't plan on a long palaver and he was in just the mood to up any ante Balsworth tossed out.
"I'm Balsworth. In case you haven't heard, the government's thrown out most of the old Spanish grants. That makes you people squatters, which means this land's not yours.
"I've laid claim to ground through my lawyer in Santa Fe. Paid my money and got my paper, it happens that your holdings are on my land." Nobody moved and expressions hadn't changed so Balsworth took time to spit and look around.
Ted hadn't even blinked and Chip didn't turn around to see Beth's reaction, but his hackles rose like a threatened grizzly's. He felt his blood start moving and, without adjusting his feet, Chip shifted his balance. When Ted made his move—and he would—Chip figured to make his.
To Ted Shatto, Balsworth's words were body blows. The meat of them wasn't disturbing; he had made his preparations long before. It was the city man's arrogance, his complete indifference to fairness or how much hurt he could be causing. Backed by army, Balsworth figured he could run roughshod over anything anyone else might care about. Ted's hands began to tingle in anticipation. He saw the sergeant's jaw tighten and his face take on worry. The noncom seemed about to speak, as he might warn a man getting too close to a bear's cage. Instead he settled tighter in his saddle and looked away—as though showing he hadn't a part in anything about to happen.
Balsworth continued, "I've no claim to your livestock or your household goods and you've time to pack and leave without hurry." He again paused. "A full month should do. Then I'll
be in with my own people and will expect you to be gone."
Ted still didn't answer and the saloon fighter shifted impatiently.
Disconcerted by the silence, Balsworth added, "All's legal and proper here. Federal Marshals can be brought in if needed, so we expect no difficulty. Just pack your things and . . . "
Ted's work-hardened left hand open-palmed along the side of P.D. Balsworth's face with a crack like a pistol. The blow twisted Balsworth's head and buckled his knees, but the first was nothing compared to the second. Also open-handed, Ted's strong right came around and connected with a splat that blanked Balsworth's eyes. For an instant, astonishment froze response. Then Balsworth's legs crumpled. Ted stopped the land-grabber's collapse with a fierce jerk on his boiled shirtfront. He hauled the dazed man erect and shook him like a dog might a rat, and the saloon fighter launched himself from the wagon.
The fighter landed balanced and ready but Chip's big knuckled right fist came down like a club. It struck with the sodden sound of a shoulder of beef slammed onto a butcher's block. Launched with all of Chip's thick muscled power, the blow split the fighter's eyebrow and flattened a cheekbone. The impact drove the brawler to a knee. Instinct brought his arms high to protect his head but Chip's moccasined foot was already en route. It came upward, between the protecting elbows, and caught the fighter under the chin, snapping his head backward and knocking him as unconscious as the wagon wheel he sprawled against.
Cavalry milled uncertainly, the privates looking to the sergeant for direction. The buck sergeant gave example—he held his horse still and moved himself as little as possible. A veteran of many campaigns, the sergeant recognized a time to stand as readily as an occasion to fight. A half dozen modern rifles bracing his six poorly armed privates was obviously a situation demanding careful and lengthy consideration.
Ted's jerking around shook the daze from P.D. Balsworth's brain. His face flamed like fire and he knew his legs wouldn't fully support him. He tried to call out to his man for help and was hit again.
Ted held Balsworth within easy reach and whaled him back and forth with his free hand. The land-grabber's head rolled as though on bearings and his ears alternated white to red with Ted's slaps. Ted kept at it, rocking Balsworth with stinging swats until resistance faded. Then he dropped the speculator in a heap.
There was no heat in Ted Shatto's gaze as it fell on the sergeant but there was ungiving steel in his voice. "You figuring on getting into this, Sergeant?"
The noncom answered flatly and left no doubt where he stood. "We're not taking part, Mister. We were sent to keep Apaches off these men. Nothing was said about interfering in business transactions."
The sergeant's mouth corners turned down before he added. "Only thing I'll say is that Mister Balsworth seems to have powerful friends that might not like what's happening."
Ted seemed to think about the sergeant's words while the battered P.D. Balsworth strove to shake cobwebs from his mind and cotton from a throat too dry to use.
Then Ted had him by the shirt again and Balsworth felt himself dragged, as easily as if he were a feather bag, to where an adobe horse-mounting block had been raised.
Shatto thumped him, back down, across the bricks and Balsworth got his eyes into focus m time to register on a long, curved-edged skinning knife held almost under his chin. The blade moved and Balsworth felt it press against his throat, cold steel that felt fire hot as it touched his tender skin.
Until the bigger man spoke and diverted a corner of his attention, Balsworth had not seen his fighter slumped against their wagon wheel. With a blade undoubtedly honed like a razor pressed to his throat, Balsworth had no hope of outside assistance anyway. The slightest pressure would lay him wide open and he felt no sympathy in the man holding the knife.
Chip said, "If you're going to slit his throat, Ted, do it over by the pond where the blood'll wash away." P.D. Balsworth felt his bladder release as fear destroyed the last bits of pride.
Ted seemed to hesitate and Balsworth swore the blade moved a little. Perhaps he was already cut; he could be bleeding to death. Panic tore at him but the knife held him as still as death itself.
Finally Ted spoke. "My name is Ted Shatto, Balsworth. I own this land. The first thing I want you to know is that I haven't already slit you like the hog you resemble because I'm enjoying myself.
"The fact is, Balsworth, I've been expecting someone like you ever since we first settled here. So, we got ready, land grabber. First we built strong and got lots of guns with men ready to use them. We already wiped out a renegade bunch that tried us. They're buried nearby. Since then we've slaughtered Apaches, too, a dozen in just one skirmish. Them we didn't bother burying. Which brings us to you."
Ted reached with his free hand and took a brutal grip on Balsworth's hair. He forced the trapped man's head backward so that he saw only the surrounding cliffs. With his neck stretched tight against the knife blade, P.D. Balsworth was sure he was about to die, but the knife did not move and Ted Shatto spoke again.
"Knowing that vultures like you are always scuttling around trying to get the land grants voided, we had our Washington man register our land claim and pay a second time for it right there in the capitol of these United States of America. We've federal papers, Balsworth, and they're all we'll ever need."
At the moment, Balsworth was pleased to hear it. All he hoped for was a chance to get away. He could not imagine why he had ever been interested in the place anyway. He would have told Ted Shatto all of this except that the knife touching his throat made him afraid to even swallow.
Shatto's next words gave Balsworth no solace. "So, that leaves you a trespasser that has threatened to take what is ours. We're our own law out here and it's just a matter of deciding exactly what's fitting. Then we'll do it."
A woman's voice said, "Oh, let him go, Ted. He won't ever come back." Balsworth blessed the angel voice, knew she was right, and prayed that Ted Shatto would listen.
He heard a stirring and the bigger man's voice said, "I'd stay down against that wheel if I were you, boy." The movements, that Balsworth supposed came from his fighter, ceased.
Ted moved Balsworth's head so that their eyes met. Tears of fear stung the land grabber and his vision blurred but he listened to what Shatto said.
"'Cause I've been asked, I'll likely let you go—this time. But Balsworth, if you come against me or mine in any way, ever again, why I'll come after you. I've got your card and I'll hunt you down like I would a rabid coyote.
"One day you'd look up—maybe in St. Louis, maybe in Boston—and there I'd be. Then this knife would do my talking, and P.D. Balsworth'd be just another fading memory.
"Now if you understand, you just nod your head a little, but be careful 'cause my hand's still hungry to do a little cutting."
P.D. Balsworth nodded as gently as he could. Then he was jerked to his feet and thrust at his wagon. He and his fighter collided climbing in, but neither spoke or looked around.
The big rancher slapped a horse rump and the team started off, Balsworth still staring almost unseeingly with his throat too fear constricted to work right.
The sergeant touched his hat brim in informal salute. A sour grin worked his features but he said only, "Mister Shatto," before leading his men onto the wagon's trail.
The silence hung among the ranch people until Chip mimicked "'Cause my hand's still hungry to do a little cutting."
Ted grinned, "Well, . . . ", but their combined laughter cut him off.
Chip said, "You think we didn't see that you had the dull side of that knife against the poor devil's neck?"
Still grinning, Ted explained, "It wasn't what you all saw that counted. It was what he thought that mattered."
Ted nodded approval of his own performance. "I figure I had him pretty well convinced. Doubt he'll come calling again."
Beth put in, "My goodness. Chip, you hit that driver terribly hard. It's a wonder it didn't break his bones."
Chip sucked on a knu
ckle. "Darn near broke mine." He held out a small single barreled pocket pistol." I took this off him while Ted was threatening that land man. I'm going to keep it for boot wearing. Might come in handy."
"Just great, Chip. A knife in one boot and a pistol in the other. Pretty soon you won't be able to lift either leg." Then Ted had to add, "Dumb thinking anyway, Chip. All you ever wear are moccasins."
Chip gave the pistol to Santos and the hands went away gabbling about how Ted had slapped the man until he fell over and how Chip had finished off the saloon brawler with a kick under the chin.
The really important thing, Ted figured, was that the excitement roused Chip from his lethargy and got him going, about like he was before Coyote Boy worked on his chest.
+++
Chapter 8
P. D. Balsworth's visit got Chip going. Although he had hammered Balsworth's saloon brawler pretty well, Chip had felt the weakness in his big frame. He was probably as strong as he had been, but there was no endurance. If his end of the fight had dragged out, he'd have been in big trouble.
Chip saddled his tall horse and took a ride around the ranch. He came back from as far as the river, saddle tired, but feeling interest surging. What he needed, he guessed, was regular, hard, sweat bringing labor, and he knew how to get it.
Work had to be meaningful. A man could shovel a hole and refill it, but he got too bored and couldn't keep it up. Building Ted's defensive wall was real. It could be hard and sweaty enough as well. Chip decided to go at it.
Each morning as he circled his place, Ted found Chip hard at wall building. Some days he was clay caked from head to foot, mixing adobe in a big trough.
Making a few bricks was simple, but mixing and shaping many thousands took organizing. You needed a lot of mixed clay, and people had to be ready to pat the bricks and set them out for drying. Then you had to lay them into the wall or you ran out of room for drying more.
The Mexican way of doing things was slower than Yankee style. When Chip got into it, the pace quickened. The brick makers' casual shuffle from pit to layout became a walk and later almost a trot. Occasionally, Ted felt the spirit and spent some hours wall building. When that happened the hands couldn't keep up. The brothers challenged each other's muscle and speed without let up. Horrendous insults concerning the other's puny efforts left the Mexicans smiling. As the Shattos spoke in Spanish to include everyone, the often garbled language added to the levity. Chip tanned almost to black and his body hardened again into rock-like muscle. His eye brightened and he just plain felt good.
Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 10
