When he went beyond the wall, David Cooper carried on of Ted's Navy Colts at his waist. He practiced and followed Ted's advice to aim for an enemy's thickest part. He pointed the pistol, letting instinct aim it, and raising it as close to arm's length as time allowed.
Ted had instructed, "A man can learn to hit when just flipping his pistol clear of leather and touching off, but it takes a lot of practice and it is never as certain as taking a little more time.
"The straighter you can get your arm and the nearer you can come to sighting down the barrel, the better you'll shoot. If you've got all day, use the sights. They aren't much on a pistol, but they help.
The Scholar spent most evenings visiting around the ranch. Families vied for his presence. The wives and daughters prepared special suppers and practiced their English amid shared laughter at the often terrible result.
The hands enjoyed his tales of distant places and dramatic occurrences. Cooper spoke often of the Spanish discoverers who explored the seas and the lands where he and his listeners now lived. The stories were heroic and The Scholar told them in terms of mighty deeds requiring courage and suffering. He stressed loyalty and personal dedication. He taught that a man must do what he believed was right because he was a man. Men, David Cooper explained, could choose their directions. They could sculpt their minds by learning, just as they could shape their riding or roping through practice. A man, The Scholar insisted, could be almost anything he wished to be, provided—and he stressed the provisions—the man worked at it hard enough and wisely enough.
It was the stuff of dreams and, the teacher believed, his listeners would grow prouder and stand taller. They would gain confidence and they would reason more soundly. Each improvement would enhance another. The Scholar thrilled when he imagined the advances a few years would allow.
Ted Shatto was pleased with his teacher. He owed Manito De Castella for recognizing the right man. Ted also knew they had been lucky. He doubted that many could have thrown aside virtually all of the trappings of an eastern education to squat in the dust teaching Mexican peons to count and to read simple words.
The best part of The Scholar's adaptation was that David Cooper thrived on the ranch life. Beth claimed that the teacher simply blossomed, and the description was apt. A sickly young greener had signed on. By midwinter, he was tough, tanned, and healthy as a hickory sprout. Ted figured The Scholar had settled in to stay. That pleased both Shattos and they began planning ways to see that David Cooper grew roots that would bind him forever to the Arrowhead and its people.
+++
A pair of hard looking customers had ridden in. When they reached the big house at the valley end they found three men waiting for them. They also noted that a pair of vaqueros with long guns had appeared between them and the distant valley entrance.
Ted Shatto stood on his porch, hands fisted on his hips, rocking a little on his toes. Juan Santos stood a little to one side, a hand resting on his pistol butt. David Cooper guarded Ted's other flank. He cradled Ted's shotgun and held his features reserved, as Ted had instructed.
There had been a string of rough looking riders the last few months. Some sought work. Others simply asked for the handout customary at any ranch. Ted fed them and sent them away but he began wondering if there was some word being passed along the outlaw trails that the Arrowhead was a good stopping place.
Ted didn't like mean looking people paying visits but lately, every cussed one seemed of that pattern. These two would get short shrift and maybe . . . maybe it was time to stop the unwelcome at the wall. The thought was unhappy. It went against traditional frontier hospitality, but becoming a feed stop for every owl-hoot north of Santa Fe didn't appeal either.
Both riders were squat, beefy men whose acquaintance with clean clothing or shaving mugs was distant. Coarse featured and gun hung, they did not inspire confidence. Ted waited them out.
One said, "I'm called Carp. My sidekick's known as Jim Lilly. We're just passing through. Havin' heard of the Arrowhead we thought we might take a look and maybe get a feed and a little friendly talk with the hands."
Lilly was a bowing man, the obsequious kind that nodded when it didn't fit and probably smiled as he slid a knife through your ribs. Lilly bobbed a little as though apologizing for living -- which did not fit with his drink and experience coarsened features. "Didn't mean to turn important folks out for greeting, just hoped to palaver a little with anyone willing. We've been prospecting alone so long we cain't hardly recognize other people's talk." Lilly bobbed again. "Really didn't intend on disturbin'."
The Scholar was downwind and their unwashed pungency twitched his nose. He felt sympathy for the men, so long isolated that they had let go of too many civilized customs. He was surprised by Ted's actions and hard voiced words, though he managed not to betray his feelings.
Ted snapped his fingers and five year old Tiff appeared in the doorway, dragging a partly filled gunnysack. Juan Santos handed the sack to the speaker. Ted said, "Let's understand each other without wasting words.
You're not the kind of men you make out to be. Prospectors don't wear slip hammer guns, like yours, Carp, and they don't ride fast horses with Spanish bits.
"It's customary to lend a hand to passersby, but there've been too many footloose men with shifty eyes visitin' here. Whatever word's been handed down the back trails needs changing. The welcome on the Arrowhead is thinned out. I'm hoping you'll let it be known."
Lilly appeared embarrassed nearly to death and almost sunk into his bandanna. Carp's eyes got blank but he only nodded and turned his horse away. The pair walked their horses down the canyon, letting their heads turn, plainly missing nothing.
When they were gone, Ted sat down to talk about it.
Juan Santos began. "Outlaws, Senor Ted. Bad hombres that steal or kill without conscience."
"Seems as though that's all we've seen this winter. I've heard of Jud Carp. Shot a man over east somewhere, I think."
David Cooper was intrigued. "So those were real outlaws?"
One side of Ted's mouth drew up. He hoisted Tiff onto his lap and fished a coin from a vest pocket for the child to finger.
"Yup, real outlaws, dirty, flat broke, no prospects, meaner than any snakes, and willing to do any foul deed that they could profit from. Not much like Robin Hood, are they?"
Later Ted said, "Reckon we'll cut 'em off down canyon from now on. The lookout can make a first judgment but we'll send people down to meet 'em. If they don't appear likely, we'll turn 'em back. Don't know as we owe that type anything anyway."
+++
Chinca, The Watcher, had lost an eye. He did not care, for the eye of Ted needed only one to see with and . . . The Watcher felt the ghost fathers standing nearby.
The winter took life from the old and Chinca doubted his moons were many. He did not mind, he had seen more than most. He thought it would be good to again watch the grass green and feel the breeze once more warm his face. Then, he would welcome the old ones who would come for him from the spirit world.
Many did not believe in the old ones and shrugged away the signs of their presence, but Chinca knew they were there. Sometimes he almost caught a shape from the corner of an eye and often he felt an unseen presence.
The spirits were friendly for they had never harmed him. Chinca supposed they were old companions or even fathers gone before. That they were kindly spirits was also proven for he had been granted marvelous sight. Chinca took the dimming of one eye as warning that his time was close.
Even the haze clouding his eye was of interest to Chinca. Before it became too thick he seemed to see through a mist. Later, his eye saw only at edges with the center as dark as night.
If the remaining eye failed before his body, Chinca knew of a high place where he could sing his death song before stepping over the edge.
Until his time came, Chinca, The Watcher, looked over his land. Always he studied The Valley of Bones. He saw strangers come from the south, along the high mount
ains, until they could look into the valley. Later they went away but it was strange, for winter was a poor time and, as far as Chinca could tell, nothing had been accomplished by their scouting.
+++
Chapter 11
Through a small window in his office, John P. Snyder could watch his barroom. The window had a catch which allowed the framed glass to hinge downward. Then John P. could fire a rifle, pistol, or shotgun into anyone occupying the saloon. When he had owned the business, Snyder had never shot, but he had been prepared to if the need arose. Since selling the place, Snyder retained use of his former office. It made meeting the men he needed to see quite convenient.
From his chair, Snyder could see Jim Lilly hunched over the bar. Even in waiting, Lilly resembled a whipped hound. As one who had once practiced anonymity, Snyder admired Lilly's performance. A man like Lilly was most dangerous when you weren't looking, but he would do for a big raid as well.
Jud Carp met privately with John P. Snyder because Carp would be a leader. Deadly any time. Carp's reputation within the wild bunch was of a killer with a fuse no longer than it had to be. Tough men with their own reputations avoided picking at Jud Carp. If he figured he could. Carp was likely to kill.
Carp said, "We got a good look at the inside of the Shatto place. It's about like the others've described. One important point is that there's no bunkhouse. Hands are scattered in their own houses all against the canyon's south wall, which means we can't trap 'em in one building. If we don't clear the houses coming in, some of them might barricade up and shoot into us."
"There are only two white men on the place. Carp, and one of them is a school teacher."
Carp was unconvinced. "That school teacher was handling a shotgun and looked calm about it. There was an older Mexican alongside that had a hand on a pistol and another pair that just appeared, carrying rifles. We'd be smart to figure every hand on that place as armed and willing to shoot."
Snyder snorted, "Peons won't fight white men. Carp, especially without some high-born Spaniard pushing them along. It's always been that way. They've been bred into servitude since the first Spaniard landed. Mexes are all right for rushing in and hacking after the fighting's been decided, but when we come riding through, their doors'll be barred with them, their women, and their kids all huddled against a wall."
"We'd best be ready for 'em anyway. We can assign a small squad of men to lay back and make sure no force forms behind us. Shatto's main house is a regular fort. Some'll be inside and if a bunch of men come up behind us we'll be pinched between and have to fight both ways."
"All right, Carp, we'll add a Mex watching squad. Forget the Mexicans. What else did you see?"
"Took a good look at the wall. It's high and there's glass on top. If we had to fight over that we'd be in deep chips. Nobody near it when we came in and the gate was standing open enough to ride through. If we hit the place just at dawn we'll be inside before they know about it."
Snyder grunted, sullen with his memory of his first try at that time of day, before the wall was even in place. Carp was right though, and this time he would have a small army ahead of him.
"The wall's to keep Apaches away. Indians ain't used to a thing like that. Shatto can't be expecting people like we'll have coming against him."
"Maybe so," Carp remembered Ted Shatto's words, "but he's starting to wonder about hard case riders coming in. Been too many and he's beginning to think about it."
"Well, we've sent enough. He'll have two months to settle down before he finds out just why he got all the company." Snyder's smile was evil.
"The men I sent to look down into the canyon agree there's no way down. A man could go down ropes if he was strong enough or had people to lower him, but I doubt we'd get volunteers. We'll put the same two on top with rifles and Jim Lilly can go with them. He'll steady them down. They might get in some long range shooting if we miss anybody going in—which we won't.
"I'm intending to take no chances on this raid. Carp. We want whatever money Shatto's got. We need the Shattos dead so's a lot of questions won't pop up. It'll be a clean sweep, Jud. When we ride out, we'll leave nothin' but ruins and another mystery for people to wonder about."
"The men'll talk, Captain. Word'll get out."
"And some'll believe, but others will think the story just a windy, and about as many will believe in a big Apache raid. No one'll ever know for sure, except us." Snyder laughed, almost bitterly. "Most of our riders will be dead from something violent within a few years. Nope, it'll just be another mystery with sand blowing over ruins none'll hardly remember."
+++
There was always disagreement on the best time of year to travel from Missouri to Santa Fe. Some liked midsummer when there was feed for stock. Others feared summer drought, and many worried over late rains that could bog wagons and teams. Indians prowled in good weather but winter brought blizzards that could freeze animals and men solid. The first wagons through in the spring got the best prices for their goods and, with a quick turnaround; a second trip was possible before cold again sunk in.
At the Arrowhead, the winter of 1864 was milder than most. No great storms buried mountains and plains and temperatures did not drop to improbable lows. It was a good winter for stock and winter kill was small. Ted Shatto had men ranging wide shooting off the wolves and coyotes that took a toll of his beeves. Bears were in winter sleep and mountain lions were few anyway. They did not account for many cattle kills.
Apaches too seemed fewer. Juan Santos believed that cattle were so numerous that the Apache found all they needed in the breaks far across the river.
In early April, Ted took a train of his wagons into Santa Fe. The wagons were heavy with bull hides and wolf pelts. Layered atop the loads were dozens of the widest horned skulls Ted's men could find. At his suggestion, Manito De Castella had shipped a few east. As curiosities, the horns had brought as much as a live steer would have. This year, Ted Shatto would profit handsomely from the easterner's interest in the western frontier's longhorn cattle.
Ted's arrival in Santa Fe was well timed. His wagons were off-loaded directly onto De Castella's spring train, which had barely emptied his eastern goods into the warehouse. Within a day, pelts and horns were moving east behind eight horse teams that devoured miles as though anxious to turn again with new loads for the hungry west.
There were many boxes consigned to the Shatto ranch. Ted's orders were always substantial, and if Manito De Castella rubbed hands in anticipation of profit, he was as at least intrigued by the diverse nature of Ted's requirements.
There were always guns, powder, and lead. It seemed to Manito that every living soul on the Arrowhead must possess a roomful of weaponry. In search of the latest and best, Ted Shatto had surely assembled an armory of firearms. De Castella had not sold Ted the old Volcanics that fired pistol bullets at an incredible rate, but he knew about them. From the catalogs Shatto had ordered Burnside carbines and from his family he had received a number of Colt five-shot revolving rifles. This latest shipment included a pair of Spencer carbines that fired seven shots by operating a lever and a hammer. Cases of ammunition were included and the combination was the source of much discussion over De Castella's bar.
A leathered trapper asked, "What does a man do when his cartridges run out?"
"Goes and gets more, you old buzzard. Just like you do for powder or ball." The friend had a barbed tongue but the trapper was not dismayed.
"Maybe a tradin' post would have these here cartridges, but this child doubts it. Powder and lead they'll always have, or they wouldn't be in business."
Ted shoved one of the short barreled carbines along the bar for examination. "I reckon you're right. I'd not go off long hunting with one. A Sharps is the gun for that, or even my old Hawken." Heads nodded agreement.
"But cartridge guns are coming on. Hunting around the ranch they'd be useful and, if Apaches came down, seven fast shots would be real comforting."
Someone said, "If a
revolver and a single shot Sharps aren't enough, maybe a man should carry two or three of these seven shooters and at least a pair of colt six guns whenever he rides beyond shouting distance."
Ted grinned, "And the first war whoop he heard he'd wish he had three more of each." Ted took the Spencer back. "Anyway, this is my gun and all you desert rats get to do is look. I figure in about ten years you'll be buying one but, by then, who knows what they'll be making?"
"Won't be nothin' left to shoot by then anyway." A man claimed. That steered the yarning away from Ted's new guns.
While the others talked, Ted let his thoughts roam. The speaker had a point about game thinning. It happened wherever guns appeared. With bows and spears, Indians hadn't made much impression on game herds but the white man's bullets ate steadily into animal numbers.
When he predicted towns and ranches, Ted guessed he was also guaranteeing the disappearance of most of the wild animals. Men had trapped out the valuable pelts before he had arrived. He was shooting off the predators that ate his cows. With the wolves thinned, deer, antelope, and sheep would likely prosper for a while but someday those timid creatures might be found to compete with cattle for limited grass. Then they would go, too, he supposed.
A man already had to ride a long way from Santa Fe to shoot deer, and the pueblos at Taos complained that their hunting found only the white man's cattle. All things changed, Ted reasoned, but he planned to keep an eye on it around his own ranch.
The trouble was, it was hard to see change coming. It usually slid in a little at a time. Before a man noticed, a thing was so different there was no easy way to change it back. Sometimes there was no way at all.
Santa Fe was like that. Riding in only occasionally, Ted saw the changes. Manito and the rest shrugged off his comparisons because they'd grown accustomed to the differences as they had occurred.
To Ted, the town seemed clogged with shot-up war veterans. Every porch had tired men missing limbs or lung sick from bullets or camp fevers. It brought home, at least a little, the terrible human toll the long war was exacting. What would the countless cripples do to stay alive, much less prosper? The west was a physical land where a man needed all his limbs and every strength he could muster. The many wounded would become bartenders, livery hands, or lawyers and bookkeepers, if they had those skills, pinching work for men once proud in their physical prowess and daring in their courage to face enemy rifles or cannon.
Shatto's Law (Perry County Frontier) Page 15
