Shatterhand and the People

by BJ Holmes

  ‘You will soon have the opportunity to exercise your talent for battle,’ Roman Nose said, standing and gesturing that the audience was at an end. ‘Our medicine men have decided the time is favorable for victory. Tomorrow we make preparation to ride against the whites.’

  Chapter Four

  The following day was taken up with elaborate sun-dance and medicine-arrow ceremonies in preparation for battle. Afterwards a council was held to plan strategy. The Bozeman Trail, as the most important route to Montana with a string of forts along its length, had long been the focus of the redman’s vexation. All chiefs were agreed that it was time to show the white man the full measure of their strength by completely wiping out one of the Bozeman forts. However there was disagreement and debate about which one should be the object of attack. Red Cloud favored attacking Fort Phil Kearny, but the Cheyenne argued for throwing their might against Fort C. F. Smith. Already the Cheyenne had subjected Smith to attack so that its forces at that fort were depleted and many of the army’s horses has been killed or captured. The argument in the center circle took up most of the remaining day. It had to be one fort or the other as, sited to the north and south respectively from the Tongue River headquarters, the fortifications could not be attacked consecutively as a compromise. With no agreement reached, it was decided the Sioux would attack Fort Phil Kearny while the Cheyenne would take on Fort C. F. Smith.

  Early next morning the braves, painted and greased, assembled in their respective parties. Then, after the medicine men had made their incantations, orders were given for the two armies to move from the camp in opposite directions. Winnetou was to ride north in the advance guard of the Cheyenne of which there were six hundred headed by Roman Nose with Dull Knife and Two Moon as his lieutenants.

  By noon of the second day the Cheyenne were close to the Big Horn River beyond which was situated Fort C. F. Smith. It was then that scouts returned to the main body to report seeing soldiers.

  ‘Did they see you?’ Roman Nose asked after the two scouts had delivered their dispatch.

  ‘We were as blades of grass upon the ridge,’ one of the scouts said. ‘The whites did not see us.’

  ‘What number are the Bluecoats?’ the chief asked.

  ‘Their count is about thirty,’ one of the scouts replied.

  ‘And what task are they following?’

  ‘They guard farmers who work the land and who collect long grass from the fields. We saw no thunder-guns.’

  Dull Knife raised his lance to speak. ‘We should ignore their presence and ride around them,’ he advised. ‘We have ridden long and should not waste our energies upon them. It is the fort itself which is the object of our attack.’

  ‘You know the lie of the land in this region,’ Roman Nose said to the scouts. ‘How much beyond the placement of these Bluecoats is the fort of Smith?’

  ‘Within no more than half an hour’s ride,’ the scout replied.

  ‘Then we must dispense first with these soldiers,’ the chief decided. ‘Should they hear our attack upon the fort they would come upon our rear as reinforcements.’

  Dull Knife and Two Moon acceded. As lieutenants, theirs was not to question the chief once he had made a decision. Thus, the order was given and the army of redmen moved forward. Then, with bluffs and gullies behind them, the advance guard came at last to a ridge. Keeping the main body back, the chief and his aides dismounted and bellied up to the crest. Before them a long slope ran down to a shallow valley on which was situated a homestead. It was a large spread protected around its limits by a low log wall. There was one large dwelling surrounded by smaller out-buildings with corralled animals. In the fields, civilian hands were gathering hay and loading it on to wagons. Near to them and at points along the wall soldiers were grouped. They were armed but by their relaxed demeanor it was apparent they were unaware of the presence of the redmen.

  ‘The counting of coup will come easily,’ Roman Nose said with satisfaction, after the advance party had slithered down the incline and returned to the main force with their observations. ‘The Bluecoats are clearly unprepared. Surprise is on our side and we are six hundred to their thirty. Tell the warriors to refrain from war cries until the guns of the enemy tell us that we have been sighted.’

  Braves unfettered their lances and drew axes from their belts. Others readied their bows and rifles. The body moved slowly towards the brim.

  Then, on the command of Roman Nose, they urged their mounts over the brow and down the hillside.

  Spread out, they were sighted quickly in their descent. Farmers stopped in their labor and soldiers grouped. There was a pause, but only a brief one as the intent of the descending horsemen was evident; then rifles crackled.

  A tide of whooping, yelping riders cascaded down the slope, hooves crashing into the sod like the mounting rumble of thunder. In the front rank, Winnetou gave out his Apache war cry. Arrows and lances curved into the air. Then he noticed the spasmodic crackle of army gunfire had turned into what seemed a continuous fusillade. He sensed the brave at his side reel at the first thunderous volley. He turned to see the man’s lance fall. Then the brave lost his grip, pitched straight back, going down under the hooves of the following horses.

  Winnetou fired as he rode but the terrain was rough, preventing any accuracy. Then his own horse tripped and he slid forward over the neck. But he managed to keep his balance so that he landed on his knees. Retaining that position he reloaded and kept up fire but the nearest soldiers were now well hidden behind the log walls. From their protected placements the army men had no problem picking off their attackers. Warriors were falling on all sides. From half-way down the slope Winnetou could see that only one brave had eventually got through to the log defense. But even he tumbled from his horse under a tirade of bullets before he could inflict any damage and he died with his unthrown lance still clutched in his fist.

  Another Cheyenne fell close to the young Apache. He loped over to the brave to help him but up close he could see the black hair matting red around a hole in his skull. The man was beyond help. On one knee the Apache looked down the slope at the gun muzzles, continuously pouring out their death messages. He had never heard rifle-fire like it. The rifles of his experience did not fire with such rapidity. It had to be that the soldiers had some new kind of weapon that didn’t require reloading.

  Lying down he laboriously fitted a new shell to his own long-arm and fired. While he was inserting another charge he heard an order shouted from the back. It was something in the Cheyenne tongue that he couldn’t understand but he guessed the meaning as the few braves surviving from the first wave began to retreat upwards out of range of the army guns.

  He let off one more shot and followed their example, loping upwards, head down. Looking back to survey the scene from near the top he could see the hillside littered with dead or wounded braves. He learned that the personal bodyguard of Roman Nose had died in the attack. The granite face of the chief betrayed no emotion as he gave the order to reassemble. Once again a charge was made. Again the ranks were decimated.

  Another charge was ordered but when a further massive failure had become evident, the chief called his lieutenants for a parley.

  ‘The soldiers have the new rifle called the Springfield,’ Roman Nose observed. ‘We had heard talk of such a gun but did not know it had been distributed widely to the Bluecoats. I cannot risk the loss of more braves on such a scale. With our enemy numbering much less than our own forces we must leave this place in dishonor, not even able to collect our dead and wounded.’

  ‘Hold, O mighty chief,’ Dull Knife said, pointing with his axe. ‘See where the long grass starts. It grows right up to the log fence. If we should fire it, the defenses of wood will be destroyed. We are still more than our enemy in number and can achieve victory if they have no hiding place from which to use their weapons.’

  Two Moon nodded in agreement.

  ‘So be it,’ Roman Nose said. ‘Give the order.’

  Whi
le the main body remained on the crest, a cohort advanced on foot partway down the slope keeping out of range of the deadly Springfields. A brave had prepared a fire-brand and ran with it along the rank lighting the greased points of their arrows. One by one, burning missiles whooshed through the air, marking out smoke-peppered arcs.

  Roman Nose looked on in satisfaction as the fire took grip and began to eat its way down the hill towards the log fences. The grass was dry and soon flames were leaping some forty feet into the air.

  Winnetou shaded his eyes from the glare as he attempted to estimate the progress of the blaze. Then his heart fell. For some reason, whether it was a change in the wind he didn’t know, but the fire dropped in intensity as it neared the fortification. Then, even more inexplicably, it extinguished altogether, leaving clouds of smoke blowing back into the faces of the Indians.

  ‘Do not give the order to attack,’ Roman Nose said. ‘The ruse has failed. Our braves will be slain at will once more should we charge again.’

  At that, Winnetou ran forward, shouting back as he descended the hill, ‘At least we can use the cover of the smoke to reclaim the dead and wounded!’ Through a gap in a great reek of black smoke, Roman Nose could see Winnetou, with bullets whistling overhead, kneeling to check a fallen Cheyenne.

  Seconds later the young man emerged from the choking blanket bearing the injured man, to lay him at a safe distance.

  ‘Follow the example of the valiant Apache,’ Roman Nose ordered as the figure of Winnetou disappeared again into the black wreath. The chief watched as eventually one by one his men appeared from the smoke carrying fallen comrades. They would lay down their burdens and heavy-foot once more down the hill.

  Sometime later, the dispirited Cheyennes, eyes red, war paint blackened and smeared, were regrouped beyond the crest. There were about twenty dead and many more wounded, some severely. They waited while braves reclaimed as many loose horses as they could, then Roman Nose gave the order to mount up to begin the miserable trek back to the Tongue.

  With the wounded to care for, the return took longer than the outward journey, and it was three days later that Roman Nose and his troops entered the camp in shame. Red Cloud and the Sioux were already returned. Although managing to inflict some casualties on the whites, they too had suffered defeat in their attempt to take Fort Kearny under the withering fire of the breech-loading Springfields. Worse, the Sioux had lost several hundred men from a force of around a thousand.

  Winnetou was resting in the lodge of Drying Grass and relating the run of the battle when he was summoned to Roman Nose. The chief was standing near the center circle being disrobed by his acolytes when the young foreigner got there. Winnetou watched as the war-bonnet and war-shirt of the chief were taken from him and placed on a wooden frame outside his lodge.

  ‘I witnessed much bravery on your part, Apache prince,’ Roman Nose said when he saw the young brave. ‘You are a valiant warrior.’

  Winnetou bowed. ‘Roman Nose is kind in his words.’

  ‘And it was also noted that the Apache is thoughtful in deed,’ the chief said. ‘It is thanks to him that we were able to reclaim our dead and wounded.’

  ‘I am only sorry that victory eluded us.’

  ‘I have seen in your eyes,’ the chief continued, ‘that you are shamed that your tribe could not send a complement of warriors in our support. Let it be known that it is my belief that, if Apache warriors all fight in the manner of Winnetou, then the tribes of The People are the poorer for their absence. Thus, the Apache should not feel shame. Victory was denied to us because of the superior weapons of our enemy.’

  He squatted and called for food before continuing. ‘My faithful bodyguard was slain today in battle. He too was valiant. I have decided that to you should pass the task of taking his place: my personal bodyguard. News of that duty should sit well in the heart of your grandfather Intschu-tschuna and may, in part, recompense his feelings for not being able to supply a detachment of braves.’

  Again the young man bowed. ‘And in the heart of Winnetou also. The great chief bestows upon me a great honor. I will discharge it upon penalty of my scalp.’

  Roman Nose shook his head and glanced at the other chiefs. ‘Severe penalty, yes. But do not speak of the indignity of scalping. Let us never forget that that is a barbaric custom of the whites.’

  That evening there was a meeting of the council during which the new castellan of Roman Nose sat proudly behind his chief. After the smoking of pipes there was much discussion on the recent battles and all agreed that, although there had been no honorable victory, lessons had been learned.

  ‘We must never again split our columns,’ Red Cloud said at the council. ‘And we must give thought to new strategies in order to tackle the new weapons of the Bluecoats. Further, we are in need of more warriors. As an instance, it comes to my mind that we have not yet invited the Crow.’

  ‘But they are hereditary enemies of our brothers the Sioux,’ said Sorrel Horse who had recently brought his Arapaho warriors into the alliance. He looked across at Red Cloud in deference. ‘Was it not the Sioux who drove them from their hunting grounds?’

  Red Cloud smiled. ‘That is past history. I think I could persuade them to help us make new history. I will ride north to the Crow villages north of the Bighorns tomorrow.’

  Chapter Five

  The following day a band of Cheyenne were returning to camp. With such huge numbers in a stationary camp, food was a constant problem and those detailed to hunt were having to travel further afield in search of game. On this day the hunting had been successful and the party’s pack-ponies and travois were heavily laden with antelope. For this reason the leader of the band, Sleeping Rabbit, was in high spirits. On their outward journey they had crossed railroad tracks and they had just recrossed the lines on their return when Sleeping Rabbit looked back to see the smoke of a train on the horizon. He ordered the band to halt while he studied the approaching monster.

  ‘The iron horse drags wooden houses on wheels,’ he observed. ‘It would be good if we could find out more about them. Roman Nose would be surely pleased if Sleeping Rabbit could tell him what is in those houses. They may be carrying the new fast weapons of death.’

  ‘The iron horse travels on wheels at great speed along its tracks,’ Little River, one of his companions, said. ‘Much too fast for us to learn their contents.’

  ‘The iron creature is much like the buffalo,’ Sleeping Rabbit went on sagely. ‘Although it would remain uninjured by arrows and bullets it might be brought down by rope as is the buffalo.’

  Little River frowned. ‘Sleeping Rabbit is an expert hunter and it is widely known that he is skilled in grounding even a large bull with his lariat. But the iron horse has untested powers.’

  ‘It is strong and it is fast,’ Sleeping Rabbit said, watching the smoke picking out the locomotive like some black finger pointing down from the heavens. ‘But so is the mighty buffalo. It is a matter of locating the weak point. The weak point for the buffalo is his legs. A hunter ensnares those with a rope and the beast is down. Where is the weak point of the iron horse? It must have one. Maybe a lariat ensnaring its front could fetch it from its course.’

  ‘Sleeping Rabbit’s bravery is exceeded only by his optimism,’ Little River observed. ‘Come, we must get this fresh meat to camp.’

  But resolution set the features of the unhearing leader. ‘We shall see,’ he said. He pointed to his staunchest warriors in turn. ‘You, prepare your weapons and come with me. Little River and the rest remain here to guard our kill and watch the contest from afar. This day you may witness a tale to tell your grandchildren around the camp-fire.’ With that he dug his heels into his pony’s flanks and made off down the hill.

  On the plain the small band began to curve to meet the fast-moving train. Soon, whooping and yelling, they were riding parallel with it. The thundering machine towed two sealed wagons and one car with windows through which could be seen the frightened faces of passeng
ers. Up front, Sleeping Rabbit leaned out from his lathered pony, the already-prepared loop of his lariat at the ready. The heart of his steed pounded near to bursting as he mercilessly urged it to greater speed. For a few moments it managed to take its rider to the front of the locomotive and the Indian’s rope snaked out. The lariat caught the angle joint of a pipe on the boiler front and zinged tight in his hands. For just a few more seconds the redman’s pony maintained the pace. But its heart was giving out and, as soon as its momentum slackened, Sleeping Rabbit was yanked from its back. He hit the ground, the impact knocking the breath from his body, the grass burning the skin from his elbows and chest. Still pulled by the taut rope he bounced towards the wheels, letting go only as he hit the gravel of the track’s foundations.

  The train continued unperturbed as his companions caught up with him and dropped to the ground to help him to his feet. Cut and skinned in places, he would survive.

  As they re-joined the main body back on the ridge, Little River’s lips formed a faint smile. ‘You were right, O bold one. I did see something to tell my grandchildren around the camp-fire.’

  On their return the incident was related to Roman Nose and the other chiefs. Some smiled, others applauded the action.

  ‘All creatures have a weak point,’ Sleeping Rabbit said in defense of his actions. ‘The horse of metal is no exception.’

  Winnetou asked permission to speak. ‘My fellow warrior is right,’ he said, when permission was given. ‘The iron horse does have vulnerability. Its weakness lies in its tracks. It needs its iron rails as the plant needs the sun and water. In those times when the Great Spirit denies water, many plants wither and die. It might be that if we took away some of the iron horse’s tracks it will flounder.’

  ‘The master of the iron horse would see the damage,’ Little River countered. ‘He would then halt his machine and return it to safety along its back-trail.’