by BJ Holmes
King George translated his question.
‘No proof will be necessary,’ the chief said gravely. ‘I will know if you are successful.’
Chapter Nine
Shatterhand sensed pounding hammers in his skull. He was conscious of the twitter of birds. His eyes flickered open and took in blue sky. He tried to move and slithered on shale. Then he remembered the rifle shot and toppling from his horse. His movements caused him to slip a few more feet and he came to rest once more against a rock. He lay there groaning for a few moments, trying to take things in. Then he hauled himself up, sat on the rock and gingerly ran his fingers over the back of his head. He could feel a scab crusting along a furrow. Holle, it was sore. He spent a few minutes breathing deeply, assimilating his surroundings and waiting for his energy to build up.
He looked up whence he had fallen. It was steep and covered in shale. Even fit he would find it nigh on impossible to scramble back up it. He hauled himself to his feet and slowly made his way along the rocks for some hundred yards. Finding a spot where the embankment shallowed, he worked his way back up to the trail.
Verdammt! All his animals had gone. He rested again on a rock and surveyed the valley. Some half a mile on he saw a shape. Shading his forehead with his hand he squinted his ancient eyes to handle the distance and could make out a horse grazing. Was that his steed?
He heavy-footed down the trail. Yes. It was his horse, ripping at grass in an open glade as though nothing had happened. His spirits rose as he approached it, speaking softly as he crossed the sward. It glanced up once, then continued its feeding. There was no problem nearing it. He patted the neck soothingly. ‘Thanks, pal. You don’t know how grateful I am to see you.’ He checked the accoutrements. Nothing missing. His Martini-Henry, his Barentoter, saddle-bags. All in place. The horse must have bolted and kept clear of whoever had bushwhacked him. How many of the wretched coyhoots had there been?
He ground-hitched the horse while he took a bite of hardtack and pondered on his next course of action. There were three possibilities. He could return to General Sherman. But he didn’t cotton to aborting a mission at the first set-back. He could continue his journey to the Tongue River and make contact with the Indians without his placatory gifts. He took a swig from his water-bottle, untied the horse and walked it back to the trail. Dropping to one knee he examined the ground. Sign was easy to see and he had no problem deciphering the hoof prints of six horses. His three animals plus another three, meaning three bushwhackers. That was the remaining option: track the varmints who’d dry-gulched him. As long as they left tracks as clear as this there would be no problem. And riding alone he could travel faster than them. And he had a score to settle with them.
Ja, that was what he would do.
Winnetou looked out across the lake after putting more wood on the fire. He could just make out the raft. It was the morning of the fourth day. He rubbed his arm muscles as he looked up at the rising sun. This sun of the north did not provide the warmth of that which gave sustenance to Apache land. He picked up the buffalo hide that served as his blanket, put it over his shoulders and untethered his horse. He could not remember how many times he had made a circuit of the lake during their stay. But he would make another one; it broke the monotony.
A quarter of an hour later he was up on the high rocks. To the west was a vast plain on which he could see buffalo grazing. They were nearer than they had been in the past and he could see their shapes quite clearly. Then he saw one he had not seen before. A massive bull, the leader of the herd. By the Great Manitou, it was the biggest he’d ever seen. Even at this distance it was magnificent. He thought about it. Such a prize would hold great medicine. Presenting that to Roman Nose could be the means to redeem the honor of his tribe in the eyes of his hosts. He looked back at the chief. The old man was at peace, unmoving on his raft far below. The Cheyenne had been unaware of his Apache companion all the time they had been out at the lake. Safe in the arms of the water spirit the chief would not miss him for the short time necessary for the skilled Apache hunter to complete the task. With a last glance back, Winnetou began to descend towards the plain.
Gaining a stand of cottonwoods he tied his horse out of sight. For some time he studied the configuration of the animals and the siting of cover in order to work out his strategy. His plan was dangerous because it is known of the buffalo that they will gang up upon a common enemy. But the Apache had faith in his stealth and accuracy. He covered his exposed flesh with soil to tone down his smell and moved on foot downwind of the herd carrying his buffalo hide blanket.
Although much of the grass had been trampled by the animals there were patches where growth was still long enough to provide cover. He located a zigzag stretch that would take him, still downwind, into the midst of the group and close to the big bull. He donned the hide, dropped to the ground and slowly, patiently, worked his way through the grass. It was impossible to proceed without being seen at all, so he had to maintain the pretence that he was no threat. Whenever a grazing beast saw him, he would remain still for a while then slowly move away from the creature. In this way, no animal started or moved away quickly, an action which could have alarmed others. On each such occasion the specimen would raise its shaggy head, study him with huge bloodshot eyes then return to its own grazing. Eventually he was as close to his target as he could get without leaving the long grass. The big one was clearly the leader and would not be so easily fooled.
His heart raced. Close, he could see how large it was, a trophy worthy of Roman Nose’s lodge. He knew he would not be able to kill the monster with one shot. The skull would be too thick to pierce at the distance and he would not necessarily get a clear shot at the heart area. He would have to disable the beast progressively. He slid some arrows from their quiver and laid them on the ground for easy access, notching one against his bowstring. He took careful aim then let fly, hitting the beast in the knee so that it grunted in pain and partly dropped forward. He had to immobilize the thing fast and so put another missile into the leg muscle immediately above the wounded knee. Nearby animals were disturbed but, not seeing the attacker, they tended to back away from the scene. Winnetou put another arrow into the knee. Incapable of standing, the monster began bellowing. Its back legs pushed crazily so that the torso began to swivel pivoted on the useless front limb. As it did so it turned towards him presenting its chest. The Apache rose and advanced. The beast repeatedly but ineffectively raised its horns when it saw him. As he closed, the Indian put a succession of arrows into the heart area. The beast slumped forward and stopped threatening with its horns, but refused to die.
The ground shook as the other animals began stampeding but they moved in a wide circle. The leader now presenting no immediate threat, Winnetou turned his back on the creature to face any younger bulls. Several stopped and pawed the ground, looking at him. He kept still, reckoning they wouldn’t charge if they were perplexed. He was right. After a long period they turned one by one and slowly the herd began to move westward. When he was certain they wouldn’t return, he circled the groaning giant, then moved in close from the rear and slit its throat.
He stepped back as the blood cascaded onto the ground. Triumph surged through his body as he stood still for a moment allowing his own heartbeat to subside. He would have to skin the creature and make a travois to transport it back to the lakeside. And he would have to move quickly for he was suddenly aware that he had been a long time from his post.
Chapter Ten
Moses dismounted and looked around. This was the lake to which they’d been directed. They had halted at the sight of a small Indian pony tethered in a stand of trees. Near the water’s edge there were the signs of eating and sleeping. He kicked at the smoldering fire, then walked to where waves gently lapped at the shingle, and looked out across the lake. A prone figure was visible on a raft. ‘Well, there’s our man,’ he said. ‘But Cold-Mist said there was a bodyguard.’ He cast his eyes over the surrounding precipices. ‘Wher
e the hell is he?’
There was no sign of anyone else. ‘There’s only one horse here,’ he said. ‘That means wherever the buck has gone it’s riding distance.’ He mused on the situation. Then, ‘King George, get our horses out of the way. But keep your eyes skinned for that bodyguard. Cossack, you get up on the rocks yonder and send that redskin to the happy hunting grounds like we’re supposed to do. I’ll keep you covered from the other side of the lake, just in case.’
‘Ten dollars you don’t get him with one shot,’ the half-breed said as he gathered the horses’ reins. ‘That way I’ll be ahead.’
‘You’re on,’ Cossack grinned, pulling his long-barreled carbine from its scabbard. ‘You sure got money to waste for a red bastard.’
King George grabbed the big man’s bandana and pulled his face close. ‘Half-red bastard,’ he reminded his companion with what for him was a grin, before pushing him away.
‘Stop assing around, you bozos,’ Moses said, ‘and git moving.’
Cossack loaded his weapon as the half-breed walked the horses towards the trees. While his boss disappeared to the right the big man began to make his way up the rocks on the left, keeping well back to be out of sight of the lake.
King George tethered the horses and lit up a smoke. Then he took out his newly-acquired eyeglass to watch the proceedings.
Shatterhand’s horse snuffling told him there was water ahead. He reined in, dismounted and peered through the trees. There was a lake. He looped his horse’s reins to a branch, drew his Martini-Henry and edged sideways, keeping the water in view but maintaining the cover of the trees. Suddenly his own nostrils twitched and he halted. He could smell acrid tobacco smoke. He scanned the area and discerned a shape through the foliage. Slowly he advanced. It was a half-breed standing by some horses. Three horses. That figured. The man was drawing on a cigarette and occasionally raising a telescope to his eye. It was a magnificent copper telescope. That was one of the gifts he’d been carrying! For sure, this was one of the Dieber who had dry-gulched him.
He had progressed as far as he could on hard ground. Ahead lay dead vegetation. He didn’t want to shoot. There were two others somewhere and it was a good wager the half-breed was using the glass to keep track of his comrades up in the rocks somewhere. Shatterhand drew his razor-sharp Hirschfanger and spun it so he held the blade. He drew back his arm and hurled the blade the necessary fifteen or so feet. It struck the man in the side of the neck. He gurgled and fell, clawing at the haft. Shatterhand leapt from cover, grabbed the knife, pulled it out and plunged it into the man’s heart.
‘Uneheliches Kind,’ he breathed. He never liked killing but he had no qualms about dispatching someone who had tried to kill him for no reason other than theft.
As he wiped the blade on the man’s shirt and returned it to its sheath he surveyed the right-hand rocks, the direction in which the half-breed had been looking with the telescope. He thought he saw some movement but wasn’t sure. He picked up the fallen telescope and focused it. Yes, there was somebody up there. Then he saw something else that was odd. There was some kind of raft in the center of the lake with someone on it. Looked like a redskin, unmoving, either asleep or dead. What the Holle was going on? He pushed the glass into the front of his jacket and loped across the beach to the rocks.
He was part-way to the summit when a rifle crack echoed across the space above the water. He bent down. With the echo it was difficult to locate the source. Crack! There was another one, and this time he saw the perpetrator. There was a man kneeling on the rocks opposite taking pot-shots at the raft. Now closer, he could make out a near-naked Indian on the raft. Although the redman had been hit, the shooter was still throwing lead. Shatterhand proned himself on the rock, aimed the Martini-Henry and fired. His target keeled over.
But Shatterhand didn’t have time to be smug. Shots began chipping rocks into his face. Instinctively he rolled over to render himself less of a target and came to rest in a niche in the rocks. Way above him was the third man pumping lead at him. He drew his own pistol and returned the fire. The man yelped and sagged. Dropping his weapon the assailant staggered for a moment gripping his stomach, then pitched down towards the lake.
Shatterhand looked back at the first shooter. His figure was still on the far side. Shatterhand sheathed his pistol, picked up his Martini-Henry and hurriedly descended to the lakeside. He dropped his hat and ripped off his jacket. Kicking off his moccasins he plunged into the cold water. He was no longer young and it took a long time to get to the raft. Exhausted he hauled himself up on to the craft which, being small, bobbed awash with water under the weight of two.
He had to grip the side as he made his inspection. The Indian was alive, suffering a shoulder wound. He said something in what Shatterhand reckoned to be Cheyenne tongue but the white man was too exhausted by his swim to speak himself. For some time he lay immobile and unspeaking alongside the man. Eventually regaining his breath, Shatterhand looked around the craft. There was a paddle and he used it to propel the craft along a zigzag course to the side. Making the shore, he hauled the raft on to the shingle and fell back to the ground telling himself he was getting too old for some capers and this was one of them.
Roman Nose was lying on a palliasse in his tepee back at the Tongue River camp, his wound having been re-dressed by White Bull, his medicine man, who stood at his side. ‘Bestow upon this white man whatever he wishes within my lodge,’ he said to his acolyte.
‘I do not sell my capability to help someone in trouble,’ Shatterhand said. Roman Nose had long since ceased to be surprised by the white man’s relative fluency in the Cheyenne tongue. ‘And be it known to you, great chief, my coming to your aid would lose its virtue should I exchange it for worldly goods.’
‘You refuse a gratuity?’ White Bull remarked. ‘This is even more extraordinary than a white man coming to the aid of a red man.’
‘I tell you,’ Roman Nose said, ‘that this white eyes, in his independence and generosity of spirit, sets an example to the white man and red man alike.’
‘It is reward enough for me,’ said Shatterhand, folding his arms on his chest, and maintaining an attitude at once respectful and dignified, ‘that so great a chief as Roman Nose should speak thus of his servant.’ He flicked the fingers of one hand to dismiss the topic. ‘To more important things, O chief. There were three men trying to kill you at the lake. Who is it that wants your life?’
‘We are at war. White men chance upon an Indian, they will try to kill him.’
‘That might be so but I do not think that it is the case here. For my part, I did not come upon the scene by chance. Those men had previously attacked me and left me for dead. I had tracked them to the lake.’
‘So they are white scavengers without scruples, attacking anybody for gain.’
‘I beg to differ again, O chief. I read their sign.’ Shatterhand pointed to the ground. ‘Not long before going to the lake they met with many redmen. It is my interpretation that some bargain was struck and the Indians took my three horses for safe keeping while the white no-goods carried out their part of the deal: to kill you. The deployment of the three men at the lake—one holding the horses, two circling the lake from different sides—has all the earmarks of a plan, not a chance discovery.’
Not for the first time, Shatterhand regretted not checking out the bodies of the two men he had shot. In hindsight they might have provided some clue to the reason for their action. But that had been the least of the frontiersman’s concerns at the time. Furthermore, he had been exhausted after his swim and getting Roman Nose to shore, coupled with the prospect of transporting the wounded Indian to the Tongue River camp. It was pointless to voice such regrets.
‘You know of any redmen who would want you dead?’ he continued.
Roman Nose did but declined to open up in front of a white man. ‘You will smoke with me?’ he suggested, changing the topic.
‘It will be an honor, chief,’ Shatterhand said. ‘Then I m
ust beg your permission to retire for the night. I have many summers and am not ashamed to admit that our adventure has tired me.’
The chief nodded.
‘We have further things to discuss when the sun rises,’ the white man said enigmatically.
Roman Nose accepted the statement without question. The man was honorable. Apart from the fact the white man had saved his life, he felt a great respect for him. He was courteous and versed in Indian ways. The Cheyenne chief knew there was much more to this man.
Chapter Eleven
‘I have been sent by Great Star Chief Sherman to talk terms of peace,’ Shatterhand explained to Roman Nose in the morning.
‘This surely is the working of the water spirit,’ the chief said. ‘I made the pilgrimage to the sacred lake to seek the counsel of the water spirit on these matters. He came to me upon the waters saying that the time was ripe to talk of peace with the whites. However, I must tell you that many of the council chiefs do not want to throw away their advantage by such a path. We make victory upon victory and, as you have seen outside this lodge with your own eyes, there is the greatest coming-together of the redmen. These chiefs say that we should not make peace but hold our lands.’
‘I have been detailed to ask you what the over-chiefs want.’
‘And what are the whites’ conditions?’
‘There are no conditions at this stage of the negotiations. Sherman wishes to begin talks afresh and in this I believe he has a good heart. He wishes not to antagonize you by talking of whites’ wants. He would rather the council of chiefs say what they want and then he wishes to meet with them. I think you will find him generous in his terms.’
‘These words sound good,’ Roman Nose said. Then he chuckled. ‘You put me at a disadvantage. I share your desire for talks. But the other chiefs will say it is because you have saved my life and I feel some obligation to you.’
