by BJ Holmes
‘The heart of the Apache Winnetou is full of shame and remorse at his action in deserting his post at the sacred lake,’ Winnetou began. ‘He wishes to redeem himself in the eyes of Chief Roman Nose by identifying the culprits of the deed.’
‘Proceed.’
Winnetou repeated the details of the three whites being paid by Cold-Mist.
‘Roman Nose gets impatient,’ the chief said. ‘He has heard this story before and it is unsubstantiated.’
‘But I have brought evidence,’ the Apache said. ‘I have captured one of the would-be assassins. His name is Cossack and he is, in turn, wanted by the white men. He will confess before you.’
‘That will not be evidence for the council,’ Roman Nose said. ‘You could be forcing the man to lie.’
Winnetou thought. ‘Can this humble Apache ask a question?’
Roman Nose nodded.
‘Is Chief Cold-Mist present on the Tongue River?’
‘He is.’
‘Then let this man pick out Cold-Mist from all the redmen. If he can do so, would not that constitute evidence?’
Roman Nose looked at Red Cloud. The latter nodded. ‘Your Apache has already shown that he is prepared to risk much to make his point by re-entering our camp. He has also proved himself skilful in overpowering and bringing in unharmed one of our sentries. He deserves a chance.’
Roman Nose turned again. ‘Our chiefs are parading in a celebration of strength with their braves at noon. Let the white man point his finger then. If he picks out the chief of the Chis-Chis-Chash, then let the Apache make his charge before the whole assembly.’
The outcome of such a step was unpredictable; it could mean instant death were any of the Chis-Chis-Chash to take it immediately upon themselves to defend their chiefs name. But it was the only option offered.
‘Winnetou will make the charge in that manner,’ the Apache said, ‘if such is the chiefs’ wish.’
Roman Nose clapped his hands. ‘So be it. The matter is settled.’ A brave entered in response to his summons.
‘Guard our visitors well,’ the Cheyenne chief ordered. ‘And keep the Apache and the white man separate.’
Some distance from the main camp Roman Nose stood on the summit of a small mound surrounded by the braves of the various tribes arrayed behind their chiefs or lieutenants. At his side, a large feathered lance, his symbol of command, was rammed into the soil. Red Cloud approached at the head of his splendidly regaled Oglala Sioux, dismounted and began to ascend the hill on foot, accompanied by his aide with the Sioux chiefs own ceremonial lance. Anticipating the motion of Red Cloud, Roman Nose descended so that they met half-way and blended their greeting so gracefully that it appeared they met in fraternal equality. The sight of the two greatest chiefs in rank and power thus publicly avowing their concord, called forth bursts of thundering acclaim from the warrior host for a mile’s distance.
Red Cloud’s aide thrust his chiefs decorated lance into the ground alongside that of Roman Nose and, after the two chiefs had gained the summit to stand side by side, the Cheyenne chief beckoned to the small groups still at the foot. The officers of the two chiefs and their medicine men together with Shatterhand and Winnetou began to make their way up the slope.
Then Roman Nose called for a further group to ascend. This consisted of a couple of Cheyenne braves leading the bound Cossack. At the summit the renegade was reminded of his task: to see if he could identify the Indian who had offered him money to murder the Cheyenne chief. It had been made plain that if he did so he would not be punished for the deed.
Finally, Roman Nose gave the signal for the celebration to begin and the assembled braves began to sweep in long order around the base. First came the Crooked Lances headed by Roman Nose’s lieutenant, Two Moose. Then Old-Man-Afraid-of-his-Horses, Red Cloud’s chief lieutenant, leading the Sioux. As those of each different tribe passed by, their commanders, advanced a step or two up the hill, and made a signal of courtesy to the two over-chiefs. At the same time the individual medicine men bestowed on the joint heads and their symbols of command their blessing before the spirits.
Thus the long files strode or rode on, appearing as one mighty force. The braves on horseback, inspired by the consciousness of united strength, sat erect while their steeds, refreshed by rest and provender, chafed at their rope bits and trod the ground more proudly. On they passed, tribe after tribe, spears stabbing the air, feathers dancing, in long perspective—a host composed of different clans, complexions, languages, arms and appearances, but all fired, for the time, with the honorable purpose of defending the redman’s land and redeeming the sacred earth, which more than mortal had trodden, from the yoke of the invading white man.
‘What thinks Shoh-tah-hay of the spectacle?’ Red Cloud said, leaning across to the frontiersman.
‘A magnificent scene,’ Shatterhand said in Sioux, adding diplomatically, ‘in which the brave does willing homage to the bravest.’
Red Cloud bowed in recognition of the compliment and turned again to the throng. The two chiefs perused each rank as it passed them and returned the salutation of the faction leaders.
All went well for a spell but the first signs of indifference came from Spotted Tail of the Brule Sioux. His heavy features evinced a sullenness as he advanced up the hill. Known for his arguments that The People should be disbanded, the reluctant dignitary made the required obeisance and returned to his men.
Headed by Tall Bull the Cheyenne Dog Soldiers were the next to pass. To make the greater display of his forces, Tall Bull had divided his warriors into two bodies. Mounted on carefully selected horses the Dog Soldiers were of great use in skirmishing with the Bluecoats though less effective in close combat.
Before the Chis-Chis-Chash rode Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain, a magnificent head-dress of eagle plumes raking the sky. The noble steed which he reined bounded and caracoled and displayed his spirit and agility in a manner which might have troubled a less admirable horseman than the chief, who gracefully ruled him with one hand while the other displayed his ceremonial lance.
Like all the other chiefs he dismounted at the foot of the hill, his braves continuing onwards to find their place of rest. When the magnificent parade was at an end Roman Nose raised his hands. ‘We see gathered here today the braves of many nations. Together they form The People, the mightiest alliance ever to face the white man. However, hear this, my brothers, our unity is but as a chain, as strong as its weakest link. It is rumored upon the breeze that moves the leaves that there is dissension amongst us. Dissension will eat at our strength as does rot reduce the strongest tree to a useless shell. It is time to see whether these voicings are less than the gabble of squaws.’
He spoke quietly to White Bull who moved down to where Cossack was being held. There was an exchange and the white man pointed towards the Chis-Chis-Chash chief. White Bull returned to his chief. ‘Without direction,’ he said in a low voice, ‘the white has picked out Cold-Mist as being the one who paid him and his comrades money to assassinate Roman Nose at the sacred lake.’
The face of Roman Nose was stern as he pointed to Winnetou. ‘This Apache,’ he announced in a voice once more at a volume that could be heard by all, ‘who was lately sent amongst us but shamed his tribe by his action, could have subsequently hidden his dishonor in the camp of the Bluecoats. That he chose to return is testament to some bravery. For that reason I allow him to speak, for he has a charge to make.’ He motioned to the young brave. ‘Speak your piece.’
‘Winnetou calls for Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain to stand forward for a false traitor to The People and impeaches him for treason.’
As Cold-Mist started at the accusation, the nearest Chis-Chis-Chash dropped from their steeds and crowded towards the Apache with raised weapons.
Cold-Mist stayed their threats with raised hand.
‘What means this? With what am I charged? Is this the league of concord of which Roman Nose and Red Cloud claim to be proud?’
‘It i
s naught but the stratagem of the Bluecoats,’ Cold-Mist’s lieutenant shouted. ‘It is well to hang up the Apache dog now and finish the punishment to which he was formerly condemned.’
‘Let no brother lay hand upon him,’ Roman Nose said, ‘until he has concluded his claim. Cold-Mist, stand forth and deny the accusation which this warrior of the South Lands has brought against him.’
‘I had no involvement in the attempt on the life of the noble Roman Nose,’ Cold-Mist said hastily.
A hush descended upon the multitude. ‘The words of Cold-Mist betray him,’ Roman Nose declared, ‘for how did he know, save from guilt, that the charge is concerning my would-be assassins?’
‘Has Roman Nose not kept the camp of The People in turmoil on that and no other score?’ answered the Chis-Chis-Chash chief. ‘Does he impute to a chief and an ally a crime which was committed by paltry white adventurers?’
Red Cloud moved forward to interpose. ‘Fellow chiefs, you speak loudly in the presence of those whose war-axes will be soon descending upon the skulls of each other, if they should hear their leaders at such terms together. In the name of the Great Spirit, let us withdraw to our separate quarters and ourselves meet an hour hence at the council circle to take some order in this state of confusion.’
Winnetou was duly informed of the results of their deliberations. He was to face Cold-Mist on the morrow in trial by combat. Young and energetic as he was he didn’t face the prospect with optimism. The Chis-Chis-Chash chief had been an imposing spectacle at the celebrations that day. Winnetou had seen him for what he was: an experienced, magnificent warrior. Still, he only had himself to blame. If he had picked a good vantage point at the lakeside and maintained his vigil over Roman Nose without leaving his post, no matter what the reason, he could have thwarted the attack upon Roman Nose. Then he would have been feted by the Cheyenne chief, instead of sitting miserably in a dark lodge in a strange land waiting for the dawn and what it would bring.
Chapter Nineteen
It was decided in accordance with custom that only the chiefs would be witnesses to the judicial combat. It had also been agreed that it should take place one hour after sun-up. At the due time the party assembled and then made a short journey from the camp. Eventually they came upon a shrubbed plateau formed by the horn of the river flowing south, a natural gladiatorial arena overlooked by a towering promontory to the rear.
The chiefs and their attendants together with Shatterhand dismounted and formed a circle while medicine men erected a temporary totem. To this symbol the challenger and defender were successively brought forward. In turn each combatant avouched the justice of his cause by a solemn oath to the Great Spirit, and prayed that his success might be according to the truth of falsehood of what he then swore. They also made oath that they came to do battle in warrior guise and with honorable weapons, disclaiming the use of magical devices to incline victory to their side.
After each had presented his war-axe and knife to the totem’s invisible arbiter, White Bull indicated for the two men to move to either side of the circle. When they were in the required position, he raised his medicine stick, proclaiming, ‘Here stands Winnetou of the Mescalero Apache who accuses Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain of the Chis-Chis-Chash of foul treason to Roman Nose and dishonor to the gathering known as The People.’
Shatterhand watched as, the ceremony over, the two men faced each other in time-honored fashion, each hefting his war-axe as if to ascertain the weight and toughness of the weapon. Not for the first time it occurred to him that the ways of the red and white were not all that different. The truth of charges being ascertained through trial by combat was, he mused, a practice common both to present Indian ways and to a-not-long-past European tradition.
As the two men squared up to each other, Shatterhand noted with concern that the Chis-Chis-Chash chief was doubly advantaged. He had a height of six feet and body to match whilst his opponent had the shortness characteristic of his tribe. Moreover, the watching frontiersman reckoned that Cold-Mist was in his prime, that single point in life where physical development combines with experience to render a man the most formidable he will ever be. While he did not doubt that the young Apache was a fully initiated warrior and had counted coup, nevertheless it was plain he was still by far the younger with no more than eighteen summers. The younger in many ways.
Apprehensive of the outcome, Shatterhand cast a glance around the gathered throng. To their rear a handful of horse handlers. Up front, each chief and his lieutenant, except in the case of the Chis-Chis-Chash who, as the tribe of the accused, were represented by three officers. Then it occurred to Shatterhand there was no River-Run. That caused him to think. Why was Cold-Mist’s second-in-command not present? The frontiersman’s eyes scanned the gathering then moved from the figures to scrutinize the surrounding terrain, along the river, along their back-trail. Then the short hairs on the back of his neck rose as, way up on the promontory, he caught sight of a figure occasionally bobbing into and out of view. There was someone up there; someone who was loath to be seen. Could it have been just some nosy Indian? No, they would know better than to risk the fury of the chiefs by breaking etiquette.
The old-timer moved across to where Roman Nose and Red Cloud were standing. ‘Beware the Chis-Chis-Chash do not break the code of combat,’ he said, speaking twice in both their tongues and pointing to the three warriors behind Cold-Mist.
‘Does the white eyes speak thus in an attempt to stir up more bad feelings between the redmen?’ Red Cloud asked.
‘No, chief,’ Shatterhand replied. ‘But the wise Red Cloud might note the absence of Cold-Mist’s first lieutenant.’ He pointed to the promontory. ‘I think I saw him making his way up the rocks yonder. With the chiefs’ permission I will investigate.’
Roman Nose and Red Cloud looked at each other, then nodded their approval.
Shatterhand looked at Winnetou standing erect, proud, and hoped it would not be the last time he would see him thus. Then, keeping his eyes on the summit lest he be seen, he loped towards the foot of the escarpment. At places it was easy to ascend, at others difficult. Slowly but determinedly he worked his way upward.
Down below, the two combatants took a grip of their weapons: a knife and war-axe in each hand. Roman Nose raised his hand high and called their attention. Then his hand fell and the pair began to circle each other. It went that way for several minutes. It was Winnetou who broke the spell. He charged bombastically, axe raised and knife slashing, but his attack embodied more bravado than skill and his challenge was easily parried. They resumed circling at a distance. There was a pause. The Apache attacked again, once more was foiled and retreated but this time with surface skin missing from his arm. For the onlookers the confrontation was quickly developing a pattern of which the greenhorn brave was unaware: he acting impulsively while the experienced one limited his own action merely to countering so that he could watch, appraise, size up his opponent.
Now concerned with his own task, Shatterhand slowly scaled the harsh edifice. He was almost at the top when, glancing upwards to get his bearings and find a way of working around to the back of the summit, he saw a thin dark shape emerge from the edge of the topmost rocky plateau. It could only be a rifle barrel. Himmel! he didn’t have time to work his way around if the man was preparing to fire. Beneath the rifleman’s vantage point the rock was stepped and Shatterhand changed direction, to make his way along the edge.
Was the man aiming to kill Winnetou? Or stop Cold-Mist from talking? Either way, using a rifle would cast suspicions upon the whites. Anyway, it didn’t matter which was the target. The immediate objective had to be to stop him.
Whoever it was, the man was confident in being unseen as the barrel didn’t move as Shatterhand approached. The sniper was taking his time in setting up his aim. Attaining proximity, Shatterhand reached up and grabbed the end of the protruding barrel. He yanked hard and, the holder being unprepared for such an eventuality, the rifle came away easily.
Shatterhand swung back his arm to hurl the weapon away but before he could complete the action, the would-be assassin had leapt down before him. It was River-Run, with hate glowing in his eyes, and an ugly-looking hunting knife promptly in his hand. The blade lunged forward and Shatterhand’s joints creaked as he took defensive action swinging the rifle he still held. It was ironic. Far below, his companion was fighting for his life, disadvantaged by youth. At the higher elevation, the frontiersman was in combat disadvantaged by the effects of age.
River-Run lunged and slashed while Shatterhand managed to keep clear -just. Mein Gott, how many times of late had he told himself he was ready for the old rocking chair? However, the idea was academic at the moment—with a virile brave aiming to slice the life blood out of him. It might be ancient blood but it was all he’d got.
Below, Winnetou was just surviving the first determined attack by Cold-Mist. He avoided the blade of his opponent’s war-axe but in the back swing the haft crunched against his cheekbone. He staggered back, lost his balance and fell. Instinctively on impact with the ground he rolled and continued to roll, a follow-through movement which saved his life as Cold-Mist’s axe successively chopped at the ground, each time the blade striking the earth where the Apache had been a split-second before. The older man leapt upon the younger, axe hand raised. Winnetou’s sinewy hand darted out and clamped on the other’s wrist, checking its downward sweep.
Temporarily oblivious to his friend’s welfare, Shatterhand was thankful he hadn’t dispensed with the rifle. Swinging it by the barrel he was keeping River-Run at bay by swinging the weapon repeatedly in whooshing arcs. Suddenly the redman got through and slashed Shatterhand across the front of his chest, slicing through the buckskin. The frontiersman managed to catch the wrist on its return. For a moment they grappled before falling locked together to the rocky ground. The older man didn’t have what it took for a simple trial of strength. He kneed the Indian in the groin and rolled free. But before he could rise River-Run lunged again from a standing position. Again up came Shatterhand’s knee. More by luck than skill, it caught the Indian and carried him forward. Unable to arrest his own impetus, River-Run continued forward, then toppled over the edge of the plateau. A second later Shatterhand heard a crunch and the gasp of escaping breath. He rolled again and looked down. River-Run was immobile, his back bent abnormally across a rock, some dozen feet below.
