A Legend Called Shatterhand

by B. J. Holmes

  ‘Howdy,’ the soldier said, reining in. He wore a regular issue fur-lined winter overcoat. His striped pants and knee-boots were spattered with mud. His mess-gear and other possessions were stowed behind his cavalry McClellan saddle.

  ‘Greetings,’ Shatterhand replied, coming to a standstill. There was a formality and stiffness about the word. It was the same with all the speech of the man some European immigrants called Der Jager. Not only had his mother tongue been German but it was High German and the formality of the form had carried over to his use of English. Not for him the casualness of a ‘Howdy, pardner.’ He pointed beyond the mounted trooper. ‘Is that the train, heading for Great Falls?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Have any of the search-parties located you?’

  ‘No, sir. There are search-parties out for us?’

  ‘Yes. Army details out of Fort Shaw are scattered to all points of the compass in search for you.’

  The trooper rubbed his bristly chin. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. What has been the delay?’

  ‘Every mishap possible: broken wheels, you name it, we’ve had it. The big wagons mainly. Ain’t suited to this kinda country.’

  ‘Well, broken wheels may not be the end of the story. There seems to be some trouble brewing. Indians and white renegades. You seen anybody?’

  ‘Ain’t seen nobody at all. In fact I reckon this sure as heck must be the durndest, loneliest place in the world.’

  ‘Well, the sooner you get those people to a settlement the better, soldier. How are things now with the mobility of the train?’

  ‘They’re okay. We’ve made repairs.’ The soldier looked back. ‘As you can probably see from here, we’re getting ready to roll again.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘No, sir. We got everything in hand.’

  ‘Fine — but I must give you a warning: the trail does not improve. Let us hope your repairs are solid. Well, as I have said, there are quite a few search parties out. If you are okay I will return and notify the army that you are now on your way.

  ‘You do that, mister. Much obliged.’ The soldier saluted. Shatterhand touched his own hat instinctively and pulled away.

  Half an hour later Der Jager was approaching the rendezvous point that he’d agreed with the Indian when he ran into five riders. Clad in buffalo skins, the broad-brimmed hats and blue pants visible above their knee-boots were about the only things that marked them out as soldiers. Preliminary introductions were effected from the saddle and the leader of the troop, who initially kept his hand near the black leather holster containing his butt-forward revolver at sight of the roughly-garbed foreigner, transpired to be Captain Stanton leading the main search party from Fort Shaw. Shatterhand explained his task to the officer. ‘I had words with your Sergeant McGinty back at the army detachment at Great Falls.’

  ‘McGinty, yes,’ the captain said. ‘I left a token number of troopers at the settlement.’ The officer had square, even features with the straight-backed, stately figure that seemed to belong in a uniform. He was clearly relieved when Shatterhand told him he’d located the wagon train. The captain dismounted to rest his horse and indicated for the unit to do the same. The way he stretched his limbs it was obvious the unit had been some time in the saddle. His erect carriage made him seem taller than he actually was. ‘So they’re okay?’ he said, his tone indicating his search for hard confirmation.

  Shatterhand leaned heavily on his hands, clenching his saddle horn. ‘How long have soldiers been saluting with their left hand?’

  The captain looked quizzical. ‘Never.’

  ‘Then things are not okay with the wagon-train,’ Shatterhand said grimly.

  Chapter Five

  ‘The so-called soldier who spoke to me,’ Shatterhand continued, ‘saluted with his left hand as we parted. And the choice was not because there was something wrong with his right for I noted in the right hand he held his reins quite competently.’

  ‘That is very perceptive, sir,’ the captain rejoined. ‘And a source of concern. We must ...’ He was continuing when army rifles clicked behind him and he whirled round to see a mounted Piegan Indian appear from the trees. Unperturbed by the raised gun barrels the redskin advanced towards the party. ‘Put your guns away,’ Shatterhand barked. ‘He is friendly. That brave is Lone Eagle and he is my companion.’ He waved to the approaching Indian and in dialect asked, ‘Did you see anything, friend?’

  ‘Lone Eagle cut sign of many horse to the north,’ the Indian said in his own language as he reined in. ‘Many, many horse which Lone Eagle does not think is a wild herd. I was following the tracks when guns were heard to speak. For that reason I back-trailed without investigating further — in case you were in trouble and needed assistance.’

  ‘I also heard the guns,’ Shatterhand said, ‘but as yet do not know what they mean.’

  ‘What’s he say?’ Stanton asked.

  Shatterhand translated the conversation.

  ‘Yeah,’ the captain said. ‘We heard gunfire too. You think there’s any connection with the wagon-train, Shatterhand?’

  ‘I hope not — but I fear so.’

  ‘Then we’d best get to the wagon train as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Have caution, Captain,’ the frontiersman said, raising a staying hand. ‘If there is something amiss with that party and some rogues have taken it over — they could use the civilians as hostages. We shall go back to them certainly — but we must circle widely round, not ride into the face of them.’

  ‘I’m in your hands,’ Stanton said. ‘You’re the one that’s located them. Which way should we go?’

  Shatterhand pointed to the trees not far from the point at which Lone Eagle had emerged. ‘If we head north and then curve south we should find ourselves overlooking the coulee at some point.’

  Stanton gave the order to mount up, then made the forward sign with a sweep of his hand. They moved in a column up the grade and into the woods. Their progress was at a walking pace under trees whose spreading branches hung over the line of riders to block out much of the sky.

  Shatterhand led the column. There had been gunfire — not the sound of guns fired as in hunting but a rapid succession of shots — and for that reason his eyes took in every tree, every bush that could provide a hiding-place. He was well aware that any of them, no matter how insignificant, could spell a potential trap. It was in this manner that he regarded the path ahead, not only the places for hiding, but the small twigs on the ground, the stalks of ferns — searching for sign of recent disturbance. Shatterhand was an old-timer who had outlived most of his contemporaries because he had never forgotten such small things.

  Captain Stanton followed him closely, guiding his horse with competence and military precision. Time and time again his gaze would return to the rider ahead of him and there was an admiration in the look for he had heard of the frontiersman’s name even before he’d known what a parade ground was. Yet he wondered how much longer men like him would last. Shatterhand had the appearance of not belonging in the present — a vague, unsettled, uncertain look. God knew what his age was. He was out-living history itself.

  Behind Stanton came Lone Eagle, his warrior blood coursing through his veins. His eyes, although constantly checking the environs as did the trapper’s, glinted with the hint of unsatisfied revenge.

  The remaining troopers were headed by Corporal Dobie. He was a plump man in his forties with a reddened complexion that never took a tan. His rank, from which he hadn’t been promoted in a dozen years, was only one up from the privates to his rear — but, feller, did he make them aware of it. The older ones could handle him but, even in the depths of a Montana winter, he could make the sweat pour off rookies on the parade ground. And he enjoyed doing so; which was one of the reasons he remained a corporal. A man needed more than rank to motivate those under him. As his horse ambled along, Dobie whistled softly, almost noiselessly, without trying to follow a tune, to reassure himself, occ
asionally glancing back as though he was in charge of schoolboys and had to check there were no absconders.

  Except for the creak of saddle-harnesses and the crunch of hooves on pine needles there was little noise as the column proceeded.

  It was thus for some time — until Shatterhand silently raised a hand, indicating halt. He dropped to the ground and hitched his steed to a bush in one flowing movement. Stanton waved back to stop the rest of the column and joined him to investigate the object of his attention. ‘Christ,’ the army man breathed when he saw the bodies. There were three men, stripped naked, lying in pitiful postures in a clearing, gaping bullet-holes in their skulls.

  ‘That is what the gunfire was all about,’ Shatterhand said grimly. ‘And it is my guess they were from the train. Probably escort soldiers. You recognize these men?’

  Stanton shook his head. ‘If they are soldiers they’d be a detachment from a regiment stationed at Carrol. Not ours. Who’d you think did this? Indians?’

  ‘No,’ Der Jager said, kneeling and inspecting the wounds. There was tenderness in his touch even though the men were patently dead. ‘Redmen would not waste bullets. This atrocity was committed by the white renegades who I reckon have attacked your settlers.’ At that point Lone Eagle joined them and contemplated the obscenity for a moment. Then Shatterhand said something to him in Piegan. They exchanged a few words and the brave returned to his horse. He unhitched it and led it away from the column to head northwards alone up the slopes between the firs.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Stanton asked.

  ‘He calculates we are close now to the spot where he cut sign of those horses he mentioned. There is likely to be a connection between the two events. Only he knows how to locate them quickly so I have requested that he investigates.’

  ‘I didn’t like the look on his face,’ Stanton observed.

  ‘The Piegan has his own score to settle. White renegades have killed some of his folks. That is the cause of our riding together. He thinks there might be a link-up with that circumstance too. You see, the whites attacked his people during a horse-raid. However, I have told him if they are the coyotes he’s after it will be foolhardy to take any action alone and that he is to report back to me. I think he trusts me enough to act as I say.’

  Stanton looked back at the bodies. ‘I’ll set a detail on burying them.’

  ‘No. That is a luxury that must wait until later. The situation is worsening and we have not the time for niceties.’ The frontiersman scanned the terrain, then looked down the slopes. The trees made it difficult to make out exact geography. ‘I figure the coulee is not far down there. Let us go down and relocate those wagons. But we move slowly and with caution.’

  Stanton nodded and waved his men to follow as Shatterhand proceeded to descend on foot, trailing his horse by the reins. Minutes later they cleared a stand of trees. As they made headway down the slopes the relative silence was broken by the whop-whop sound of startled pheasant rising up from the ferns, grabbing for the air with frantic wings. Out in front Shatterhand could see the land falling away and he was the first to see the small escarpment that marked the edge of the coulee. At the rim the land tumbled sharply, then gradually leveled out to form the base of the coulee. Likewise, as he proceeded further, he was the first to see the wagons, now moving steadily westward at some distance below them. ‘There’s your lost wagon-train, captain!’

  Chapter Six

  It was not long before wagon-drivers caught sight of the advancing soldiers. The wagon train picked up speed as reins were flicked and settlers yelled at their draught animals.

  ‘Ain’t too pleased to see us, are they?’ Stanton said and surveyed the escarpment for the safest avenue for descent.

  ‘Remember the varmints took army uniforms,’ Shatterhand reminded him. ‘The folk will be justified in being suspicious of anyone in blue.’ He pointed to a drop which gave a means of descent less steep than elsewhere and moved towards it. The column stumbled down the scree and were soon mounted up and in pursuit of the train. Such was the relationship between man and beast that Shatterhand’s moccasined feet were as effective as army spurs and he maintained his lead at the head of the column as they hurtled across the flat.

  He quickly drew alongside the end wagons but there was no point in trying to stop them piecemeal. He pressed on until he drew level with the lead horses of the first team. He leant over and grabbed the bridle of the lead horse. ‘Whoa!’ he repeated in a voice which was firm but not threatening so as not to frighten the brutes already close to panic. With its head being wrenched to the right, the lead horse had to slacken pace and the first wagon slowed. The succeeding wagons followed suit rather than pull out of the file. He let go the harness and turned in the saddle to wave his freed hand in an indication for a general halt.

  ‘What do you want?’ the man with the reins in the lead wagon asked as he quieted his team. He was a lean, lanky man and although he was barely fifty the skin of his face was wizened — like dried-out Arizona mud flats.

  ‘We have come to help,’ Shatterhand replied. ‘Who is the head man?’

  ‘Folks have picked me as their wagon-master. Name’s Newby. Tom Newby.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Newby, have no fear. These soldiers are an escort detail from Great Falls.’

  It was clear the settlers were afraid. It was also clear they had no weapons with which to provide resistance. Shatterhand turned his horse and began to backtrack slowly along the train explaining who they were.

  Further down, Stanton had drawn level with the stagecoach. As the most distinctive of the conveyances he guessed it was the most likely to contain the officials. ‘Commissioner Draper?’ he asked, fighting to control his horse which stomped and snorted restlessly following the exhilaration of the chase.

  The dusty but well-attired man holding the reins was poker-faced. He was about ten years older than the captain. ‘What do you want?’

  Stanton looked beyond and below him to the interior of the carriage and could see a woman and another man in the darkness. He ignored the driver and repeated his enquiry. ‘Commissioner Draper?’

  ‘Listen,’ the driver said firmly, ‘what’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘No reason to stall, sir,’ Stanton said. ‘We are bona fide soldiers from Fort Shaw out to locate you. I am Captain Stanton of the Second Cavalry. If that is the commissioner in there, he will recognize me.’

  A face emerged into the sunlight from the back of the buggy. It was the face of a man in his fifties, with heavy lids covering the eyes, which could make it difficult to see what he was thinking. An asset for a politician. But the lids were raised enough now to reveal his present demeanor.

  ‘God, you have taken your time, Stanton!’ The voice had the clear-cut tone of an easterner, pompous-sounding to a westerner.

  ‘Good-day, Commissioner,’ the captain said. ‘I am pleased to see you are well. And Mrs. Draper?’

  The woman leaned forward into the sunlight. ‘I am well too, Captain.’

  ‘But no thanks to you!’ Commissioner Draper snapped.

  As Mrs. Draper leaned further forward it could be seen that she held a bloodstained handkerchief.

  ‘But, madam,’ Stanton said, pointing at the item. ‘What ...?’

  ‘I am tending our driver, Captain,’ she explained. ‘He sustained a bullet-wound in an attack.’

  ‘And what is his condition, madam?’

  ‘The injury requires proper cleaning but it is minor. The flow of blood was easily staunched and the wound will be all right until we get to some facilities.’

  The commissioner’s heavy eyelids rose as he noted Shatterhand riding up to join them.

  ‘And who’s this?’

  ‘The trapper they call Shatterhand, sir,’ Stanton explained. ‘He’s riding with us.’

  Shatterhand touched his hat when he reined in. ‘Madam,’ he said courteously, as settlers who had disembarked from their wagons began to form an audience.

  ‘What
happened then, sir?’ Stanton asked.

  ‘Got jumped by a wild bunch of plug-uglies,’ the commissioner said, confirming Shatterhand’s suspicions. ‘We were taken unawares and our escort did not have a chance to make much defense. There was an exchange of fire and some men were killed including an army man. The renegades relieved us all of our weapons and were having a good time terrorizing the women and helping themselves to our valuables. Just before you came they had taken the remaining three members of our escort up yonder.’ He pointed back and in a direction generally north of the coulee. ‘We heard shots and we fear they were killed.’

  ‘Your fears were justified, sir. We found some bodies.’

  Mrs. Draper raised her hand to her mouth on hearing the news.

  ‘How many renegades were there, sir?’ Stanton went on.

  The commissioner paused for a moment. ‘It is difficult to say with any precision. There were probably no more than eight with us at any one time. It seems they must have been operating from some camp to the north of the coulee for there was some to-ing and fro-ing. Altogether there were probably about ten, maybe a dozen.’ He looked at his driver. ‘What would you say, John?’

  The younger man sitting on the stage’s drive-seat looked a little the worse for wear and was massaging the back of his neck. He nodded. ‘Yes, Jim, I make it twelve or thereabouts.’

  The captain was taken aback by the driver’s familiarity with the commissioner. ‘And you are ...?’ he asked curtly.

  The man stopped his massage, shifted across the box-seat and put out his hand. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t introduce myself. Assistant Commissioner Fred Halley.’ He grunted in a matter-of-fact acceptance. ‘Driving stagecoaches is not normally one of the duties of the position. But circumstances are exceptional.’

  The captain touched his hat. ‘Mr. Halley.’ Then of the growing throng he asked loudly, ‘Anyone got a good description of any of them?’

  ‘The most distinctive thing I remember,’ Mrs. Draper said, ‘was an ugly man with a black patch over his eye. He seemed to be their leader.’