A Legend Called Shatterhand

by B. J. Holmes

  ‘If it is who I think it is,’ Shatterhand put in, ‘it is more than talk.’ He nodded at Lone Eagle. ‘This brave is a Piegan. His village was raided by horse rustlers and some of his tribe have been killed.’

  ‘That’s what I mean.’ Lackman said. ‘The way they’re carrying on they’re gonna stir up some mean trouble for everybody. That makes it an army matter. So the point is: we gotta do some co-operating, federal authorities and the army.’

  ‘It’s already an army matter,’ Stanton said. They’ve killed some soldiers.’

  Lackman absorbed the news of the new development, nodding his head without changing his expression. Like the news came as no surprise. ‘So what’s the army doing?’

  ‘Huh,’ Stanton grunted cynically. ‘We ain’t got the troopers to do much. Not yet, anyways. But word is circulating. We’re pulling in as many men as we can from posts around the territory. I figure by the time I’ve got this train to Fort Shaw we’ll be in a position to mount a large enough force to pursue them up to Canada. We should be able to catch them. Troopers will be able to travel faster than a gang hauling a big herd.’

  He cast a glance back. The commissioner had left his coach and, with his deputy in tow, was stomping up the trail. He had narrow, rounded shoulders and his arms hung forward stiffly without swinging as he walked.

  ‘This is Mr. Draper,’ the captain said by way of explanation. ‘The new commissioner for Montana territory.’

  ‘Commissioner,’ Lackman said, deferentially touching his hat as the politician got close.

  Draper ignored the greeting. ‘What’s the hold-up, captain?’

  Stanton introduced Lackman and explained his mission. Draper appraised the lawman and his posse while the army man spoke. He nodded at the finish and looked at Lackman. ‘And how long have you been on the trail of this gang?’

  ‘Four weeks, sir.’

  ‘Have you got any Wanted posters we could see?’ Stanton asked.

  Shatterhand swung back his leg and dropped from his horse. The wind was cold coming down from the mountain slopes and he thrust his hands into the pockets of his buckskin jacket as he listened to the exchange.

  ‘Nope,’ Lackman said. ‘But you couldn’t mistake the rattlesnake who leads ’em.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Shatterhand asked.

  Lackman grunted. ‘Booker is a real mean looking bastard with only eye. Wears a big black patch over the dead one. You know, like a pirate!’

  Shatterhand covered one eye and looked at Lone Eagle with the other to give him the gist of the conversation. ‘That’s the ornery coyote who attacked the Piegans.’

  ‘That’s him all right,’ Draper said. ‘He and his sons of bitches attacked this very train.’

  ‘Yes. The captain here was saying how you’d been bushwhacked. It’s the same gang we’re after, all right.’

  Draper shook his head. ‘Killed the army escort.’ He reflected a moment. ‘Still, it could have been a hell of a lot worse. The wagon-train which preceded ours to Great Falls and thence to Fort Shaw was carrying several hundred thousand dollars in back pay for the Second Cavalry.’

  The gratuitous information seemed to be lost on Lackman. He had the look of a man single-minded with regard to his mission. ‘Begging your pardon, commissioner, I ain’t got no time for might-be’s and stuff.’ He looked skyward. ‘We gotta keep moving. Where exactly was your run-in with the Booker gang?’

  Draper shrugged and looked at Stanton for assistance.

  ‘Across the river and within sight of Highwood Peak,’ Shatterhand put in.

  ‘Well, we ain’t a-gonna waste time doubling back east,’ Lackman said, looking at the country on the far side of the trail. ‘If they’re taking a north-west bearing we should be able to head ’em off by keeping direct north.’

  ‘That’s so,’ Stanton agreed. ‘But you’re six against thirteen. If you continue with us to Bozeman you can join the force that we’ll be putting together.’

  ‘We been after these buzzards a long time, captain. But one more day could mean we miss ’em. And as for the odds, I reckon they’re in our favor!’ He looked back with pride at his posse. ‘My men are seasoned lawmen.’ He hauled himself back into the saddle and then winked at Stanton. ‘By the time you blue boys get up the border the job’ll be done.’

  ‘I think you’re underestimating the situation, marshal,’ Shatterhand said. ‘I am sure your men are very capable but they are tired and your horses are near collapse. There is nothing but rough country and wilderness the way you’re heading. I suggest there is virtue in your accompanying us to Fort Shaw and the captain suggests you can get fresh horses and your efforts to apprehend these criminals can be coordinated with those of the army. That will make the overall operation that more effective.’

  ‘I sure would be obliged if you would listen to the trapper,’ Stanton said. He pointed to the terrain to the north. It was boulder-strewn and the up-grade severe in parts. ‘I don’t think you’ll get much further that way.’

  Lackman was leaning heavily on his saddle horn. He grunted in final acceptance of the facts. ‘Yeah. I reckon there’s sense in what you say.’ He looked back at his men. ‘Fall in with the train.’ He touched his hat to the politician before pulling his horse to one side to allow the train to pass. ‘A pleasure meeting you, commissioner.’

  Shatterhand walked alongside the commissioner as he returned to his buggy. ‘If you do not mind me saying, sir,’ he said softly when they were out of earshot of the visitors, ‘I think is unwise to mention the army payroll to strangers.’

  ‘Goddamit, man,’ Draper snapped. ‘Those are lawmen.’

  ‘I know, sir, but as far as I know the money has not yet been broken up and divided. The fewer who know about a prize of that size the better.’

  The commissioner snorted and stomped down the trail.

  Chapter Eight

  In the coolness of evening with the autumn colors just beginning to glow they reached their destination. Established where a spectacular valley broadened into pastures, Fort Shaw was a settlement no different on the surface from any other settlement at the back-of-beyond: a handful of shacks clustered loosely in some proximity to the stockade that housed the army detachment. There were traders, merchants, trappers, Indians. A blacksmith plied his trade with a stone-built fire in the open-air outside his smithy. In the failing light, bonneted frontier-women called in their children from play. Yet there was a difference. There were fewer people and they looked hardier. They had to be hardy. Conditions were more austere than at most other settlements on the frontier. Fort Shaw was one of the furthest north and so was one of the most isolated. The luxury objects of civilization were rare, having to be shipped up the Missouri to Fort Benton and then overland, or up the full length of the Bozeman Trail and across the Rockies. Incoming pioneers and other immigrants were naturally deterred from the place, especially when the more attainable settlements like Alder Gulch and Helena had the almost irresistible magnet of the prospect of hitting gold.

  In fact at Alder Gulch, in the Bitter Root region a hundred and fifty miles to the south of Fort Shaw, there was developing the most extensive gold-mining operation so far in the whole of the territory. The civic dignitaries there had just given their town the grand-sounding name of Virginia City and there was already a heated debate between Virginia City and Helena about which was to be the capital in the event of Montana becoming a state. But these matters were of little importance in the northwestern backwater of Fort Shaw.

  Most of the wagons in the train pulled into the town itself while a couple remained with the soldiers and commissioner’s buggy to continue the half-mile to the stockade.

  There was a small Indian camp by the side of the river and the commissioner called Stanton over to his coach as they passed. ‘Who are they, captain?’

  ‘Pend d’Oreille, sir.’

  ‘We got no responsibility for them, have we?’ the commissioner asked putting a handkerchief to his nose.

&nb
sp; ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Then what in tarnation are they doing there? And so close to the stockade?’

  ‘They have to live somewhere and they’re doing no harm. They’re peaceful and there’s been no trouble.’

  ‘There’s a hell of a smell.’

  ‘We are unfortunate this evening, sir. But I can assure you that it is rare for the wind to blow in this direction.’

  The commissioner grunted and pulled his head back into the coach.

  When they got to the stockade the gates were already open. The remaining settlers pulled in near the entrance while what was left of the small party made their way through the gates and crossed the open space that constituted the parade ground. Shatterhand eyed the place: the buildings, the stables, here and there troopers going about their business. Some enlisted men were working off energy on a makeshift baseball-field back of the barracks.

  When the incomers reined in, they were greeted by the fort sergeant, Sergeant Barnes, a jocular man with a permanent smile which pushed his cheeks into red shiny balls.

  ‘The commissioner’s quarters are all prepared, sir,’ Barnes said to Stanton with a salute. ‘Domestic help is scarce but it has been arranged.’

  The commissioner emerged from the stagecoach as a different man to the one who had hidden in the shadows along the trail. He escorted his wife ceremoniously up the steps to the log building within the stockade that was to be the temporary residence of the visiting commissioner. The man was in his element as he began barking orders.

  ‘Anything to report, sergeant?’ Stanton asked, once the commissioner and his entourage were out of his hair.

  ‘The medical officer has died, sir.’ With his red billiard-ball cheeks, Barnes looked as though he was laughing, even when delivering bad tidings.

  ‘God. How?’

  ‘Orderly found him dead in bed yesterday. There were two empty bottles near the bed. We knew he’d been on a drunk. Reckon he’d downed both bottles within a few hours.’

  Stanton exhaled noisily. ‘Jeez, that amount would put a moose under. What about burial?’

  ‘Been attended to, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have to notify Missouri Divisional Headquarters at St Louis for a replacement. I don’t reckon there’s anybody else on the post with some medical knowledge in the meantime?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve asked around. But they’re all kids.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope no one on the post needs the services of a doctor for three or four months. This really is a God-forsaken hole.’ He shook his head as he walked away with Shatterhand. ‘It was just a matter of time. I’d spoken to him many times about his drinking. Mind, he was a damn good doctor, drunk or sober, I’ll say that for him.’ He looked back at Barnes. ‘Anything else I should know about?’

  ‘Three desertions. I haven’t sent a detail after them yet.’

  ‘That’s good. We can’t spare the manpower.’

  ‘It happened in the wake of news coming through of a new strike at Alder Gulch, sir.’

  The captain looked at Shatterhand. ‘We always have runaways whenever there’s a new vein of gold announced somewhere in the territory. Well, I’m hungry. Let’s see to the horses and then get some chow.’

  He took Shatterhand and Lone Eagle to the stables. After settling their horses, the three ate in the mess, to the consternation of some troopers who had never seen an Indian in the chow-house before. Then, in the captain’s quarters, they used the wall-map to organize the pursuit parties for the following day.

  The next morning the flag above the stockade fluttered in the chill breeze that sliced down from the Rockies and along the Flathead River from the north-west. Shatterhand pulled up his collar as he headed out of the town with Lone Eagle, Corporal Dobie and a volunteer civilian. He had mapped out a route and agreed a rendezvous point with Stanton. It was the task of Shatterhand and his party to ride and keep their eyes open. He gave a wave as they split company with the other two parties, one comprising troopers and headed by Captain Stanton, the other consisting of Marshal Lackman and his posse.

  For a while Shatterhand’s group followed the tumbling course of the river, progressing slowly northwards towards beckoning snow-capped peaks. On either side, lesser valleys were rising into the Rockies and, as the riders ascended, distances became deceptive — the clear mountain air making everything look much closer than it was.

  North of the Flathead they were moving single-file upwards through a gorge, the trail forming a rising shelf against a precipitous valley. It was then that Shatterhand at the head became aware of some stiffness in his horse. There was no apparent reason for it but the huntsman was trail-wise enough to take heed of it. He watched the ears of his mount pivoting this way and that; and he became conscious of his steed grabbing at the thin mountain air with flared nostrils for more information. He leaned forward, his eyes scouring the trail ahead, and stroked the mane of the dun. He’d had the horse for years and knew every nuance of the animal’s behavior. ‘Something is scaring you. What is it, boy?’ he asked. Then he knew.

  All hell broke loose behind him. They had all been caught unawares. Two horses reared. Lone Eagle’s mount threw its rider to the ground where the Piegan lay inert. Dobie’s horse bolted forward past Shatterhand and, as it did so, tipped the corporal down the gorge. The army man’s scream was cut short just after he had disappeared. The third horse bearing the civilian had turned and was pounding back down the trail out of control with its rider fighting the reins. Now the cause of the terror — just about the biggest grizzly the frontiersman had ever seen — was lumbering towards the unconscious Lone Eagle.

  Shatterhand leapt from his horse and managed to hold it still enough to extract his double-barreled Barentoter, a giant of a gun that he rarely used. Keeping that ready with his right hand he drew the Dragoon pistol from its side-holster with the other and advanced to intercept the bear on its way to its prey. The grizzly stopped in its tracks, recognizing the tall man with metal in his hands as a threat, then reared up on its hind paws. It swung its short hind legs awkwardly forward as it resumed its advance. In other circumstances it would have looked comical. Lone Eagle murmured and stirred without coming to his senses. Shatterhand had moved quickly and was now in between the two. The bear gave a deep-throated, angst-ridden growl.

  Back home in Alpine country, the pursuit of mountain game was a religion second only to that of the Church. Bad shooting, resulting in the wounding of an animal, was against the code of the mountains. The young greenhorn called Karl, who was later to be known as Shatterhand, had brought the inbred code with him to the New World. Up to this day, man or beast, Shatterhand had only killed when necessary — or in the line of business. And this was the case now. The bear had its own nobility. Despite its horrifying proportions the creature would be given a chance; but — as sure as God made kleine grune apfel — if the bear proceeded it would get both barrels of the Barentoter. Shatterhand fired the pistol in warning over the creature’s head. It started, gave the heart-stopping roar again and dropped on its four paws.

  It swayed its head as it took stock of the situation. Shatterhand knew the pistol was not even a reliable man-stopper — never mind being able to put paid to a creature of these proportions — but in such a situation the noise of the firecracker of a pistol could be used as statement of intent. The frontiersman helped the titan decide by firing the weapon again, this time into the ground just ahead of the monster. The animal grunted as if in acknowledgement of the message. It stopped in its tracks — seemingly interminably. It grunted, and its cavernous nostrils flexed as it sniffed. Then it turned and lumbered back up into the rocks. The bear is no fox and does not feign a retreat as a ploy. When it goes — it goes. Shatterhand knew this and just waited and watched. Once it had disappeared into the cottonwoods some distance away he was sure it had no further interest in their direction and that they were safe, at least from that particular hairy hazard.

  Keeping his pistol in readiness he laid down the rifl
e and slapped Lone Eagle’s cheeks. The Indian moved again but didn’t come to. Shatterhand stood up and backed to the gorge. At the edge he looked down. Dobie had not fallen all the way, his descent being stopped by a ledge on which he was now slumped, groaning, some fifteen feet below.

  ‘Scheis,’ the frontiersman mouthed under his breath. Having been on the American continent for most of his adult life he rarely lapsed into his native tongue. Unless it was in exceptional circumstances. Like this one. With Lone Eagle still unconscious and the fourth member of their party not to be seen, Shatterhand was going to have to handle this by himself.

  And he could see Dobie slipping!

  ‘Help is at hand!’ he yelled.

  The dun had been terrified of the bear but whether it was through the workings of chance, or the trust it had in its master — it was again standing close by, pawing the ground as though in recognition of trouble. The hunter uncoiled the rope from his saddle and tied the end to a stout cottonwood close to the gorge. At the edge he decided against shouting to Dobie to catch hold of the rope. So precarious now was the army man that grabbing for the rope would be a once-and-for-all commitment. In his condition he was likely to miss and would be plummeting down with no second chance.

  Shatterhand yanked hard to check the security of the knot before running the rope around his forearm and waist so that it would run in a controlled fashion. He was no stranger to mountaineering. In his youth he had climbed in the Alps. And he had deployed the skill when working as a surveyor as a young man, an occupation that had necessitated practical work in the field. More than once he had had to examine strata at close quarters halfway down some precipice to ascertain its composition before sanctioning railroad excavations.

  Legs apart, he lowered himself down. As his moccasined feet hit the wall, grit and chippings loosened. Some showered on the unfortunate Dobie — there was nothing he could do about that — while other debris skittled its way into the abyss. He reached the ledge, ensured he had a firm footing, then grabbed the neck of Dobie’s greatcoat. ‘Come on, man. Get to your feet and hold on to me.’