A Legend Called Shatterhand

by BJ Holmes

  The Indian helped him on with his jacket. ‘For the moment, I trust a man who could have killed me but did not.’

  ‘I thought that would be so. You know settlement the white man calls Great Falls?’

  ‘Yes. A half-day’s journey from here.’

  ‘That is so. I wish you to accompany me there. The authorities need to know if renegade whites are attacking Indians so they can do something about it.’

  ‘I said for the moment I trust you, white man, but not others.’

  ‘If you can describe these men, it will help the white man’s law. They will seek to punish them. It is that way. Your killing whites at random will only lead to more bloodshed for both our peoples.’

  The Indian briefly touched his forehead in a histrionic gesture. ‘Lone Eagle has been hot-headed and there may be wisdom in your word. I have a debt to you for not taking my life when you had the opportunity and the right. I will go with you to repay that debt to you.’

  ‘Fine,’ Shatterhand said. ‘But you wipe off the war paint. Folks at Great Falls will not take kindly to you walking into their town looking like you are set to start a one-man war.’

  The Piegan looked up at the sky. ‘Soon it will be dark.’

  ‘We can make camp now, then set out tomorrow.’

  ‘So be it.’

  They gathered their animals and traveled further downstream until they found trees under which they could camp. Later, they were sitting cross-legged before a fire. The Indian had been without food and had shared Shatterhand’s jerky and beans. After eating, each was wrapped for some time in his own reflections. It was the Indian who broke the silence. ‘You have the appearance of one who is old — yet you fight with the strength of a brave who has seen but a few summers.’

  Shatterhand remained impassive.

  ‘From whence does a white man get such strength and skill to fight a young-blooded warrior such as Lone Eagle?’ the Indian continued. ‘You have been in our land a long time?’

  Shatterhand nodded. ‘A long time.’

  The Indian became silent, contemplating his former adversary. Neither moved, sitting completely still in the Indian way, absorbing the sounds of the night. The firelight licked their faces and cast dancing shadows into the trees. Eventually the Indian spoke again. ‘There are tales told around our camp-fires of a white man who lived as a redman. A long time ago. A man who had many adventures fighting alongside one of our southern brothers: a brave called Winnetou. This white man bore the name Shoh-tah-hay. Yes, from the land of the hot sun many exploits of bravery and daring by these two men are told which give thrills to our children.’

  Still eliciting no response, the Indian studied his enigmatic companion further. Then, with no doubt in his voice, he declared, ‘You. You — are Shoh-tah-hay!’ There was still no reaction from the white man. There didn’t have to be. The Indian knew and raised his hands, flattened palms outward. ‘I beg forgiveness from Shoh-tah-hay and the great Manitou for raising my weapons against our brother. My debt is even greater.’

  In the firelight the hint of a smile was momentarily perceptible along the line of the white man’s lips. Shatterhand stood up, untied and unfurled his saddle-roll. He lay down, Martini-Henry at his side, and pulled his roll over himself. ‘I too have heard those tales, my friend. But do not believe all that you hear around the camp-fire!’

  Chapter Three

  Great Falls lay beyond the head of navigation on the Missouri River on the eastern side of the Rockies, the huge arm of rock gouging up through the northern American continent to mark the divide between the Far West and the Prairie Lands of the Dakotas. Running water still played a leading part in imposing varied ridge and valley patterns upon the wilderness of Montana Territory, a massive tract of waterways — creeks, streams, rivers — some wending a gentle zigzag course, some tumbling out of the mountains in torrents, but all heading east to flow into the Missouri which in its turn curved round in a huge arc into the Mississippi.

  Shatterhand and Lone Eagle made the settlement late the next morning. They passed horses penned in bough-made corrals. Dried-out hides were stacked high like wooden boards outside the many skin-traders. They made their way down the short rutted track that constituted the settlement’s main thoroughfare, passing merchant stores fronted by barrels and sacks, wagons being loaded and unloaded. It was a restless, transient place: a place for traders and a stopover for pioneers on their way to start new lives in the wilderness. The sooner Shatterhand got out the better. A man for whom his saddle-roll was home, he was not overly fond of people. Tomorrow he would leave for the white mountain peaks of Musselshell country. But first there was law business. He left his hides with a trader and lodged his horse with a hostler, stipulating that the animal should eat well. He always took the opportunity when in a settlement to see that his horse was well fed with grain. Unlike Indian ponies, American stock could not subsist solely on grass.

  ‘Where is the law located around here?’ he asked the hostler once he had ensured the dun had his head plunged into a bulky nosebag.

  ‘We only got one sheriff, mister, and he’s away at Helena at present on business.’

  ‘That presents me with a problem. I have some information he should have. What about deputies?’

  ‘No, sir. Great Falls is not big enough to warrant deputies.’

  ‘Ach!’ The consonant hit the back of Shatterhand’s throat, giving it the sound the Scots give ch in their pronunciation of loch. ‘Some blackguards have attacked a Piegan camp,’ he went on, ‘over near the Musselshell, and done some killing. The authorities need to know about the crime.’

  ‘You’re not entirely out of luck, mister. An army detachment came through from Fort Shaw yesterday and left some troopers at a temporary post here. You could tell them. That would put the information in the proper channel.’

  ‘Yes. That will suit my purposes. Where are they?’

  The hostler took him outside and indicated some cabins out of the way beyond the end of the thoroughfare. In the distance Shatterhand could see a cabin flying a flag and with a ‘Much obliged, mister’ he and Lone Eagle headed towards it.

  Standing at the window with his back to the cramped rough-hewn room that constituted his temporary quarters, Sergeant McGinty looked out over the settlement but took no account of the tall man in saddle-stained clothes with an Indian at his side now striding up the rutted track towards the cabin. Range-outfitted men and Indians were a common enough sight and the sergeant’s mind was on other things.

  He put his hands on the windowsill while he unseeingly contemplated the scene. His hair was short and slicked down. If nothing else he maintained a certain smartness. Half of all recruits were foreigners and the greatest proportion of these were Irish. Sergeant McGinty was Irish. Having already seen military service in his homeland he had quickly adapted to his new life in the American Second Cavalry and had risen quickly to non-commissioned rank. His mind on problems, he stood with his scrubbed square-ended fingers splayed on the windowsill, until there was a knock at the door behind him.

  ‘Come in.’

  It was the orderly. ‘Request to see you, sir. The trapper they call Shatterhand and an Indian.’

  ‘Show them in. And how many times have I told you: you don’t address a sergeant as ‘sir’.’

  The orderly was Captain’s Stanton’s man and was unaccustomed to obeying the sergeant. ‘Yes, sergeant.’

  There was the clump of feet on boards behind him and Sergeant McGinty turned to see the buckskin-clad frontiersman and his redskin companion enter. ‘Good morning to you,’ Shatterhand began. ‘I asked to see the commanding officer.’

  McGinty was surprised by the voice. He had heard of this lone hunter — who hadn’t? — but had never met him. He had assumed him to be apple-pie American but the voice had the guttural accent of a mid-European. Probably German in origin, something like that. Huh, a foreigner like himself, begorrah!

  ‘Captain Stanton is away on a mission, mister. I�
��m C.O. of the few troopers staying on. Anything you need to tell the C.O. for the moment you tell me.’ He pointed to a chair before the desk. ‘Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.’

  Shatterhand dropped into the chair while the Indian took up a standing position to his side and to the rear. ‘I just thought you’d better know,’ the hunter began, ‘there’s a renegade white bunch attacking Indians. You know that could lead to a general retaliation against whites.’

  ‘Shoot,’ the sergeant exhaled noisily. ‘As if we ain’t already got problems.’ His down-to-earth manner contrasted with the demonic cast given to his features by his arched eyebrows and a scar curving upwards from the corner of his right eye.

  ‘How’s that, sergeant?’

  The sergeant’s eyes flicked at the redman. ‘I don’t like talking in front of redskins.’

  ‘Lone Eagle is trustworthy,’ Shatterhand said. ‘He’s come with me to help in reporting the matter.’ He reckoned nothing would be served by telling the army man that the Indian had acted hot-headedly and had tried to kill him. ‘You were saying about problems, sergeant?’

  ‘A wagon-train of settlers is overdue. Coming up from the government cantonment at Carrol on the Missouri. For a party to be overly late is unusual; travelers are not often waylaid these days. One came through the other day on its way to Fort Shaw, carrying a large shipment of back pay for soldiers — and it experienced no trouble in a journey of over three hundred miles. So if one’s late — we’re worried. Captain Stanton and I left Fort Shaw with a few troopers as a search party. He’s taken the trail that runs back to Fort Benton.’

  ‘A wagon-train can be delayed by a whole heap of innocent things — wheels breaking, injury, having to make an unintended detour where rock-falls have blocked the trail. For you to show so much concern there must be something special about this one.’

  ‘There is. Listen, I sure feel uncomfortable with that redskin listening.’

  Shatterhand waved him on.

  The sergeant reluctantly continued. ‘Well, apart from settlers it includes the new territorial commissioner, James Earl Draper, and his wife. Together with the assistant commissioner they’re doing some kind of tour of the territory. From what we know, it set out with a small army unit as escort. So they got some protection. But we were still worried when they didn’t show.’

  ‘How long has it been overdue?’

  ‘Three days now. That’s why Captain Stanton, the company’s commanding officer, brought out a group of soldiers to investigate. He sent another small detail to the south.’

  ‘But what are two days in a long journey from Carrol?’

  ‘A couple of traders passed them out of Fort Benton and arrived in advance. By that reckoning the party should be through here by now.’

  Shatterhand reflected for a moment. ‘I am puzzled that the captain has undertaken the investigation himself. Is it not more normal for a commanding officer to remain at his post and delegate search-parties?’

  ‘Yes, but with the dignitaries being so important the captain thought it best he himself came.’ He took out the makings. Shatterhand declined the offer so the sergeant set about building a smoke for himself. ‘Tell me about this raid,’ he said as he sprinkled some tobacco onto a paper.

  Shatterhand stood up, went to the map on the wall. It was sparsely marked; there was still much of Montana that hadn’t been surveyed in detail. He looked back at the Indian. ‘You read maps?’

  The Indian made a hog-grunt and shook his head.

  Shatterhand placed his finger on Great Falls and moved it along till it came to a creek. He traced the course of the stream until he stopped at a point. ‘I was about here when the Indian and I met up.’ He looked again at the Indian. ‘Where were your people exactly when they were attacked?’

  ‘In the valley at the foot of the mountain we call Rock of Two Horns.’

  Shatterhand looked at the sergeant. ‘Over in Musselshell country. You familiar with the area, sergeant?’

  McGinty dropped a match into an ashtray and puffed out some smoke. ‘There’s half a dozen mountains out there with twin peaks.’

  Shatterhand nodded. ‘Yes. Well, the Indian says it had happened two days before he met up with me, so for the time being all we can say is the location is a couple of days’ ride from this point. That would mark out a considerable radius, but it’s rough terrain so it won’t be too far from the point I am indicating here.’

  ‘Don’t matter,’ the sergeant said. ‘We can’t do nothing about it.’ He got up and joined Shatterhand at the map. ‘I ain’t got no men to send. I don’t know if you’re aware of it but the Second Cavalry is responsible for maintaining the peace throughout the whole of Montana. It’s a damn vast region and we’re scattered around the territory. We need either more men — or a smaller area of responsibility. Huh, but you can’t tell politicians.’ He swept his hand upward along the map, indicating a movement from the plains northward. ‘As if our resources aren’t stretched enough, the Sioux have started coming up to make raids on the Crow again — so we’ve had to send a whole troop out to the Crow agency up at Rosebud Creek on the Stillwater. Huh, that’s depleted our ranks even further. And we only had a small detachment posted at Fort Shaw in the first place!’

  He dropped back in his seat in exasperation. ‘Now, we got a wagon-train missing in the east — and you say whites are stirring up the Indians to the south-west! Hell, shoot! What’s gonna happen next?’

  ‘But you will take a description of these renegades,’ Shatterhand prompted, ‘so that some action can be taken. That’s the only reason why the Indian has made the journey out here. I have convinced him to trust white man’s justice.’

  ‘Sure,’ the sergeant said, taking some paper from a drawer. The least we can do is wire the other army posts and civilian law with the news. We can keep our own eyes open here for the bunch too. They might be brazen enough to come a-riding in here. They won’t have reckoned an Indian putting in a report, so their guard might be down.’ He put questions to the Indian and took down the number — four — together with the information that the leader wore a black patch.

  ‘Ain’t much for anybody to go on,’ McGinty said when he had written down the sparse information.

  ‘The Indian did not see them directly himself,’ explained Shatterhand who, throughout the note taking, had been pondering further on the map. Then he turned to the Indian. ‘Now, at least the authorities know of the white men who attacked your people and soon they will be on the look-out for them. But, as Lone Eagle can see, because of lack of manpower they cannot be directly pursued at the present. Nevertheless would Lone Eagle remain at my side for a short while further?’

  The Indian nodded. ‘That is good,’ Shatterhand said, turning to the army man. ‘Then I will make a suggestion,’ he continued, and traced his finger along the trail. ‘My last hunting-trip has been successful and I have time on my hands. You say search parties have gone east and south. In the light of the situation I could make a preliminary journey out that way and explore some to the north. If I come across your missing party I’ll get a message back.’

  ‘That would sure be appreciated, mister.’

  Chapter Four

  With the blast of the reveille bugle faint to their rear the two men moved out early next morning. They crossed the Missouri and followed a rough track towards Highwood Peak and the Judith River. With the approach of winter there was constant sign of game moving southward: deer, elk, moose. It was sure good country in which to trap and hunt but not the best of terrains for travel, the trail itself being a zigzag curving this and that way round low divides. Running into ups and downs it could cause a whole heap of problems for the wagon train for which they were searching, it occurred to Shatterhand.

  Within sight and sound of a tributary cascading down from the Little Belt Mountains the two riders came to a fork in the trail. Shatterhand set the landmark as their rendezvous point and indicated for Lone Eagle to take the southerly rou
te while he would concentrate on the northeasterly.

  The trail the frontiersman took passed many gullies which could have provided good shelter for a wagon train in trouble, and thus there was delay in his progress as he had to examine each. But despite his proclivity to leave no stone unturned he saw no sign of wagons or settlers.

  Eventually he came across a wide coulee in the midst of broken country. Beginning to tire, he dropped from his horse and spread out his map. Once a surveyor, maps had been his bread and butter, and by his reading he was not far from a settlement. He pondered on the possibilities. If the train had had trouble it might have pulled into the settlement. How big was the place? With regard to size the marking of a settlement on a western map was meaningless in the west, used to cover anything from a couple of shacks to a teeming metropolis. There might not even be any telegraph at the habitation and, if not, the travelers could not have been able to wire ahead of their location and circumstances.

  Shatterhand was contemplating whether or not to make a detour and head for the place to check out that theory when he heard gunfire. It lasted for several seconds, crackling around the landscape rendering it impossible to locate. He got to his feet and took a pair of binoculars from his saddlebag. On a high elevation he was able to scan the horizon to all points of the compass but saw nothing. He decided to press on down into the coulee and it was at the bottom that he saw the wagon train.

  The wagons were drawn out well away from the trail. There were fifteen in all, including a small Concord stage and a handful of prairie schooners, completely unsuited to the irregular terrain. They were only half a mile distant, but it was a rough descent for the frontiersman and Shatterhand dismounted for part of the way. Thus it took some time before he got into proximity and, as he closed, he saw a figure in blue mount up and ride towards him.