Shatterhand and the People Read online

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  In the path of the white man’s westward expansion stands the camp of the largest gathering of warriors ever seen. These are The People – Sioux, Cheyenne and Arapaho: former enemies united into a massive force by Chiefs Roman Nose and Red Cloud.

  Now the legendary frontiersman, Shatterhand, is sent by General Sherman to parley with the chiefs ... and if possible avoid a full-scale Indian War!

  SHATTERHAND AND THE PEOPLE

  (SHATTERHAND 2)

  By B. J. Holmes

  First published in 1992 by Robert Hale Limited

  Copyright © 1992, 2014 by B. J. Holmes

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: May 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Don,

  a pardner for fifty years.

  And here’s to the next fifty!

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  It is said that truth is stranger than fiction. Like all familiar generalizations the statement is a questionable claim and is really too general to have much meaning. On the other hand, what is true is that facts as they stand are often dry and uninteresting unless they are dressed up in some kind of tale. As John Sayles, the writer and film director, has said, ‘Reality and good story-telling are seldom the same. To make it dramatic, you fictionalize.’

  That philosophy is the cornerstone of this book, a novel for which the seed was set when the author learned of a gathering of Indians on the Tongue River in the late 1860s. It wasn’t the first time the redmen had come together in an attempt to present a major force against white incursions but what was striking here was the number: around ten thousand. Questions arose in the author’s mind. How could people, familiar only with a nomadic life, live in such numbers together? What about food, water, sanitation? And surely there would be dissent where the tepees of long-standing enemies were pitched alongside each other? How did the over-chiefs Red Cloud and Roman Nose bind the tribes together?

  The danger of setting a fictional story against a sequence of historical events such as those associated with the Tongue River gathering is trivialization. The tale and the fictional players themselves needed an appropriate dignity. For this reason it was decided to incorporate characters originally developed by Karl May, principally that of Shatterhand which the present author had already resurrected from the 19th century in an earlier experiment of writing a western novel in a classic style (see A Legend Called Shatterhand).

  So, while many of the characters and events in this novel are historical—indeed, some of the words spoken by the Indians are those actually on documented record—it is ultimately a work of fiction and artistic license has been used in the incorporation of actual personages and events into the story structure.

  For those readers interested in the purely factual record (and particularly the undistorted sequencing of events), their attention is drawn to the following which were drawn on during the preparation of the present work:

  Dee Brown, Bury My Heart At Wounded Knee—An Indian History of the American West (Barrie & Jenkins, London, 1970)

  John G. Neihardt, Black Elk Speaks (University of Nebraska, 1961)

  Andrew F. Rolle (ed.) A Century of Dishonor (Harper & Row, 1965).

  The author also acknowledges some debt to Sir Walter Scott for his example in the art of story telling and finally, of course, to Karl May who created the book’s leading fictional characters in the first place.

  B.J.H.

  Chapter One

  The rider drew rein when the dog darted out of the mesquite towards him. It stumped to a halt at the entrance to the canyon and barked challenges, its scruff raised. Then it cautiously approached and sniffed at the heels of his horses. Completing the exercise, it walked stiffly away and let its position in the matter be known by urinating on the nearest greasewood thereby marking its territory. It half-turned and stood still, not looking at the man directly but its stance evidencing its utter awareness of the intruder. The look of the animal, a gray mongrel, and its behavior told him he was near the camp.

  He shaded his eyes and looked up. Sure enough, Apache lookouts were becoming hesitantly visible at the summits of the two rock towers that constituted the entrance to the gorge. Slowly he dismounted and removed his bow, raising it two-handedly above his head, keeping it there until he knew they had seen the gesture. Then he placed it on the ground, laying his quiver alongside. He repeated the action with his war-axe. Finally he drew his knife, held it aloft, twisting it so that it caught the sun, then added it to the pile of discarded weapons.

  There were silent waved communications from the summit and minutes later three Mescalero Apache warriors emerged from the rocks before him. He exchanged raised-hand greetings with them. ‘My name is Drying Grass,’ he said. ‘I am sent as emissary by Roman Nose of the Crooked Lance Cheyenne.’ His use of Apache dialect was slow and faltering. ‘The chief of your northern brothers charges me to seek council with the mighty Intschu-tschuna.’

  The Mescaleros appraised him. He towered over them, tallness being a characteristic of his tribe. With scarcely an adult male Cheyenne less than six feet in height, no redman was superior in stature save the Osage. Also his garb was strange to their eyes: an oddly decorated war shirt and braids wrapped in otter skin. Whatever he was, he was no Apache.

  ‘Come,’ one said. Another gathered the visitor’s weapons while the third took control of his horses and, without further words, the party moved into the defile and began to thread its way upward along a trail between greasewood-dotted rocks. It was some time later that they came upon the Mescalero camp high up on the plateau. Nomadic Apaches were loath to establish permanent camp and would only do so if the site was secure and they had strong reasons for not moving. This clan, in the relative safety of the rocky fort, had constructed kowas of mesquite and grease wood.

  Drying Grass was not taken for presentation to Intschu-tschuna immediately, being shown instead to a wickiup of squaws while the chief was informed of his coming. Not having eaten that day the young traveler was feasted on the pulp of mescal stalks and honey from the yucca during the long wait. Eventually he was granted an audience.

  Intschu-tschuna received him sitting on buffalo skins, surrounded by members of his council. The exaggerated flattery of diplomacy was exchanged between the envoy and the chief, the latter graciously receiving the presents from Roman Nose: a rifle and a religious talisman.

  In the custom of the redman, no direct enquiries were made of the Cheyenne’s reason for visiting, allowing him to volunteer the information in his own time. They drank tiswin and smoked while they talked of hunting, the severity of winters and the omnipresence of the white man.

  ‘Now to the purpose of my visit,’ the guest said after a period of time sufficient to meet the requirements of tribal etiquette. ‘Roman Nose our chief has had a dream. In this dream the Great Spirit spoke to him and gave the answer to the encroachments of the white man. It was for all red brothers to forget their old enmities and band together as one.’

  Intschu-tschuna pondered on the words. He was a practical man, laying little store by visions. ‘That is but a dream,’ he said slowly. ‘Old rival
ries run too deep.’

  ‘It is more than a dream,’ the Cheyenne persisted. ‘It is a thing which is coming to pass. Even now on the Tongue River there are camped thousands of braves from many clans.’ He gestured a full hundred and eighty degrees with a flattened palm. ‘Tepees, hogans and kowas as far as the eye can see.’ He paused, saw the old man was unimpressed and so continued, ‘I understand the chief’s reluctance to conceive of such a sight. It is a thing that must be seen to be believed.’

  ‘What clans are these?’

  ‘My own—the Crooked Lances. Then there are the Oglala Sioux and the Arapaho. Even the Northern Cheyenne have welcomed into the fold their old enemies the Southern Cheyenne.’

  Intschu-tschuna’s features, up till now unmoving, hardened in disbelief. ‘And what of the ancient bitternesses between them?’

  ‘Whatever there has been is forgotten in the common cause. At the center of the camp the tepees of the over-chiefs have been pitched in an old-time tribal circle. And the lesser warriors move freely with each other while talk of being of different clans lessens with each moon. The papooses of the different tribes teach each other their varied games. We hunt and feast together and share ceremonies.’

  Intschu-tschuna ruminated on it further and, gradually, acceptance broke the questioning lines on his face. ‘This is surely a miracle,’ he concluded. ‘Forgive an old man for questioning the source of your chief’s dream. You are right. The dream of Roman Nose was certainly the inspiration of the Great Spirit. Only He could have commanded such a coming-together.’ He drew on the pipe and handed it to the Cheyenne. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘There is no talking behind backs in tepees between the chiefs and under-chiefs,’ Drying Grass went on. ‘Even the great Red Cloud is prepared to walk in the shadow of Roman Nose who has been appointed over-all chief. And Roman Nose makes his speeches only when all are assembled together before him. When he does so he addresses them as The People. The People, that is how all red brothers are coming to think of themselves.’ The Cheyenne drew on the pipe before continuing. ‘It is in this manner that he extends an invitation to the Apache to join the mighty force and share in the glory and benefits of pushing back the white man.’

  Intschu-tschuna shook his head. ‘The white man will never be pushed back. Even with all red men united, he will still out-number us. We are in falling numbers while he builds up his warriors with hordes from across the Great Water.’

  The Cheyenne nodded. ‘The wisdom of your words is shared by Roman Nose. But our chief states that, even if we cannot vanquish them, our united numbers will enable us to exact from the alien oppressor an honorable treaty, the terms of which will be favorable to our kind. Therefore, I repeat his invitation to the Apache to join him.’

  ‘I sorely wish it could be so,’ Intschu-tschuna sighed, ‘but we have our own war. The Bluecoats seek out the Apache in every place and kill him with their wagon-guns of terror and death. There are no bounds to their ferocity and disrespect. They captured Chief Mangas Colorado. He, an old man of over seventy summers, was tortured by their young ones. They burnt his feet, then they took his scalp and cut off his head from which they boiled the flesh. Finally they dumped his headless body in a ditch for our children in their play to find.’

  The old chief’s face hardened as he thought on the matter. ‘If nothing else the Apache must avenge Mangas’ death and the Bluecoats’ despicable treatment of him. There is now war against the whites across the whole of the south-west, from the land of the Chiricahua in the north to the Mimbres Mountains in the south.’

  ‘Yes,’ the Cheyenne said. ‘I have seen signs during my journey.’

  ‘But we are split into factions,’ Intschu-tschuna continued. ‘All the leaders are using their warriors against the whites. Cochise has his own campaign to hit back at the treacherous white eyes with his Chiricahuas. Victorio leads a gallant band of Mescaleros. The Coyoteros have been chased to the hills. And, as you can see, we of the Mescaleros that remain are confined to this place of rock. A fortress but also a prison. Here, we are mainly squaws and children. The few warriors that I have must stay here to protect them. The white eyes are no respecters of defenseless ones. Much as I would like, I cannot send men for Roman Nose’s noble cause.’

  ‘What of other Apache chiefs? Is it your counsel that no end would be served by my seeking them out?’

  The faint trace of a smile cracked Intschu-tschuna’s old lips. ‘That is so. Such a task would be futile. They are not settled, moving with the wind and the night. Even if by accident you found a band, its chief would not be in a position to spare warriors.’ He paused and then leaned across to the elders. There was an exchange in Apache dialect but at normal conversation rate so that the Cheyenne could make out only scattered words and no sense at all.

  At the end of the discussion Intschu-tschuna gave an order to an acolyte who disappeared from his sentry duty on the door. ‘It embarrasses me that I cannot comply with Roman Nose’s wishes,’ he said. ‘However, as a token of good faith I will send one of my best warriors to return with you. He is young but fully initiated as a warrior. As my grandson, he is also dear to my ancient heart. The only one of my issue surviving, he is also in line for the chieftainship of our clan.’

  ‘Drying Grass is sure that his chief will appreciate the gesture.’

  Moments later the hides parted and a brave entered. He was stockily-built, maybe of twenty summers, maybe less. A red band held his black hair, fringed at the front and hanging long from his neck. Clad in buckskin, he wore moccasins that came long up to his knees. The young warrior signed to the chief who indicated for him to sit.

  ‘As is our custom,’ the chief explained by way of introduction, ‘my grandson had the given name of a child at his birth. But on my son’s death he took his father’s name.’ A look of pride came into the old man’s eyes. ‘This is Winnetou.’

  Chapter Two

  With a quivering motion, the locomotive ground to a standstill, its ornately-mounted bell clanging dolorously twice. General William T. Sherman looked from the window to his adjutant. ‘What’s the hold-up?’

  ‘I’ll make enquiries, sir,’ the young man said, springing to his feet and moving down the aisle. For a spell the general sat back against the red plush trimming, listening to the hissing of steam. Minutes later his aide returned. ‘We’re taking on water, sir,’ he explained. ‘The operation will take around ten minutes the engineer says.’

  ‘In that case,’ the general grinned, ‘I’ll take the opportunity to get rid of some water myself.’ He had a distaste of using the little annex in the corner of the car with the bottomless can to serve natural calls. ‘I can also stretch these old legs of mine,’ he added.

  A government impatient with the unending nature of the Indian wars west of the Missouri had dispatched a commission headed by Sherman to see what could be done to finish it, one way or the other.

  The general stepped down from the car and took in the environs as he stretched his arms. The halt was no more than that: a place to halt, a couple of shacks and a water tower. He stood for a moment watching the engineer and fireman manipulate the leather chute into position over the locomotive. The water suddenly cascading down reminded the general of his own bodily need and he fumbled at the front of his pants but stopped when he remembered there were women passengers aboard. He walked over the gravel to one of the shacks and continued round the back of the building. He sighed in loud satisfaction as he relieved himself. His own cascade against the wooden slats was just reducing in force when he heard a loud voice behind him. The words came aggressively in some Indian tongue.

  He turned as he shook himself. There was an emaciated Indian pointing a rifle at him. The man wore a tattered body shawl and a black hat with a feather. Although the general didn’t understand the words he got some idea of what they meant by the way the rifle barrel was repeatedly jerked upwards. He finished shaking his member, tucked it back in his pants and raised his hands. More indecipherable w
ords came from the Indian.

  The general looked around. He and his armed challenger were out of sight of the train. He walked slowly sidewards to clear himself of the shack as he spoke. ‘Listen, mister,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you want. I am unfamiliar with your tongue.’ The Indian edged along with him so that they both came into view. There was a commotion to his rear but he didn’t take his eyes off the open muzzle. ‘I mean,’ he continued, speaking calmly, ‘I don’t know what you’re saying. What is it that you want?’ As his challenger grunted something the general heard crunching on the gravel behind him. This time he turned and saw soldiers advancing, their carbines raised.

  ‘Keep back,’ the general ordered. As head of what could be a peace commission it would not bode well if his first act on alighting in his area of jurisdiction was to have an Indian shot. Hell, he could imagine what the back-biters would make of that back in Washington. Not to mention the chance of he himself being hit, looking as he was down the wrong end of this renegade’s rifle.

  ‘It’s plain he don’t understand English, sir,’ the nearest soldier said. ‘Don’t worry, sir. He’s got four guns aimed at him already. With more coming every second. He’s an old man, sir. Don’t look capable of putting a bullet where he wants to.’ There was a pause, then the soldier continued, with a hint of resolution in his voice, ‘Can I suggest, sir? If you dive to the ground, we should be able to blast him to hell without any injury to yourself.’

  ‘No, don’t shoot,’ the general said quietly.

  ‘Your commanding officer is right.’ It was a new voice behind him. Deep and authoritative, with a guttural sound to it. He turned slowly to see a solitary figure moving forward at a purposive pace, hands raised. In fringed buckskin jacket and leggings, the stranger was tall with a regal bearing. The general didn’t know the man but vaguely remembered having seen him sometime previously on the train. Still walking, the man began to speak to the Indian in his own tongue. The redman replied and the stranger maintained the exchange while he continued his slow advance.