Shatterhand and the People Page 10

  It was a game. He knew the Indians got their quota of bust head from traders or the squaw-men who lived in the camp. As long as their drunken revelries didn’t overflow into the town, he turned a blind eye. But now and again, he had to show the flag and put one in the slammer for the sake of appearances.

  He bent over and pulled at the redskin’s blanket. ‘Come on, pal.’ He took the empty bottle and threw it away. ‘A couple of days’ bread and water in the pokey is what you’re getting.’ The man rose and staggered ungainly in the snow. Slowly the lawman herded him across the snowy ruts.

  But when the constable closed the door of his office it was to feel a gun in his back. He turned, anger burning in his eyes, only to see a gaze as sober and defiant as his own. This, the lawman concluded, was unexpected. Here was he, resignedly going about his affairs, apprehending a violator of bye-laws, inconvenient as it was, being cold and dark and wet, but accepting the responsibility for the chore, then he finds himself face to face with a redskin with the drop on him!

  Indeed, the circumstances were strange to him, facing the open maw of a Colt in his own office.

  ‘I am master here,’ Winnetou said calmly. ‘The man in your cell is wanted for evil committed elsewhere. Evils that cannot go unanswered. You are excused of the duty of tending to him.’

  ‘The hell I am, you young buck.’ The lawman was getting irritated. The redman had been playing a game of his own, feigning drunkenness. What was more, the face was unfamiliar to him. ‘Now, listen up,’ the constable continued, ‘I don’t know who the hell you are, but I am the duly constituted law in this bailiwick. You’re in serious trouble already, feller. Now you put down that gun before the situation gets even more serious.’

  Winnetou ignored the protestations and maneuvered him around so that he could watch both the lawman and see the cell at the same time. Cossack was seated on his cot in the ungainly attitude of someone who had been disturbed. He rose from the pallet and gripped the bars. ‘Jehosophat, I knew it,’ he grinned. ‘Moses has sent you to spring me, ain’t he? I knew the son-of-a-bitch was OK.’

  He had learned otherwise by the time he was handcuffed astride a horse and riding south with an unknown redskin.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Shatterhand’s journey back to the tepees of The People was uneventful and, trailing a pack-horse with gifts, he entered the camp on the third day.

  Some miles to the west, Winnetou reined in and shifted his weight on his pony’s back. Slightly to his rear were another three mounts: two relief ponies and a third bearing the silent Cossack. The party had travelled long and the Apache had called the halt when he recognized terrain, indicating they were approaching the settlement on the Tongue River. From now on he would have to travel carefully; he had been exiled and if sentries followed their orders with precision he would be killed on sight. He looked and listened but heard little other than the call of a whippoorwill.

  He remained in that pose for a while, surveying the environment. Ahead the ground rose providing admirable vantage points for Cheyenne guards. He dropped to the ground and led the horses into cover, hitching them to a tree trunk. Gesturing for his prisoner to dismount, he looped a rope through the man’s handcuffs and fixed it to a branch. He coiled a longer length of rawhide around his own torso, signaled for the man to remain silent then moved on alone. He worked his way upwards for some distance, then halted in the scrub, scanning the area, still listening. Suddenly, way above, wildfowl called as they lifted en masse from vegetation. Disturbed by the passage of something, or somebody?

  Keeping his eyes on the spot from whence the birds had risen he made his way further upward through the trees till eventually he attained the high ground. He waited, head to one side, catching the occasional sound of crackling twigs. Then, from the brush a little below him, he saw a Cheyenne warrior emerge. He watched as the warrior disappeared and reappeared in his ascent of the rock directly before him. In time the brave emerged and, after surveying the locale, sat cross-legged on the edge, establishing the place as his vantage point.

  Winnetou waited for a long time to check that the Cheyenne was alone. The man made no signal and gave no evidence that he had a compatriot in the vicinity. He was a lone, advance sentry.

  From his position, the Apache could dispatch him easily. But that was not to be his move. Although the Cheyenne was committed to prevent the passage of Winnetou, even to kill him, the man was not the enemy of the Apache. Besides, the brave was more useful alive. Winnetou uncoiled the rawhide from around his chest and formed a loop. Then, holding the loop in readiness, he began to cross the rock, soft-footing on the mossed surface.

  The brave was alert and heard the swish of the rope as it snaked out, but too late. As he turned it snagged his shoulders. Winnetou stopped in his tracks, bracing against the uneven rock and yanked hard to bring the man down. Before the Cheyenne could disentangle himself, the Apache was astride him, successively looping him like a buffalo calf. A minute later the erstwhile sentry was without weapons and immobilized.

  Without speaking the Apache dragged him down through the rocks. Back in the trees he gestured for his two captives to mount and then resumed his trek east.

  White Bull had read the omens for his chief. They were good and Roman Nose sat alone in his tepee, enjoying the morning breeze from the south. His ancient body did not take well to these northern climes and, with unusual warmth on its wings, the breeze breathed seemingly for his specific comfort, all the way from the far plains of his tribal home where he was undisputed master. He sat listening to the busy hum of the awakening camp, the clatter of lances and axes, the shouts of braves: the voice of The People, carrying with its very tone an assurance of the strength of numbers, another omen, one of approaching successes. This was to be a good day. The powers of the various tribes were to be marshaled under their tribal chiefs before a council meeting. While his ear drank in these sounds and he yielded to the vision of the honorable peace such strength would bring, White Bull entered and informed him of the approach of Shatterhand.

  ‘That is propitious,’ the chief said, a shaft of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘Today he will see our forces arrayed in great number. What is more he brings the white chiefs answer and your reading of the omens means that it is good news. Have him admitted instantly and with due honor.’

  Outside Shatterhand had arrived and dismounted, raising a hand in greetings on sight of the chief.

  ‘Roman Nose greets Shoh-tah-hay with the respect that is his due,’ the chief said.

  ‘It is important that Shoh-tah-hay shares words with Roman Nose in the privacy of his lodge before matters are discussed with the other chiefs,’ Shatterhand said. ‘Will the great Roman Nose grant that boon?’

  Roman Nose looked at White Bull. ‘Would that be the wish of the spirits?’

  ‘That I do not know without consulting with them,’ White Bull said, ‘but it would be contrary to the protocol of the council of The People.’

  Roman Nose pondered. On the one hand he needed to follow protocol and on the other, there was something about this ancient white man that encouraged trust. And was it not he that had saved the life of Roman Nose? ‘Request the presence of my brother Red Cloud. I will take refreshment in my tepee with the white man until the Sioux chief arrives.’

  ‘It would be advisable,’ Shatterhand said as White Bull left, ‘that one of your squaw-men be present for translation.’

  ‘For what reason?’ Roman Nose wanted to know, waving a hand of invitation in the direction of his lodge doorway. ‘Shoh-tah-hay is fluent in our tongue.’

  ‘Shatterhand thanks Roman Nose for saying thus,’ the frontiersman said, ‘but there is a matter arising on which the chief might want counsel.’

  Roman Nose commanded the attendance of one of the squaw-men and the three entered the tepee.

  The two sat and drank juice until Red Cloud swept in. ‘What does the Star Chief say to our terms?’ Roman Nose asked as the Sioux chief settled down.

/>   ‘Firstly I have to report that there is yet no reply,’ Shatterhand said. ‘It will take a long time. Chief Sherman is obliged to consult with the Great White Chief in Washington.’

  Roman Nose chuckled. ‘Whether white or red, the workings of chiefdom are the same. Why do they not gather all their clans and chiefs together as we do?’

  ‘In the meantime,’ Shatterhand said, ‘he has sent gifts of tobacco for the chiefs of The People with the plea for the chiefs to come to Laramie as soon as the winter snows melt.’

  ‘Tell your Bluecoat chief,’ Red Cloud said politely, ‘that we have received the tobacco of peace. Tell him also that we shall smoke it and that we shall go to Laramie as soon as all the Bluecoats have left our country.’

  Shatterhand nodded. Red Cloud was as intransigent as ever.

  ‘But now to another matter,’ the white man went on. ‘We have information about the attack upon Chief Roman Nose at the sacred lake. With permission, Shoh-tah-hay will give this information.’

  Roman Nose nodded.

  ‘There were three white men committing the deed,’ Shatterhand began. ‘Those same three men had earlier attacked Shoh-tah-hay and it was while pursuing them he came upon them at the lake. He shot the three as they were shooting at the chief. One was dead but two escaped, wounded. Later one of the surviving whites was caught by the Chis-Chis-Chash and taken before their chief Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain. However, in order that the man could not tell that he had been bribed to kill Chief Roman Nose, his tongue was cut.’

  ‘If this is so, why did they not kill him?’ Red Cloud queried matter-of-factly. ‘It would have been the simpler act.’

  ‘It is possible he was being saved for a slow death as punishment for failing in the task set him. However, before more punishment could be administered, the man escaped the Chis-Chis-Chash camp. He managed to reach the white man’s fort where he confessed. He and his two comrades had been paid white man’s money by Cold-Mist. It was explained to them where lay Roman Nose and they went to that place and tried to kill him with their fire-sticks.’ Shatterhand lowered his eyes a fraction. ‘Their task was made easier by the Apache Winnetou who, for the purpose of capturing a hide of great medicine for Roman Nose, abandoned his post to his eternal shame.’

  He raised his eyes again. ‘However, these things and the badness of Cold-Mist have been told to Shoh-tah-hay.’

  ‘This is a grave charge,’ Roman Nose said gravely. ‘You are talking of an honorable chief who at this moment is arraying his braves in order to join the gathering. What proof does Roman Nose have that your words are not false?’

  ‘On his sick bed the man has written words which your squaw-men can see.’ Shatterhand took out the paper and handed it to one of the white men.

  The intermediary read the few words and then returned the paper to Shatterhand. ‘The words are as the white man says. They tell how Cold-Mist paid the three men to kill Roman Nose while he was on the sacred lake.’ Then he held the paper up dismissively before handing it back to Shatterhand. ‘But it could have been written by anybody.’

  Roman Nose scrutinized the document that had no meaning for him. ‘The squaw-man is right. What proof does Roman Nose have that this document is not itself false?’

  ‘On that,’ Shatterhand put in, ‘the chief has only the word of Shoh-tah-hay.’

  ‘Roman Nose has respect for Shoh-tah-hay,’ the chief said, ‘but when the sun sets he is still a white man. And, is it not a fact that it is in the interests of the whites to cause dissension amongst The People at this time?’

  ‘That cannot be denied, O Chief,’ the frontiersman said. ‘As I say I can only give my word.’

  There came the loud clearing of a throat. It was Red Cloud. ‘Cold-Mist brings many braves to swell the numbers of The People. We cannot afford to risk losing the Chis-Chis-Chash by causing him offence merely on what is hearsay.’

  Roman Nose nodded. ‘I agree. No more must be said on this subject.’ He faced Shatterhand. ‘But you are welcome to rest, white man, before your return to the Star Chief.’

  ‘I do not think we have heard the end of this matter,’ the frontiersman said, ‘but Shoh-tah-hay accepts the decision of Roman Nose and Red Cloud and thanks them for the offer to rest. I will stay overnight and leave tomorrow.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  To be a living legend was not without its penalties and the journey to Tongue River had taken its toll on the ageing body of Shatterhand. Thus it was that he slept well in the cocoon of blankets in the wickiup that had been allotted to him. So well indeed, that he had not been disturbed by the intruder who had entered and departed his lodge in stealthy silence. It was still dark when the frontiersman roused, sensing something was wrong. He lay still, half-awake, staring at the under-covering of the wickiup, unable to give a cause to the odd feeling. But he did not brush the uncertainty aside in order that sleep might reclaim him. A man who had lived more than a full lifetime surviving by senses did not dismiss such feelings.

  It was not long before he was to realize what occasioned his unease in the present circumstances. His Martini-Henry, the prototype given to him by its designer and never more than arm’s length away in the many years since, was missing. His eyes adjusting, he explored the ground around his blankets and confirmed its absence. This forebode bad news. Swiftly he got to his feet, the only sound being the creaking of his joints. Outside he shivered in the cold night air as he glanced around, no movement visible around the camp save the occasional spark lifting from one of the many embering fires. He strained to listen but the only sound reaching his old ears, the random shuffling of a pony hoof in a corral.

  He moved into the shadow of another lodge and waited, listening, looking. Then the crack of a rifle shot. His ears already attuned he located the direction: near the council circle. Ahead he heard shouts and movement as he loped between the tepees. Suddenly from nowhere he was grabbed by two Cheyenne guards. They hauled him to the council circle where a crowd had already formed.

  ‘I found this a few paces from your tepee, O Chief,’ a brave was saying as he proffered Shatterhand’s Martini-Henry to Roman Nose. ‘It is unmistakably the long weapon of the white man. And smell its barrel. It has just been fired.’

  Roman Nose felt the barrel. It is enough to sense the warmth of the weapon to know it is the one.’ He looked up to see Shatterhand being manhandled into the circle. ‘A bullet has just missed me by the whisker of a raccoon in my own lodge. What does Shoh-tah-hay have to say?’

  ‘The chief has wisdom enough to know that this has been engineered,’ Shatterhand said, his arms gripped vice-like at his sides. ‘He and I are old warriors. We both know it would be foolish for me to use my own gun if I wished to perpetrate such a deed while a guest in his camp. He should also know that I have no wish to harm him.’

  ‘Then why is Shoh-tah-hay absent from his tepee?’

  ‘I awoke to find my gun to be missing and had begun to look for it.’

  ‘Lies!’ came a harsh voice. It was Cold-Mist. ‘The infidel has come to find out if he was successful in his deed. But behold, white man. Your scheme has failed. Our noble leader is unscathed.’

  Shatterhand did not reply, aware that it would be demeaning to argue with the Chis-Chis-Chash chief. Without proof he would sound like a recalcitrant child in the school-yard.

  ‘Tie up the white man and guard him well,’ Roman Nose said. ‘Tomorrow we shall decide what is to be done with him.’

  The following morning Shatterhand was taken to the council where the chiefs were circled.

  ‘The council have debated and decided,’ Roman Nose announced. ‘The evidence against you has the nature of circumstance. Further, you are the emissary of the white chief and it would be impolitic of us to punish you when there is no direct proof of your making an attempt upon the life of a chief. In that wise, we are dispatching you back to the white Star Chief with a message. You are to convey to him that we are at our strongest and that strength you are to confirm
with your own eyes. Before the sun rises to its highest all the chiefs and their braves are to assemble in a celebration of strength. You will be a witness to that event. In the meantime no privileges are to be granted and you will confine yourself to your tepee.’

  An hour had passed when White Bull interrupted a conference between the Cheyenne and Sioux chiefs to inform them of the arrival of another party seeking audience.

  ‘Who is it?’ Roman Nose asked.

  This time White Bull hesitated.

  ‘Why do you wait?’ the chief asked. ‘Your chief has asked a question.’

  ‘At the head of the party,’ the medicine man went on, ‘rides an Apache.’

  ‘An Apache?’

  ‘It is the banished one,’ the equerry added apprehensively. ‘The Apache Winnetou.’

  ‘What!’ Roman Nose exploded, glancing at Red Cloud. ‘He has progressed thus far into our midst? Not executed on sight by our guards as is their order? By the Great Manitou, their own lives will be forfeit!’ He rose pulling his robe around his shoulders. ‘That is two times the young buck has entered the camp of The People in the face of death! Do the Apache breed fools?’

  ‘He has captives: one of our sentries and a white man.’

  The chief didn’t seem to hear. ‘Roman Nose is sorely angered by the presence of the Apache traitor,’ he went on. ‘Set a guard upon this interloper and bring him hence.’

  Winnetou was dragged before the chief. ‘You know it is death for the Apache to enter here?’ the Cheyenne chief snapped. ‘What is the meaning of this rash behavior?’