Shatterhand and the People Page 4

  ‘Not by necessity,’ Winnetou answered. ‘There would be methods for overcoming that eventuality. By way of instance, if we were to take the tracks from a stretch ahead of the creature which is unseen by the iron horse’s master. Also we could disguise the damage to the tracks so that it would not be easily observed by the master.’

  ‘These things have never been done,’ said the chief. ‘Can the Apache guarantee success?’

  ‘This brave has few summers,’ Winnetou said, ‘but already he is aware that it is only the fool who guarantees success in any circumstance.’

  Roman Nose smiled.

  ‘However,’ Winnetou continued, ‘I do believe these suggestions carry enough chance of success for it to be worth the while of an attempt. Further, if braves are successful in such an endeavor, the chiefs will know if the iron horse brings the new guns. Also, the bringing to earth of one of the metal creatures will be another blow against the white man and hinder his power of transporting Bluecoats and their supplies.’

  Sleeping Rabbit raised his hand and Roman Nose nodded for him to speak. ‘Sleeping Rabbit requests permission to lead a party on such an enterprise,’ the brave said. Then he added, with a glance at the sneering Little River, ‘He would wish to be accompanied by the Apache.’

  It was after seeking counsel from the other chiefs that Roman Nose gave his blessing to the expedition.

  The heavens were still studded with stars when Sleeping Rabbit, eager to be under way and prove his rightness in the matter, came to arouse Winnetou. Casting aside his blanket, the Apache was on his feet while the Cheyenne brave moved away to make low calls at the entrances of other lodges. As braves issued from concealment into the moonlight, the only salutation between them were the gestures for silence.

  Within a short while there were some twenty warriors mounted and moving across the dew-covered grass. Just as the day dawned, they entered the sheltered confines of a plain, lined by high and ragged mountains to see one of the white man’s iron trails in the distance. They proceeded silently down the grade and soon reached the railroad tracks.

  They dismounted and the leaders surveyed the scene while braves kicked at the gravel foundations.

  Sleeping Rabbit was about to order his men to set about working on the tracks but was stayed by the Apache. ‘We do not know from which direction the iron horse will travel,’ Winnetou pointed out. He looked east then west along the tracks. ‘We need to break the trail at two places,’ he said pointing, ‘at both entrances to the plain.’

  They mounted and rode east until they came to a cleft in the rocks from which the curving track emerged. Winnetou pointed to the cottonwood ties and ordered that some of them be removed. The slats were then used to lever a track from its base. Once one had been broken away attention was focused on the second. The braves toiled with patient industry until Sleeping Rabbit and Winnetou were in agreement, pronouncing that they believed enough track had been removed. They ripped up some scrub and threw it over the results of their work. Winnetou walked between the tracks and satisfied himself the damage could not be seen by an approaching train. He ordered a brave to scale one of the rocks and keep a look-out.

  Then the party journeyed across the plain and repeated the operation where the track curved into rocky terrain. Finally, a look-out was posted on the adjacent heights and the Indians took to the shade of some greasewood to wait.

  The sun had risen to its highest when the signal eventually came that a train approached from the east. The ground shuddered as the band headed towards the gap in the rocks. The locomotive emerged before they reached the location but it was of no consequence: the engineer had either not seen the damage early enough or reckoned the scrub was merely wind-blown vegetation on the line.

  Riding hard, the Cheyenne began giving out their wolf-call war signals in anticipation, seeing the locomotive crash through the scrub to the sound of crunching metal. Agonizingly, the traction wheels on the one-eyed Cyclops went into reverse gear as the engineer fought to save the train. But it was too late; there was no more track. Dust clouds rose, cottonwood ties splintered. The Cheyenne reined in, whooping and yelling, to watch the majestic iron horse, clawing at gravel, thunder over on its side. As the metal monster slithered along the ground its flared funnel-stack spat fire along the ground scorching the grass, a final, pathetic display of contempt at its demeaning treatment.

  The tender careered from the rails, spilling its lumber like matchsticks. The noise was deafening as cars and wagons followed suit, smashing one into the other, some rearing upwards in a concertina effect.

  Men clambered from the upturned sides only to meet a storm of arrows and bullets. The engineer had been thrown from his cab. Dazed and bloodied, he hauled himself to his feet. He gestured wildly but fire was concentrated upon him and he collapsed with bullets still kicking up the dirt around his body. The firing never slackened.

  One man broke away but two Indians pursued him and clubbed him to the ground. More passengers managed to break free but the braves shot them down as they fled. Some Indians dismounted and fired from a distance while others leapt on to the upturned carriages and fired through the windows and doors.

  ‘Enough!’ Winnetou shouted. ‘We shall take what we can and fire the rest.’

  Sleeping Rabbit gave the command and the firing lapsed to occasional shots as an over-excited Indian wandering around the debris finished off a wounded white.

  With their war-axes they broke open the wagons and brought out sacks of flour, sugar and coffee. One found some whiskey and began drinking with his friends before the revelry was stopped by Sleeping Rabbit.

  Winnetou approached the upturned locomotive. Bloodied legs stuck out from underneath. The engineer’s assistant had been crushed beneath the machine as it had toppled. The Apache looked inside the cab. Scattered embers from the still roaring fire-box lay smoldering.

  He called some nearby braves. ‘Use these to burn the houses,’ he ordered. He walked over to Sleeping Rabbit. ‘We must ride soon before the Bluecoats come and punish us.’

  When the wagons and cars were truly ablaze some quarter of an hour later the Indians mounted. The command was given and they began to ride out across the prairie, some with long colored streamers trailing behind them from bolts of cloth tied to their ponies’ tails.

  ‘Look!’ one brave shouted before they had ridden very far. He was pointing back. Miraculously, two passengers had survived the slaughter and were racing for the high ground. ‘To me lies the honor of finishing them!’ the brave shouted, wheeling his pony.

  ‘Leave them!’ Winnetou ordered. ‘We need someone to tell the Washington chiefs of what happened this day.’

  Chapter Six

  They had taken as much merchandise as they could carry and there was great rejoicing in the camp of The People when the band returned. Much to Little River’s chagrin, Sleeping Rabbit and the Apache were feted by the chiefs around the camp-fire. Roman Nose publicly declared how pleased he was that the success confirmed his choice of Winnetou as his personal castellan and how he relished the prospect of later informing the still-absent Red Cloud of the deed.

  Even so, the minor victory was not enough to permanently offset the mood within the camp and, with the passing of weeks, the goodwill that had brought The People together began to show some signs of dissipation. Following the earlier defeats which had become known as the Hayfield and Wagon Box fights, spirits were in decline. The Cheyenne chief did not have the diplomatic tongue of Red Cloud. Without his strong ally, Roman Nose found his authority being slowly undermined by jealousies developing amongst the lesser chiefs. Not having the patience of his fellow Sioux leader, Roman Nose ceased to veil his own haughtiness and contempt for those whom he believed his inferiors in courage and military talent. Such discords, and particularly those between him and Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain, created disputes and obstacles which impeded every active measure proposed by the heroic Cheyenne chief. As it was, the ranks of The People were daily thinned
by the desertion of entire bands headed by their respective leaders who withdrew from a contest in which they had ceased to hope for success.

  To live in such numbers on a fixed site was new to redmen used either to dwelling in small settled groups or living the life of the nomad. The camp was becoming unbearable. The stench rose and the water became fouled by human droppings. Sickness amongst the inhabitants mounted. Game and edible vegetation was fast becoming scarce and petty conflicts over resources became common. Some chiefs argued to give up the campaign. Others argued for a speedy and determined all-out attack on white strongholds while they still had the numbers to make it possible. Yet others argued for securing the camp occupied by diminishing followers with fortifications, as if preparing to repel an attack from a powerful enemy than to assume the proud character of conquerors and assailants.

  Several chiefs argued for disbanding The People and for each tribe to follow existing treaties. It was true that in 1865 a United States treaty commission had travelled along the upper Missouri handing out presents in exchange for signatures on treaties. But Roman Nose pointed out that the treaties were meaningless because not one warrior chief had signed them.

  The Cheyenne chief Dull Knife agreed that present treaties were worthless but made a case for tribes once more going their own ways and for each to negotiate a separate treaty. Roman Nose chided his sub-chief by saying that, without the advantage of the massive numbers that were now congregated, the treaties would surely give the white man more than he gave.

  At this point Roman Nose was at a loss at how to handle the situation. Although he had some natural powers of leadership he would sometimes sit alone in his lodge shaking with feelings of inadequacy. It was not widely known but he was not a full chief. Although he bore the title he had never been fully initiated. Many years before, when his clan was leaderless during a time of war with a neighboring tribe, the mantle of chief had fallen on his shoulders as the current first-lieutenant. With the passage of time Cheyenne elders had either forgotten the technicality of his lack of initiation or had chosen to forget. There was no one better amongst his tribe. He had a commanding personality and repeatedly demonstrated prowess in battle. But there were occasions when he felt inferior. This was one of those times.

  He summoned White Bull, his medicine man, and in the privacy of his lodge asked of him, ‘What shall be my course? We have discord and the voices are not speaking to Roman Nose.’

  His aide paused and then said, ‘There is a medicine lake nearby. It is my counsel that the chief should journey to it alone. He should take his Morning Star and other magic objects. He should live with the water spirits. They will speak.’

  ‘For how long shall I remain?’ Roman Nose asked.

  White Bull took bones from the leather pouch hanging from his belt. He knelt on the ground and made low incantations, finally throwing down the bones. He studied their configuration. ‘Four days and four nights.’

  Roman Nose was a strong believer in such things and accepted the instruction without question. ‘This I will do,’ he said. ‘Summon Winnetou, my castellan. He shall accompany me in this pilgrimage.’

  Chapter Seven

  The window of the Cosmopolitan Hotel faced west across Platte City. General Sherman stood, his hands clasped behind him, looking down through the grimy glass, across the settlement. His lips were tight.

  He had planned to continue to the end of the line but when they pulled into Platte they were given the news that there was trouble: news had just come in of an Indian attack further along the track. It had been planned well in advance with the rails being ripped up and the Indians just waiting for the first train to attempt passage. According to the two survivors who had made it to town, it looked like all the train’s occupants had been killed. This was a new development. Not only did it mean that hostilities were continuing but it was the first time a train had been successfully stopped. Up till now the Redman had been frightened of the iron horse and had shown it a measure of respect. Now they knew it was vulnerable and rail traffic, like civilian travel by road, would cease. When Washington heard about this latest incident there would be more pressure on him for a resolution.

  He didn’t have enough men with him to effect a useful pursuit. Not that that was necessarily the best policy anyway. It was going to be a problem even planning a detail to collect the bodies.

  Such an attack was to have been expected. The Indians had repeatedly complained of the iron horse frightening away the game from Powder Country. It had been only a matter of time before they found a direct way of solving their problem.

  Worse, behind him on the table was a pile of communications, serving the purpose of briefing him on his arrival. He’d waded through them, his heart sinking further with each message. It was all bad news. The chiefs were disdaining presents and refusing to enter into talks. Any uniformed men venturing westward, even under a flag of truce, would be liable to attack. Army intelligence was reporting that a massive force of Indians was now gathered on the Tongue. The minimum estimate was five thousand braves. Maybe double. And growing.

  Hell, the number of soldiers that he would have to request in order to face such a horde would be unprecedented. There would be no point in sending for reinforcements. This Indian business had been going on for years and Washington would balk at using yet more resources. Existing military was already stretched across the whole of the frontier and there was a considerable lobby in the capital against expanding the budget. The only hope of avoiding a bloodbath was in using non-military intermediaries acceptable and respected by the Indians. But whom? Was there anyone left willing to risk life and limb? In the past, trader Indians had been used as go-betweens but there were none in Platte City in whom he had confidence. Sometimes white frontiersmen had been used, the most famous being Jim Bridger. But Sherman had got a notification in his briefing papers from Fort Laramie to the effect that Bridger and Medicine Calf Beckworth, an old mulatto who had lived with the Indians for fifty years, had both refused to get involved on account of the Indians being so stirred up by atrocities. If the task had now become too much for a man of Bridger’s capability, the most experienced white negotiator, then ... what?

  From the window he saw a couple of Indians walking down the street. There were always some redmen, full-blooded or half-breeds, hanging around forts and white settlements. Hey, could he use a couple of them as go-betweens? He pondered on the possibility. But the notion was only in his mind for a brief moment. Hell, it would be naive to entrust such a mission to the likes of them, neither one thing or the other and despised by both sides. What was he thinking of? They would have little credibility with the warrior chiefs.

  An impasse. Sherman ran his fingers through his white hair as he returned to the table. He was approaching retirement and had been hoping to leave the service on a high note. Sitting at the table and perusing the missives yet again, he reckoned he would more likely be finishing his military career under a cloud of ignominy.

  Then another idea edged its way into his consciousness. He called his adjutant.

  ‘Sir?’ the young man said, saluting upon entry.

  ‘I’ve just been thinking,’ the general said. ‘That foreigner who handled the incident with the old Sioux during the journey out here. See what you can find out about him.’

  It was a couple of hours later that General Sherman rose from behind the table which now served as his desk. ‘Good of you to come, sir,’ he said as the buckskin-clad figure entered.

  With a gnarled-leather hand, the man removed his wide-brimmed hat revealing flowing white hair. ‘Good day to you, sir. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  ‘Pray be seated,’ the general went on, indicating a chair alongside the table.

  The deep lines cutting the terrain of the visitor’s face testified to his age but there was a hint of suppleness and strength in his limbs as he crossed the room. The fringes on his jacket and leggings swung as he complied with the request and took occupancy of the cha
ir.

  The general opened a box and proffered a cigar but the man declined. ‘Thank you, no. Smoking is not one of my pastimes, but you go ahead.’

  The man’s speech was gutturally accented but delivered clearly. The scuttle-butt was the man was central European: German, Austrian, something like that. ‘Thank you, sir,’ the general said, taking out a cigar. It irritated him that he was beginning to feel the man’s inferior. There was a naturalness about the way in which the man had given him permission to smoke in his own room. And him a general. But it wasn’t just that. The whole of the fellow’s manner exuded a subtle refinement belied by his rough backwoodsman appearance. Some kind of Teutonic aristocrat, he wouldn’t be surprised.

  ‘No doubt, sir,’ the army man went on after he’d lit his cigar, ‘you have heard the various items of news buzzing about the town? We have an Indian problem. And it’s escalating.’

  ‘Yes, I have heard about the train derailment.’

  ‘Hell of a bad business. But the government is determined to protect the route of the Union Pacific Railroad. In a way that puts us on the same team, you and I.’ The military man studied his visitor for a spell. ‘You work as a surveyor for the railroad, do you not? Selecting sites for track-laying and soon.’

  ‘That is true. So?’

  ‘Bear with me, sir. You are known, but enigmatic at the same time. One thing I cannot find out about you is your name. Some say your given name is Karl; others call you Charlie; yet others refer to you as Shatterhand.’

  The stranger grunted and smiled. ‘Old Shatterhand in truth. The adjective was used even in my youth. Now it is appropriate, being commensurate with aching joints.’

  The general grinned, working his own arthritic fingers. ‘You do not have a monopoly on aches and pains, sir. Age sneaks up on us all. Anyway, what do I call you?’