Shatterhand and the People Page 8
Chapter Thirteen
The various chiefs drew up a list of their claims and the white emissary dutifully wrote them all down so there should be no mistake. Then he and his Apache bond-slave set off east, journeying throughout the day with little communication between them. Winnetou rode behind his new master with the stupefied feelings of one who, fallen from the summit of a precipice, and escaping unexpectedly with his life, is still without the power of estimating the extent of the damage he has sustained. Aware of his companion’s feelings of shame, Shatterhand was leaving it to the Apache to decide when the time had come to talk.
Eventually, natural practicality came to the fore and overcame the Indian’s reticence. ‘We make camp?’ Winnetou said late in the day, eyeing the scene ahead. With a stream and trees forming a windbreak, it was a suitable site. ‘It is best that we do so while there is light for us to select the spot.’
‘Sure,’ Shatterhand said. ‘I’ll make a fire. You see what you can fetch out of the woods yonder for our stomachs.’ Of the two tasks hunting would help more to restore the young brave’s dignity. By the time the frontiersman had got a substantial crackle going and erected a makeshift spit, the Indian emerged in the fading light bearing a small arrow-shot deer. An hour later, they had finished eating and were sitting at the fire listening to nature’s whispers on the night wind.
After a while Shatterhand rose and crossed the clearing to tend to the horses, leaving his companion cross-legged, still without speech of any kind. The frontiersman returned and sat alongside him. ‘My friend,’ he said, ‘be of good comfort. It was written by a poet that “It is better that a man should be the servant of a kind master, than the slave of his own wild passions”.’
The Indian nodded with vague understanding and made an effort to thank his benefactor, but his heart was too full.
‘Be of good courage,’ Shatterhand persisted. ‘There is a story in the white man’s book called the Bible where a young brave called Joseph was sold to a chief by his brethren. But the chief treated him with kindness and dignity. In like manner the new Cheyenne chief of Winnetou has bestowed him on one who will be to him as a brother. It cannot be otherwise between Sho-tah-hay and the son of Winnetou.’
‘I did not know my father,’ the brave said after a while. ‘He died before my mother bore me. You knew him.’ The last was a statement, not a question. That he was aware of the identity of his benefactor was confirmed by the words that followed. ‘My shame is all the more, being before the eyes of the warrior-comrade of my father.’
Shatterhand looked at the young man’s face. In the gleam of firelight he could see the familiar features of his long-lost companion. ‘You will know from the stories which are told that he died in my arms. But Winnetou, your father and my blood brother, has not gone.’ In a wide sweep of his hand he took in the rippling stream along its breadth, the shadow forms of the trees, the just discernible silhouette of the mountain in the distance. ‘Everywhere his essence is still my companion. While he walked the earth I loved your father as much as one man can love another. It is true that his moccasins no longer crackle the twigs, but our spirits are one.’
‘The voice of Shoh-tah-hay does not bear the sound of the other Yengli. His manner of speech differs, but tales around the camp fire do not tell of whence he came. He is not from this land.’
‘No, I am not English, or Yengli as your brothers say. My home was beyond the Yengli’s island. It is a big land, although not as big as yours. We have many names: Teutons, Huns, Prussians, Germans. It is a beautiful land with snow mountains, as here.’ He waved at the night and the white peaks that could just be seen. ‘Also, like your land, ours has strife. So far away I am out of touch, but the last I heard the nations still fight each other across the breadth of the countryside.’
‘Shoh-tah-hay has had many victories. He has a love of combat.’
‘I have fought when I had to but I have no joy in combat. I do not like what our people call civilization nor do I like savagery. There are only two places for a man of my disposition: the wilderness beyond the frontier or the sea.’ He paused, listening to the sounds of the forest. ‘But enough about an old man. What of you? Tell me of your life.’
The young brave talked of things familiar to Shatterhand, Apache camp life, initiation as a warrior, and the words brought warmth to his heart. He laid his hand affectionately on Winnetou’s shoulder, and they both sat silent as the firelight waned. He considered himself responsible for the young brave, an extension of his sacred bond with the mighty Winnetou of yesteryear. ‘I have known these things,’ he said after a while. ‘To walk amongst such men is an honor.’
Although he had never met him, the young brave had known of this man all his life and there was nothing but respect for him on the lips of the Apache elders. A man versed in both the ways of the white and red, embodying the virtues of truth, wisdom, bravery, justice, and thus a man to whom one listened. It was for this reason that, after a long silence, he asked, ‘What does Shoh-tah-hay think will be the outcome of the war between the red and white?’
‘It is fated that the redman will lose whichever path he chooses,’ the frontiersman sighed.
‘How can they lose now that they are congregated in such numbers? The eyes of Winnetou have never seen so many red brothers in one place. Surely they are undefeatable?’
Shatterhand sighed again. ‘I am afraid, my dear young warrior, that the red men are not aware of their own history. Roman Nose and Red Cloud think that this coming together in the pursuit of strength is new but it is not. Over a hundred years ago in the east the Iroquois banded together into what is known as the Five Nations to resist the white man. They were defeated, many killed and the remnants driven north into the land called Canada.’ He threw some branches on the fire.
‘Maybe Winnetou has heard of Pontiac?’
‘It is not a name known to me.’
‘Well, he was the brave chief of the Ottawas. Some hundred summers ago he had the same magnificent idea and united all the tribes in the Great Lakes country. He too was beaten.’
‘You have much knowledge of our peoples.’
Shatterhand shrugged. ‘At the beginning of this century the Shawnee chief Tecumseh formed an even greater confederacy of redmen. A man of much diplomacy he brought together the mid-western and southern tribes. It was a magnificent vision but they too were defeated by the whites.’ He stirred the fire with a stick. ‘In Iowa some years ago I had reason to visit the Territorial governor. On display in his office is a skeleton. I asked who it was. The bones were the sorry remains of the Illinois Chief Black Hawk. That indignity was his reward for creating an alliance of three tribes—the Winnebagos, the Pottawotamies and the Kickapoos—in an attempt to stop the taking of his land by the whites.’
From the darkness beyond their camp came the sound of an animal’s foot on leaves but there was no fear in the heart of Shatterhand. ‘No,’ he continued, ‘the idea of Roman Nose and Red Cloud that the white man can be resisted by uniting tribes is not new. Even though they bring together more braves than history has seen, it is still not workable. Unlike the white, the red man does not know how to live together in great numbers. It is not his way. It needs planning, the setting up of permanent towns and fortifications. The red man is not familiar with these things, knowing only a simple way of life. Even now, there is disunity amongst the chiefs on the Tongue. Roman Nose has tried to cover it up but you and I have seen it.’
‘There is wisdom in your words. But is it not true that, if they can stay together long enough to be a threat to the invader, they will be able to get a treaty out of the white man, and that will be good?’
‘The Indian will lose there too. From the days of the Spaniards and English the white man has never kept a treaty.’ Resignation was now heavy in his voice. ‘But it is true that that path will involve less bloodshed and so is the better of two evils. For that reason, now that fate has made me an intermediary in the business, I will do my best in the
task and not abandon my friends.’
His ancient fingers curled in a fist and he affectionately punched the young warrior’s upper arm. ‘Come. We have much riding to do tomorrow and must sleep.’
Chapter Fourteen
The wagon jouncing over the grass plain beneath the foothills had a makeshift tarp tent erected on its back. As he bobbed on the seat Lucas Blaine squinted his eyes, raking the slopes in search of the native look-outs that he knew were there. Sunlight caught and flashed from a lance-tip and he felt goose-flesh make headway up his arms carving a route to the back of his neck. It was always thus when he approached the stronghold, yet he had no cause to fear the Chis-Chis-Chash despite the fact he knew that elsewhere redmen were killing whites. A half-breed, he was respected by the tribe for his fair dealing in trade, bringing flour, sugar, pots, pans, in exchange for furs.
He signaled a halt to his brace of horses when he clearly saw a brave with raised arm standing high on a rocky turret. He flicked the reins to continue when the arm swung beckoningly. Slowly he wound his way along the rising trail into the hills. The flat-topped col known as the Iron Rock was divided from the rolling landscape by sheer walls and served as a natural, impregnable fortification.
Making the summit he could see why for a generation the Mountain Lion faction of the Cheyenne led by Cold-Mist had used the place for protection. No enemy could pass or breach it. Women, children, braves ceased their activities in order to investigate the newcomer and, although by the time he eventually halted amongst the tepees his wagon was surrounded, he sensed the camp to be less populated than usual. As greetings were exchanged he learned the reason: Cold-Mist and a contingent of warriors were away. Details were not given and he knew enough not to press for information but he was sufficiently aware of the current situation in the region to guess the chief had joined forces with the Sioux and other Cheyenne at the Tongue River. He had traded with the tribe long enough to sense their mood and on this occasion he felt a tension, especially amongst the men-folk. But such matters were no concern of his and he proceeded to hand out small gifts in his normal way as a preliminary to conducting his business proper. Wide-eyed squaws giggled over silks, satins and trinkets while children ran away with handfuls of candy.
An hour later, after satisfactory trade had been completed by smoking with the elders, he commenced the descent with his wagon loaded up with hides. It was a long journey back to the settlement and he spelled the horses late in the afternoon. Using his portable stove he brewed some coffee and sat against the wagon wheel stuffing his pipe, relishing the prospect of tasting good tobacco after the unpalatable concoction he had smoked out of courtesy with the Indians.
He’d just lit up when he heard noises coming from the wagon. Sounded like groaning. Puzzlement crimping his features, he rose and went round to the back of the vehicle. Yes, there was a noise and it was coming from under the stack of skins. He hauled himself up and began rummaging amongst his freight, his stomach turning at the hide stink trapped within the tarp tent. Then, the closer he got to the bottom of the pile the more he became aware of some unexpected bulk beneath. He pulled away the remaining skins to expose the groaning figure of a man. A white man.
‘Christ,’ he muttered, standing up and appraising the fellow. He was in bad shape. He must have climbed into the wagon when no one was looking and worked his way under the hides. No doubt he had done so when Blaine had been socializing with the elders and attention had been off the wagon. The trader dropped from the vehicle and heaved the man out, lowering him gently to the ground. It was difficult to tell whether the guy was wounded, smeared as he was with blood from the hides. Unfixing the pail of water he always carried under the wagon, he used a wet rag to wash the man’s face. He was wounded. There was something wrong with his face, particularly around the mouth and jaw. He cleaned the face more assiduously and tried to prise open the jaw to wipe the congealed mess away from the lips. The action was obviously the cause of discomfort, its effect being to bring forth obscene gurgles from the unfortunate’s mouth. Upper and lower lips were parted with vertical slits. Blaine tried to look see inside. Redness obscured the teeth. It was a mire of blood. Then Blaine could see why. A savage knife-slice deep into the man’s throat had given him two tongues.
God knows what a doctor could do for him, but Blaine would have to get him to the settlement as quickly as he could.
At Fort Laramie Shatterhand and Winnetou were shown to the livery. From there the hungry travelers were conducted to the mess hall. Out of regular meal times there were no soldiers and the two had the place to themselves while they faced up to a specially prepared repast. While the hungry Shatterhand wolfed into the beans and bacon the Apache could be prevailed upon to taste nothing, a mixture of apprehension at the unfamiliar fare coupled with the disgust which he still felt for himself. They were then shown to their temporary quarters where the Indian dropped upon his allotted bunk and stared at the ceiling.
The frontiersman desisted from any further attempts at consolation. ‘I have to conduct business with the white chief,’ he said firmly. ‘It is important that Winnetou be present.’
The two made their way across the sandy ground to the staff officer’s quarters.
‘Glad to witness your safe return,’ Sherman said, shaking the hunter’s hand as he entered the general’s office. Releasing the hand, he looked quizzically at the Indian.
‘This is Winnetou, grandson of the Mescalero chief Intschu-tschuna,’ Shatterhand explained. ‘He serves with The People as the Apache representative and in that capacity has acted as the bodyguard of Roman Nose.’ He made no mention of his companion’s reduced status, not wishing to demean him in the eyes of the white chief.
Winnetou remained at the back of the room and raised a greeting hand which was reciprocated by the general. ‘You heard about the delegation?’
Sherman asked, indicating a chair in front of his desk.
‘No,’ Shatterhand said, sitting down. ‘A delegation of what?’
‘Indians. Some Crow chiefs came in.’
‘Was anything settled with them?’
‘No. They were friendly but their spokesman Chief Bear Tooth threw the ball right back into my court; gave me an ultimatum before he rode off. Told me that we should take our young men from the mountains of the bighorn sheep. Said we had run over their country, destroyed the growing wood and the green grass, and set fire to their lands. Claimed we’re killing their animals, not to eat but to leave them to rot where they fall. Finally he posed the reverse of the situation. Said if they came to my country and killed my animals, what would I say? Wouldn’t I have every right to make war on them?’
‘Is he wrong?’
‘He’s hell-fire right,’ the general admitted. ‘But where does that leave us in our damned negotiations with them?’ He breathed deeply. ‘So we’re still on square one. Anyways, you made contact with Roman Nose and Red Cloud?’
‘Yes. They have been very hospitable.’
‘What strength do they have?’
‘I remind the general that he commissioned me as a go-between, not as a spy. Only by being neutral can I maintain their trust. However, I do not think I am betraying that trust if I say that your intelligence that they number ten thousand is not an over-estimate. They are united in their common cause against the whites and a considerable military force to be reckoned with. Tribes have encamped together upon ground where they had never before met save for the purpose of scalping each other.’
Sherman grunted, nodded. ‘And what message do the chiefs send?’
‘No better than the Crow. Red Cloud and Roman Nose will come to Laramie to talk peace as soon as the soldiers are withdrawn from the forts on the Powder River road.’
Sherman shook his head. ‘They couldn’t ask for much more.’
‘Their war is being fought for one purpose,’ Shatterhand continued. ‘To save the valley of the Powder, the only hunting ground left to their nation, from intrusion by white men.’
‘I have taken down his words translated into English,’ Shatterhand said, taking a paper from his pocket. He held it up and Sherman nodded for him to read. ‘The Great Father sent his soldiers out here to spill blood,’ he read. ‘I did not first commence the spilling of blood. If the Great Father kept white men out of my country, peace would last forever, but if they disturb me, there will be no peace. The Great Spirit raised me in this land, and has raised you in another land. What I have said I mean. I mean to keep this land.’
‘And he won’t come in to talk for anything less?’
‘No, sir.’
‘You couldn’t talk to him again?’
‘You have asked me to work as an intermediary. I have done so and met the chiefs. They have made their requests and they await an answer. I have their trust. It would be extremely discourteous for me to return with no new proposal or concessions from you.’
‘I am not empowered to give them the extent of what they want. This is more than an army matter. I will have to contact and take my instruction from Washington.’
‘That will take some time,’ Shatterhand said, rising. ‘In the interim I will remain on call at the fort.’
Shatterhand was crossing the compound with his Indian companion when Blaine’s wagon rolled into the fort. He heard him shouting for a doctor as he dropped from the high seat. Seemed the trader had come across a victim of an Indian attack. By the time the driver had dropped the wagon’s tail-gate a crowd was gathering. Shatterhand watched as soldiers helped Blaine get the injured man out. There was blood around the man’s mouth. The frontiersman squinted his ancient eyes. Even from a distance there was something vaguely familiar about the figure. He nodded to his companion to follow him and stepped forward to get a closer look.
‘Now that is a coincidence,’ he said eventually to Winnetou. ‘I think I might know that man. The face means nothing but the build and clothing are those of one of the renegades who were trying to kill Roman Nose at the sacred lake. See, the bloodstain at the shoulder? If I am not mistaken that would be where he took my bullet.’ He shrugged in resignation. ‘I am old and was too stove-up o check the bodies at the lake. Wouldn’t have happened in my younger days! Huh, if one lived, maybe both did.’