Shatterhand and the People Page 9

  ‘Shoh-tah-hay will inform the Bluecoats of his thoughts?’ Winnetou asked.

  ‘No. It will serve no purpose. At least, not yet. The man is in need of medical attention. And I wish to be sure.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Two days passed before the doctor allowed Shatterhand to visit the injured man. The invalid was weak through loss of blood and without speech due to the atrocity inflicted on his tongue. However, despite his condition, the man showed eagerness to impart his story and the frontiersman’s questions were answered, albeit labouredly, by gestures and head movements.

  ‘Your attack on Roman Nose was not opportunist,’ Shatterhand said, after it had been confirmed that it had been the Chis-Chis-Chash that had caught the man and wrought mayhem on his tongue. ‘Is it not right that you were paid to kill the Cheyenne chief?’

  The man nodded weakly.

  ‘It is as I thought,’ Shatterhand said. ‘Can you read and write?’ he went on. Again a weak nod. Shatterhand requested paper and pencil from the attendant orderly who returned minutes later. The frontiersman glanced around the room. There was a shelf containing medical books. He took one, held the paper against it and put the pencil in the invalid’s hand. ‘Who? Write down who.’

  Slowly the man scrawled letters, eventually pushing it away to signify the completion of his answer. Shatterhand turned the paper to read. The letters were spidery but unmistakably formed two words: Cold-Mist.

  ‘That too is as I suspected,’ Shatterhand said. He patted the man’s shoulder. ‘It is good that they have not cut away your conscience along with your tongue. I thank you for your effort. Now try and get some sleep.’

  Outside he spoke to his Indian companion. ‘If it will content Winnetou to be placed in such reputation as may be attained by informing Roman Nose of this fact, I can put him in a fair way of achieving the task. That is, if Winnetou will be governed by a white eyes.’

  ‘Shoh-tah-hay is wise,’ said the Apache. ‘Wise though a white eyes. And he is generous though not a believer in the Great Spirit. Winnetou has witnessed that he is both of these things.’

  ‘Then Winnetou shall make the journey once more to the Tongue River and deliver this information to Roman Nose.’

  ‘But Winnetou is banished on punishment of death from the camp of The People. The order for immediate death will be known to all look-outs.’

  ‘That task will be the test for Winnetou. And I know it will be accomplished. Shatterhand would not spur a goodly horse to a leap which he cannot achieve.’

  ‘Winnetou has no fear of meeting the Great Spirit,’ the brave said firmly, ‘but he cannot pass on messages from the vale of death. Thus his very mission would be thwarted.’

  ‘Let Winnetou be guided by my counsel,’ the frontiersman said. ‘Come let us talk with Chief Sherman.’

  ‘Unity of the red man is advantageous to both sides,’ Shatterhand said later in the general’s office. ‘To the red man unity of tribes is his strength. But it also gives one voice and one pair of ears with which Federal Peace Commissioners can negotiate for the purpose of establishing the treaty so much desired by Washington.’

  ‘True,’ Sherman said.

  ‘I have already passed on to you my observations with regard to the seeds of disunity I observed while at the camp on Tongue River. A rusted nail placed near the compass will sway it from the truth and wreck the voyage.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Sherman said to himself as he tried to follow the convoluted figure of speech thrown at him. Before him sat a man dressed in buckskin with all the appearance of an uncouth frontiersman. More than that, the guy had displayed all the skills of a frontiersman, speaking more Indian tongues than the general had probably heard of, crossing some fifty miles of terrain where any other white man would have been scalped. He could handle firearms, stalking and picking off three hardcase renegades. More, a white man on the best of terms with Roman Nose and Apache chiefs. Yet put him in an office chair and he spoke like some high-faluting aristocrat, who couldn’t handle more than a porcelain tea-cup. It figured; the scuttle-butt was this German-accented bozo had been born a duke or something. ‘How do you mean?’ Sherman asked.

  ‘Cold-Mist-from-the-Mountain,’ Shatterhand continued, ‘chief of the Mountain Lion tribe of the Chis-Chis-Chash is attempting to place such a nail near the compass of your argosy.’

  ‘Yes?’ Sherman prompted, hiding his billowing irritation with difficulty.

  ‘It was he who commissioned the three renegades to kill Roman Nose.’

  ‘Why should he do that?’

  ‘To break the already weak bonds of amity amongst the chiefs and wreck their purpose. As long as there is no overwhelming consensus amongst them there will be no general treaty. Petty rivalries existing between minor chiefs can be glossed over. But the important figures in the alliance are Red Cloud and Roman Nose. Of the two, Roman Nose is the more open to persuasion. But he has a weakness: an overwhelming reliance on his gods. He will not make any decision unless the signs are auspicious. That can be a stumbling block to negotiations. On the other hand, you have heard the words of Red Cloud. For his part, he is unyielding. As long as he maintains his attacks on whites, the possibility of a treaty acceptable to him being extended is negligible.’

  Shatterhand paused before continuing. ‘It is my view that Cold-Mist wishes the impasse to remain. To that end he attempted to have Roman Nose assassinated. If the exercise had been successful and the Cheyenne thought the perpetrators were Sioux, inter-tribal war would result and, although not necessary, it would add to his cause if the Cheyenne and Sioux fought each other. On the other hand, if whites were seen to be the cause, the Cheyenne would not offer to parley with the Peace Commissioners.’

  ‘Where is the advantage of all this for Cold-Mist?’

  ‘I believe his plan would be for he himself to seek to parley. He is wise and knows the writing is on the wall: that the red man will eventually lose. As the leader of the first major tribal faction to talk seriously with the whites, he would be able to set his own terms, extracting material goods for his own aggrandizement and taking his pick of the reservation land for his tribe.’

  ‘What evidence do you have of Cold-Mist’s role in the assassination attempt?’

  ‘The man in the sick-bay was one of the three renegades in the mission. He has confessed.’

  Sherman nodded as he absorbed the information. ‘It would be expeditious if he could be taken to the Tongue River to acquaint Roman Nose of the plot against him by Cold-Mist.’

  ‘That is so but the man would not survive the journey in his present state. But all is not lost. He has already shown he can write.’

  ‘Then what do you propose?’

  ‘That I with Winnetou return to the Tongue River, taking the man together with his written confession that we can expose Cold-Mist. Roman Nose has some faith in my words.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Sherman said, ‘should the man not last the journey to what avail will be the paper? The Indians aren’t able to read.’

  ‘There are several half-breeds and squaw-men who have been assimilated into the tribes and have the confidence of the chiefs, particularly a man called Brent. They will be able to see the evidence of our charge.’

  ‘They could suggest the confession is a fake.’

  ‘That is true but I believe, as I have said, on that matter the chiefs will take my humble word.’

  ‘Now we have no witness and no piece of paper,’ Shatterhand said. He was stripped to the waist, dousing himself in water over a tin bowl. The plan he had suggested to Sherman had been quickly thwarted. News had just reached them that the wounded man in the sick-bay had died overnight.

  Winnetou stood near him, watching the rising sun over the stockade wall. ‘There was a third man,’ the Indian said, handing his companion a towel as he began shaking off surplus water like a dog. ‘Shoh-tah-hay killed one. Another has just died. But there was a third.’

  ‘Yes,’ Shatterhand said, vigorously drying him
self in the cold morning air. ‘But he may not have survived. I may have hit him. However, my eyes aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘I think it might be of advantage for me to return to the lake and seek the man’s trail.’

  Shatterhand finished his drying and reached for his vest. ‘The trail will be cold. Winnetou is the son of his father but there is a limit even to the tracking skills of an Apache.’

  Winnetou grunted. ‘Yes, but there is no other task for me.’

  ‘Then you should follow that course,’ the white man said after some thought, ‘while I return to the camp of The People with the words of Sherman.’ He tightened the thongs on his buckskin jacket. ‘The man’s name is Cossack. I got that much out of the would-be assassin before he died. And I’ve seen a wanted poster for the man on a notice-board here. That could come in useful in your search.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  The forest thickened as Winnetou climbed. This was the beginning of the north country, a land of which he had only heard. Days had passed since he had seen buffalo or heard coyotes yip. This was a strange land, with unfamiliar trees and creatures. Before noon he had seen his first grizzly and had paused, marveling from a safe distance at the size of the monster.

  Now, he sat on his horse on the heights of an escarpment, contemplating a river far below him. Its tumbling splendor held no meaning for him, being merely an obstacle in his path. But, he reasoned, it would have been an obstacle to his quarry too. The third man had not died. At the lakeside Winnetou had quickly read the sign and picked out the man’s trail, following it as it headed north. But the Apache had long since lost the spoor of the unsuccessful assassin and so was guessing the man had come this way. The air was fresh but cold and he reasoned, had the man taken this route, he would not have chanced the crossing to remain in wet clothes in such a climate. To his left, an ascent to mountains. To the right the land fell away before him, beckoning with its prospect of warmth. No, the man was a northerner, and that was the way he would have gone. The Apache dismounted and led his pony upward over the rock and took to a game trail, a keening wind sinking its teeth into him.

  It was late afternoon when he hit his first path. When he discovered several such paths lacing the area he knew men wouldn’t be far away. Then he came across holes and the remains of workings. He had seen such holes before in the south. They were where the white man took metal from the ground. The sun’s rays were mellowing when he came finally upon a sprawl of shacks.

  He haltered his pony in the lee of some trees, threw a blanket over its back and walked along the rutted street. There were men sitting on the wooden boardwalk outside a shack. Draped in blankets and furs, their garb and language was strange to him but he recognized them as red brothers. Despite the cold they laughed and joked. He watched as a white man wearing a badge crossed the track and addressed them.

  ‘You’re real stretching my patience,’ the man said. ‘How many times have I told you not to hang around the saloon? You know Injuns ain’t allowed to drink liquor.’

  The Indians grunted amongst themselves.

  ‘And I ain’t taking no lip,’ the white badge-carrier said. ‘If I catch any of yous drinking I’ll put him inside for a spell. Now get back to your squaws before I get real angry.’

  The Indians rose and, pulling their wrappings tight against the cold wind, walked off sullenly in a group. The white man watched them until they’d disappeared then returned to his own shack.

  Winnetou walked to the end of the small settlement, past dimly lit windows, sensing the smells, hearing noises of people within. Returning to his entry point, he pondered for a spell. Looked like this was the end of his trail. He had to face it: he wasn’t going to find this Cossack. He’d heard tell the northern lands were bigger than the land of the Sioux, Cheyenne and Apache all put together. His task had become impossible. But what was he to do? Return empty-handed and in shame? To catch this man had been his only chance of redeeming himself in the eyes of Roman Nose and now that had been denied him.

  Hunger crawled in his stomach, temporarily taking his mind off his purpose, and he returned to his pony on the outskirts of the settlement. He ate the morsel of meat remaining from game he had long before killed and took a drink from his water bag while he considered his next course of action. He was on a lost cause. It was unavoidable that he should return to the Tongue River. Growling in frustration, he made the decision that he would start back at sun-up.

  The interior of the shack was dark, the little light that there was coming from a bull’s-eye lantern on a table near the door. But there was a stove in the center and, as the constable entered, one of the occupants opened the lid to drop in another handful of kindling, throwing a red glow that bounced off the ceiling. Around the room was an assortment of cots, blankets and mattresses of furs: grizzly, deer, wolf. Above the smell of smoke, the place reeked of unwashed bodies, the grease of food and the stench of dirty furs.

  The lawman had his gun in one hand and used his free hand to pick up the lantern. Without speaking, he moved around the shabby room holding the bull’s-eye near the face of each occupant in turn.

  ‘You,’ he said, after pulling the blankets from a man and examining his face, ‘come with me.’

  The man called Cossack hesitated and the constable jabbed his gun into ribs. The lawman knew he would come without trouble. Despite the man’s size he had seen in his eyes the diffidence and confusion of a simple-minded man tugged this way and that by many winds. Cossack stirred and heaved himself up, his movement imbued with the sloth of the utter fatigue of extensive riding. After he and his comrades had fouled up their task of killing the redskin on the lake he knew the Chis-Chis-Chash would be after his scalp. So, now alone, he had decided to take his chances by returning north. After many days travelling with no food and unable to sleep in the cold of the northern outdoors he had risked seeking warmth and food in a settlement.

  But his scarred face was unmistakable and he had been recognized from a poster by one of the town’s residents who had informed the sheriff.

  At gunpoint and with his hands cuffed behind him, he walked resignedly across the ice-hard ground towards the law office. Still, he was used to jails. There would be a cot, a fire and food.

  Winnetou shivered as the wind began to bite deeper. He had set about lighting a fire but before he could do so soft flakes of snow had begun to fall dampening the tinder that he had gathered and rendering the task impossible. He was cold, wet and hungry with the remains of his meager game meat eaten.

  He looked back at the low lights of the settlement. He had seen enough of the place to realize that in these lands the Indian was not seen as hostile, at least some. Maybe he could find a place of warmth for himself and his pony.

  He explored the town, noting its layout. There wasn’t much to it, low-level shacks that served as stores, sleeping quarters for workers, homes for others. One by one, the Apache looked in through dingy windows until someone in a dark interior caught sight of the inquisitive eyes and hurled abuse at him.

  He picked up the Indians’ tracks where they had trudged through the snow and followed them beyond the settlement to a camp of cone-shaped wigwams. These red brothers were slack. There was no guard on the camp and he was not challenged. Using a mixture of grunts and sign language he made himself known to them and they offered him the hospitality of their lodges. There was food left over from a meal, chopped-up meat cooked with flour, which a squaw prepared for him.

  He ate under the gaze of a growing crowd of bucks and old men, inquisitive to see the stranger. It was under these circumstances that the flaps of the tepee opened and a white squaw-man entered. He was bearded with cockleburs in his hair and communication with him went easier using the modicum of English that Winnetou had picked up from Shatterhand. The man wanted to know what an Indian of the south was doing so far north.

  Winnetou wiped grease from his lips and pulled out the reward poster. The paper was passed around the tepee and the picture
examined in the firelight by the occupants.

  One buck became excited and passed the paper back to the squaw-man who explained to the Apache that it seemed that the renegade had been seen being marched to the town jail by the constable in that very town.

  ‘Your quest is over,’ the squaw-man said. ‘You can return to your people safe in the knowledge that the man is in custody and will be dealt with.’

  Winnetou pondered on the information. Then he explained that that was not enough. The man had charges to face at the Tongue River. There was heated discussion amongst the Indians after the squaw-man had relayed the information to them. ‘These people want no trouble with the whites,’ the squaw-man said. ‘You must return and explain this to your tribe.’

  Would these people interfere, Winnetou wanted to know, should he attempt to capture the renegade from the white man’s jail? Again there was debate.

  ‘Your brothers understand your position,’ the squaw-man explained after a while. ‘They will not interfere.’ Then after a spell he added, ‘They might even help as long as they are not implicated.’

  Half an hour later, the constable couldn’t believe his ears. After all he had warned them damned redskins, he could hear drunken chanting! He pulled back the sacking from the window. Light snow was falling on a lone Indian wrapped in a blanket, sitting on the boardwalk outside the saloon. Sure enough, the critter had a bottle of bust head in his hand and was howling like a lovesick lobo.

  The lawman exhaled noisily to himself and, as he pulled on his buffalo robe, he looked back at the prone figure of the jail-bird. The light was poor from the shack’s only lamp, a primitive device consisting of a rag wick set in a vessel part-filled with skillet-grease, but was enough to confirm beyond the bars the varmint was asleep. Outside the constable crunched across the snow. ‘What the hell gets into you folk?’ he said resignedly as he faced up to the reeling figure. ‘There’s a territorial ordinance against redmen taking liquor. You know that. How many times do I have to tell yuh?’