Shatterhand and the People

by BJ Holmes

  ‘Stay easy, general,’ he said as he passed the officer. Eventually he was face to face with the redman, masking the gun from the general. All Sherman could see was the back of a head with the sun slanting off long, gray hair. Further words were exchanged and, to the onlookers’ amazement, the Indian proffered the rifle. The white man took it, opened the magazine and shucked the shells into his hand. He slipped the bullets into the Indian’s breast pocket and returned the weapon to him.

  He turned to the general. ‘The man is a Sioux. From the trappings on your uniform he recognizes your status as a Star Chief. All he’s asking for is food for his wife and four children. They are alone. They have been rendered homeless and destitute by the war against their people.’

  The general grunted as he absorbed the information. ‘Tell him, while I sympathize with his problem, he should realize we can’t accede to his request. Not now that he has acted belligerently. We can’t feed a redskin who throws down on us. Wouldn’t make sense. Be an invitation for any redskin to do the same thing.’

  ‘Of course,’ the stranger said. ‘But there’d be no harm in you giving me permission to draw some army rations. With you absent from the scene I hand them to him.’ The general looked the man over as he spoke. His old face was tanned and creased. Dressed in buckskins and moccasins, he had the look of a redskin himself. ‘That way, you haven’t lost face, and he goes away thinking white men aren’t all that bad. Problem resolved.’

  ‘Rather than that,’ the army man countered, ‘I was trying to think of the appropriate punishment for the varmint.’

  The man in buckskins moved closer. ‘With respect, general, I don’t think any punishment is appropriate. You must realize you have a ticklish situation here. Besides, I don’t think this man would have shot you. The poor fellow’s at the end of his tether. They’ve been travelling for two days looking for food.’

  The general noised an ‘Mmm’. The man was right, of course. ‘Bit of a diplomat, eh?’ he mused. He thought some more. ‘Yes, why not. You have a point. See my orderly. And thank you for your intercession, sir.’

  Sherman gave an order to his adjutant while the stranger spoke in Sioux to the Indian. The Indian called and a squaw and bedraggled children came into view from over the rise. Then the general indicated for his men to vacate the scene and follow him in reboarding the train. The buckskin-clad white man walked with the adjutant along the track until they came to the provisions car.

  Some ten minutes later the small Indian family was sitting in a circle eating jerky as the locomotive whistle gave two deep hoots, signaling departure. The general looked back out of the window at the receding pathetic figures as the train began to roll once more. They were waving so he gave a perfunctory wave in return. He didn’t realize they weren’t waving to him. ‘Orderly,’ he said as he turned away, ‘who was that man who acted as a go-between back there?’

  The young uniformed man sitting opposite shrugged. ‘Don’t rightly know, sir. Think I heard someone call him Karl as he disappeared amongst the other passengers. But don’t know his full name. Some kind of railroad employee, I think.’

  ‘Foreigner, ain’t he?’

  ‘Sounded European to me, sir.’

  ‘Well, he sure knows a thing or two about redskins.’

  A couple of cars back, the man who knew a thing or two about redskins was standing on the passenger platform having returned the waves that were meant for him. With a feeling of satisfaction he stepped inside and walked along the long central passage that someone had once called an elongated spittoon. The passenger car was long because, like all American cars, its design was based on the canal boats which had preceded them, unlike the shorter German railway coaches with which he was more familiar whose format was derived from the stage coach.

  The eminent general had not known who he was, but before they had parted the old Sioux had stared for a spell at the tall man dressed in buckskin and eventually whispered a word. Shoh-tah-hay. The Indian had then nodded in final recognition but the tall white man had just smiled and gave his farewells in the Lakota tongue.

  Shoh-tah-hay, the name some redmen used for Shatterhand. The man called Shatterhand dropped onto a two-by-two seat and settled back. He pushed his wide-brimmed hat over his face, closed his eyes and took comfort from the soft melancholic choo-choo of the great stack up front.

  Chapter Three

  The two Indians had been riding for three days and were now leaving the high country. The sun was hoisted to its peak as they made their gradual descent. Men and animals gulped at the thickening air as a cool ground wind fanned their faces. As yet they had seen no one in their travels, but as they made their way along a ridge they suddenly spied activity on a plain far below. Flashes of blue could be discerned amongst the party so, whatever the workers were doing, they had an army guard. As the riders passed behind a stand of Jeffreys which would obscure them from the Bluecoats, Winnetou pointed to the grassy bunches at their feet indicating it was a convenient spot to stop with forage for their animals. They halted their ponies and took the opportunity to dismount and rest their animals.

  Winnetou squatted on a slope and shaded his eyes as he studied the distant figures at their labor. ‘Men make trail for iron horse,’ he concluded. He spoke in a halting fashion. Each privy to a different dialect, little communication had passed between them at the outset of their journey, but for practical matters and, indeed, for the purposes of companionship, they were developing a lingua franca based on a few words each had taught the other.

  ‘I too have seen the iron horse in the north,’ Drying Grass said, equally slowly. ‘Many times our hunters have crossed its tracks when chasing antelope and buffalo.’

  ‘It is a snorting monster the like of which I do not understand,’ the Apache went on. ‘But one thing is clear. The creature needs the iron tracks like the plants need the sun.’

  Drying Grass looked northward. The ridge was peppered with bushes and trees. ‘When we resume our journey, let us keep to this ridge for a spell. We will still be hidden from the view of the whites.’

  When they arrived at a knot of cottonwoods marking a swishing creek, the riders bore the signs of a long trek and their horses were weary. Many phases of the moon had passed during their journey to the north lands. They halted, dismounted and each proceeded to relieve his horse of accoutrements. The travelers then permitted the animals to drink at the creek before they refreshed themselves. Their steeds were suffered to roam loose, in confidence that their interest would prevent them from straying from the fresh water and grass. Drying Grass and Winnetou next sat down together on the turf and began to chew on their allowance of dried meat.

  The warriors not only formed a contrast in their language but in their person and features. The Cheyenne was the elder, tall and powerful. The few words he spoke were delivered in the tone of one more accustomed to command than obey. Having seen more than thirty summers he moved with certainty and determination. In stature the Apache was many inches shorter than his companion and his limbs, though well-proportioned to his person, were those of a young buck. Likewise he had a somewhat careless bearing.

  During their journey Drying Grass had found himself observing his companion. While he had the appearance of a warrior there were times when youth broke through the exterior and the Apache would be as a child. Once at a rest over, the young Indian had suddenly clambered up to the top of a tree just for the hell of it, whooping as he swung from a branch. On another occasion they had stopped by a pool, a rare feature in the hot land, and the Apache had leapt in, splashing about like some undisciplined papoose temporarily freed from his mother. On such occasions he would become aware of the Cheyenne’s unamused gaze, stiffen and try to reclaim some dignity. But too late, the Cheyenne knew him for the child he was.

  Like now. They had finished eating and coyotes were venturing close, having caught the scent of food. The Apache winked at his companion and began gathering pebbles. Then, when the animals had ventured close
, he let fly, laughing as the scavengers scattered. For several minutes he amused himself in that fashion but he ceased and straightened his face looking sheepish when the Cheyenne began to tut loudly.

  ‘Do Apaches ever grow into men?’ he asked.

  ‘Do all Cheyenne lose their high spirits?’ Winnetou responded quickly. Then he bowed his head in deference. ‘My apologies. I should not speak to an elder thus. You are right. I am sometimes forgetful of my age.’ He looked at the sun. ‘We have stayed long. We should resume.’

  In the manner of a bemused parent Drying Grass shook his head and rose. They were just gathering their effects when rifle shots crackled. Bullets chipped bark and thudded into the sod around them. As they leapt for cover they both looked in the same direction. They were being fired at by army personnel from the top of a ridge overlooking the creek valley. Drying Grass judged the distance between them and the soldiers to be probably too great for fine shooting. He caught Winnetou’s attention and pointed to their horses. Waiting their opportunity the two Indians scrambled for their steeds and managed to mount.

  Against a background of rifle fire, they splashed through the shallow water to the far side. By chance Winnetou was ahead and he glanced back after some fifty yards. Drying Grass had been hit and had fallen from his pony. The Apache whirled round and headed back along the bank. He hauled the wounded Cheyenne onto his own horse and made off. Cresting the far ridge Winnetou looked back. The barking of rifles waned. The soldiers had made only an opportunist attack and were not pursuing.

  Some miles on, Winnetou reined in to assess the position. The Cheyenne’s pony had followed them but they had lost their pack-horses. He dismounted and eased his comrade to the ground in order to examine the wound. The arm was scored and bleeding profusely but did not constitute a vital injury.

  ‘How far to the camp of The People?’ Winnetou asked after he had bound the wound, saying the words slowly in the dialect he had learned.

  ‘A day’s journey,’ Drying Grass answered.

  ‘Can you ride?’

  The Cheyenne nodded. Winnetou helped the man to mount. ‘We shall ride slow. The Bluecoats are not following.’

  It was shortly after the end of the war between the states. Following atrocities by the whites, varied Indian tribes had begun to converge on the Tongue River to form the largest concentration of Indians known to history: approaching ten thousand. It was in these circumstances that the Northern Cheyenne, the Southern Cheyenne, the Sioux, the Arapaho and others were beginning to see themselves for the first time as one, as The People. Chiefs such as Roman Nose and Red Cloud began to recognize the potential of such a force: a force capable of meeting any challenge the white man cared to make.

  Such was the scale of the camp that Winnetou located it some miles before he saw it. At first he would catch a hint on the breeze: grease, cooked meat, wood smoke. He looked across at the wounded Drying Grass who nodded, acknowledging receipt of the same sense. Although weary and in pain the Cheyenne pulled himself to an upright position so that he could approach the camp with dignity. ‘We will be challenged by guards,’ he said to his companion. ‘Leave communication to me. I will make the necessary responses.’

  ‘Can Drying Grass manage?’ Winnetou asked.

  ‘He will have to,’ Drying Grass said, forcing a grin.

  The smell of the vast habitation came more regularly to their senses and it was as the pungency become permanent in the young Apache’s nostrils that they were challenged by sentries. On such confrontations with look-outs, a gesture from Drying Grass was enough to ensure safe passage but as they continued on their way the eyes of the guards followed them, taking in the strange red brother with featherless headband at the Cheyenne’s side.

  Still without visual contact of their destination, Winnetou became conscious of a drone such as he had never heard before. Low but all-pervasive, coming down eerily from the sky. The hum became a hubbub. Then, as a white child raised in the country might be awestruck at his first sight of a city, so was Winnetou affected when, with his companion, he topped a rise and beheld the camp for the first time. Drying Grass had not exaggerated in his description: hide-covered lodges as far as the eye could see.

  ‘The wounds of Drying Grass need attention,’ Winnetou said.

  ‘Not yet,’ his companion said. ‘He must complete his task and speak with his chief.’

  They reined in and Winnetou slipped from his pony to help the Cheyenne dismount. As hostlers took their animals, braves who were obviously friends of Drying Grass clustered round him. There was much exchange until the Cheyenne indicated to Winnetou that they should proceed.

  Accompanied by a warrior escort, it took some time to get to the center of the camp with Drying Grass walking head erect in an attempt to disguise his weakness.

  Winnetou saw strange clothes and implements. Weird totems reached for the sky and lodges bore paintings, the style of which his young eyes had never before seen. Curiously-dressed squaws cleaned buffalo hides with grease. Children played between the lodges shouting out in unfamiliar tongues. Never before had he seen so many people in one place before or experienced such a volume of noise.

  Winnetou kept an eye on his companion as they were shown to the center circle around which were pitched the lodges of the chiefs. There was already great activity there. Crowding to one side were many braves talking, laughing and embracing each other.

  ‘Why such a display of affection?’ Winnetou asked as he helped the Cheyenne from his horse.

  ‘You see that chief?’ Drying Grass said, pointing to a large man swathed in a buffalo robe, head bedecked in feathers. ‘My information is that he is Black Bear, a leading chief of the Northern Arapaho. I am told he has just arrived bringing with him many warriors to swell the army of The People.’

  Again Winnetou felt shame for his own tribe that it could not send a cohort of braves.

  With such an important development as the arrival of the large Arapaho contingent it was some time before Drying Grass could present himself to the chiefs. By that time the brave was weakening fast.

  Roman Nose was clad in deer skins garnished with broad bands of porcupine quills down the sleeves of his shirt and leggings. He turned to the two newcomers. ‘Greetings, Drying Grass.’

  The Cheyenne emissary signed to his chief.

  ‘What news of Victorio, Intschu-tschuna and Mangas Colorado?’ Roman Nose asked.

  Drying Grass winced as he straightened his frame to speak with some bearing to his leader. With somber face, he explained the Apaches’ circumstances and that he had made contact with Intschu-tschuna only, relaying messages from the Apache chief. Through all this Roman Nose nodded. ‘My warrior has wounds,’ he observed when the brave had finished.

  Drying Grass effected the introduction of Winnetou and explained how they had been shot at by soldiers. ‘I have my Apache companion-in-arms to thank for my life,’ he concluded. It was clear he now had trouble standing. ‘Upon my being shot and falling from my horse he came back and rescued me, binding my injury and bringing me back to the camp of The People.’

  ‘Your wounds need attention,’ Roman Nose said. ‘My own squaw will do whatever is necessary. She has comforted me after many a bloody battle.’ He clapped his hands and his wife stepped from the lodge door. She wore a dress of mountain-sheepskin ornamented with quills and beads, her hair plaited in large braids that hung down on her breast. As she moved forward she gave her own silent commands and Drying Grass was helped to the lodge by two braves.

  Winnetou made the necessary compliments, then passed on his message from his grandfather, laying presents at the feet of the Cheyenne chief. Again he was ashamed. The bulk of the presents had been on the pack-horse lost during the soldiers’ attack. All that remained were two: a rifle with ammunition to signify Intschu-tschuna’s wishes that Roman Nose would fare well in battle and a sacred ornament.

  The chief thanked the Apache and passed the rifle to one of his lieutenants for inspection. He turned
his attention to the ornament. It was widely known that Roman Nose had a devout interest in the things of the other world and laid great store by magic and the workings of the spirits. ‘Explain more of this,’ he said, touching it with his finger. With a thong for allowing it to be worn around the neck, it was a star cut from leather. A feather was fixed to the center from which dangled a strip of buffalo hide.

  ‘It is a thing of medicine,’ Winnetou explained, picking it up. ‘It is greatly prized amongst our chiefs and has been used by them in sacred ceremonies.’ He pointed to the star. ‘This is the morning star. He who sees it and wears it, will see more, for he shall be wise.’ He touched the feather. ‘This means waken tonka so that the thoughts of Roman Nose will rise as high as the eagle flies.’ He slipped the buffalo strip through his fingers. ‘And this means that the mighty chiefs hunting will always be enough to fill the bellies of his clan. It has served the Apache well and Intschu-tschuna wishes that his brother Roman Nose should wear it.’

  The chief smiled. It clearly gave him satisfaction.

  ‘And,’ Winnetou concluded, ‘as it is not propitious for Intschu-tschuna to send warriors, he has sent me as a token, his grandson and heir, that I should fight alongside the braves of The People’s alliance.’

  The Cheyenne chief nodded. ‘The gift will be equally treasured in the lodge of Roman Nose. Now, we understand the plight of your race and our wishes are for success in Intschu-tschuna’s struggles with the white man. We also acknowledge the honor in his sending of his grandson for service with The People.’

  Although the words were kind and showed understanding Winnetou felt like a poor relation in the company. Here were braves of all branches of the Indian nation and he had just seen the way the Northern Arapaho were being welcomed. He had shame that his clan could not put warriors at the disposal of The People. This was surely a grand endeavor. And he felt chagrin at the inadequacy of his gifts.