by BJ Holmes
‘The sobriquet will suffice.’
‘Mmm,’ Sherman said. Sobriquet? Suffice? By the manner of the man’s speech and his choice of words, he had an education not available in the backwoods. ‘Well, Mr. Shatterhand, you will also know that the railroad has now stopped all civilian services. Of more significance to yourself, it has suspended all exploratory exercises. The agreement with the Indians over the company’s permission to lay new tracks through Powder Country seems to be in dispute. You say you heard about the train derailment?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Goddamn nasty business,’ the general went on. ‘The varmints massacred all but two who managed to escape with the story. Used the embers from the locomotive’s fire-box to burn the whole train. Anyway, the point is: how does your employment stand, now railroad activities are halted?’
‘I sit on my backside and await further instructions. Till then the company are paying me a retainer.’
I see.’ The general rose and crossed to the window. ‘I have a proposition, Mr. Shatterhand.’
‘Continue.’
‘I have a need for someone to act as go-between with the Sioux-Cheyenne alliance. They’re camped over on the Tongue River, conducting sorties and firing at soldiers on sight. The upshot is, I’m looking for a civilian with knowledge of Indian dialects and their ways. Someone who’s got a diplomatic touch and has the guts to ride into Powder River Country. It’s gonna be a tall order finding somebody with those three qualities. But I’ll tell you, I’ve seen them in you. Personally I’ve heard you handle Sioux dialect and I’ve seen you face up to a loaded gun. Furthermore, I’m told you’ve spent a great deal of your life along the whole breadth of the frontier in your task of surveying and exploring.’
‘That is true. Mainly in the south west, but up here in later years.’
‘You have a knowledge of several Indian dialects?’
The man in buckskin waved his hand dismissively. ‘Languages have always come easily to me. So you’re asking me to act as intermediary, is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why should I accept a task that Jim Bridger has turned down?’
‘Oh, you’ve heard?’
‘Who hasn’t? Jim and I go back a long ways.’
‘Well, that’s at Fort Laramie. And it was only a colonel making the request.’
‘Colonel, general. What matters who asks? It’s still risk to life and limb. Now you’re asking me to do the same thing. A tall order. What would be my reasons for accepting?’
‘You would be doing it for your country.’
‘Ach? he chuckled. ‘Sie haben unrecht. This is not my country.’
‘Well, I can’t offer much in terms of money. Normally such a task would merit scout’s pay but, given the special circumstances, I should be able to swing lieutenant’s rate. And you would still have your retainer from the railroad, of course.’
‘How would my employer feel about it?’
‘Don’t concern yourself with that aspect. I would take care of any necessary liaising with the company.’
Old Shatterhand rubbed his grizzled chin. ‘It’s clearly in my employer’s interests that this conflict be resolved as soon as possible. And, I’ll admit, it’s a challenge. If there’s one thing I’ve always cottoned to, it’s a challenge.’ He drummed his fingers on the table while he thought. ‘Stimmt! What is life without a challenge? I’ll do it on the condition that I find your terms acceptable. I’ve got to believe in what I’m doing and that I’m doing right by the savages.’
‘Fine,’ Sherman said, relief showing in his voice. ‘Believe me, Mr. Shatterhand, I’ve got authority from Washington to give the redmen virtually whatever they want in order to conclude this damn business.’
‘Right. First I will need all the intelligence that you have. Estimated numbers, chiefs, tribes, present deployment.’
‘And maps?’
‘Maps are my trade, general. Mine will be better than yours.’ He breathed deep with resolution. ‘I will need two horses, two pack-mules and a heap of presents. Good stuff, no trash.’
‘Name whatever articles you deem fit. How many men do you want? I could let you have soldiers out of uniform as back-up.’
;No. I work better alone. Besides, civilian clothes or not, the redmen would smell them and I couldn’t answer to the consequences. Gut. Now, you tell me what you want to say and what you’ve got to offer our red brothers.’
Chapter Eight
Roman Nose and Winnetou reined up at the top of the cliff and remained there sharply outlined against the sky. Beneath them the lake was crystal clear, its sides sheer rock. Roman Nose slid off his horse, stepped forward and stood at the edge. He could feel the sacred forces and knew that here his strength would be renewed, his mind cleared. He looked at the late afternoon sun. ‘A raft is needed. There is still time.’
‘We passed trees a short distance back,’ Winnetou said. ‘There will be ample material.’
‘Come, we will make it together.’
Elsewhere, many miles to the east, three riders also looked down from a high vantage; what they saw was a lone traveler with a spare horse and two pack-mules. Some hundred feet below them the buckskin-clad figure was on a trail which itself verged on a further drop. Seemed he had taken a rest and had just saddled up his riding horse. They watched him check the cinch, untie the reins from a branch and lead the animal to the others which were still tethered.
‘Don’t look like no prospector, boss,’ Cossack said. They called him Cossack on account of nobody being able to pronounce the name given to him by his Russian parents. Peasants from the steppes, they’d emigrated the hard way: up through Siberia, across the Bering Straits and down through Alaska. ‘Those mules are sure weighed down but it ain’t prospecting gear.’
‘Looks like blankets and stuff,’ another said. His name was Moses. He couldn’t part no Red Seas but he was the leader of the bunch such as it was. Hidden by trees they could make their observations without themselves being seen. ‘Whatever it is, it’s merchandise we could use for trade.’
Each on a wanted list for assorted villainy the three men had met up while keeping out of the law’s way up in the Northern Territories. They now lived and worked together, surviving by scavenging and seeing what turned up. With the onset of winter they were moving south and looking for pickings.
‘Think you could hit him from here?’ the third asked, a half-breed Nisquali, name of King George. Male members of his tribe had successively borne the name of the English monarch since distant generations had befriended the early white invaders.
‘No problem,’ Cossack said, reaching down to his rifle scabbard. Of the three, he was the one who most prided himself as a sharp-shooter.
King George leaned forward and rested on his pommel. ‘Five bucks says you don’t.’
‘Well, get him before he unties those mules or they’ll spook,’ Moses said impatiently. ‘It’s what’s on them that we’re after.’
Cossack drew his rifle. He slowly took aim along the extra-long barrel and squeezed the trigger. The crack of the shot was to some extent flattened by the trees but a vestige of sound escaped and echoed around the valley. Beneath them the distant figure was seen to spin, then disappear over the edge. The saddled horse bolted back up the trail along which the traveler must have ridden.
‘That’s another five you owe, redskin,’ Cossack grunted, dropping from the saddle and preparing to descend. The three men made their way down the slope through the trees. Rifle at the ready the big Cossack advanced to the edge over which the man had disappeared. The motionless figure, partly hidden by rock, was some fifty feet below.
‘Is he dead?’ Moses asked, as he joined his comrade, his own revolver now out.
‘Dunno.’
‘Get down and make sure.’
Cossack appraised the steep, loose scree. ‘That’d be one hell-of-a-mother to get back up. Ain’t worth the trouble. He’s probably dead anyhows.’
‘See
ms like blankets,’ the half-breed said. He’d stayed back behind the other two and checked over the loads on the mules.
‘Don’t unpack them now,’ Moses said as the half-breed took out his knife to cut the straps. ‘Plenty of time for that. Let’s get out of here while there’s still light. We can take stock of our good fortune at our leisure when we make camp.’
King George nodded and satisfied himself with untying a small leather case. He flipped open the lid to reveal a telescope. That would be his at least.
Winnetou felt hungry and restless. For a day and two nights he had kept guard on a pebble beach at the lakeside while his chief lay prone on the raft in the distance. The making of the raft had presented no problem. Roman Nose was clearly familiar with the exercise, giving his companion instructions on how to help him in its construction: what wood was most suitable, how it should be cut, the binding together of the trunks with the long thongs brought with them for the purpose. After the raft had been made and the chief had pushed out into deep water Winnetou had made a fire to stave off the night cold and had kept it burning ever since.
Roman Nose was fasting as part of the ritual but Winnetou was a young man with rumblings in his stomach. The fish rippling the surface of the water meant nothing to him. The notion of eating fish was as abhorrent to an Apache as eating dog was to a white. But he knew there would be ample game in the surrounding woods, the place being free of habitation and travelers. Leaving his chief under the protective eye of the water spirit he had left his post on the morning of the second day. It had not taken him long to strike down a rabbit and cook it on the fire.
He belched and wiped grease from his lips. Fasting was all right for chiefs. But a brave, especially one appointed as bodyguard, needed to keep up his strength. He looked up at the sun, now at its zenith, and felt a restlessness in his young body. He couldn’t sit around all day. He would cut new wood for the fire, then patrol the circumference of the lake around the high rocks.
Moses held up his hand to halt his two companions. They were still in the high country. ‘We got company,’ he said, pointing upwards. The other two drew rein alongside him and looked up. There were Indians appearing all around them.
Arrowheads and rifle barrels were aimed at the three riders.
‘Hell, where did they spring from?’ Cossack wheezed.
‘I’ll do the talking,’ King George said as the three raised their hands.
River-Run, lieutenant to Cold-Mist, shouted a command from his vantage point on a rock.
‘That’s Cheyenne talk,’ the half-breed grunted. ‘We have to throw our weapons to the ground and dismount.’ He answered loudly in the dialect and the three complied as Indians cautiously approached, their weapons still held threateningly. The hands of the three men were tied behind them as Indians began investigating the freight on the pack mules.
‘Tell ’em they can take the goods,’ Moses said. ‘Whatever we got. They don’t look too friendly.’
‘I don’t think they need our permission for anything,’ Cossack said as one of the braves tied a rope round his bound wrists and threw the end over an overhanging branch. Minutes later the three were hanging from the tree-limb.
King George was babbling in Cheyenne but his pleas were falling on deaf ears. Some braves had stationed themselves a little distance off, their intention becoming clear as one by one they dropped to their knees and notched arrows to bowstrings.
‘What a way to go,’ Moses said, swinging in vain attempts to free himself. ‘Target practice for a bunch of bum renegades.’
Both the archers and the spectators were chattering excitedly. ‘They’re laying bets,’ King George explained.
‘Thanks for the translation,’ Cossack said. ‘Anyways, you’re the betting man out of us. See if you can bet our way out of this mess.’
The first arrow scored Moses’ neck. The second Indian was about to fire when there came a shout. The trio were spinning and their rolling eyes couldn’t get a fix on the source. Whatever was said, it was enough to hold the action. At least for the moment.
Eventually they made out two redskins riding up. Words were exchanged in Cheyenne.
‘From what I can make out,’ King George explained to his oscillating comrades, ‘it’s their chief: name of Cold-Mist-From-The-Mountain.’
The effects from the mules were shown to the newcomer. Then he walked over and eyed the suspended men. Further words were exchanged between the chief and his acolyte.
‘Have you been sent by the Bluecoats?’ the one called Cold-Mist asked the half-breed intermediary.
‘No, mighty chief. We are hunters. We have but recently travelled down from the north country where the winter wind is beginning to bite. Is there reason why the army should be here?’
Cold-Mist grunted. ‘Do you not know there is war between the redman and white in Powder Country?’
‘No,’ King George said. He relayed the news to his friends. Then to the chief he said, ‘If we did know this thing we would not have ventured into the territory.’
Cold-Mist returned to the merchandise strewn over the ground. He picked up a blanket and inspected it, noting the insignia. ‘There are Army blankets here,’ he said. ‘How is it that you come by Army blankets if you are not from the Bluecoats? Do you speak the truth?’
‘We stole them, chief,’ the half-breed said, nervously effecting a conspiratorial laugh.
Cold-Mist gave a command and the three men were dropped to the ground. It was some drop and shook their guts. When they had regained their composure they could see the Indians speaking amongst themselves. Cold-Mist had picked up Cossack’s long-barreled rifle. ‘Whose is this?’
King George translated. Cossack coughed nervously and said it was his.
The chief sighted it. ‘It is good for distance, is it not?’
‘Very accurate.’
‘You break the white man’s law with this?’
Cossack looked apprehensively at Moses when the question had been translated. ‘Tell him,’ Moses said, dabbing his blooded neck with the back of his hand. ‘Best be truthful. They ain’t exactly on whites’ side anyhows. Show him your poster. They might know what it means.’
Cossack pulled out the dodger from his inside pocket, unfolded it and handed it to the chief. It bore his likeness together with a caption stating he was wanted for murder and offering a thousand dollars.
‘I have seen such pictures at forts and trading posts,’ Cold-Mist said. He looked at Cossack to check the resemblance. ‘For what is this man wanted by the star-carriers?’ he asked King George.
The half-breed looked at Moses, translated and received permission to maintain the truth with a nod. ‘Murder,’ he said in Cheyenne.
Cold-Mist went into conference with several of those around him. Then he spoke to one of his braves who flipped effortlessly on to a pony and rode off. The three men were herded to the base of a tree and ordered to sit.
Leaving guards on them the chief and remaining Indians moved some distance away and sat down.
‘What’s going on?’ Moses asked his half-breed companion.
‘Dunno,’ King George said. ‘Couldn’t catch what was said.’
‘Well, not killing us and cutting us down like they did, there’s sure-as-hell a joker in the deck somewheres.’
It was some time later that the brave who had ridden off returned with a brace of saddlebags slung over the front of his pony. The bags were plunder from one of many successful raids against the whites. Their content had been of no direct use to the red man then but Cold-Mist was wily enough to see virtue in retaining them for an occasion such as the present.
Cold-Mist rose and said something and the brave brought over the saddlebags. They were opened and the chief instructed that the whites be shown the contents. The pouches bulged with paper money. They were amazed when he ordered their hands to be untied and their weapons returned to them. ‘Each man is to put one hand into a bag,’ the chief said, ‘and take out as much as he c
an with that one hand.’ The whites looked in puzzlement at each other as they did so, each taking out a fistful of bills.
‘You are now free to go,’ the chief went on, ‘and to continue your travels unhindered.’
The three men mounted, uncertainty writ large in their eyes. They had been caught by hostile Indians at time of war, had been bound, strung up to be made into arrowhead porcupines, then released, each with a handful of US bills in his pocket. Didn’t make sense. They knew that wasn’t the end; and it wasn’t.
‘There is a task,’ Cold-Mist said, ‘the completion of which would make me very joyous. It may be accomplished by the man with the long firearm or whichever of the three chooses. You return to me after successful completion of that mission and you may have all the bags’ contents. Moreover, there may be other bargains that we might make between us. This war between redman and white will not last forever.’
‘I’m sure this guy’s on the square,’ Moses said after the translation. ‘That’s why he’s offering us the choice to vamoose if we wanna. He’s clever. Knows that will get our confidence. Might be a good thing to keep in with him. Looks like he pulls some weight in Indian affairs. Ask him what the job is.’
Cold-Mist told of a lake on which floated a raft. The man on the raft was to be killed. But the task had to be completed with speed as the man would soon be returning.
‘Tell him no problem,’ Moses said. ‘Get the precise location from him. And a description of the guy. We don’t wanna make mistakes.’
‘Of course,’ the chief said when all necessary details had been related, ‘you may choose to keep what money you have and not to do as I ask. That is your privilege. I do not have to tell you that in that instance you will forfeit the remaining money. And you have seen it—there is much money. But also keep it in your minds that we have marked your faces.’ He touched the side of his forehead. ‘Your lives will be forfeit should we ever chance upon you again.’
‘Don’t worry, chief,’ Moses said, glancing at the still bulky saddlebags. ‘You and us, we’re on the same side. What proof can we bring that we have done what you have asked?’