A Legend Called Shatterhand

by B. J. Holmes

  He was thinking on these matters when a word bobbed up to the surface from the depths of his memory — chlorodyne. That was the name of the medicine.

  The stockade gates were closed. He rapped on the wood and a soldier’s face appeared above him on the rampart. ‘Sorry, sir. Commissioner’s orders. No one to enter.’

  ‘For God’s sake, why, man?’

  The soldier explained as best he knew. Shatterhand pondered before saying, Then can you pass a message for me to Mrs. Draper?’ He knew she had been a nurse once and so might know about such matters.

  ‘Don’t see why not, sir.’

  ‘Ask her to see if she can find some medicine for me in the doctor’s quarters. Chlorodyne. Have you got that?’

  The sentry repeated the medical name slowly.

  ‘That’s right, soldier. If she can find any she’s to bring it to me. As much as she can.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But she won’t be able to come out because I won’t be able to let her return. Commissioner’s orders: no exceptions.’

  ‘The items can be passed down, man,’ the frontiersman said impatiently. ‘And move. It’s important.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Sometime later Shatterhand heard the wooden bolts being drawn behind the gates of the stockade and a soldier’s voice saying, ‘No exceptions, ma’am.’

  Then a female voice said, ‘Come on, man, hurry up. And help me out with this.’

  Seconds later Mrs. Draper emerged into the sunlight with a soldier carrying a box.

  ‘Three bottles, Mr. Shatterhand,’ she said. ‘That’s all I could find.’ She was carrying a case herself and had changed from her flowing dress to jodhpurs, close-fitting from the knee to the ankle.

  ‘Better than nothing, ma’am,’ the frontiersman said, taking the box.

  ‘There’s sure to be a stink over your leaving the stockage, ma’am,’ the sentry said hesitantly. ‘And then not being allowed back in. I’ll be obliged if you’ll explain to the commissioner how you insisted, ma’am. It’ll sure save me trouble.’

  ‘Of course, trooper,’ she said. ‘You do not make the orders. You are only doing your duty.’

  And the gates closed as the odd looking couple — an elegantly-attired woman and a rough-garbed frontiersman — walked side by side down the grade away from the stockade.

  Chapter Eleven

  Before the commissioner’s embargo a reasonable number of items had been transferred to the Indian camp. Shatterhand and Mrs. Draper supervised the distribution of blankets. There were still a handful of healthy braves and they went up into the forests to gather wood and soon fires were blazing around the site for the boiling of water. As a former nurse Mrs. Draper was a bonus in the caring for the sick people and the dispensing of the chlorodyne. Thus they toiled throughout the morning.

  It was some time after noon that Shatterhand was taking a brief rest when he noticed that Mrs. Draper was missing. He forewent his rest and made enquiries around the camp. None of the Indians had seen her for a while. Her absence was not a problem as the squaws were now demonstrating their understanding of the situation and competence in handling it. Shatterhand walked up to the stockade and enquired at the gate. No, she had not been seen there either and the sentry had certainly not allowed her to pass through.

  He walked the short distance to the town. After a few questions he came across someone who had seen her go to the hostler’s. There he discovered she had hired a horse. When he’d seen her emerge from the fort earlier in the morning in jodhpurs he’d thought she’d changed to be in less clumsy clothes for the task of tending to the Indians. Now he realized she’d been wearing gear more suitable for riding. Then further investigations revealed she had last been seen heading north out of Fort Shaw. He grunted in annoyance. He guessed where she was going. Her self-imposed duties at the Indian camp over, she was going after Captain Stanton. He checked there was nothing further he himself could do at the Pend d’Oreille camp, saddled up his dun and once more rode the northern trail.

  He tracked Mrs. Draper’s horse up the rock slopes and through valleys. Winter was moving inexorably in. It was getting colder and age made him increasingly aware of the aches in his body as it moved with the action of riding over a long period.

  It was a lonely place, a place to get lost in. Montana was the least populated of all the territories in the United States. There were so few people that religious higher-ups had not been bothered to organize the building of churches or to send priests and missionaries. The few that passed through were called the Black Robes by the Indians. Doubly a God-forsaken place.

  Late afternoon an eagle high above was knifing through the thin air across the scintillatingly blue clear sky as he entered a narrow, rocky canyon.

  He was threading his way along the narrow trail when, ahead, he saw a riderless horse munching at sparse blue grama and needle-and-thread grass. He dropped from the dun and cautiously walked forward. There in a hollow against the trail he saw a figure. Closer, he could make out the form of a woman — Mrs. Draper.

  When he got to her she made it clear she was glad to see him. In their first exchange of words she confirmed his thoughts that she was pursuing Stanton. ‘I just could not take any more. My husband is not a good husband. I had to leave.’

  ‘To do so was an irrational act, ma’am,’ he said. ‘This is a wild country. Not the place for a woman. And certainly not a gentlewoman.’

  ‘I can ride,’ she said. She was dressed in riding-gear but she was not kitted for cold weather. ‘However the truth of the matter,’ she continued, ‘is clearly that I am out of practice and the task of riding through difficult terrain has been more strenuous than I had anticipated.’

  ‘Veruckte Frau!’ He shook his head. ‘You know you must return. There is little chance of your finding your captain. This is vast country. Moreover, the temperature is dropping fast.’

  ‘I do not wish to return, Mr. Shatterhand.’

  He ignored her statement. ‘I have a blanket in my roll. I will get it. You warm up in it, rest a short while, then we shall begin our return journey.’ He was just unraveling it when there was a hiss and something clattered against the rocks not far from him. Mrs. Draper screamed and from the corner of his eye he saw it to be a feathered lance. Instinctively he whipped the Barentoter from its scabbard, and crouched facing the direction from whence the missile had come. There were Indians in the trees. So near he could make out their patterned buckskins. The way they were painted up in regulation style with feathers indicated they were Blackfeet. He reckoned three.

  He glanced down at the fallen lance, its feathers flickering in the wind, then looked back at their attackers. They were so close they could easily have killed him with the javelin. For a second he tried to reason how come they had missed at such a range, then he figured it. The reason was he had been close to the horse, unpacking the blanket. The lance had been a statement of intent.

  ‘They’re after our horses,’ he said. ‘Probably they have heard of the price Booker is paying.’ He squinted his ageing eyes and could see they had bows and arrows and at least another lance but no rifles. ‘They have us pinned down, ma’am,’ he went on. ‘Lie as low as you can.’ He not only figured they were after horses to trade but that they were a renegade group with no qualms about killing to get them; but that was a sentiment he did not relay to Mrs. Draper.

  They were spreading under cover of the trees. He assessed the terrain instinctively. There were small embedded rocks a short distance ahead of him and he loped forward to drop into the protection of one. The Indians had moved fast and the two furthest apart now presented him with an angle of a hundred and eighty degrees. Suddenly there was a deadly hiss and an arrow from the right took his hat clean off. He rolled as another from the same direction thudded into the ground where he had been. They did not intend killing the horses but he was certain now they had no qualms about dispatching him to the happy hunting-grounds. And he knew exactly what was their ploy as yet another arrow
shafted close from the right. Keeping him under constant attack so obviously from the right was intended to keep his attention from the left. He whirled round. Sure enough there was a Blackfoot hurtling silently towards him with raised lance.

  Now Shatterhand knew the rules, he had no qualms either. The Barentoter had no range so he waited until the Indian was almost upon him before he opened up with the monster. The Indian’s pace was broken and he dropped to his knees letting go the lance to grab at his opened chest. Like grease through a horn Shatterhand leapt to his feet and ran fast around the rocks to give himself a clear view of the other two attackers. One Indian had remained in the same spot and was letting fly with arrows. Shatterhand zigzagged until he had made the cover of the trees himself. The Blackfoot was behind a pine. Shatterhand worked his way close, dodging the arrows zipping between the tree-trunks. Up close he caught sight of the Indian. It made no matter he was partially hidden: the frontiersman knew the awesome power of his weapon and pulled the trigger on the second and final barrel. The unfortunate native staggered out making no attempt to hold his bloodied head. The monstrous shell, designed to down the biggest of grizzlies, had not only taken away part of his head but had cut a chunk through the pine to do it.

  Shatterhand turned sharply. The remaining Indian was heading for the woman. The frontiersman needed accuracy over distance. He slung the Martini-Henry off his back, cocked, sighted, and pulled the trigger, to hit the target only yards from Mrs. Draper. The Indian crashed forward under his own impetus and collapsed on top of the screaming woman. Within seconds Shatterhand was at her side and confirmed the man was dead as he pulled him off. Scanning the environs, he patted her comfortingly. ‘You’re quite safe now, Mrs. Draper.’ He stayed that way for a few moments before moving away to collect and calm the horses. When they were tethered and settled he slipped his Martini-Henry back into its scabbard on his saddle. The gun had been given to him many years ago by its developer, Mr. Henry. Then Shatterhand had been a greenhorn named Karl and had been earning his keep as a tutor to the gunsmith’s son. Mr. Henry confided in the new immigrant and showed him the new weapon, later to be called the Martini-Henry, that he was bringing to perfection in his workshop. As a token of his esteem for the teacher he had made him a parting gift of the first working prototype on learning the young man’s intention to travel west. As Shatterhand, the teacher-cum-frontiersman, had carried it ever since.

  He strapped his treasured long-arm into the scabbard. Once more it had served him well.

  Chapter Twelve

  As he topped a rise the man called the Dutchman reined in, raised a hand for halt then pointed down. One Jay one riders joined him to view the scene he had indicated. Below them, sweeping along a valley, a vast herd of horses. Although the pace of the animals was a mere walking gait their bobbing heads, from the distance of the watchers, gave the herd the appearance of an undulating sea of brown.

  ‘They’re gonna start firing when they see us, boss,’ one said. ‘You know Ned. He ain’t gonna take no chances of being drygulched.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the Dutchman agreed. ‘With so much cash on the hoof the bozos would be fools not to shoot first and ask questions afterwards seeing the likes of us moving in on ’em.’

  As his sobriquet of the Dutchman would indicate, Louis Van Groot was of Dutch lineage. But, as a several-generation American, he showed no vestiges of his Dutchness. Immigrants only hang onto their national characteristics when they are persecuted. The early Dutch colony in Pennsylvania had lasted a mere forty years. Peaceful folk, they had surrendered to the British in 1664 without firing a shot. The English governor had allowed them to keep their lands, religion and language. Thus they had dissolved quickly through intermarriage into the vast American melting-pot.

  And thus it was that Van Groot retained none of the culture of his pilgrim forefathers — and certainly none of their pacifism. Even as a youngster listening to the old folk talk in the firelight he would shake his head in disbelief when hearing how they had given up to the British without a fight. As a child and as an adult he could not understand such a policy being for the better.

  ‘And if anyone fires a shot,’ he went on, ‘even in warning, that could be enough to spook the hosses. A herd that size would scatter all over the territory. Ned wouldn’t like that at all!’

  ‘Reckon the best thing to do,’ his comrade said, ‘is run parallel with ’em along that ridge.’ He pointed to a track whence they could make headway at a high elevation along the valley. ‘If we take it real slow and peaceful-like, and stick close together that should show ’em we don’t intend no funny business. They should figure anybody aiming to jump ’em would have surrounded ’em before showing themselves.’

  ‘Better still,’ the Dutchman said, raising his voice so the rest of his bunch could hear him, ‘you boys stay back out of sight. Me and Jake will make the approach alone.’

  His men complied and the two riders headed along the topside of the valley. Soon he had spotted the familiar figure of Ned Booker, with the eye-patch, riding point. He waved and descended to the valley floor as Booker pulled away from the herd with a couple of his own men to investigate. The two bunches of riders approached each other cautiously.

  ‘Jeez,’ Booker said after they had made themselves known. ‘Ain’t see’d you since we was cooped up for a spell in Arizona Pen.’

  ‘Hi there, you old one-eyed son-of-a-bitch,’ the Dutchman breezed.

  Booker was smiling, but wary, and kept his gun hand free. Van Groot was just as much a conniving rattlesnake as he was. ‘What you doing this far north? Making for the border with the law on your tail?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Booker looked worried. ‘The law, eh? How close are they?’

  ‘Don’t worry, pal. There ain’t no posse. But I am heading for the border — eventually.’

  ‘What do you mean eventually?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Ned. Why don’t we rest up and you and me can jawbone?’ He explained he had some men holding back so as not give Booker the wrong idea and cleared it with the gang-leader for them to join up.

  ‘Okay,’ Booker said. ‘The hosses have been on the move all day. They could do with a rest.’ He gave the order for the halting of the herd and Van Groot sent Jake to signal his own men to move up.

  Soon the two gang-leaders were sitting together on a knoll overlooking the milling horses. Van Groot rolled a cigarette and handed his companion the makings. ‘Ain’t seen so many horses in one place for many a summer.’

  ‘Took over a month to pull ’em all together. Nearly a hundred head of good saddle horses now and not a single mare amongst ’em.’

  Van Groot lit his smoke and drew deep. ‘Yuh don’t have to give me the sales pitch. I ain’t buying ’em.’

  ‘What’s on your mind, Lou? I got enough hands. I ain’t looking to cut anybody else in on the play.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Ned. We ain’t looking to muscle in.’

  Booker put his cigarette into his mouth and fired a match on his boot to light it. ‘What’s your

  angle?’

  ‘I got it on good authority there’s an army payroll at Fort Shaw.’

  ‘That don’t surprise me none. There’s army there!’

  ‘This is no ordinary payroll. It’s back-pay for the whole of the army in Montana Territory.’

  Booker’s one good eye squinted quizzically. ‘Jes’ wait a minute. I thought the army was paid in tokens.’

  ‘They used to be, but that’s changed. This load at Fort Shaw is the first consignment of real money.’

  ‘Sounds attractive. But nobody knocks over army money. Too many men around it with guns — men who know about guns. They’re called soldiers.’

  ‘True. But don’t be a-feared of soldiers, my friend. They might wear fancy blue uniforms but they’re poorly trained. They’re poor horsemen and lousy marksmen. Anyways, what’s more important — there’s something special about this. For a start — it’s big, like I already said. But
secondly, army strength is depleted. I got it on good authority they were down to the bare minimum when the Sioux started causing trouble for the Crows on the reservation. The last full troop was sent out till further notice to Rosebud Creek on the Stillwater. Meanwhile the money is sitting in Fort Shaw — just ready for the taking. But it ain’t gonna be there for very long. The army’ll be looking to move it and split it up as fast as they can. The taking needs to be quick and fast. All it needs is a lot of men with a lot of guts.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘What you aiming to do — as of this minute?’

  ‘You know better than that? You don’t ask a man his plans.’

  ‘Cut the manure. You and I have known each other for a long time. You been kicking up one helluva rumpus along the trail. It’s pretty obvious you’re heading for Canada after some of Good Queen Vic’s money.’

  ‘So? Look, you and I know each other — sure. What does that mean? Our trails have crossed from time to time. Usually in the Pen. I know you all right and it sets me a-wondering. You’re in an all-fire hurry about the payroll, so you’ve only just found out about it. So that makes me ask: what brings you out to this God-forsaken hole in the first place? I ain’t no greenhorn, Lou. Seems to me word had reached you about our horse operation and you headed north aiming to drygulch us!’