A Legend Called Shatterhand

by B. J. Holmes

  Van Groot chuckled and shook his head. ‘Ned, cards on the table. I ain’t gonna deny that thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘Now you’re talking. Huh — crossed your mind? Damn my one good eye, that’s why you’re here, you buzzard!’

  ‘Well, it ain’t in my mind no longer. Don’t be a-feared of that.’

  Booker patted his side-pistol. ‘I ain’t a-feared. You’d have had your hands full, pardner.’

  ‘Let’s get back to talking about the hosses. You were saying?’

  Booker drew deep on his cigarette while he studied the Dutchman. ‘Okay, I think you’re on the square here. The heaviest work’s been done. Main trouble is now behind us. We figure not to meet another white man on the rest of the trip. We plan to go clear through to the British line and on to old Fort McLeod in North-West Territory. We’re in with the trader near Bella River who’s got the contract for supplying horses to the Mounties.’

  ‘Sure is a big deal all right,’ Van Groot said. ‘And well planned. I heard about the money the Mounties are paying. But I got a proposition. How about laying off the horses for a couple of days and helping us take Fort Shaw?’

  Booker absorbed the idea. ‘Ain’t wise for a man to try to grab too much. This is pretty big potatoes as it is.’

  ‘Sure,’ Van Groot said, ‘you’re onto a big deal. I ain’t disputing that. All I’m saying is if you can bide your time, come in with us a spell, we’ll both be into the biggest take of our lives! And that on top of your Canadian trading! Christ, Ned, all you gotta do is leave the hosses grazing for a piece. In fact — you’ve been driving the asses off ’em. It’ll give ’em chance to fatten up — you’ll get you a better price. How many men would it take to mind ’em? Three? The rest of your bozos join up with us, ride south and raid Fort Shaw. Then we split and you can get back to your herd.’

  ‘I don’t cotton to queering a good thing. Besides — we killed a few folk along the trail. We need to keep moving before the law and army in Montana get mobilized.’

  ‘I know about that, Ned. I understand your position. But we can only take Fort Shaw with a big force. Mind, taking on the army ain’t as bad as it sounds. There’s been another strike down at the Gulch and some more bluebellies have jumped the wall. You know how they desert when news of easy gold comes through.’

  ‘We can’t leave the hosses here, Lou. Look around. It’s rough country. A lot of the critters ain’t no better than elk. The slightest thing, the wild ones will take to the hills — and take most of the rest of the bunch with ’em.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Ned. I’m no tinhorn brushpopper. We’ll ride with yuh up to the Teton River. That’s open country. We’ll find a box canyon. Let ’em graze there a spell. Once we’re there, three or four of your boys could handle ’em with no trouble while you’re away.’

  Booker took a last drag on his smoke and flicked it into the grass. ‘Okay, it’s a deal.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shatterhand and the commissioner’s wife made slow progress, dismounting and walking where a horse could break a leg on rocky ground. To effect a pause in their journey he selected a spot protected from the wind by some large redwoods and, after they had hitched their horses, he took some hardtack from his saddlebag. ‘What kind of reception will you get from your husband?’ he asked as they sat at the base of a tree to eat.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never done this kind of thing before.’

  ‘Will he take you back?’

  ‘I do not want to be taken back by the man. I will seek to be united with John upon his return.’

  ‘You are making difficulties for yourself and the captain by your intentions. Because you are not married to him you will not be allowed to stay on post with him. You will have to find somewhere to live alone — and Montana Territory is not the east coast, ma’am. It is not the place for a single woman.’

  ‘But I will be near John.’

  Shatterhand coughed to cover some embarrassment. Although his rough appearance belied it, he had been raised as a gentleman and therefore knew talk of such delicate matters to be impolite; on the other hand he saw, for her own good, the need to acquaint the lady with the likely consequences of her actions. ‘The commissioner is a man of influence,’ he went on. ‘He can make it very bad for Captain Stanton. You must know that. If your husband is a vindictive man he can see to it that the parade ground of some God-forsaken company post in the western wilderness defines the horizon for Captain Stanton for the rest of his career.’

  Goose-down flakes of snow were wisping up under their roof of branches and the lady brushed some from her cheeks. ‘Do not concern yourself with such matters, Mr. Shatterhand. I know enough of the army to know that that is the probable fate of any line-officer anyhow.’

  Shatterhand shrugged. He would say no more on the topic. The lady was a grown woman and old enough to be the mistress of her own fate. Now the immediate task he saw for himself was to get her back safely.

  The captain who had been the subject of the conversation had just led his column along a fir-dotted valley to a ravine that cut north, and was climbing into the mountains. As the travel-weary riders emerged onto the high rolling ground at the summit, they sighted a vast herd of horses penned in on three sides by the natural contour of the rock.

  ‘This is it, sir,’ his sergeant said.

  ‘But I can only see three men,’ Stanton said as he reined in. ‘There’s a lot more than that in the Booker gang.’

  ‘Maybe the rest have gone off on some other criminal business.’

  ‘I don’t know, sergeant. Booker will realize it is in their best interests that the gang should stay together and keep moving north. He’ll know he’s got law and the military after him. He’d be a fool to split up in the circumstances. Come on, let’s see what this is all about. And keep your side-arms at the ready.’

  He gigged his horse forward and his men followed suit. Their approach was seen by the nearest drover who waved a surprisingly friendly greeting. When they got close Stanton asked the man to identify himself and his comrades. The man was affable, displaying no nervousness, and gave the captain some names. The renegade had been well primed by Booker and claimed the herd belonged to their boss who ran a spread some miles away near the Marias River. They had been ordered to re-site the herd for better grass.

  Stanton ordered one of his men to examine some of the horses, instructing him in particular to look at the brands. Minutes later he reported back — the brands were a mixture.

  The drover was unfazed by the finding. “’Course they are,’ he said. ‘Ain’t nothing strange in that, soldier. Boss buys horseflesh from all over the territory. But he’ll have all the necessary pieces of paper to show legal sale. We’re just his hired hands. We don’t carry documents.’

  The drover could see the look of suspicion on the army man’s face. ‘You can check it all out, sir,’ he concluded. ‘The ranch-house is only a short ride to the east. Fifteen miles. ’Course, it took us the best part of a day to get the herd out here but you could cut across the mountains. Take you half a day at the most, sir.’

  Stanton nodded in acknowledgement of the information, not having the time to ride such a distance to verify it. He changed the topic and asked if they had seen a gang driving another herd northward.

  The drover chuckled. ‘No, sir. You soldiers are the fust human beings we see’d for the best part of a week. And we’d sure welcome your company around our camp-fire for a jawbone. A guy can go nuts out here with no one to talk to. We got some good chow. Solid horsemeat. Better’n your army feed, I bet.’

  The captain declined the offer. On the face of it he accepted what had been said and made his goodbyes heading his men southwards again down the ravine.

  ‘We could have taken them three, captain,’ the sergeant said as they picked their way down a grade. ‘It would have been three less.’

  ‘No. We’re looking for a band of cut-throats. All we found was a herd tended by three men. Ho
rse-herding ain’t an uncommon business, even in these parts. Like they said, they could be hands working for a legit spread. We haven’t got time to check it out. If we took them, and, as a consequence of that action the herd dispersed and it fell that the bozos were telling the truth, the owner would put in a claim on the army for compensation. On Shatterhand’s figuring there’s about eight thousand dollars there.’ He grunted cynically. ‘And with the War Department under pressure to cut their budget — if I know the army, they’d take what they could out of our wages! I don’t know about you, soldier, but I don’t get enough dollars in my pay-packet as it is!’

  At the bottom of the ravine they sighted a lone rider advancing. It soon materialized as Lone Eagle. They all pulled in when they met up and the Indian passed on the message — that the Lackman riders were in fact another gang of desperadoes and that Shatterhand believed there could be an attack on the fort. Although horses and men were tired the captain had to give the order to step up their pace as they returned.

  Shatterhand and his lady companion came through the throat of a high pass and the frontiersman paused to regard the terrain below. Uneasy darkness was imminent and he sought protected and sheltered circumstances. As they proceeded down the slope he maintained constant observation with the senses of the old hunter that he was. There were several natural niches that would have afforded reasonable shelter but he passed them by until he could find a protected crevice large enough for the horses too, knowing that under such conditions salvation of humans depended as much upon their animals as anything else. Near the bottom he chose a spot and they settled for the night under a rock overhang, relatively isolated from the wind which, way above, was ripping against the higher trees. After he had tethered the horses and given them sufficient covering of blankets and buffalo hides he and his companion took some more tack and raw bacon. It was cold but he would not light a fire for fear of attracting Indians. She looked at him as he sat swathed in a blanket, still, his ears alert to any sound above the wind which might tell him something extra about the environment. The light had almost gone and he was just a shadow.

  ‘Are they all savages?’ she asked reflectively. Her mind had returned to the violence of the day.

  ‘Depends what you mean by savages, ma’am. They have women and children like the white man. They know happiness and they suffer pain. But in many ways they are different. Their standards of honor are unlike ours. They will see honor in stealing. As you have witnessed, the death of someone who stands in their way does not have the import that it might have with someone raised in Christian ethics.’

  She nodded and pondered for a spell. ‘There again,’ she added, ‘there are bad white men.’

  She thought some more. ‘You are familiar with the ways of Indians. It is evident that you have known them and their kind for a long time?’

  ‘I have lived with them, fought alongside them. On other occasions, like today, I have fought against them.’ Fate lay heavy on his voice as he spoke the words.

  ‘The commissioner describes you as an Injun-lover.’

  He grunted and she could tell a smile had come to his lips even though his face was in darkness. ‘That is a smart-minded phrase from a small-minded man. These people are just that — people. They are as different amongst themselves as they are to us. You love some, you dislike others. Once you get to know, you find there are considerable differences between the tribes. They speak different languages and worship different gods. The Plains Indian is constantly on the move, eats buffalo and stores his wealth in pony-herds. The desert Indian travels on foot and eats nuts. Up here, the mountain Indians are a mixture. No, the redmen are not one people. The Piegan is usually peaceful, while the southern Apache is a fighter. Tribes have different codes. Some will fight against overwhelming odds, other tribes who not attack or fight back unless the odds are overwhelmingly on their side. But they have similarities. They are all nomads by nature, so they need a great deal of country to sustain their way of life.’

  The sound of a twig cracking came over the night wind and he tightened his grip on his gun. After a pause he figured it to be some animal. ‘As the white man moves west in his multitudes,’ he continued, ‘buffalo and other game diminish. Where the white man builds his railroads and settlements, the timber that served as the redman’s firewood becomes scarce. Likewise the grass that once furnished forage for his livestock becomes scarce. The Indian is being crowded out of his own country and resents it. I do not think that the men in Washington understand or handle the question of the Indian properly, with the result that there is a universal feeling of mistrust on both sides. Sooner or later there is going to be a general outbreak. That is something that I do not wish to witness. There will be much blood spilling. Many whites as well as redmen will die. The Indian warrior from the more warlike tribes surpasses his white adversary, even the regular soldier, in virtually every test of military prowess. That is the way he is raised. Yet, in the end, the white man will win. It is inevitable.’

  ‘Because of his superior weapons,’ she added.

  ‘Not only that. You see, the Indians view themselves as Flatheads, Sioux, Apaches or Bannocks. It is unknown to them to see themselves as one race. That is why, one by one, the tribes will be conquered — or obliterated.’

  The wind changed momentarily and blew some light flakes of snow under the rock overhang. Mrs. Draper wiped some flakes from her face and shivered. Then she nestled further into the blanket and tried to close her eyes to encourage sleep.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Shatterhand stirred. He had not slept well and his old joints creaked as he moved. Mrs. Draper was further into the crevice and was breathing regularly. He raised his head and looked down. There had been a fall of snow and a film of white covered his blanket. He was not of an age which took kindly to the extremes of winter that Montana Territory could throw at a man, and he longed for the warmth of the south. For a moment he didn’t move further, wishing that he didn’t have to move at all. He’d had a restless, cold night and was tired. But he had to move. He rose and, as quietly as possible, shook the blanket. At least the stuff was dry. He went outside and checked that the horses were all right. Then he yawned as he made yellow holes in the whiteness with his urine.

  Twenty minutes later the man and woman were pushing southwards once more. As the trail descended it became easier but the snow prevented a good headway. It was mid-morning and, after watering their horses at a stream, they had just resumed their journey when Shatterhand’s horse nickered. In a second he knew why. Snow obliterates the natural smells of the landscape, thus exaggerating any alien odors. Despite his tiredness the frontiersman’s finely tuned nostrils picked up the strong smell of buffalo tallow. Used by redskin braves to dress their hairlocks. It was strong, mixed with sweat. Then he heard a hiss.

  But his laggard senses had been late in warning him and an arrow thudded into his upper arm. Der Schmerz! Instinctively he clenched the limb, but in doing so he released the reins and twisted in the saddle so that he fell from his horse. Lying in the snow, he grimaced with the pain and looked down. The point of contact with his flesh was obscured by his coat and, not knowing the placement of the arrow, he knew better than to yank it out.

  Mrs. Draper screamed when she saw the redmen, and their deadly arrows whooshing through the air. Yet again violence was leaping suddenly out of nowhere at a woman used only to drawing-rooms and teacups.

  Shatterhand scrambled to his feet and just managed to extricate the Barentoter before his horse bolted in panic. He dived into the snow again and pulled two of the massive cartridges from his belt, thumbing them into the breech. But their attackers were cautious and were still remaining in the cover of firs while they sniped their shots. He caught sight of one brave setting a new shaft to his bowstring. From their attire he reckoned Blackfeet again. He got the Indian at the end of his barrel and pulled the trigger.

  Ach! The Barentoter was a deadly weapon close to, but accuracy over distance was not
its strong point. However the gouging out of the fir-tree of a chunk of bark was enough to throw the Indian’s aim and the arrow went wide.

  As though gaining confidence from the frontiersman’s missed shot, one of the Indians to the side broke cover and plowed through the snow towards him, keeping his arrow lined so that he could fire when he got close. Shatterhand swung the huge gun and fired. The Indian dropped head first into the snow, his blood arcing in a spray to redden the whiteness. Shatterhand quickly reloaded and loosed both barrels at the Indians still in cover. Again he didn’t hit one but his blast had the effect of keeping their adversaries back. There was a consequent lull and he sought to take advantage to recharge his weapon. Mein Gott! He had no more cartridges in his belt.

  He pulled his hand pistol and leveled it — but the trigger was immobile. He tried again in vain. It was jammed! He cursed. His extra ammunition was in his saddlebags and his Martini-Henry was in the saddle-boot — and the dun was twenty yards away! All he could do was stand his ground and face the rush. Suddenly the Indians were tumbling onto the clear trail and arrows were again slicing the cold air. One brave on horseback broke ahead of the others and, whooping his war cry, came at Shatterhand. The frontiersman gripped the Barentoter by the barrel and swung the stock, wincing with the pain of the missile embedded in his arm. The rifle caught the Indian’s throat as he angled from the horse in his attack. The buck tumbled onto Shatterhand but was no further threat as he couldn’t breathe from the windpipe-crushing blow. Pushing the brave from him Shatterhand heard another attacker coming from behind. He turned to see a second rider savagely impelling his horse with his heels. With the action of a child’s rocking horse the animal rose and fell in its fight to overcome the obstacle of snow. But there was nothing childlike about its rider. A heavy war-axe whoofed the air rhythmically as the brave windmilled it in a deadly upward motion. Shatterhand sought to evade it as there was no way he could neutralize the weapon, such was its impetus.