A Legend Called Shatterhand

by B. J. Holmes

  Having to keep his eyes on the thing necessitated him moving backwards, but the snow hindered his movement too and he sprawled onto his back. The Indian stopped circling the axe and leapt to the ground to tower over the fallen frontiersman. Shatterhand tried to roll but had no leeway, being pinned by the snow which formed a white coffin around him. He saw the huge axe rise. He was so restricted there was nothing he could do. He didn’t even have the space to kick at the man’s legs. As the axe rose higher above him he could see the kill-glitter in the Blackfoot’s eyes.

  Suddenly there was a crack which echoed around the fir-clad slopes — and the redman crumpled sideways. Then more shots. Painfully Shatterhand raised himself to look above his snowy tomb. Coming south down the trail, all guns blazing, were Captain Stanton and his men!

  A couple of the attacking Indians had been killed and the remainder had disappeared into the trees as quickly as they had come. Lone Eagle expressed his gladness at being reunited with his Sho-tah-hay and investigation of the latter’s wound revealed it to be superficial; the buffalo-hide coat and buckskin jacket had taken the force of the missile. While his arm was being strapped he and the captain exchanged information and discussed the importance of moving fast. Afterwards, while he and his Indian companion talked, he noted the manner in which Mrs. Draper and Captain Stanton conversed, making no attempt now to conceal their affection for each other. On their own heads be it, he thought.

  As soon as it was confirmed that Shatterhand’s constitution was adequate for coping with the injury they mounted up and resumed their journey south.

  When the party approached the fort none of its members were aware of their being watched from the trees way up the slopes. Tired, they rode across the flat ground to the stockade. On the left, some half a mile away, stood the town; it seemed strangely quiet. Nearer to the fort, in between the trail and the river, lay the Indian camp. A Pend d’Orielle left a teepee to speak to Shatterhand and Lone Eagle. There was gratitude in his voice as he told them the illness seemed to have been conquered. They learned there had been no new deaths from cholera in their absence.

  At the fort itself the guard on the gate allowed them to pass without argument. In the light of the commissioner’s hypochondria, Shatterhand wondered why. Inside the stockade he was to find out.

  The gates were closed after the party entered and they pulled into the side and dismounted. Hostlers took charge of their horses. On the verandah of the officers’ quarters the commissioner was in conversation with Sergeant Barnes and a group of soldiers. As Shatterhand and the captain walked over to the verandah, the frontiersman noticed a rough-looking character in a full-length slicker standing by an untethered horse watching the proceedings. He gave the man no mind and proceeded across the hard earth of the parade ground. On the verandah the discussion had broken up when the travelers were spotted. There were general greetings but the commissioner’s greeting for his wife was to order her to their quarters with the statement that he was to see her later.

  ‘We have a problem, Mr. Shatterhand,’ he then said to the tall buckskin-clad foreigner. He made it very clear by his posture and attitude he was ignoring the captain. ‘We are about to be besieged.’

  ‘Indians?’ Stanton asked.

  ‘Nothing to do with you,’ the commissioner snapped. ‘You’re relieved of duty.’

  ‘Don’t be so goddamned stupid, man,’ the captain said in a loud cynical tone. ‘You can’t make decisions like that.’

  ‘I refuse to talk to you, sir!’ the commissioner said, and made to move away.

  Shatterhand stayed him with his hand. ‘He’s right, sir. His position can’t be interfered with by civilians. On the other hand, if the post is to be attacked — that is an army matter and Captain Stanton needs to know the facts so that he can take control.’

  Draper turned for the first time to the officer and raised a finger. ‘When this public matter is over, you and I have a private matter to settle.’

  Stanton nodded. ‘Now — we are to be besieged by whom? You didn’t say. Indians?’

  ‘No. Booker and the man called the Dutchman have joined forces and made their demands known to us. If we don’t give them the army payroll they are going to attack the post. I suggest we give it to them.’

  Now it was Stanton’s turn to do some ignoring. He turned to his sergeant. ‘Civilians attacking the military? He must be joking!’

  The sergeant nodded his head rhythmically as he counted heads. ‘No, sir. Now you have returned we still have something less than twenty soldiers fit for combat on the post. Booker and the Dutchman probably have more.’

  ‘Is the payroll still here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We couldn’t afford to deplete resources by sending out personnel as an escort.’

  ‘Damn,’ the captain breathed. ‘It’s supposed to be on its way to Missoula by now.’

  ‘I suggest you tell the Dutchman it’s already gone,’ Shatterhand put in.

  ‘We tried, sir, but he knows it’s still here. Apparently the Dutchman has had the place under surveillance for days — and he’s not seen such a detail leave.’

  Stanton looked at Shatterhand. ‘What do you figure?’

  ‘We could muster some able men from the town. Should be able to get a dozen willing to back a rifle. That would even the odds.’

  ‘The Dutchman has thought about that too, sir,’ the sergeant countered. ‘He’s let the civilians know that if there’s any help from that direction he’ll take reprisals.’

  ‘That’s right,’ the commissioner grunted. ‘He’s promised to raze the town to the ground. Now, as the commissioner, I can’t allow that to occur.’

  There was a lull as the newcomers absorbed the information. Then, ‘How do you communicate with the Dutchman?’ Shatterhand wanted to know.

  The commissioner pointed to the grubby man in the slicker Shatterhand had previously observed. ‘That varmint there is the go-between.’

  Shatterhand exploded. ‘Gott in Himmel! Get the varmint out of here! He should not have been allowed on the post. He’s counting numbers!’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shatterhand looked at Stanton. At that moment the army man looked like a little lost boy. Stiffly formal in his movement, it had become Shatterhand’s opinion that the man was a conscientious soldier but lacking imagination. ‘Let us inspect the defenses,’ the hunter suggested.

  Made of timber, the outer wall averaged around fifteen feet in height. The two men climbed the steps onto the walkway. The logs used in the construction of the stockade wall had been left rough and uneven at their tops giving the edifice a jag-toothed appearance. It was not well made. Like everything else it had been built by army manpower. Men with nothing to do and as unspecialized in woodwork as they were in military matters.

  ‘Not capable of standing up to much,’ Shatterhand observed. ‘Nor difficult to scale by determined attackers. You’ve got to have as many men stationed along the walkway as possible.’

  They continued the inspection which was mainly for Shatterhand to get some understanding of the layout.

  ‘You have another gate,’ he observed when they were at the back of the complex. It was small and Shatterhand guessed that from the exterior it was undetectable.

  ‘Yes,’ Stanton said. ‘But it’s never used. It’s in case of fire. Made wholly of wood this place is a veritable tinder-box.’

  Back on the front rampart Shatterhand looked out to the stand of trees some half-mile away. He couldn’t see anybody but he knew that he and the captain would be subject to scrutiny at that very moment. He turned and surveyed the interior of the post.

  At the one end of the small parade ground was the barracks, like all the buildings on the post, made of log: the cabin taken over by the commissioner, the officers’ quarters, the stables and the shack used as the powder magazine. There were one or two wagons parked here and there.

  ‘Until we know otherwise,’ he said, ‘we must take it that the weakest point is the main gate
. I suggest you upturn some wagons as a second line of defense ten yards back from the entrance.’ They climbed down and inspected the complex at close quarters. With regard to manpower, seventeen men capable of putting up a fight could be mustered. And that included Shatterhand and his Piegan companion. With regard to weaponry, there were small arms but no artillery.

  ‘Seventeen men,’ Shatterhand said, mulling over the number after they had completed the tour. ‘Less than a fifth of a company.’ He knew enough of army matter to know that company strength was normally sixty-four privates but regulations had been changed to allow a hundred in a company posted on the frontier.

  ‘And not exactly a crack force,’ Stanton said. ‘Look at them. Hardly anyone over twenty-one. Most of them enlisted as unskilled labor — and they’re still unskilled laborers. A few weeks bare instruction at Jefferson Barracks, Missouri, then they’re forwarded to their units. From then on, company officers are supposed to train them. But all units are undermanned so after the daily chores have been done there’s little time left for training in vital matters. Huh, even if they had the time — how far would they get with the handful of cartridges issued per year per man for target-practice?’ He exhaled noisily in exasperation. ‘When do you think they’ll attack?’ he said, changing the topic to more immediate concerns. Think they’ll wait until night-time?’

  Shatterhand looked up at the sky. It was cold and the sun was blocked by cloud. ‘Probably. But at least the snow is keeping off. However, it is certain they will make it soon. Booker has left a herd of valuable horseflesh in vulnerable circumstances. He will want to get back to that as soon as possible. Furthermore, they know they outnumber us at the moment but they also know that more soldiers could arrive any time — and from any direction. Nevertheless, if I were them I would wait until dark.’

  ‘And we’ll be sitting ducks.’

  ‘For that reason, captain, I suggest while there is still light you order the building of fires on the outskirts. Say a ring of six at a distance of some twenty yards from the fort. It will be a considerable exercise and it will mean risking men to establish and maintain the fires but it will deny the enemy a complete choice as to the direction of their attack when they decide to launch it.’

  Stanton gave the order and Shatterhand was careful to ensure that the fire party was accompanied by lookouts, together with being covered by marksmen on the ramparts.

  ‘Damn my eye,’ the captain said as they watched the operation begin. ‘I sure ain’t ever heard of civilians attacking a military installation.’

  Shatterhand grunted. ‘The renegades out in the hills yonder are more fittingly described as mercenaries than civilians.’

  ‘Still, I ain’t ever heard of a situation like this before.’

  Shatterhand chuckled without any humor. ‘You’re forgetting your own history, captain.’ He pointed to the flag fluttering slightly in the chill breeze. ‘Those thirteen stripes on your flag represent civilians. Thirteen colonies of them! This very country of yours got established by civilians attacking soldiers!’

  Stanton nodded. ‘Yes — and they won. Let’s hope this time they lose.’

  At that moment the chance of the Dutchman and Booker gang losing in the impending confrontation went down a few pegs when a message came from town. Earlier, when the desperadoes had made their threat to the townsfolk, various establishments had been broken into. The saloon for booze, the general store for provisions. And the miners’ supply store had been ransacked.

  ‘You know what that means,’ Shatterhand stated baldly. ‘The blackguards have got dynamite.’

  Fading light became dusk, dusk became night. The calling out of sentry-post numbers and the repeated answer of ‘All secure!’ could be heard around the fort. Clouds still curtained the sky so there was no moonlight, but at least the sentries only had to watch the pockets of darkness between the fires. Tension was greatest for the watchers on the ramparts and to minimize the fraying of nerves they were relieved every half-hour.

  The young assistant commissioner had offered his services and was taking his turn with a rifle on the ramparts. His superior had ejected his wife and locked himself in his room, like a scared jackrabbit. Repeatedly he called for Stanton and the captain had visited him once. There had been harsh words but when he found out that the main thing that Draper wanted was to implore him to give up the payroll, he ignored his shouts.

  Midnight passed. In the early hours there was a brief break in the cloud and some sentries thought they saw movement against the eerie landscape between the dying fires. Indistinct shapes that could be men bellied down, elbowing their way forward. Some sentries fired at the suspicious locations but there was no return of fire and tension increased when the moonlight was obscured once more. Soldiers waited, hardly daring to breathe, but there was no noise, no attack. It was that way all through the night. That is, until it started to snow, wet slushy flakes.

  With heads low at the top of the ramparts, sentries watched the already low fires splutter and steam out of existence. Immediately Shatterhand organized reinforcements to be sent onto the walkways. There was not much more than an hour left to dawn. For each defender, minutes now dragged like hours.

  The earth-shaking concussion of the dynamite exploding was preceded by a short-lived flash of vivid light. Stark shadows came and went, to be followed by a darkness in which the damp night air was filled with dust, the creaking of timber and the groaning of men. Gunfire erupted to echo in the darkness without pause. Soldiers returned fire but neither side could see each other.

  The snow had stopped and guttering flames began to play among the mangled debris of the section of wall that had collapsed under the blast. The dynamite had clearly been thrown right against the base of the wall and the sentries directly above had either been blown from their posts or had plummeted into the tangle of wood. Others had been struck by jagged lengths of splintered timber that had lanced through the air. Those remaining on the walkways adjacent to the explosion were torn between firing into the blackness and dropping their weapons to search for the injured men they could hear moaning beneath them.

  There were three other explosions. One detonated near the base of the wall on the opposite side of the stockade, but although it shook the wall it had not been near enough to bring it down, while two others blasted harmlessly even further away. Shatterhand loped along the walkway to the holed section of wall. In the flickering light he could just make out two attackers trying to get through the chaos of shattered lumber. His Martini-Henry barked. One man slumped into a wedge between two logs and the other disappeared into the darkness. While gunfire crackled around him he reloaded. He clambered down the ladder where he was joined by Stanton. A lull developed as they covered the gap at ground level with readied weapons.

  ‘Well, they have effected one breach of the wall with that onslaught,’ Shatterhand said grittily. ‘But at least they have not got through. We must be prepared for another attack.’

  There was some more gunfire from the ramparts. Then the message came — the assistant commissioner had been hit. Shatterhand and Stanton looked at him as he was lowered from the ramparts. Only a shoulder-wound but enough to put him out of action.

  ‘The saving grace is that it won’t be long before dawn,’ Stanton said.

  ‘They will probably try again before then,’ Shatterhand grunted. But, although random shots were fired by both sides, there was no more concerted attack. The spasmodic exchange continued for the next hour, dying when the first light of dawn scythed across the landscape to reveal the attackers had withdrawn.

  The light enabled a count to be made. While there appeared to be only one of the attackers put out of action, three soldiers were dead and four were injured. With the assistant commissioner out of operation the fort now had nine defenders. Stanton allowed a small number of soldiers to take short sleep-sessions in rota.

  Shatterhand too was tired; but he denied himself the luxury of sleep. With Lone Eagle he mounted the la
dder and surveyed the effects of the night action. There was a crater some twenty yards from the wall. It was decorated with grisly lumps draped in the remnants of clothing. He smiled grimly. Dynamite was not a thing to be played with. You had to know how to handle it, how to crimp it, fix the fuse and to set the detonator. It called for specialist handling and, judging by the gory evidence, somebody had not been sure of the rudiments.

  He descended and headed for the mess to take enough coffee to keep himself awake. He was just draining his third cup in the company of Stanton when the sergeant presented himself. ‘Two men gone over the wall, sir.’

  ‘Desertion?’ Stanton asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Looks that way, sir.’ He gave the names. ‘Shall I send out a pursuit detail?’

  ‘Christ, sergeant. We can afford to spare men even less now.’

  He dismissed the man with a salute. ‘Now we’re down to seven,’ he said quietly to Shatterhand when the sergeant had gone. He rose and walked to a pile of newspapers on a table. He flicked through them and extracted a faded copy of the New York Sun. He thumbed the pages. ‘Here it is,’ he said, and read out a line of text. The regular army is composed of bummers, loafers and foreign paupers.’

  He put down the paper. ‘They shouldn’t be allowed to print stuff like this, but it’s true. They try to keep the exact statistics quiet but the desertion rate throughout the armed forces is high. Over twenty per cent annually.’

  ‘Back home,’ Shatterhand said, ‘regiments are localized. When the men in a regiment all come from the same locality, they have common roots and a pride in those roots. That is very good for morale, helps to bind the men together.’ He stood up and walked to the door. ‘I have never understood why the United States has not adopted the Prussian model.’

  Stanton followed him and they went outside to make an inspection. It was some time later that he and Stanton came out of the barracks where Mrs. Draper was tending to the wounded. ‘They must now attack in the daytime,’ Shatterhand said. ‘Time is running out for them and they know it.’