Winnetou, the Apache Knight by Karl Friedrich May (chrysanthemum read aloud .TXT) 📖

managed to inspire respect in spite of his droll peculiarities. Ihere was an alliance formed between us silently, which I can best describe as a sort of feudal relation; he had taken me under his protection like a man who did not need to ask if he were understood. I was the “tenderfoot,” and he the experienced frontiersman whose words and deeds had to be infallible to me. As often as he had time and opportunity he gave me practical and theoretical instruction in everything necessary to know and do in the Wild West; and though I graduated from the high school later, so to speak, with Winnetou as master, Sam Hawkins was my elementary teacher.

He made me expert with a lasso, and let me practise with that useful weapon on his own little person and his horse. When I had reached the point of catching them at every throw he was delighted, and cried out: “Good, my young sir! That’s fine. But don’t be set up with this praise. A teacher must encourage his stupid scholars when they make a little progress. I have taught lots of young frontiersmen, and they all learned much easier and understood me far quicker than you have, but perhaps it’s possible that after eight years or so you may not be called a tenderfoot. You can comfort yourself with the thought that sometimes a stupid man gets on as well as or even a little better than a clever one.”

He said this as if in sober earnest, and I received it in the same way, knowing well how differently he meant it. We met at a distance from the camp, where we could not be observed. Sam Hawkins would have it so; and when I asked why,he said: “For mercy’s sake,hide yourself, sir. You are so awkward that I should be ashamed to have these fellows see you, so that’s why I keep you in the shade - that’s the only reason; take it to heart.”

The consequence was that none of the company suspected that I had any skill in weapons, or special muscular strength - an ignorance that I was glad to foster.

One day I gave Rattler an order; it was some trifling thing, too small for me to remember now, and he would have been willing to carry it out had not his mood been rather uglier than usual.

“Do it yourself,” he growled. “You impudent greenhorn, I’ll show you I’m as good as you are any day.”

“You’re drunk,” I said, looking him over and turning away.

“I’m drunk, am I?” he replied, glad of a chance to get at me, whom he hated.

“Very drunk, or I’d knock you down,” I answered.

Rattler was a big, brawny fellow, and he stepped up in front of me, rolling up his sleeves. “Who, me? Knock me down? Well, I guess not, you blower, you kid, you greenhorn -”

He said no more. I hit him square in the face, and he dropped like an ox. Fearing mischief from Rattler’s followers, and realising that now or never was my authority to be established, I drew my pistol, crying: “If one of you puts his hand to a weapon I’ll shoot him on the spot.” No one stirred. “Take your friend away, and let him sober up, and when he comes to his senses he may be more respectful,” I remarked.

As the men obeyed me, Wheeler, the surveyor, whom I thought the best of the lot, stepped from the others and came up to me. “That was a great blow,” he said. “Let me congratulate you. I never saw such strength. They’ll call you Shatterhand out here.”

This seemed to suit little Sam exactly. He threw up his hat, shouting joyously: “Shatterhand! Good! A tenderfoot, and already won a name, and what a name! Shatterhand; Old Shatterhand. It’s like Old Firehand, who is a frontiersman as strong as a bear. I tell you, boy, it’s great, and you’re christened for good and all in the Wild West.”

And so I found myself in a new and strange life, and beginning it with a new name, which became as familiar and as dear to me as my own.

CHAPTER II. MY FIRST BUFFALO.

THREE days after the little disciplining I had given Rattler, Mr. White, the head engineer of the next section, rode over to us to report that their work was finished, and to inquire what our prospects were for making speedy connection. When he set out on his return he invited Sam Hawkins and me to accompany him part of the way through the valley.

We found him a very agreeable companion; and when we came to the point where we were to turn back we shook hands cordially, leaving him with regret. “There’s one thing I want to warn you of,” Mr. White said in parting. “Look out for redskins.”

“Have you seen them? ” Sam asked.

“Not them, but their tracks. Now is the time when the wild mustangs and the buffaloes go southward, and the Indians follow in the chase. The Kiowas are all right, for we arranged with them for the road, but the Apaches and Comanches know nothing of it, and we don’t dare let them see us. We have finished our part, and are ready to leave this region; hurry up with yours, and do likewise. Remember there’s danger, and good-by.”

Sam looked gravely after his retreating form, and pointed to a footprint near the spring where we had paused for parting. “He’s quite right to warn us of Indians,” he said.

“Do you mean this footprint was made by an Indian?”

“Yes, an Indian’s moccasin. How does that make you feel?”

“Not at all.”

“You must feel or think something.”

“What should I think except that an Indian has been here?”

“Not afraid?”

“Not a bit.”

“Oh,” cried Sam, “you’re living up to your name of Shatterhand; but I tell you that Indians are not so easy to shatter; you don’t know them.”

“But I hope to understand them. They must be like other men, enemies to their enemies, friends to their friends; and as I mean to treat them well, I don’t see why I should fear them.”

“You’ll find out,” said Sam, “or you’ll be a greenhorn for eternity. You may treat the Indians as you like, and it won’t turn out as you expect, for the results don’t depend on your will. You’ll learn by experience, and I only hope the experience won’t cost you your life.”

This was not cheering, and for some time we rode through the pleasant autumn air in silence.

Suddenly Sam reined up his horse, and looked ahead earnestly through half-closed lids. “By George,” he cried excitedly, “there they are! Actually there they are, the very first ones.”

“What? ” I asked. I saw at some distance ahead of us perhaps eighteen or twenty dark forms moving slowly.

“What!” repeated Sam, bouncing up and down in his saddle. “I’d be ashamed to ask such a question; you are indeed a precious greenhorn. Can’t you guess, my learned sir, what those things are before your eyes there?”

“I should take them for deer if I didn’t know there were none about here; and though those animals look so small from here, I should say they were larger than deer.”

“Deer in this locality! That’s a good one! But your other guess is not so bad; they certainly are larger than deer.”

“O Sam, they surely can’t be buffaloes?”

“They surely can. Bisons they are, genuine bisons beginning their travels, and the first I have seen. You see Mr. White was right: buffaloes and Indians. We saw only a footprint of the red men, but the buffaloes are there before our eyes in all their strength. What do you say about it?”

“We must go up to them.”

“Sure.”

“And study them.”

“Study them? Really study them?” he asked glancing at me sidewise in surprise.

“Yes; I never saw a buffalo, and I’d like to watch them.”

I felt the interest of a naturalist, which was perfectly incomprehensible to little Sam. He rubbed his hands together, saying: “Watch them, only watch them! Like a child putting his eye to a rabbit’s hole to see the little bunnies! O you young tenderfoot, what I must put up with in you! I don’t want to watch them or study them, I tell you, but hunt them. They mean meat - meat, do you understand? and such meat! A buffalo-steak is more glorious than ambrosia, or ambrosiana, or whatever you call the stuff the old Greeks fed their gods with. I must have a buffalo if it costs me my life. The wind is towards us; that’s good. The sun’s on the left, towards the valley, but it’s shady on the right, and if we keep in the shade the animals won’t see us. Come on.”

He looked to see if his gun, “Liddy,” as he called it, was all right, and I hastily overhauled my own weapon. Seeing this, Sam held up his horse and asked: “Do you want to take a hand in this?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you let that thing alone if you don’t want to be trampled to jelly in the next ten minutes. A buffalo isn’t a canary bird for a man to take on his finger and let it sing.”

“But I will -”

“Be silent, and obey me,” he interrupted in a tone he had never used before. “I won’t have your life on my conscience, and you would ride into the jaws of certain death. You can do what you please at other times, but now I’ll stand no opposition.”

Had there not been such a good understanding between us I would have given him a forcible answer; but as it was, I rode after him in the shadow of the hills without speaking, and after a while Sam said in his usual manner: “There are twenty head, as I reckon. Once a thousand or more browsed over the plains. I have seen early herds numbering a thousand and upward. They were the Indians’ food, but the white men have taken it from them. The redskin hunted to live, and only killed what he needed. But the white man has ravaged countless herds, like a robber who for very lust of blood keeps on slaying when he is well supplied. It won’t be long before there are no buffaloes, and a little longer and there’ll be no Indians, God help them! And it’s just the same with the herds of horses. There used to be herds of a thousand mustangs, and even more. Now a man is lucky if he sees two together.”

We had come within four hundred feet of the buffaloes unobserved, and Hawkins reined in his horse. In the van of the herd was an old bull whose enormous bulk I studied with wonder. He was certainly six feet high and ten long; I did not then know how to estimate the weight of a buffalo, but I should now say that he must have weighed sixteen hundred ponnds - an astounding mass of flesh and bone.

“That’s the leader,” whispered Sam, “the most experienced of the whole crowd. Whoever tackles him had better make his will first. I will take the young cow right back of him. The best place to shoot is behind the shoulder-blade into the heart; indeed it’s the only sure place except the eyes, and none but a madman would go up to a buffalo and shoot into his eyes. You stay here, and hide yourself and your horse in the thicket. When they see me they’ll run past here; but don’t you quit your place unless I come buck or call you.”

He waited until I had hidden between two bushes, and then rode slowly forward. It seemed to me