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  Responsible for the upkeep of law and order throughout the whole of Montana territory, the Second Cavalry had its meager forces stretched to the limit. The Sioux were riding north and raiding Crow camps near Rosebud Creek. Over the border the British needed horses for their new mounted police force and were offering $100 a bronc, an incentive for any two-bit rustler who could handle a rope and didn’t mind how many folks he shot up, red or white. Worse, hard cases learned there was a large consignment of Army pay, poorly guarded at Fort Shaw.

  It was into this powder keg that a tall mysterious frontiersman strode. The man had the bearing of someone who had made a name for himself a long, long time ago. And indeed he had. For this was old Shatterhand. A brand new challenge awaited one of the most famous characters in the whole of western literature.

  A LEGEND CALLED SHATTERHAND

  SHATTERHAND 1:

  By B. J. Holmes

  First published in 1990 by Robert Hale Limited

  Copyright © 1990, 2014 by B. J. Holmes

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2014

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  For Eileen and Malcolm and a third of a century of friendship

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Shatterhand is based on the character created by Karl May.

  Author’s Forward

  The original novels chronicling the exploits of Old Shatterhand were written around the turn of the century in German by Karl May. To this day they have been perennial favorites in their country of origin, although there has been little translation into English. However in the early 1960s a German film company started making film versions of the books (The Treasure of Silver Lake and Among Vultures for example) using international stars of the caliber of Stewart Granger and Lex Barker in the role of Shatterhand. On their release the films were surprisingly successful and broke the long-held belief that Europeans could not make profitable Westerns. In fact so successful were the Shatterhand films that the Italians decided they would seek to emulate the Germans and started making Westerns of their own using a television actor, then relatively unknown in the cinema, by the name of Clint Eastwood.

  And, as they say, the rest is history ...

  The present book relates further adventures that befell Shatterhand during the latter part of his life when he spent some time in the North-West particularly in the region which was then known as Montana Territory. While the work seeks to be true to the character of Shatterhand, it is written in the third person and in a contemporary idiom, as an attempt to mimic the High German style of the original was thought likely to be off-putting to the modern reader. Of course only the reader can judge whether the approach has been successful.

  Acknowledgments

  The author thanks Frau Marlis Dorreii of Westphalia for the locating of source material and Fraulein Renate Hauer of Vienna for the translating of critical passages.

  Chapter One

  The smell of broiling elk-meat permeated the air around the small camp nestling beside a shallow creek in the broken country between the Sweet Grass and the Musselshell. Children, some of whom had never seen a white man, played games on the hard ground between tepees. They smelled of the rancid grease that had been rubbed into their bodies as protection against the cold of the Montana climate. Squaws in leggins and buckskin dresses with fringes hanging from all the edges, went about their business. Old squaws were making balls of dough which they handed to their apprentices to lay in the ashes of a fire. Old men squatted between tepees in shelter against the chill wind and talked of things they could do no longer. There were no braves to be seen. It was a small tribal unit and the few young bucks and mature warriors were away hunting. There was no reason to post guards. These were Piegans and they had known no trouble with Blackfeet, Crow or Pawnee for many, many summers. White men rarely came this way and the squaws and elders could handle any wild animals that came foraging — they even had ways of tackling grizzlies.

  An old man was working on bloody hides hanging from self-standing frames and half a dozen horses were picketed near some trees. The grass was not as good as it could be, but Indian ponies could subsist on the most meager of resources. And it was those very horses that had attracted the white men who were now emerging from the trees. There were four riders and they looked both trail-dirty and trail-hardened. They came to rest leaning forward with their wrists crossed over their saddle horns.

  ‘See, Ned,’ one said, ‘I told yuh they had some hosses.’

  ‘Huh,’ another said. ‘Scrawny Injun nags.’ The man who spoke had an unhappy, sharp-featured face, like a constipated raccoon. ‘Ain’t worth the stealing.’

  ‘Christ, Luke,’ the first one said. ‘Don’t you ever stop caterwauling?’

  Ned Booker’s one visible eye, the other being covered by a black patch, rolled in its socket as he took in the scene. ‘We could use ’em for ballast. Anyways, they ain’t so bad. Got a bit more meat on ’em than’s usual for Injun broncs. With a bit of luck, if we mix ’em in with the regular American stock we could get a top-dollar price on them, too — as long as the trader don’t spot ’em! Ha!’ He twisted his head, this way and that, like a parrot, as he tried to scan the whole vista with his limited equipment. ‘Can’t see no bucks, can you?’

  ‘Nope,’ the first man said. ‘Reckon they’re away on men’s business!’

  ‘Shucks, Ned,’ the one called Luke put in. ‘We can’t handle no more broncs. We got over fifty as it is.’

  ‘Christ, Luke,’ Booker snarled. ‘How many times do I have to tell yuh? We’re crossing the Missouri at Cow Island and I got friends there. We can get all the help we want if the herd’s got too big for us to handle all the way to Canada. The more hosses we get the better. When we finished this operation we gonna have the law from here to the Dakotas after us. In fact, they’re gonna be after our hides on both sides of the border. So we need to make enough dough so that we can stay out of business for as long as it takes things to cool off.’

  ‘Well,’ the first speaker said. ‘If we’re gonna add these Injun broncs to our collection, we’d best move fast. Before the bucks come back.’

  Booker gave instructions for Luke to stay back on sentry, and for two others to gather the horses, while he himself would cover the camp in case there was anyone there who wanted to cause trouble.

  As the Piegans felt no threat there was no guard and so it didn’t take long for the two men to free the horses, bunch them and start heading them out. But they were quickly spotted and there was consternation amongst the squaws. The small herd was just being moved out when an old man tottered from a tepee holding a Spencer carbine. The ornate patterning on his buckskins denoted he was the chief. Despite his age, as the chief he saw it his task to defend his tribe and their possessions. He raised the gun in a challenging manner.

  Booker’s rifle barked and the old man, no more than a bag of bones, collapsed lightly, his fragile skull split by the blast. Booker laughed, and as his horse reared, shot indiscriminately into the gathering crowd of squaws and children. ‘Let’s git!’ he roared.

  As quickly as the rustlers had come, they were gone; and all that could be
heard was the babbling of the creek and the wailing of squaws.

  It was the next day before any of the men returned. The first brave back was called Lone Eagle. His given name was White Eagle but in the second naming, which comes as an Indian matures and displays individual characteristics, he had been dubbed according to his liking for acting alone. And that is how come he was hunting alone. He knew something was wrong because he had been conscious of the wailing for some time as he neared camp. He hurried into the settlement, passing his horse which was weighed down with a deer and assorted game to a young boy.

  From the women he learned of the deaths of the elder, two squaws and a child. He gathered lance and arrows, telling onlookers that, as the chief’s son, this was his work. On their return the other braves were not to follow him but were to stay to protect those remaining in camp. He painted his face and took the blessing of the medicine man. He sorely needed a fresh horse but there was none.

  Then, living up to his name, he sped off alone. And the only guide to his quarry: the white man had one eye.

  Chapter Two

  There was a crisp quality to the light, throwing sharp-edged shadows, as a tall figure emerged from a stand of lodge-pole pine and threaded his way down a grassy slope. From early morning the traveler had toiled among cliffs and precipices but now had issued from the cold dangerous defiles and entered upon a plain. Behind him, an oft-damnable land in which a man’s need for warmth and the drive to shield himself from cutting winds could never be forgotten.

  Even at this lower elevation there was a bite in the air; yet, somehow, the solitary figure moving at a purposive pace across the verd seemed inured to such matters. His regal bearing as he made progress across the scene matched the bleak splendor of the sun and his surroundings. His deep-tanned skin seemed impervious to winds and low temperature. His wide-brimmed hat, fringed buckskin jacket and leggins had long faded to the color of the earth, making him part of it.

  The deep lines cutting the terrain of his face, the white hair, the gnarled leather of his hands, testified to his age. Yet nature, which had cast his limbs in a mould of uncommon strength, had endowed him with a constitution as strong as his limbs, bidding defiance to the machinations of climate, fatigue, privation. And even age. Such were the makings of legend. And this was a living legend. This was Shatterhand.

  Three animals plodded behind him. Two mules, trail-dusty and laden with furs. Heading them, a horse, head bowed, equally trail-dusty. Even now there was an evident purposiveness in its movement. The scars about its body sustained in more arduous conditions suggested endurance beyond that of normal mounts.

  But Nature forced her dues in the form of refreshment and rest even on the ramrod constitution of Old Shatterhand. That is why, once leaving the trees and rocks, his progress was along a defined straight line. And as planned, with the sun low in the bleak, clear sky, he had hailed the sight of the grassy plateau before him. Some half-mile ahead, he knew of a stream, not yet visible to him from that distance, trickling its way through a groove worn deep over eons — the watering place that had been assigned for his evening station.

  The dun, too, which had plodded forward with the steady endurance of his master, now lifted his head, expanded his nostrils, and quickened his pace, as he snuffed from afar the living water.

  But there was to be an obstacle to them reaching the desired spot.

  As the adventurer continued to fix his eyes attentively on the yet distant discoloration that marked the stream, it seemed to him as if some object was moving along its line. At first it was difficult to make a judgment, and not because of his ageing eyes — for they still retained a hawk’s capability — but because the shape was partially hidden in the stream’s defile. Then the distant form separated itself from the stream’s sunken banks, which had obscured its full shape, an advanced towards the wayfarer with an increasing speed which soon revealed it to be mounted horseman. A few more seconds and the garb, together with the lack of saddle to the horse indicated the rider to be Indian. And as the warrior got closer Shatterhand could make out the scalp lock of a Piegan. Face decked out with-war paint.

  The last revelation would have iced the blood of another white man. But not this white man. Shatterhand knew the red peoples, and they knew him. Although beneath the wizened tan his skin was white, there was a respect between them. He knew this, yet it did not make him complacent, for it is said that in the wilderness, no man meets friend.

  The veteran was almost indifferent whether the Indian, who now approached across the flat terrain as if borne on the wings of an eagle, came as a friend or foe. He ground-hitched his horse to a saddlebag so that the animal would be deterred from following him. He disengaged his Martini-Henry from its boot, levered it. He sprinted some distance — at an angle, to widen the gap between himself and his animal entourage, to minimize the risk to it — and dropped to one knee, elevated his gun barrel in readiness and prepared to encounter the stranger. All this with the calm self-confidence belonging to the victor of many contests.

  The Indian came on at the full-tilt gallop of a natural horseman, managing his steed more by his legs and the inflection of his body than by any use of the reins, which hung loose in his left hand. The leveled lance in his right hand made his intent now clear. Head down behind his horse’s head, the red man closed the gap — four hundred yards, three. Calmly Shatterhand lined his eye with the gun sight. Two hundred yards, one. Suddenly, at fifty yards, the horse’s back legs went into a violent crouch.

  For a second Shatterhand was perplexed. What had deterred the horseman? Maybe the gun. But the reason was less important than the certainty that he himself was without cover — and there was a guardian of the watering hole. This was not the southern desert, so death from thirst was not an immediate problem — but an old campaigner and his animals still needed water — and desired to progress unhindered.

  When the resulting dust-cloud had dispersed, the Indian could be seen immobile on the ground. The body was in an awkward poise, suggesting it was not a stratagem. That could explain it; looked like the horse had tripped.

  Shatterhand dropped his rifle and began to run forward; there was a little stiffness in the movement, but an onlooker might yet have been surprised by the agility, in the light of his wizened appearance. By the time he was close the Indian had risen and was shaking his head. Recovered from his brief stunning, he saw the white man coming for him and lunged forward to retrieve his fallen lance. As the Piegan came up again, weapon pointed, Shatterhand slapped the lance aside and struck him a heavy fist-blow in the face. He staggered back and dropped the lance — inappropriate for close combat — to draw a knife.

  Shatterhand grabbed the wrist but the Indian brought his knee up into the white man’s stomach. Shatterhand winced and fell. The Indian hurled himself — blade swinging down. Shatterhand rolled to one side and came to his feet in one movement. Again the Indian lunged. Shatterhand sidestepped and cracked the red man on the side of the head as the blade sliced along his forearm. Again the Indian fell dazed. But this time when he opened his eyes he had the white man straddling his chest, with a blade of his own against his throat: the blade of a huge hunting-knife.

  ‘Yield!’ Shatterhand commanded gutturally in Piegan.

  The Indian stared into the steel-gray eyes and knew the pushing of the cold steel further against his flesh was the result of his hesitation in replying.

  ‘Yield,’ he conceded.

  ‘On the honor of your mother?’ Shatterhand prompted.

  ‘On the honor of my mother and ancestors.’

  For a brief moment there was silence as each contemplated the other at close quarters and took breath after an encounter which had threatened to be fatal to one or both.

  Shatterhand nodded in acceptance of the oath and rose.

  The Indian struggled to his feet and shook the dust from his breechclout and leggins. ‘The white man had luck that my horse put a hoof in the burrow of a rabbit.’

  ‘It is y
ou that are lucky. If you had not fallen, my bullet would have stopped you. But that is now of no matter. Why did you attack?’

  ‘You are white. That is enough.’

  ‘That is not enough. I ask again — why?”

  ‘Whites have attacked and killed some of my tribe. I thought that you were one of them.’

  ‘Well, I am not. But, why should white men attack you? Those days are long past.’

  ‘A horse-stealing raid.’

  Shatterhand studied the Indian’s face for a spell; then handed him back his knife. ‘And where did this happen?’

  ‘Musselshell country. In the shadow of the Rock with Two Horns.’

  ‘This is a bad thing to hear. There has not been such a happening for a long time. How many men were in the party?’

  ‘Four.’

  ‘There is certainty in your voice. You saw them?’

  ‘I had no sight of them. I returned to my camp from hunting some time after the attack. I trailed them for one sun and one moon. It is not difficult to track men with many horse. But then the snow came and covered their tracks. I have not cut sign of them since.’

  Shatterhand turned his head and looked at the Indian’s horse. It was grazing close by. ‘Your steed seems none the worse for its fall. Check that is the case then bring him down to the water while my animals drink. We must talk.’

  Even mortal combat gives occasion for display of good faith. It was under this influence that the white man and red, who had so lately done their damnedest towards each other’s mutual destruction, crossed the sward to Shatterhand’s animals. Then they moved down to the stream, which Old Shatterhand had been travelling when interrupted.

  ‘Yes, this news is bad,’ Shatterhand said as he bathed the cut on his forearm. Further along stream’s course his horse and mules drinking. ‘I understand why you attacked me. I do not hold that against you.’ He strapped a kerchief around the wound. ‘I also understand if you do trust a white man,’ he continued. ‘But I want you to trust me.’