A Legend Called Shatterhand Page 11

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wagons were being trundled out of town. They were being pushed backwards so they could be steered from the rear. Behind an end wagon was a teamster and a bunch of horses. As wagons got well within rifle range they were swung quickly sideways and overturned. It was clear to see the renegades were locating all the wagons near to where the wall had already been breached. That is what Shatterhand had hoped they would do because it put them between the fort and the Pend d’Oreille camp.

  Even before they got into rifle range the crackle of rifles began as attackers and cavalry on the ramparts exchanged fire. The action continued this way for some time until the Dutchman gave the signal and one of his men hurled a clutch of fizzling dynamite. They were trying to open the holed wall further — but the charge exploded short and, apart from dulled eardrums, the only damage to be done was an earthen crater several feet away from the wall. Another throw was made. This one hit the wall and fell to its base. In the detonation timber flew in all directions. As in the previous breaching of the stockade army men were blasted away or fell but none of the Dutchman’s men seemed to notice that this time the soldiers had been crudely made dummies. When the smoke and dust cleared it could be seen that the hole in the wall was not only bigger but it was relatively clear of debris for entry. Still providing cover, wagons were immediately pushed forward towards it and it was plain the men intended to use the opportunity now afforded to surge into the fort.

  Suddenly there was a bugle-call. Unseen at the moment by the attackers, red warriors complete with war-paint left their hiding-places in the Pend d’Oreille camp. They loped forward in unison, the foremost dropping to one knee when in bow range. They and the ones standing behind them arched their taut bows skyward and loosed strings. Arrows hailed from the sky, many into the backs of the unsuspecting renegades. As they whirled round on the Indians two units of cavalry on horseback came thundering, one from each side of the fort.

  Shatterhand had arranged for the small fire-gate at the rear of the fort to be used. Men and horses had exited once the battle had started on the far side. He had stipulated that the bugle-call be the signal for them to sweep round in a pincer movement, and also the signal for the Pend d’Oreille attack. Stanton headed the sweep from the left while Shatterhand headed the one from the right.

  One man was steadying his rifle on the wheel of an upturned wagon as he fired at the fort. He whirled round and seeing Shatterhand bearing down on him he swung his weapon round but the frontiersman one-handedly opened up with the Barentoter, cutting the man in two.

  Having pinned one man to a wagon with his lance, Lone Eagle leapt from his horse to take up hand-to-hand combat. None could stand up to the deadly slashing of his large hunting knife and he progressed forward over mounting bodies. One renegade, having used up the cartridges in his rifle, discarded it and hauling out his hand pistol squared up to the advancing Stanton. His gun barked a couple of times but the most he succeeded in doing was ripping off one of the captain’s epaulets. Stanton started blasting and caught him twice in the gut, the second shot slamming the man to the ground.

  Shatterhand dropped from his horse and, firing his pistol, was soon standing back to back with Lone Eagle. It was thus that he had fought many times with Winnetou. Oblivious to the pain in his shoulder, he smiled grimly to himself as he remembered those distant times.

  There were less than a dozen braves, so the combined force of Indian and cavalry was still far less than the Dutchman’s gang — but the Indian attack on the exposed rear had the overwhelming advantage of surprise. With the added pincer movement of the side-riders, the renegades were decimated. In close, the cavalrymen leapt to the ground, fighting at close quarters with a pistol in one hand and a whirling saber in the other. It didn’t last long. The few remaining renegades raised their hands.

  However, in the melee three villains had made a bolt for the horses when they could see the way the battle was going. As the last shots were fired, they had become three dots in the distance. Lone Eagle scanned the faces of the desperadoes holding up their hands in surrender, then he moved quickly around the fallen men, scrutinizing the faces of the wounded and dead, yanking up by the hair those lying facedown.

  ‘The one called Booker is not here,’ he yelled in anger to Shatterhand. The frontiersman pointed to the three renegades now small specks on the horizon. ‘Looks like some of them made their getaway.’

  ‘That man is mine,’ Lone Eagle shouted, vaulting onto his saddle-less horse. Shatterhand gave a special whistle and his dun, now milling in a bunch of riderless horses, broke free and ambled towards him. Stanton raised his hands in query.

  ‘This will only take two men,’ Shatterhand said, hauling himself back into the saddle. ‘You have enough to do here.’

  They had been riding a good hour without seeing their quarry when Lone Eagle reined in and raised a hand to stay his companion.

  ‘What is it, brave warrior?’ Shatterhand asked.

  ‘I do not know. Something is not right.’

  Shatterhand did not ask further. He knew to take heed of such a sense. It was often that an inexplicable feeling holding back a man who lived in the world of nature saved a life.

  They waited for a minute. They could see or hear nothing untoward. Merely the trail ahead, spruce and pine, and the backdrop of the mountains.

  ‘Something tells me we should not continue,’ the Indian said.

  ‘Yes, I too feel the eyes.’

  They waited further. Their combined sixth senses did not let them down: suddenly there was a crack and a bullet whined close. They both dismounted simultaneously and loped for cover in different directions. Minutes passed again. Then, on a rock some hundred yards before them, two men emerged, one bound, the other pushing him. The latter wore an eye-patch.

  ‘We have the commissioner,’ the man taking cover behind the politician shouted. ‘If you want him to live you’d best get off our trail.’

  ‘That shot was meant to kill,’ Shatterhand shouted across to his companion. ‘But, thanks to you, we were not in range.’

  ‘I’m gonna count to ten,’ the man on the rock shouted. ‘And if you ain’t eating dirt back to the fort, the politician’s a gonner.’

  Much as he despised Draper, Shatterhand could not allow him to be killed out of hand like that. And he knew that Booker meant it. Indicating to Lone Eagle to do the same he stepped from behind his cover and walked back. They were in the open but they were not in range for any accuracy should the renegades start shooting. They mounted up and without looking back, rode in the direction they had been instructed.

  When they were out of sight Shatterhand reined in. ‘They will be using the commissioner as a hostage for as long as they need him.’

  ‘I want the white renegade called Booker.’

  ‘I know you do. And we will get him. But we do not kill him if we can avoid it. If possible the man must be returned to face the white man’s law.’

  ‘We shall see.’

  ‘Now, as I see it,’ Shatterhand continued, ‘they will have given up their plan to get the army payroll. They will seek to make the best of a bad job and return to pick up the herd bound for British territory. To do that they must turn sharp north. If my geography is right, then should we ride direct north from some point hereabouts we shall cut their trail ahead of them.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Flakes of snow wisped their way down as the frontiersman and his Indian companion picked their way through rocky terrain. Up and over outcroppings until, in the early afternoon, they found themselves cutting the semblance of a trail coming up from the southeast. The way rose up, a matter of yards from a sharp-edged gorge at the bottom of which flowed a cold-looking stream.

  ‘This is the one they are likely to be coming on,’ Shatterhand said, reining in short of the trail for fear of leaving clear tracks. He cast around for a hiding-place big enough to hide themselves and their horses. He spotted two rocks conveniently opposite each other,
but not big enough to hide the horses.

  We can use those when we jump them but let us see if we can find somewhere to hide the horses up-trail.’ They led their steeds further, keeping away from the trail and finally tethered them in the shelter of some spruce.

  Shatterhand crossed the trail at that point, where his tracks in the snow didn’t matter, and they both made their way down again keeping to the rocks. They settled behind the promontories he had indicated after checking they had good vantage over the oncoming trail.

  A cold hour or more passed before Lone Eagle raised a finger and pointed. Shatterhand took off his hat and edged around the rock to peer down. Four riders.

  Booker, one of his gang and the Dutchman — leading a fourth horse bearing the bound commissioner — picked their way along an established trail. For no stated reason, the Dutchman had insisted on Booker and his man riding up front. But the reason was known. The Dutchman’s caper had been abortive and he had no rightful share in Booker’s horse project. The Dutchman’s case had been that, with the bulk of both gangs gone, Booker would need every hand he could get to handle a hundred horses. What was more, they should be able to get some sizable loot ransoming the commissioner. Booker was welcome to a share in that in exchange for the Dutchman getting a cut on the horses. But the whole shebang was rankling Booker. They were in this mess because of the Dutchman. And the notion of raising money on the commissioner was a pipe-dream. Such a stunt would attract the efforts of every federal agency, and the whole of the North-West would not be big enough to hide in. The more Booker thought over the set-up the more he came to the conclusion there was no way he was going to share the take from the horses with the son-of-a-bitch Dutchman.

  They pulled in under a rock overhang for a brief sheltered rest. The noise of their coming had disturbed an eagle perched at the top of a tree and, just as they dismounted, it took to the air with a fearful beating of wings. They were all startled and looked up. That was all that Booker needed: the Dutchman to be slightly off guard for a second. The one-eyed man whipped out his hand pistol and put three slugs into the Dutchman who could do no more than just put his hand on his gun.

  The harsh sound of gunfire caused the commissioner’s horse to rear, tipping its rider. Draper bounced once on the hard ground and rolled helplessly. With his hands and arms bound there was nothing the commissioner could do to save himself and, after scrabbling at the loose scree at the cliff edge in panic, he disappeared with a scream into the chasm.

  Uncaring of the fate of their prisoner, Booker looked down at his fellow gang-leader. The Dutchman tried to speak but could get no words out through the bloody froth spluttering out of his mouth. ‘That’s for souring up a good thing, you bastard,’ Booker said and rolled the fallen man with his boot. He did so until the Dutchman tipped over the edge of the gorge.

  ‘They say too many cooks spoil the broth,’ Booker added as he watched the screaming man plummet downwards. ‘I should have remembered that.’ He turned to his compadre. ‘Come on, mount up. We ain’t got much time. We must get back to the horses as soon as possible so we can salvage something from this goddamn deal.’

  All of this was witnessed at a distance by Shatterhand and Lone Eagle. Motionless, they watched the two riders mount up and advance towards them. Shatterhand levered his Martini-Henry and the Indian fitted an arrow against his drawstring. They waited until the two riders were close to their hiding-place then they stepped out.

  ‘Hold it,’ Shatterhand bellowed. ‘Undo your gun belts and discard them!’

  The two riders stopped. After only a moment’s pause they unfastened their belts. At such a close range they were cold-decked. At least, temporarily.

  ‘Now, off your horses,’ the frontiersman continued.

  They dutifully stepped down. ‘Keep your hands high,’ Shatterhand went on as he and Lone Eagle advanced towards them.

  The two desperadoes maintained their apparently harmless position but, unknown to the men holding the weapons, Booker had a sheathed knife between his shoulder-blades — for just such an occasion. Unnoticed, his hand fell slowly behind his head.

  ‘Back away from your horses,’ said Shatterhand moving forward. He had seen a coil of rope on Booker’s saddlebags. ‘We are going to hogtie you. Nothing more harmful than that.’ He shifted the Martini-Henry to his left hand and used his right to get hold of the rope. The movement was enough to give Booker his chance. At a speed difficult for the eye to grasp, the blade whirled out and cartwheeled through the cold air towards Shatterhand. He ducked but the knife struck his temple — not the blade but the heavy heft — enough to daze and drop him to his knees. Canted down by his falling, Shatterhand’s Martini-Henry exploded but its effect was only to make a black powder-mark in the snow.

  The second renegade took his chance and dived for his discarded Colt — only to receive Lone Eagle’s arrow through his throat. The bloodied point emerged from the far side of his neck and he staggered to his feet, choking, his hands grabbing for both ends of the arrow and his lungs grabbing for breath.

  With no time to recharge his bow Lone Eagle leapt on Booker who was seeking to retrieve his knife. The two men rolled over in the snow. Of the two, Booker was the bigger man and soon he had his blade once more in his grip and was on top of his adversary pinning him down. Greater muscle power accompanied the one-eyed man’s advantage in size, and sheer brute strength forced the quivering knifepoint closer and closer to Lone Eagle’s throat. Quivering back and forth the weapon nicked at the Piegan’s flesh. But it was as though the Indian had been conserving all his energy for this very moment — the moment given to him by the great Manitou when he alone could avenge his people — because he wrenched one hand free and grabbed the horse-thief’s knife-hand. A new superhuman force infused the Indian’s body and he concentrated it all in his grip. Booker grunted at the pain exerted on his fingers and dropped the knife. Like a greasy eel Lone Eagle wormed himself free of Booker’s clutches and in a second was on top of him with the knife raised high himself.

  ‘No!’ Shatterhand said, coming to from his daze and seeing the poised blade. The voiced word came instinctively from the civilized part of Der Jager’s brain while the frontiersman part knew it would quite rightly fall on unhearing ears.

  This was Lone Eagle’s moment and, deaf to the plea, he plunged the blade deep into Booker’s heart. The man beneath him writhed for a few seconds, then was still. Shatterhand silently shook his head but understood the action and had no rebuke.

  The bloodied knife in his hand, Lone Eagle rose and stood over his victim in a triumphant pose. ‘One Eye has died at the hands of Lone Eagle. My people are avenged.’

  Shatterhand watched him systematically remove Broker’s gun belt and, together with Booker’s knife, put it into the gang-leader’s saddlebag. Der Jager knew and understood the ritual. The Piegan would take the horse too. To an ordinary white man his actions would have the appearance of looting. But Shatterhand was deeply aware of the Indians’ distinctive value system which made plunder an honor, spoils which were to be displayed to his people on his return. When he had retrieved all that he valued of Booker’s belongings, the Piegan kicked the bodies unceremoniously into the gorge and looked at the frontiersman. There was an ugly swelling on the white man’s forehead. ‘How does Shoh-tah-hay fare?’

  Shatterhand cautiously ran his fingers over the lump. ‘Stimmt! Apart from an aching head I can

  voice no complaint. I have suffered worse in my time.’

  ‘You are capable of returning to your people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then it is the time for parting. It is now necessary for me to return to my own people and you to yours.’ There was no sentimentality, no embarrassed lingering. The Piegan put out his hand and the two men clenched forearms silently for some seconds. ‘Perhaps,’ the Indian said, ‘now Lone Eagle has fought alongside the mighty Shoh-tah-hay, his name too will enter the land of legends.’

  Shatterhand chuckled. ‘I have told y
ou before, my friend — not to believe all that you hear around the camp-fire.’

  ‘Farewell, Shoh-tah-hay. May your God be always at your side.’

  ‘Farewell, valiant and noble one. If we do not meet again during this life Lone Eagle will still remain in the thoughts of Shatterhand.’

  With that the Piegan led his horse up through the pine and Shatterhand stood in the flaking snow watching his warrior friend until he had disappeared into the whitening trees.

  Way to the north three drovers witnessed the dawn coming up with apprehension. They had been waiting patiently for Booker and the Dutchman so they could head for Canada but during the night a grizzly had spooked the herd. There had been little that three men could do with a hundred head of panicked horseflesh and the first pale light of day showed the extent of the loss. Just a handful of horses remained munching at the grass. The three men got together for a debate on the appropriate course of action. ‘What’s Ned gonna say?’ one asked.