A Legend Called Shatterhand Page 6

  ‘I can’t. I think my legs are broken.’

  ‘Scheis,’ Shatterhand muttered again, this time under his breath. He made a permanent knot-around himself and then kept hauling on Dobie until he was lying more safely on the ledge. ‘Can you not climb at all?’ the hunter asked the prostrated soldier.

  ‘No. You’ll just have to leave me.’

  ‘Do not be stupid, corporal. There is always a way.’ He undid the rope again and this time fixed the end under Dobie’s armpits. ‘Keep still,’ he said, leaning out from the cliff at an angle while he held the rope — in the posture of a sailor hanging out from a ship on a sail-brace. Slowly he heaved himself upward. Shatterhand was getting too old for some activities. This was one of them.

  He was near the top when he heard once more the deep-throated growl of a bear. Gott — probably the mate of the first. There was a crippled man below him, an unconscious Indian above him — and he was stuck in the middle! He hauled faster with aged, aching muscles. He was close to the summit, not knowing what to expect, when a shot rang out, like a thunderclap echoing round the walls of the gorge. Hand over hand he progressed. Then suddenly there was Lone Eagle’s face looking down at him.

  ‘Bear has gone,’ the Piegan said. ‘I used your big gun,’ he added, almost apologetically, as he took Shatterhand’s hand and pulled him onto the flat.

  ‘I’m glad you did not wait to ask permission,’ the hunter grunted.

  ‘What is matter with soldier?’ Lone Eagle asked.

  ‘It would appear broken legs.’

  With two pairs of hands it was an easy operation, if painful for the invalid, to raise Dobie to the top.

  ‘We must curtail our pursuit and return,’ Shatterhand said. ‘I will make splints for his legs while you construct a travois.’

  The Indian grunted in affirmation, pulled out a large hunting-knife from its beaded scabbard and loped towards some fir-trees.

  Chapter Nine

  It was evening when they finally made it back to Fort Shaw and put the corporal into the sickbay. With no camp doctor there was a problem, but it transpired that Mrs. Draper had been a nurse. When she heard of Corporal Dobie’s plight she took charge of the injured man. Shatterhand watched her fixing splints in a professional way then went outside.

  ‘It bodes ill that providence should have curtailed our expedition,’ he said to Lone Eagle as they stood on the verandah outside the sickbay. ‘But we were obliged to bring back the injured man.’

  ‘And Lone Eagle remains impatient,’ the Indian said.

  ‘I understand my friend’s impatience to pursue the killers,’ Shatterhand said. ‘We will resume at first light.’ As he was speaking a soldier approached. He saluted and passed the message that there was a request for the frontiersman to join the commissioner in his cabin. Shatterhand motioned for Lone Eagle to accompany him and they were quickly escorted across the parade ground and shown into the room where Sergeant Barnes, his shoulder bright with hash marks, was in conference with the politician.

  ‘Bad news, Shatterhand,’ the sergeant said, raising some papers he held in his hand. ‘Some official dispatches have arrived in your short absence. Amongst them is a warning to be on the lookout for a gang of desperadoes. Six in all. Take a look at the leader.’ He stabbed a blunt finger on the poster laid out on the commissioner’s desk. ‘Goes by the name of “the Dutchman”.’

  Shatterhand had to swivel it around so it was viewable from his position. There was no escaping the likeness.

  ‘The man who introduced himself to us as Lackman,’ he declared. There was a string of aliases under the picture. It appeared his real name was Louis Van Groot but he was more commonly known as “the Dutchman”.

  ‘That’s my guess,’ the sergeant said. ‘These pictures cannot always be reliable — but the coincidence in appearance would be too much.’

  ‘Come, come, gentlemen,’ the commissioner added pompously. ‘I’ve just been telling the sergeant here it really can’t be. For goodness sakes, the man had a badge. We all saw it.’

  ‘Badges are easily come by,’ Shatterhand said. He was really beginning to wonder how this man had become a commissioner. He thought on the new development for a moment and added, ‘He is a real cool customer to have approached us in so open a manner on the trail as he did. I will say that for him.’

  ‘What do you think it’s all about?’ the commissioner asked. ‘One villain making enquiries about another?’

  Shatterhand pondered for a further moment. ‘Well, Lackman, Dutchman — or whatever his real name is — was certainly following Booker. He knew much of him and his business. Maybe there is bad feeling between them and the Dutchman was seeking to settle old scores. But, whether there is badness between them or not, I would guess he was pursuing him with the likely intent of bushwhacking him and taking his horses and loot.’

  ‘Huh,’ the commissioner said, taking out an engraved cigar-case which had been presented to him by an ex-President of the United States. ‘Haven’t you thought? When the Dutchman wipes out Booker — that will solve half our problem!’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Shatterhand said. ‘I think our problem has doubled in magnitude. We really could be in deep trouble now. It is possible that when the Dutchman meets up with the other reprobate he will change his mind about jumping him. Remember, they are two of a kind. Instead, he is more likely to tell him about the unusually large amount of money at Fort Shaw — money which he knows is here because you told him, sir.’

  There was a special emphasis on the last word and the commissioner busied himself with the task of lighting his cigar to cover his embarrassment.

  ‘Following on that,’ Shatterhand continued, ‘they could join forces to raid Fort Shaw and the settlement here.’

  Barnes whistled. ‘You think they’d try that?’

  ‘If the desperadoes are as bad as I think they are — and as audacious as I know they are — they will have nothing to lose.’

  ‘Yeah,’ the sergeant mused. ‘As you were saying — deep trouble. They have a rough idea of our numbers and know we are below strength. They will know that together they’ll outnumber the soldiers on the post.’

  ‘That is why,’ the huntsman went on, ‘our only hope now lies in preventing the Dutchman from reaching Booker.’

  As he spoke, Barnes went to the window. He could just make out the shape of the small parade ground. ‘It is too dark for anything to be done now.’

  Shatterhand looked at Lone Eagle. There were no words between them; the conversation was in the eyes. Shatterhand asked the Indian if he was still with him, and received confirmation. It was a silent exchange.

  ‘I agree with your assessment, sergeant,’ Shatterhand said aloud. ‘But we must depart at the earliest opportunity in the morning. I want you to work out the minimum number of men you need for defense of the fort and settlement. The rest you must order to undertake the task of pursuit with us.’ He looked at Lone Eagle. Again the exchange between them was silent. They were two of a kind: one a savage noble, the other a noble savage.

  Chapter Ten

  Five hours of stone-like sleep, solid but cold — despite his thick Hudson Bay blanket; then Shatterhand woke, instantly alert, as though awakened by some internal clock. Above, the sky bore the soft hues of dawn, but the sun itself had not yet broken from the clutches of the Bear Paw Mountains in the east. As he prepared his horse, he became aware of activity in the Indian camp.

  His companion had noticed it also. ‘Something is wrong,’ the Indian said. ‘Lone Eagle will investigate.’ The Piegan left the stockade and, in his easy athletic gait, loped over the ground to the cluster of lodges.

  As the troopers mobilized, Barnes joined Shatterhand and they exchanged ideas on the forthcoming day.

  ‘There is sickness amongst the Pend d’Oreille,’ Lone Eagle informed them when he returned. ‘Two have already died. It is a sickness not known to my kind. They request the army man’s doctor.’

  ‘Well, he has died
, has he not?’ Shatterhand said. ‘What about the civilian doctor?’ he asked Barnes.

  There ain’t one in town at present. I made enquiries when our medical officer died. The regular doc got called away south on family business.’

  ‘Gott in Himmel! Surely there must be someone on the post with a modicum of medical knowledge?’

  ‘They are rough men, Shatterhand. Good soldiers but they will be somewhat deficient in specialized medical knowledge.’

  Shatterhand nodded, then to Lone Eagle said, ‘Take me to the redmen.’ The sun’s rays were scything across the mountaintops by the time he got to the lodges. There was an unpleasant smell about the camp, an odor he recognized from bad times in the south-west. They were greeted by squaws but Shatterhand’s knowledge of the Pend d’Oreille tongue was limited. ‘Show me someone who is ill,’ he said through Lone Eagle.

  Pend d’Oreilles built strong tepees quite unlike those of other tribes. Shatterhand had to climb a ladder which was capable of being pulled up at night to prevent the entry of animals. Then he descended through a hole in the top. Inside, the bad smell was stronger, the air rancid. There was enough light now breaking through the hole for him to make out a young buck laid out at the bottom. Despite his youth, the brave’s face was shrunken and wrinkled. Shatterhand pushed in his own cheeks to indicate the drawn condition and asked the squaw in attendance how long the invalid had had that appearance. Three moons. He nodded and ascended into the clean air.

  He inspected a few more and his enquiries revealed common characteristics: vomiting, cramps, thirst.

  He pushed in his own cheeks again as he spoke with Lone Eagle. ‘That drawn appearance is the result of massive water loss from the body.’

  ‘Does Shoh-tah-hay recognize the sickness?’

  ‘It is what the white man calls cholera.’

  ‘The medicine-man of the Pend d’Oreilles has himself died of the sickness,’ Lone Eagle said. ‘What can be done?’

  ‘Well, I am not a medicine-man. I can only go on my own layman’s knowledge. From what I have observed, they must be kept warm. So, to start, they should ensure there is a fire in every tepee where there is illness. Otherwise the invalids can develop what the white man calls pneumonia.’ He patted his chest. ‘In which the sufferer dies of bad breathing.’

  He spoke with the chief, an ancient man whom one would not have questioned if told he had seen a hundred summers. Shatterhand spoke to him as he had done to Lone Eagle and requested that he be allowed to address the able squaws of the tribe.

  ‘It is my observation that this sickness is spreading east and also northward,’ he said when a number had been assembled before him. ‘That is why, as you are a northern tribe, you will not have seen it. But I have seen it and know something of it.’ Despite the seriousness of the situation there was giggling amongst the squaws, embarrassed at being addressed in such a manner by a white man. ‘You must ensure your sick are kept warm,’ he continued. ‘While they still display the sickness you must not feed them and for several days thereafter if they recover.’ He stopped to ensure they understood. ‘All their drinking-water must be boiled. And all the food and drinking-water of those who are not sick must be boiled too.’

  He turned to Lone Eagle. ‘Come. We must return to the stockade and give a report to Sergeant Barnes. Those in the town and stockade must follow the same stringencies in order that the sickness does not spread. We will also request that the sergeant organizes blankets and as many pots and cauldrons as he can spare for the redmen.’

  He again made sure that the able-bodied knew what was required of them and strode out heading back to the fort.

  As he did so he was cursing under his breath. Once again the tracking of Booker and his cutthroats had been thwarted.

  ‘Come on, woman!’ the commissioner shouted impatiently as he gloated over his breakfast of pancakes. ‘Hurry up with the molasses!’

  There were few purely American delicacies, but maple syrup was undoubtedly one of them. And the commissioner was not ready to face the day until he’d savored their honey-like but unique flavor over his pancakes.

  ‘Just a minute, dear,’ his wife said from the kitchen. Domestic help had been arranged but it had arrived in the form of a Pend d’Oreille squaw whom the commissioner had ejected as soon as he’d clapped eyes on her. Until they could find a replacement, Mrs. Draper was the skivvy. She came in with a coffeepot. ‘Some more coffee, dear?’

  After she had placed the coffee-pot on the table he grabbed her wrist and held it so firmly that it hurt. ‘You’re the only woman within a post full of men. Men who haven’t had a woman for a long time. Don’t think the coldness dampens their ardor. I’ve seen the way they look at you. So, don’t go getting any ideas.’

  ‘Jim, you’re hurting.’

  ‘And I’ll hurt you a hell of a lot more if you do anything to discredit my position.’

  ‘You like to cause me pain, whatever I do.’

  He pushed her away roughly so that she sprawled on the floor. ‘That’s the way it should be. A woman needs to be reminded now and again who’s boss.’

  ‘You only married me because it looks better for an aspiring politician. You changed once we were married. You used to wine and dine me, send me flowers. All that stopped once you’d got a ring on my finger. But the ring can come off.’

  She struggled to remove the gold ring on her third finger of the left hand but it refused to comply. ‘What’s more,’ she said, frustration sounding loud in her tone, ‘you cleverly didn’t show me your other side when you were courting me. The brutal and cruel side. All you want is power. Power as a politician, power over a woman.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about, woman. Get my damned breakfast.’

  She rose and left the room while he walked over to the window. ‘Hell’s teeth,’ he grunted as he looked out through the grimy pane. ‘What’s all the commotion?’ he asked of no one in particular when he observed the hustle and bustle outside. At that moment there was a knock at the door. ‘See who that is, woman.’

  Seconds later his wife, wiping her hands on her apron, appeared in the doorway of the dining room. It’s Sergeant Barnes.’

  ‘Send him in.’ Then: ‘What is it, sergeant? I do not like being disturbed at breakfast. That is one of many things that you will have to learn.’

  ‘I just thought you’d better know, sir. It’s the Indian encampment. Looks like there’s an outbreak of cholera.’

  The commissioner’s heavy lids rose. ‘Cholera? Who says it’s cholera? We don’t have a doctor to make a diagnosis.’

  ‘The frontiersman Shatterhand opined that is the nature of the illness.’

  ‘Oh he did, did he? Is there anything that backwoodsman doesn’t pretend to know about?’ He went back to the window. ‘And what is all that movement outside?’

  ‘It’s Shatterhand’s instructions, sir. He’s asked for all spare blankets and boiling-pots.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘To help the Indians, sir.’

  ‘Help the Indians? We have no responsibility for them. They’re Pend d’Oreilles, not reservation Indians. If they start dying like flies, that’s their own look-out.’

  ‘That’s not the way he sees it, sir.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with him? You’re not at his beck and call, man! He’s not in charge of anything!’

  ‘It just seemed best to listen to him in the circumstances.’

  ‘Circumstances — pah!’ The commissioner slumped into his chair while he thought through the implications. ‘You mean, sergeant, there’s folks coming and going from the encampment into the stockade?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The heavy lids rose even further, showing big watery eyes with more than a hint of panic in them. ‘God! That has to stop immediately. Lock the stockade gates without delay. Don’t you realize the damn thing’s contagious?’ He made an ‘ugh’ sound, showing his revulsion. ‘Stop anyone from entering. Give the guards orders to shoot if
necessary. And make it plain that anyone who leaves cannot return.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I don’t think Captain Stanton would approve.’

  ‘Stanton is not here. And, anyway, I have power-to take over in an emergency — and cholera is an emergency!’

  ‘But, sir ...’

  Draper leapt to his feet, arm up, forefinger pointed dramatically heavenward. ‘Don’t “but” me, soldier — just do it!’

  Sergeant Barnes made a token salute and left. Draper dropped back in his seat and covered his mouth with his napkin as though to isolate himself from anything the soldier had brought in. ‘Ugh,’ he grunted again.

  Outside, Shatterhand took Lone Eagle on one side and placed his hand on the Piegan’s shoulder. ‘It will oblige me to spend some time here. It is now plain we are not going to be able to stop the Dutchman getting to Booker. But Stanton must be informed of the Dutchman’s identity. I know you are impatient for Booker’s scalp — but would you try to contact the captain and tell him about the Dutchman? Suggest he returns here as fast as he can?’

  Without speaking the Piegan clamped his own hand against the frontiersman’s shoulder. Shatterhand watched him lope towards his horse, mount and nudge it to move out of the camp, throwing a wave to the white man. Shatterhand watched until he had disappeared into the cottonwoods then sat on a knoll. The sun was now full up and, although he was now apparently watching the squaws going about their business, his mind had moved elsewhere. He knew of a medicine that was used in cholera cases — but he couldn’t for the hell of it remember the name. He stood up and began to return to the fort. He would have to go to the medical quarters anyway. There should be a medical book there and he could look it up. It was a big word — he could remember that much — a ten-dollar word not normally in the vocabulary of raw backwoodsmen. But Shatterhand was no ordinary backwoodsman. He was educated; for a while he had even earned his livelihood as a tutor on his arrival in the New World. So big words were not a problem to him. But in old age his memory was. He smiled grimly to himself as he strode out. Knowing the capriciousness of memory he deliberately put his mind onto other matters as he walked. Memory can be nudged but not pushed. Sometimes you have to trick it into recall. After Sam Hawkens had dubbed him Shatterhand he had soon become known throughout the south-west as Old Shatterhand — despite his relative youth. It had been common practice to put ‘old’ before a name. He’d thought nothing of it then. The adjective had been inappropriate. Now the label fitted.