Winnetou, the Apache Knight by Karl Friedrich May (books to read for 13 year olds .TXT) 📕

The old woman brought me a gourd of water, and set it before me, with a towel of fine white flax. I tried to use them, but was too weak. My fair young nurse dipped the cloth in the water and bathed the face and hands of the supposed enemy of her father and brother.

When she had finished, she asked me with a soft little pitying laugh: “Were you always so thin?”

I felt my checks, and said: “I was never thin.”

“Look at yourself in the water.”

I looked into the gourd, and shrank back shocked, for the head of a skeleton seemed to look up at me.

“What a miracle that I am alive!” I cried.

“So Winnetou says. You have even borne the long ride here. The Great Spirit has given you an extraordinarily strong body, for few others thus wounded could have endured a journey of five days.”

“Five days! Where are we?”

“In our pueblo, at Rio Pecos.”

“And are the Kiowas here, too?”

“Yes. They really ought to die; any other tribe would torture them, but the good Kleki-Petrah taught us to be merciful, so they are to pay a ransom and go home.”

“And my three comrades?”

“They are bound, and are in a room like this. They are well cared for, because he who is to die by torture nust be strong to endure or it is no punishment.”

“And are they really to die?”

“Yes.”

“And I?”

“You, too.”

“Will Winnetou come to me?”

“No.”

“But I have something important to say to him.”

“He will not hear it. Yet if you will tell me what it is, perhaps he will let me tell him about it.”

“No, thank you. I could tell you perfectly well; but if he is too proud to come to me, I have a pride of my own, and will send him no messages.”

“You will not see him till the day of your death. We will leave you now. If you need anything, call us; we shall hear, and will come to you.”

She gave me a little willow whistle, and then went away with the old squaw.

My young nurse attended me faithfully every day; fed me savory broths and porridges from a wooden spoon, kneeling at my bedside, and nourishing me like a helpless child. Day by day I grew stronger under this care, though for a long time it hurt me dreadfully to eat. I tried to keep down all expression of pain, but in spite of myself the water would stand in my eyes when I swallowed. NschoTschi saw this, and Indian-like admired silent endurance of pain.

“It is a pity,” she said suddenly one day,” that you were born a lying paleface, and not an Apache.”

“I do not lie; I never lie, as you will learn later.”

“I should be glad to think so, but Kleki-Petrah was the only paleface in whom truth dwelt. You murdered him, and must die, and be buried with him.”

I felt sure that I should not die, for I had incontrovertible proof of our innocence in the lock of hair which I had cut from Winnetou’s head when I freed him. But had I it still? Had it not been taken from me? I searched my pockets, and found everything as I had left it; nothing had been taken from me but my weapons. I took out my box of papers, and found Winnetou’s hair safely folded between them. I laid it back with a happy heart; possessing this I had no fear of dying.

I smiled at the beautiful Indian girl quite cheerfully, and said:” The sweet Fair Day will see that I shall live on many days.”

She shook her head. “You are condemned by a council of the elders,” she said.

“They will decide otherwise when they hear that I am innocent.”

“They will not believe it.”

“They must, for I can prove it.”

“Oh, prove it, prove it!” she cried. “NschoTschi would be glad indeed if she could know you were no liar and traitor. Tell me your proof, or give it to me, and let me take it to Winnetou.”

“Let him come to me to learn what it is.”

“He will not do that.”

“Nor will I send to him. I am not accustomed to sue for friendship, nor send messengers to one who can come to me.”

“How unrelenting you warriors are! I should have been so glad to have brought you Winneteu’s forgiveness.”

“I do not need to be forgiven, for I have done no wrong. But I would ask a favor of you. In case you see Sam Hawkins, tell him to feel no anxiety, for as soon as I am well we shall be free again.”

“Do not think that; this hope will never be fulfilled.”

“It is not hope, but certainty; later on Fair Day will tell me I was right.” The tone in which I spoke was so confident that she gave up contradicting me, and went away without another word.

I improved steadily; the skeleton took on the flesh and muscles of a living man, and the wound in my mouth healed. NschoTschi remained always the same, kindly careful, yet sure that death was really drawing nearer me. I noticed after a while that when she thought herself unobserved her eyes rested on me with a sorrowful, questioning look; she seemed to be beginning to pity me. I had thought her heartless, but had wronged her. At last, one beautiful, sunny morning in late autumn NschoTschi brought my breakfast, and sat beside me, instead of keeping at a distance as she had done since I was able to move about and had almost completely regained my strength. Her eyes were moist and rested on me tenderly, and at last two tears rolled down her cheeks.

“You are crying,” I said. “What has happened?”

“The Kiowas are going home; their ransom has come, and now they go.”

“And that grieves you so? You must have indeed become good friends.”

“You do not know of what you speak, nor suspect what lies before you. The farewell of the Kiowas is to be celebrated by your torture and that of your three white brothers.”

I had been expecting this, and did not shrink as I heard it. I ate my breakfast quietly, wondering what would happen before the sun went down - possibly, in spite of my fancied security, the last sun I should look upon. I gave the dish back to Fair Day, who took it, no longer able to keep back her tears.

“This is the last time I shall speak to you,” she said. “Farewell. You are called Old Shatterhand, and are a strong warrior. Be strong when they torture you. NschoTschi is sore distressed by your death, but she will rejoice if you show no signs of pain and lock your groans in your own breast. Give me this happiness, and die like a hero.”

With this prayer she went away, and I watched her through the open door. Then I threw myself on the bed and waited, long, anxious hours, till mid-day. At last I heard the tramp of many feet, and Winnetou entered, followed by five Apaches. He looked at me long and searchingly. “Do you remember when you were to see me again?” he asked.

“On the day of my death.”

“You have said it. That day has come. Rise; you must be bound.”

It would have been madness to attempt resistance, for there were six Indians against me. I rose and they tied my hands together. Then two thongs were put around my ankles, so that I could take short steps, but could not jump or run. I was then led out to the platform which ran around the pueblo house, and from which a ladder led to the ground. We descended slowly from round to round, three Indians ahead, three behind, I in the middle. On every platform stood women and children, who gazed at me in silence and then came down and fell in behind us. All the Indians of the village, numbering several hundred, were gathering to see us die.

CHAPTER XIV. ON TRIAL FOR LIFE.

THE procession which was escorting me to torture passed on in silence, its numbers augmenting as we went. I saw that the pueblo lay in a hollow at one side of the broad valley of the Rio Pecos, into which we turned. The Indians formed a half-cirele, inside of which, next the children, sat the women and maidens, among whom I saw NschoTschi, whose eyes rarely wandered from my face through the following trial. My three comrades were already on the scene when I arrived, and showed that they had been well cared for during our imprisonment. The expression of faithful, loving old Sam’s fate was divided between irrepressible joy at seeing me again, and sorrow at the horrible circumstances in which we met to part forever.

“Ah, my dear boy,” he cried,” here you come, too. It’s a dreadful, very dreadful operation we’re to undergo; I don’t believe we can stand it. Very few live through the torture, but if we do I imagine we’re to be burned.”

“Have you no hope of deliverance, Sam?”

“I don’t see where it’s to come from. I have been racking my brains for a week, but I haven’t found the least suggestion. We’ve been stuck in a dark stone hole of a room, tied fast and well guarded - no earthly chance to get away. How have you fared?”

“Very well.”

“I believe it. You’ve been fattened like a Martinmas goose, and for the same reason. No, I see no deliverance for us, and the only thing to do is to die bravely. You may believe me or not, but I feel neither fear nor anxiety, though I know by night there will be nothing left of us on earth but four little handfuls of ashes.”

“Possibly; but I haven’t lost hope. I believe that at the end of this threatening day we shall find ourselves all right.”

“Is there any foundation for your hope?”

“Yes; a lock of hair.”

“A lock of hair!” he repeated in amazement. “Hair! What on earth do you mean? Has some lovely maiden in the East sent you her locks to present to the Apaches?”

“No; this is a man’s hair.”

He looked at me as if he doubted my sanity, shook his head, and said: “My dear young friend, you’re really not right in your head. Your wound has knocked something out of place there, for I must say I do not see how a lock of hair can save us from torture.”

“No, but you will see; we’ll be free before the torture begins.”

No one prevented our talking together. Winnetou and his father and Tangua were discussing something with the Apaches who had brought me hither, and paid no attention to us. But now Intschu-Tschuna turned around, and said in a voice plainly audible to all: “My red brothers, sisters, and children, and also the braves of the Kiowa tribe, hear me.” He paused till he saw that he had every one’s attention, and then continued: “The palefaces are the enemies of the red man, and only seldom is there one whose eyes look upon us in friendship. The noblest of these few good white men came to the Apaches to be their friend and father. Therefore we gave him the name of Kleki-Petrah [White Father ]. My brothers and sisters all knew and loved him; let them proelaim it.”

“How!” arose as with one voice from the entire circle. Then the