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

“It is dead.”

“You don’t know; you haven’t an idea how tough such a creature is. Go examine it.”

“If you doubt me, examine it yourself; you’re an experienced frontiersman, and I’m a tenderfoot, you know.”

So saying I turned to his comrade, who still hung on the tree in an awful plight. His face was torn, and his wide-open eyes were glassy, the flesh was stripped from the bones of his legs, and he was partly disembowelled. I conquered the horror of the sight enough to say: “Let go, my poor fellow; I will take you down.” He did not answer, or show any sign of having heard me, and I called his comrades to help me. Only after I had made sure the bear was dead would the courageous gang come down from their trees, when we gently removed the wounded man. This required strength to accomplish, for his arms had wound tightly around the tree, and stiffened there: he was dead.

This horrible end did not seem to affect his companions in the least, for they turned from him to the bear, and their leader said: “Now things are reversed; the bear meant to eat us, but we will eat it. Quick, you fellows, take its pelt, and let us get at the paws and steak.”

He drew his knife and knelt down to carry out his words, but I checked him. “It would have been more fitting if you had used your knife when it was alive. Now it’s too late; don’t give yourself the trouble.”

“What!” he cried. “Do you mean to hinder me?”

“Most emphatically I do, Mr. Rattler.”

“By what right?”

“By the most indisputable right. I killed that bear.”

“That’s not so. Maybe you think a greenhorn can kill a grizzly with a knife! As soon as we saw it we shot it.”

“And immediately got up a tree! Yes, that’s very true.”

“You bet it’s true, and our shots killed it, not the two little needle-pricks of your knife. The bear is ours, and we’ll do with it what we like. Understand?”

He started to work again, but I said coolly: “Stop this minute, Rattler. I’ll teach you to respect my words; do you understand?” And as he bent forward to stick the knife into the bear’s hide I put both arms around his hips and, raising him, threw him against the next tree so hard that it cracked. I was too angry just then to care whether he or the tree broke, and as he flew across the space I drew my second and unused revolver, to be ready for the next move.

He got up, looked at me with eyes blazing with rage, drew his knife, and cried: “You shall pay for this. You knocked me down once before; I’ll see it doesn’t happen a third time.” He made a step towards me, but I covered him with my pistol, saying: “One step more and you’ll have a bullet in your head. Drop that knife. When I say ‘three’ I’ll shoot you if you still hold it. Now: One, two -” He held the knife tight, and I should have shot him, not in the head, but in the hand, for he had to learn to respect me; but luckily I did not get so far, for at this moment a loud voice cried: “Men, are you mad? What reason have the whites to tear out one another’s eyes? Stop!”

We looked in the direction whence the voice came, and saw a man appearing from behind the trees. He was small, thin, and hunchbacked, clad and armed like a red man. One could not tell whether he was an Indian or a white; his sharp-cut features indicated the former, while the tint of his face, although sunburned, was that of a white man. He was bareheaded, and his dark hair hung to his shoulders. He wore leather trousers, a hunting-shirt of the same material, and moccasins, and was armed with a knife and gun. His eyes shone with unusual intelligence, and there was nothing ridiculous in his deformity. Indeed, none but stupid and brutal men ever laugh at bodily defects; but Rattler was of this class, for as soon as he looked at the new-comer he cried:

“Hallo! What kind of a freak comes here? Do such queer things grow in the big West?”

The stranger looked at him calmly, and answered quietly: “Thank God that your limbs are sound. It is by the heart and soul that men are judged, and I should not fear a comparison with you in those respects.”

He made a gesture of contempt, and turned to me, saying: “You are strong, young sir; it is not every one can send a man flying through the air as you did just now; it was wonderful to see.” Then touching the grizzly with his foot, he added: “And this is the game we wanted, but we came too late. We discovered its tracks yesterday, and followed over hill and dale, through thick and thin, only to find the work done when we came up with it.”

“You speak in the plural; are you not alone? ” I asked.

“No; I have two companions with me. But before I tell you who they are, will you introduce yourselves? You know one cannot be too cautious here, where we meet more bad men than good ones.” He glanced significantly at Rattler and his followers, but instantly added in a friendly tone: “However, one can tell a gentleman that can be trusted. I heard the last part of your discussion, and know pretty well where I stand.”

“We are surveyors, sir,” I explained. “We are locating a railroad to go through here.”

“Surveyors! Have you purchased the right to build your road?”

His face became stern as he asked the question, for which he seemed to have some reason; so I replied: “I have occupied myself with my task, and never thought of asking.”

“Ah,yes; but you must know where you are. Consider these lands whereon we stand are the property of the Indians; they belong to the Apaches of the Mascaleros tribe. I am sure, if you are sent to survey, the ground is being marked out by the whites for some one else.”

“What is that to you?” Rattler cried. “Don’t bother yourself with the affairs of others. Any one can see you are a white man.”

“I am an Apache, one of the Mascaleros,” the stranger said quietly. “I am Kleki-Petrah.”

This name in the Apache tongue is equivalent to White Father , and Rattler seemed to have heard it before. He bowed with mock deference, and said: “Ah, Kleki-Petrah, the venerated school-master of the Apaches! It’s a pity you are deformed, for it must annoy you to be laughed at by the braves.”

“They never do that, sir. Well-bred people are not amused by such things, and the braves are gentlemen. Since I know who you are and why you are here, I will tell you who my companions are, or perhaps you had better meet them.”

He called in the Indian tongue, and two extraordinarily interesting figures appeared, and came slowly towards us. They were Indians, father and son, as one could see at the first glance. The elder was a little above medium height, very strongly built. His air was truly noble; his earnest face was of pure Indian type, but not so sharp and keen as that of most red men. His eyes had a calm, gentle expression, like one much given to contemplation. His head was bare, his hair worn in a knot in which was stuck an eagle’s feather, the badge of chieftainship. His dress consisted of moccasins, leather leggings, and hunting-jacket, very simple and unadorned. From his belt, in which a knife was thrust, hung all the appointments necessary to a dweller on the plains. A medicine-charm with sacred inscriptions cut around its face hung from his neck, and in his hand he carried a double-barrelled gun, the handle adorned with silver nails.

The younger man was clad like his father, except that his garments were showier; his leggings were beautifully fringed, and his hunting-shirt was embellished with scarlet needlework. He also wore a medicine-charm around his neck, and a calumet; like his father he was armed with a knife and a double-barrelled gun. He, too, was bareheaded, his hair bound in a knot, but without the feather; it was so long that the end below the knot fell thick and heavy on his shoulders, and many a fine lady might have coveted it. His face was even nobler than his father’s, its color a light brown with a touch of bronze. He seemed to be, as I afterwards learned he was, of the same age as myself, and his appearance made as profound an impression on me then, when I saw him first, as his character has left upon me to-day, after our long friendship.

We looked at one another long and searchingly, and I thought I saw for a moment in his earnest, dark eyes a friendly light gleam upon me.

“These are my friends and companions,” said Kleki-Petrah, introducing first the father, then the son. “This is Intschu-Tschuna [Good Sun ], the chief of the Mascaleros, whom all Apaches acknowledge as their head. And here stands his son Winnetou, who already in his youth has accomplished more deeds of renown than any ten old warriors have in all their lives. His name will be known and honored as far as the prairies and Rockies extend.”

This sounded like exaggeration, but later I found that he had spoken only the truth.

Rattler laughed insultingly, and said: “So young a fellow, and committed such deeds? I say committed purposely, for every one knows they are only deeds of robbery and cruelty. The red men steal from every one.”

This was an outrageous insult, but the Indians acted as though they had not heard it. Stooping down over the bear, Kleki-Petrah admired it, calling Winnetou’s attention to its size and strength. “It was killed by a knife and not a bullet,” he said as he rose.

Evidently, I thought, he had heard the dispute and wished me to have justice.

“What does a school-master know of bear-hunting?” said Rattler. “When we take the skin off we can see what killed him. I won’t be robbed of my rights by a greenhorn.”

Then Winnetou bent down, touched the bloody wound, and asked me in good English: “Who stabbed the beast?”

“I did,” I replied.

“Why did not my young white brother shoot him?”

“Because I had no gun with me.”

“Yet here are guns.”

“They are not mine; they were thrown away by these men when they climbed the trees shrieking with terror.”

“Ugh! the low cowards and dogs, to fly like tissuepaper! A man should make resistance, for if he has courage he may conquer the strongest brute. My young white brother has such courage.”

“My son speaks truly,” added the father in as perfect English. “This brave young paleface is no longer a greenhorn. He who kills a grizzly in this manner is a hero; and he who does it to save those who climb trees deserves thanks, not insults. Let us go to visit the palefaces that have come into our dominion.”

They were but three, and did not know how many we numbered, but that never occurred to them. With slow and dignified strides they went out of the thicket, we following.

Then for the first time Intschu-Tschuna saw the surveying instruments standing as we had left them, and, stopping suddenly, he turned to me, demanding: “What is this? Are the palefaces measuring the land?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Why?”

“For a railroad.”

His eyes lost their calmness, and he asked sternly: “Do you obey these people, and measure with