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

That he himself was included in this interest I dared not say.

“Yes, come with me a little way,” he replied. “I have withdrawn from my race, and must know them no more; but since you have crossed my path, there can be no harm in our meeting, and some good may result from it. We will walk a little together. You seem to me the most intelligent of these men; am I right?”

“I am the youngest, and not clever, and I should be honored if you allowed me to go with you,” I answered respectfully.

“Come, then,” said Kleki-Petrah kindly, and we walked slowly away from the camp.

CHAPTER VI. A WISH AND ITS TRAGIC FULFILMENT.

“You do not speak like a Westerner,” said Kleki-Petrah as we started.

“No, I am from the East,” I replied “I came here to see the world.”

“A bad thing to see sometimes. I am a German. It must seem strange to you to find a German become a full-fledged Apache.”

“God’s ways seem marvellous, but they are natural after all.”

“God’s ways! Why do you say God, instead of destiny, fate, or fortune?”

“Because I am a Catholic, and recognize that the hand of God is in the affairs of men.”

“You are right, and are happier than you know; never lose that conviction. Yes, it is true that God’s ways often seem marvellous, but are perfectly natural. The greatest marvels are the fulfilment of His laws, and the daily actions of nature are the greatest marvels. A German, a student, a teacher of some renown, and now an Apache - these seem wonderful changes, but they came about naturally.”

Though he had taken me with him half unwillingly, he seemed glad to spew of himself. We had not gone far from camp, and had lain down under a tree, where I could study his face and expression at leisure. The vicissitudes of life had engraved deep lines upon his brow; long furrows of sorrow, the marks of doubt and thought, the many seams of care and privation. Though his eyes might once have been piercing, angry, threatening, now they were as calm and clear as a forest lake.

I should not have dared to question him as to his evidently strange history, though I longed to know it, but he asked me all about myself, and my answers were so full and frank that they gave him evident pleasure.

When he had heard all there was to learn of me he bowed his head, saying: “You are at the beginning of the conflict which I am ending, but you need not fear. You have the good God with you who will never forsake you. It was otherwise with me. I had lost my God when I left home, or rather was driven from it, and instead of the staff of strong faith I took with me the worst companion a man can have - a bad conscience.”

He looked at me as he said these words, and, seeing my face unchanged, asked: “Are you not shocked?”

“Nonsense! Wwo could suspect you of a great crime? I doubt your being a thief or a murderer.”

I laughed as I spoke, but he said gravely: “Thank you, but you are mistaken. I was a thief, for I stole much that was priceless. And I was a murderer, the worst of murderers, for I slew souls. I was a teacher in an advanced school, it does not matter where. I was born a Catholic, but lost any faith, and my greatest pride lay in being free and having dethroned God, and all my influence and skill went to robbing others of their faith. I had great power over men, and numberless were the hearers whom my lectures led into infidelity. Then came the revolution. He who acknowledges no God recognises no king or authority as sacred. I placed myself at the head of a lawless band of malcontents, who acclaimed me as their leader, and we rose in mad rebellion against constituted authority. How many fell in that struggle! I was a murderer, and the murderer not only of these, but of others that perished later behind prison walls. I fled from my fatherland to escape a like fate. I had no father or mother, no brother or sister; not a soul wept for me, but many cursed me as the cause of their sorrow. In fleeing from the police I ran one day through a little garden and entered a dilapidated house, where I found an old mother and her daughter in direst need. They told me their pitiful story with bitter tears. They had been comfortable, the daughter married but a year to an honest man who earned enough for a decent livelihood. He had heard my lectures, and been led away by them. He persuaded his father-in-law to join him and take part in the rebellion under my leadership. The young man fell on what he thought a field of honor, but the old father was imprisoned. The women told me this not knowing it was their listener who was responsible for their wretchedness. God’s mills began to grind. Freedom was mine still, but peace was gone. I wandered everywhere, but found no rest. I was often on the verge of suicide, but a hand held me back - God’s hand. At last I reached the United States, and came to the West. In Kansas I met a priest, one of my own countrymen, and he saved me. He dispelled my doubts, and gave me back faith and contentment. Dear Lord, I thank Thee for it.”

He was silent awhile, with hands folded and gaze directed heavenward. Then he resumed: “I fled from the world and men to do penance, and turned towards the wilderness. I saw the red man’s wrongs, and my heart overflowed with wrath and compassion. I resolved to atone as far as might be for my wrong to the white man by devotion to the red. I went among the Apaches, learned their tongue, and became their teacher. Winnetou is my especial charge; were he the son of a European lord he would be a renowned prince, for he is richly endowed by nature. Would that I might see him a Christian! But though I have taught him all I could of Catholic truth, it may never be, for he shrinks from deserting the religion of his ancestors. However it may end I will remain with him to the day of my death. He is my spiritual son; I love him more than myself, and it would be joy to me to receive in my own heart a shot intended for his, for I would gladly die for him, feeling that perhaps such a death might wash away the last stain of my sins.”

His head sank on his breast, and I remained silent, feeling that anything I could say would be trivial after such a confession, but I took his hand and pressed it heartily. He understood, and returned the pressure.

After a time he spoke again. “Why have I told you this? I have seen you to-day for the first time, and probably we shall never meet again. Has it beenn by the inspiration of God? For I, the former blasphemer, now seek to find His will in all things. There is an indefinable feeling of melancholy in my heart, which is not exactly sorrow. It is like the feeling that comes to one when the autumn leaves are falling. How shall my tree of life shed its leaves ? Gently and after they are sere, or shall it be cut down before its natural time has come? ” He gazed in silence down the valley, where I saw Intschu-Tschuna and Winnetou returning. They were mounted now, and leading Kleki-Petrah’s horse.

We rose to go to the camp, which we reached as the Indians came up. Rattler leaned against the wagon, his face on fire, for in the short time that had passed he had drunk as much as he possibly could, and was a horrible sight. His eyes were like a wild beast’s, and I made up my mind to watch him, for he was dangerous.

The chief and Winnetou dismounted and came towards us. “Have my white brothers decided to go or stay?” asked Intschu-Tschuna.

The head engineer had thought of a compromise, and said: “We must stay here whether we would or not, and obey the command laid upon us. But we will send to Santa F� and ask for instructions from those that sent us, and then we will answer.”

This was a cunning thought, for by that time our work would be done. But the chief said decidedly: “I will not wait. My white brother must say at once what he will do.”

Rattler had filled a glass with whisky, and came towards the two Indians, saying incoherently: “If the Indians will drink with me we will go, if not we won’t. Let the young one drink first. Here’s fire-water, Winnetou.”

He held out the glass. Winnetou stepped back in disgust.

“What! You won’t drink with me? That’s an insult. Here, take the whisky, you red dog; lick it up, if you won’t drink it.” Before any one could stop him, he had thrown the contents of the glass in the young Apache’s face. According to Indian custom such an insult was to be avenged by death, but Winnetou merely struck him to the earth, while, like his father’s, his face betrayed no sign of what he felt, and the drunkard picked himself up and staggered back to the wagon.

“Once more,” said Intschu-Tschuna,” and this is the last time, I ask: Will the palefaces leave our valley today?”

“We cannot,” was the reply.

“Then remember there is strife between us.”

I started towards them, but the three strangers turned back to their horses without noticing me.

From the wagon came Rattler’s voice crying: “Get out, you red coyotes! but the young one shall pay for knocking me down.” Quicker than it can be told he had snatched a gun from the wagon and aimed it at Winnetou, who was standing alone, without protection, where the bullet must have found him; nor was there time to warn him.

Kleki-Petrah cried in anguish: “Down, Winnetou, down,” at the same time springing before the young Apache. The shot whistled through the air. Kleki-Petrah fell to the ground with one hand at his breast, while at the same moment Rattler fell, struck by my hand. I had sprung at him as soon as I saw his intention, but too late.

A cry of horror arose from all sides; only the two Apaches were silent. They knelt by the friend who had given his life for them, and examined his wound. It was close to the heart, and the blood flowed from it in torrents. I, too, knelt by Kleki-Petrah, whose eyes were closed and whose face was fast growing white and drawn.

“Lay his head on your breast,” I said to Winnetou. “If he sees you when he opens his eyes, his death will be happier.”

Without a word Winnetou followed my suggestion, and his eyes never wandered from the dying man.

At last he opened his eyes, and seeing Winnetou bending over him a peaceful smile came over his suffering face, and he whispered:” Winnetou, O my son, Winnetou!” Then his failing eyes seemed to seek something, till he saw me, and he said to me in German:” Stay with him; be true to him; carry on my work.”

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