_A DUEL, AND CAPTURE BY THE APACHES._
THE Indians came slowly towards us; not all, but a large number of them,
for Tangua had left a portion of them to guard the Apaches. On reaching
the spot a hollow square was formed, of which three sides were filled in
by Kiowas, our men occupying the fourth side.
The chief then gave a signal, and from the ranks of the Indians strode a
warrior whose proportions were absolutely gigantic. Laying aside all his
weapons except his knife, he stripped off his clothing to his waist. No
one could look upon his knotted muscles and not be anxious for me. The
chief led him into the middle of the square, and announced to us in a
voice ringing with the certainty of triumph: “Here stands Metan-Akva
[_Lightning Knife_], the strongest warrior of the Kiowas, whose knife no
man has withstood; his enemy dies beneath his blows as though struck by
lightning. He will fight Old Shatterhand, the pale-face.”
“Lord help us!” whispered Sam to me; “he’s a real Goliath. My dear boy,
it’s all up with you.”
“Nonsense!”
“Don’t forget there’s only one way to conquer this fellow, and that is
to make the fight a short one. Let the end be quick, for he can tire you
out, and then you’re lost. How’s your pulse?”
He put his fingers on my wrist, counted, and then said: “Thank God, not
more than sixty beats, and perfectly regular. You’re not excited? Aren’t
you a bit afraid?”
“It wouldn’t do to be upset or afraid in a case that depends on calm
blood and eye. The chief has selected this giant because he is
invincible, and we’ll see whether he really is so or not.”
While I was talking I, too, had stripped the upper part of my body, for,
although it was not necessary, I did not wish it to appear that I
desired to shield myself from the knife. I gave my gun and revolver to
Sam, and stepped forth into the middle of the square. One could almost
see the throbbing of good Sam Hawkins’ heart, but I felt undisturbed,
and confidence is the first requisite for a combat.
The chief summoned us to take our places. Lightning Knife looked me over
contemptuously, and said in a loud voice: “The body of this feeble
pale-face throbs with fear; is he afraid to enter the ring?”
Scarcely had these words been uttered than I stepped into the southward
circle, thus bringing my back towards the sun, while it shone into my
adversary’s eyes and blinded him. This may seem like taking an unfair
advantage, but considering I had never fought with knives before, while
he was renowned for his skill with them, this did not make up for the
advantages on his side, and it was perfectly fair. Tenderness towards my
opponent was worse than foolish; any weakness on my part would not only
have cost me my life, but the lives of the Apaches for whom I fought;
so, though a life-and-death combat is a horrible thing, I was forced to
do my best to kill this Hercules.
“He is actually going to try,” laughed Lightning Knife scornfully. “My
knife shall drink his blood. The Great Spirit gives him into my hand by
taking away his senses.”
Among Indians this sort of preliminary fight with tongues is customary,
and I should have been considered cowardly if I had stood silent, so I
answered: “You fight with the mouth, but I have here a knife; take your
place if you are not afraid.”
He bounded into the other circle, crying angrily: “Afraid! Metan-Akva
afraid! Did you hear that, ye Kiowa braves? I will have this white dog’s
life with my first stroke.”
“My first stroke will be the end of you. Now silence. You should not be
called Metan-Akva, but Avat-Ya [_Big Mouth_].”
“Avat-Ya, Avat-Ya! This coyote pig dares insult me; my blade shall eat
his bowels.”
This last threat was very short-sighted on his part, for it gave me a
hint as to the manner and place in which his weapon would be used. So he
did not mean to stab my heart, but give a knife-thrust below, and rip my
body.
We stood quite close, so that neither had to bend much to reach his foe.
Metan-Akva’s right arm hung straight down; he held the knife so that the
hilt rested on his little finger, and the blade stuck out from between
the thumb and index-finger, the edge turned upward. This showed that I
was right: he intended to strike upward from below, for if he were going
to strike downward he would have held the knife in the opposite way,
that is, so that the hilt lay against the thumb, with the blade thrust
outward through the fist by the little finger. Then I knew the way in
which I was to be attacked; now the main thing was to know the exact
moment, which his eyes would tell me. I knew the peculiar flash of the
eyes which in such cases precedes a blow.
I dropped my eyelids to let him feel more secure, but only watched him
closer through the lashes. “Strike, dog!” he cried.
“Be silent, and act, you red thief!” I replied.
That was a great insult, which must be followed either by an angry
answer or the attack, and the latter thereupon ensued.
An angry dilation of his pupil warned me, and the next moment his right
arm struck quickly and forcibly upward to rip my body like an old coat.
Had I been looking for a blow downward it would have been all over with
me, but I parried his thrust with my knife, and cut him deeply in the
forearm.
“Dog! swine!” he shrieked, dropping his knife in rage and pain.
“Don’t talk; fight,” I said, raising my arm, and then my knife was in
his heart up to the hilt. I instantly drew it out. The stroke was so
true that a little stream of red blood spurted out on me. My foe swung
backward and forward, groaned, and fell to the earth dead.
A wrathful howl burst from the Indians, but only the chief moved; he
came out from the others and knelt by my adversary, examined the wound,
rose, and gave me a look which I shall not soon forget. It was eloquent
of fear, hatred, amazement, and admiration. He would have gone away
without a word, but I said: “Do you see that I am still in my place,
while Metan-Akva has left his? Who has conquered?”
“You have,” he answered angrily, and went away; but after taking five or
six steps he turned back, and snarled at me: “You are a white son of the
wicked spirit. Our medicine-men will find out your charm, and then you
shall give up your life to us.”
“Do what you like with your medicine-men, but keep your word with us.”
“What word?” he asked haughtily.
“That the Apaches should not be killed.”
“We will not kill them; I have said it, and will hold to it.”
“And they shall be free?”
“Yes, they shall be free. What Tangua, the chief of the Kiowas, has said
shall be done.”
“Then I will go with my friends and untie them.”
“I will do that myself when the time comes.”
“It has come, for I have conquered.”
“Silence! Did we speak of the time?”
“It was not specified, but it is evident—”
“Silence!” he thundered again. “I will decide the time. We will not kill
the Apache dogs, but can we help it if they die for want of food or
drink? How can I help it if they starve before I free them?”
“Rascal!” I cried.
“Dog, speak another word like that, and—”
He did not finish his threat, but checked himself, looking me in the
face, which could not have been pleasant to look upon.
I completed his interrupted sentence. “And I’ll knock you down with my
fist, you vilest of all liars.”
He sprang back, drew his knife, growling: “You will not get near me
again with your fist. If you come one step towards me I’ll stab you.”
“So your Lightning Knife said, and tried to do, but you see he lies
there. I will consult my white friends as to what shall be done with the
Apaches. But if you harm a hair of their heads, you are lost. Remember,
I can blow you all up.”
With these words I went back to Sam, who could not hear the conversation
between the chief and me, because of the howling of the Indians. He
sprang to meet me, seized both my hands, crying: “Welcome, my dear, dear
boy! you have come back out of the jaws of death. Dick, Will, see here;
what do you think of this tenderfoot? But foolhardy men are always the
luckiest, and the worst root grows the biggest potato. When you went
into that circle my heart stood still; I could not breathe, and my
thoughts were full of how I’d carry out this tenderfoot’s last will and
testament. But a thrust, a stab, and the redskin rolled on the ground.
Now we’ve gained our end, and the Apaches are free.”
“You’re mistaken there,” I said.
“Mistaken? How so?”
“The chief made a mental reservation in his promise, which now comes to
light.”
“I mistrusted that,” cried Sam. “What is his reservation?”
I repeated Tangua’s words to him, and he was so angry that he instantly
started off to see the chief. I resumed the clothing and weapons I had
laid down, and thought over the situation. Evidently the Kiowas had been
confident that Lightning Knife would kill me, and they were furious over
the result of our encounter. They could not fall upon us, since it was a
life-and-death fight, and the survivor was promised security; but they
would find some excuse for a quarrel; of that we might be sure.
The chief was occupied attending to the body of the dead warrior, and
Sam found him in no mood to lend an ear to his protests. He strode back
to me in high dudgeon, and said: “The fellow absolutely refuses to keep
his word. He means to starve the prisoners to death, and he calls that
not killing them. But we’ll keep our eyes open, and get a shot at him.”
“Provided we don’t get a shot that is a boomerang,” I remarked.
“I think myself we’d better be ready to protect ourselves, for our life
may be in danger any moment. Lord help us, the moment’s come!” he cried.
“The Apaches have arrived, and there’ll be a lovely row. Get ready for
the fight, gentlemen.”
Over beyond, where the prisoners and their guards were, rose that
instant the shrill _H-i-i-i-i-i-h_, the war-cry of the Apaches. Contrary
to all expectation, Intschu-Tschuna and Winnetou had already come back
with their warriors, and had attacked the camp of the Kiowas. Those who
were near us paused in amazement, and then the chief shouted: “The foe
among our brothers! Quick, quick, and help them.”
He would have rushed back, but Sam Hawkins cried: “You can’t go; don’t
you see we are surrounded? Do you suppose the Apache chiefs are such
fools as only to attack your guards and not know where you are?”
He spoke rapidly; but before he had quite finished, the awful,
soul-piercing cry arose around us. We were standing, as already said, on
an open prairie, and had been so occupied that the Apaches had crawled
behind the bush which had served us in our attack on Tangua, and had
surrounded us without our knowledge, and now sprang upon us from all
sides in overpowering numbers. The Kiowas shot at them with some effect,
but not enough to reckon.
“Don’t kill an Apache; not one!” I shouted to our three scouts, for
already the deadly battle raged around us.
The head engineer and the three surveyors defended themselves, and were
cut down. While my eyes were riveted on this awful sight I did not see
anything that went on around me. We were attacked by a considerable
band, and separated from one another. Although we cried out to the
Apaches that we were their friends, it had no effect: they flew at us
with tomahawks, and we perforce had to defend ourselves, however loath
to do so. With our guns wielded as clubs we struck down so many that we
won a little breathing-time for ourselves, during which I looked about
me. Sam, Parker, and Stone ran towards the bushes where the fight was
still hot, and, after making sure that the surveyors were beyond help, I
followed. I had scarcely reached the bush when Intschu-Tschuna himself
came up. He and Winnetou had been with that band of Apaches which had
captured the camp and freed their kinsmen. This achieved, both chiefs
had run to the assistance of the main body which we had encountered,
Intschu-Tschuna considerably in advance of his son.
As he bounded around the bush he saw me, and exclaiming: “Land-thief!”
raised his silver-studded rifle to knock me down. I cried out to him
that I was not his enemy, but he would not listen, only redoubling his
efforts to strike me. There was but one thing to do: if I would not be
overcome, perhaps killed, I must disable him. As he raised his arm again
for a blow I threw away my gun, with which I had parried his strokes,
hung on his neck by my left arm, and with my right fist gave him a blow
on the temple. His rifle dropped, he staggered and fell. Then behind me
a joyful voice cried: “That is Intschu-Tschuna, the chief of the Apache
dogs. I must have his scalp.”
Turning around I saw Tangua, the Kiowa chief, who had come upon the
scene just as all this happened. He dropped his gun, drew his knife, and
stooped over the unconscious Apache to scalp him. I seized his arm and
said: “Take your hands off. I have conquered him; he is mine.”
“Be silent, white vermin!” he snarled. “What have I to do with you? The
chief is mine. Get out, or—” He finished his sentence by striking at me
with his knife and seizing me with his left hand. I did not want to stab
him, so did not draw my own knife, but threw myself upon him and tried
to free myself from his grasp. Failing in this, I choked him till he
could not move, and then bent over Intschu-Tschuna, whose face was
bleeding from my knuckles. Just then I heard a rustle behind me, and
turned to see whence it came. This movement saved me, for I received on
the shoulder a violent blow which had been intended for my head, and
would certainly have broken it. It came from Winnetou. He had been
behind his father, as I have said before, and coming around the bush he
saw me kneeling over the chief, who lay bleeding and apparently
lifeless, and he promptly gave me the almost fatal blow with the butt of
his gun. Then he dropped the gun, drew his knife, and fell upon me.
My position was as bad as it could be. The blow had shaken my whole body
and lamed my arm. I tried to explain to Winnetou, but he gave me no
chance for a word. He stabbed me, and the point of the knife struck the
edge of the tin box in which I carried my papers, glanced up through my
neck, and pierced my tongue, but for which it would certainly have
entered my heart. Then Winnetou withdrew the knife, and held it ready
for the second stroke, his hand at my throat. The fear of death doubled
my strength; I could use only one arm and hand, and he lay across me
sidewise. I caught his right hand, and squeezed it till he dropped the
knife; then I seized his left arm at the elbow and pulled him over till
he had to let go of my throat. Then I lifted his knees, and with all my
strength pushed myself from under him, which threw the upper part of his
body on the ground. The next moment I was on his back, and our positions
were reversed.
The question now was how to hold him down, for if he got up I was lost.
Setting one knee on his thigh and one on his arm, I caught him around
the neck with my one useful arm, while with the other hand he was
feeling for his knife, fortunately in vain. Now followed an awful
struggle between us; yet could I have spoken, one word would have
sufficed to clear up the situation, but blood flowed in streams from my
mouth, and when I tried to speak with my pierced tongue I could only
stammer unintelligibly.
Winnetou exerted all his strength to throw me off, but I lay on him like
a mountain not to be gotten rid of. He began to gasp, and I pressed my
fingers into his windpipe so tight that he could not breathe. Must I
kill him? Not in any case. I freed his throat for a moment, and he
instantly raised his head, which gave me the chance I wanted. One, two,
three good blows with my fist in quick succession, and Winnetou was
unconscious: I had conquered Winnetou the unconquered. I drew a deep,
deep breath as well as I could and not draw down my throat the blood
which filled my mouth and streamed as fast from the external wound. As I
tried to rise I heard an angry howl from an Indian behind me, and
received a blow on the head which knocked me senseless.
When I came to myself it was evening; so long had I lain unconscious.
Everything seemed to me like a dream; I felt as though I had fallen down
beside the wall of a mill-wheel, which could not turn because I was
wedged between its paddles and the wall. The water rushed over me, and
the force which should have turned the wheel pressed on me stronger and
stronger till I thought that I should be crushed. All my limbs were in
pain, especially my head and one shoulder. By degrees I realized that
the mill was not a reality, but delirium, and the roaring and rushing
was not water, but the result of the blow which had felled me. And the
pain in my shoulder was not caused by a mill-wheel crushing me, but by
the blow which Winnetou had given me. The blood flowed from my mouth; it
rushed into my throat and choked me, and I awoke fully to myself.
“He moves; oh, thank God, he moves!” I heard Sam say. I had opened my
eyes, but what I saw was far from consoling. We were still on the spot
where the fight had taken place. Over twenty camp-fires were burning,
between which certainly five hundred Apaches were moving about. Many
were wounded, and a large number lay dead on two sides, the nearest
being the Apaches, and those on the opposite side, a little farther
away, the Kiowas. Around us were the captive Kiowas, all strongly bound;
not one had escaped, and Tangua, the chief, was among them. At a little
distance apart I saw a man lying with his body drawn together in a ring,
for the evident purpose of being tortured. It was Rattler. His comrades
were no longer alive, having been shot at once; but he, as the murderer
of Kleki-Petrah, was reserved for a slow and agonizing death. I was
bound hand and foot, as were Parker and Stone, who lay on my left. At my
right I saw Sam Hawkins, who was fastened by his feet, and his right
hand was bound against his back, but his left hand was free, as I
learned later, in order to tend me.
“Thank Heaven, you are conscious again, my dear Jack,” he said, stroking
my face lovingly with his free hand. “How do you feel? Do you want
anything?” I tried to answer, but could not. I saw Sam bending over me
with anxious eyes, but I heard and saw no more, for again I sank into
unconsciousness.
Upon regaining my senses I felt myself in motion, and heard the tread of
many horses’ feet. I opened my eyes. I was lying on the skin of the
grizzly bear I had killed, which was drawn together into a hammock and
hung between two horses, which were thus bearing me somewhere. I lay so
deep in the skin that I could see only the heads of the horses and the
sky above me. The sun shone down on me, burning like molten lead, and
swelling my veins. My mouth was swollen and full of blood; I tried to
move my tongue, but could not. “Water, water,” I tried to say, for I was
consumed with thirst, but I could only utter a hoarse groan. I said to
myself that it was all over with me, and tried to think of God, and make
a true act of contrition, and ask the mercy I was so soon to need, and
turn my eyes to the land on the shore of which I stood; but again
weakness overcame me. This time I fought with Indians, buffaloes, and
bears, rode for life-and-death over scorching plains, swam for months
over shoreless seas—in short, had a fever, caused by my wounds, in which
I struggled hard and long with death. Occasionally I heard Sam Hawkins’
voice, but far, far away; occasionally, too, I saw a pair of dark,
velvety eyes—Winnetou’s eyes. Then I died, was laid in my coffin and
buried. I heard the earth shovelled on the coffin, and lay in the ground
a whole unbroken eternity, unable to move, till the lid of my coffin
noiselessly slid off and disappeared. Was all this true? Could I be
dead? I raised my hand to my forehead, and—“Hallelujah! Oh, thank God!
He comes back from death; he is alive!” cried Sam.
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