_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-circle, inside of which, next the children,
sat the women and maidens, among whom I saw Nscho-Tschi, 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 face 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 pale-faces 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 proclaim it.”
“How!” arose as with one voice from the entire circle. Then the chief
continued in a long and impressive speech to set forth the story of
Kleki-Petrah’s murder, and the attempt of the white men to build a
railroad through the Indians’ lands. It was a speech establishing our
guilt and pointing to our death, and was interrupted at intervals by the
acclaiming chorus of “How!” from the tribe.
“At the hands of any other Indians,” Intschu-Tschuna said, “who knew
what we know of these men, they would be given over to torture at once;
but we will be obedient to the teaching of our White Father, and be a
just judge; we will not condemn our enemies unheard, but they shall be
convicted out of their own mouths. You have heard,” he continued,
turning to Sam, “what I have said. You shall tell us the truth; answer
the questions I will put to you. You were with the white men who
measured for the road of the fire-steed?”
“Yes, but we three did not measure your land; we were there only to
protect those who did. And as to the fourth, who is called Old Shatter—”
“Silence!” the chief interrupted. “You shall only answer my questions,
and speak no further. You belong to these pale-faces? Answer yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“And Old Shatterhand measured with them?”
“Yes,” replied Sam reluctantly.
“And you protected these people?”
“Yes.”
“Then are you more guilty than they, for he who protects a thief
deserves double punishment. Rattler, the murderer, was your companion?”
“Yes, but he was no friend of ours; he—”
“Silence, dog! You are only to tell me what I wish to know; if you speak
beyond your brief answer you shall be whipped. You delivered us into the
hands of our enemies, the Kiowas?”
“No.”
“That is a lie.”
“It is the truth.”
“Did you not spend a whole night spying on us? Is that true or false?”
“It is true.”
“And you led the pale-faces to the water to entrap us, and hid the
Kiowas in the woods where they could fall upon us?”
“Yes, I did, but—”
“Silence! I want short answers and no long speech. That night and the
next day we lost sixteen warriors, and they, putting aside the blood and
suffering of the wounded, must be avenged. You must die; you have no
claim to pity or mercy.”
“We don’t want mercy; we want justice,” Sam interrupted.
“Will you be silent, dog?” thundered the chief. “I am through with you.
But since you speak of justice, Tangua, the Kiowa chief, may testify.
Are these pale-faces our friends?”
“No,” said the Kiowa, evidently rejoicing that things were going so
badly for us. “No; they begged me to kill you, to kill you all.”
This was too much for me. I broke the silence around us, crying: “That
is such a shameless lie that I would knock you down if my hands were
free.”
“Dog!” he shrieked, “I will knock you down.”
He raised his fist, but I said: “Strike, if you are not ashamed to
strike a man who cannot defend himself. You have been talking here of
justice, and letting us testify. Is that justice when a man can only say
what you have made up your mind he shall say? How can we testify if we
are to be whipped for speaking one word more than you want to hear?
Intschu-Tschuna is an unjust judge; he puts the questions so that our
answers must prove us guilty, allowing us to give no other, and when we
would speak the truth which would deliver us, prevents us with abuse. We
don’t care for such justice. We’d rather you began the torture. You
won’t hear a sigh from us.”
“Uff! uff!” I heard a woman’s voice cry, and knew it was Winnetou’s
sister.
“Uff! uff!” cried many Apaches round her, for courage is what Indians
most respect, and they praise it even in an enemy.
I continued: “When I first saw Intschu-Tschuna and Winnetou I said to
myself they were brave men and just ones, whom I could love and honor.
But I was mistaken; they are no better than others, for they listen to
the voice of a liar and will not hear a word of truth. Sam Hawkins has
allowed himself to be silenced, but I do not care for your threats, and
despise a man who oppresses a prisoner only because he is helpless. If I
were free I’d talk to you differently.”
“Dog! You dare to call me a liar!” cried Tangua. “I’ll break your
bones!”
He raised his gun to strike me, but Winnetou sprang forward, caught it,
and cried: “The Kiowa chief must be quiet. Old Shatterhand has spoken
boldly, but I agree with him. Intschu-Tschuna, my father, the chief of
all the Apaches, may allow him to say all that he has to say.”
Tangua had to obey, and Intschu-Tschuna granted his son’s request.
He came near me, and said: “Old Shatterhand is like a bird of prey, that
still rends though he is caged. Did you not knock Winnetou down twice?
Have you not even struck me with your fist?”
“Did I do it willingly? Did you not force me to it?” I demanded.
“Forced you?” he repeated, amazed.
“Certainly. Your warriors would not listen to a word from us; they
attacked us so fiercely that we had to defend ourselves; but ask them if
we wounded them, though we might have killed them. Then when you came up
and attacked me, you would not listen to me either; I had to defend
myself, and I might have shot or stabbed you, but I knocked you down
because I was your friend and would not do you real harm. Then came
Tangua, the Kiowa chief, and wanted to take your scalp, and because I
would not let him he attacked me, and I conquered him. Then—”
“This miserable coyote lies as if he had a hundred tongues,” cried
Tangua.
“Are they really lies?” asked Winnetou.
“Yes; I hope my young brother Winnetou does not doubt my word.”
“I begin to; you lay senseless like my father when I came; that agrees
with his story. Let Old Shatterhand continue.”
“I had fought Tangua,” I resumed, “to save Intschu-Tschuna when Winnetou
came up. I did not see him, and he gave me a blow with his gun,
fortunately not on the head, but on the shoulder. He then wounded me
through the tongue, and I could not speak, or I would have told him that
I would be his friend and brother, for I loved him. I was badly hurt,
and my arm lamed, but I fought him, and he lay unconscious before me
like Tangua and Intschu-Tschuna. I could have killed both the Apache
chiefs; did I do so?”
“You would have done so, but an Apache came up and struck you down with
a tomahawk,” answered Intschu-Tschuna. “I admit there is something in
your words that almost awakens faith in them, but when you first knocked
down my son Winnetou you were not forced to do so.”
“Indeed I was. We wanted to save you and him. You are brave men, and
would have defended yourselves from the Kiowas, and you would have been
wounded or killed. We wanted to prevent this, so I knocked Winnetou
down, and you were overpowered by my friends.”
“Lies, nothing but lies,” cried Tangua. “I came up as he knocked you
down; it was he, not I, that would have taken your scalp. I would have
stopped him, but he struck me with that hand in which a great, wicked
spirit dwells and nothing can stand against it.”
I turned on him, and said threateningly: “I spared you, because I want
to shed no man’s blood; but if ever I fight you again, it will be with
weapons and not my fist, and you shall not get off so easily; mark
that.”
“You fight me!” he jeered. “We will burn you, and scatter your ashes to
the four winds.”
“I think not; I shall be free sooner than you think, and demand a
reckoning from you.”
“You shall have it, I promise you; and I wish your words might be
fulfilled that I might crush you.”
Intschu-Tschuna put an end to this little interlude by saying to me:
“Old Shatterhand is very bold if he thinks to be free. He has only made
statements, but has not proved them. Have you anything more to say?”
“Perhaps later; not now.”
“Say it now, for later you can say nothing.”
“I will be silent now, for I want to see what you decide in regard to
us. If I speak later, you will see that Old Shatterhand is not a man
whose word is to be despised.”
Intschu-Tschuna turned from us, and nodded to certain old warriors, who
left the circle and gathered around him for consultation, while Tangua
of course used every effort to turn the decision as he wished. The
conference lasted but a short time; the old braves came back to their
places in the circle, and Intschu-Tschuna announced in a loud voice:
“Hear, ye warriors of the Apaches and Kiowas, what has been determined
for these four pale-faces bound here. It had been previously decided in
a council of the elders that we should drive them into the water and let
them fight each other, and finally we would burn them. But Old
Shatterhand, the youngest of them, has spoken words which have found
favor with the wisdom of the elders. They deserve death, but it seems
they intended less wickedness than we believed. So we have withdrawn our
first sentence, and will let the Great Spirit decide between us.”
He paused for a moment, and Sam said to me: “Gracious! this is
interesting, very much so. Do you know what he means?”
“I suppose a duel, an appeal to arms; don’t you think so?”
“Yes, but between whom?”
The chief, continuing, answered Sam’s question. “The pale-face called
Old Shatterhand seems to be the foremost of them, so the decision shall
be entrusted to him. He shall be opposed by the one on our side whose
rank is highest; this is I, Intschu-Tschuna, the chief of the Apaches.”
“The mischief! He and you!” whispered Sam in the greatest amazement.
“Uff! uff! uff!” echoed through the Apache ranks, for they, too,
wondered that he should fight with me when he could so easily have
appointed another to the task; but his next words explained the reason
for this. “The honor of Intschu-Tschuna and Winnetou has been sorely
injured,” continued the chief, “they having been knocked down by the
fist of this pale-face. They must wipe out this stain by fighting him.
Winnetou must give way to me, for I am older, and to me belongs the
right of killing Old Shatterhand.”
“You may be glad,” whispered Sam, “for your death will be quicker than
ours.”
Intschu-Tschuna spoke again: “We will unbind Old Shatterhand, and he
shall go into the river to swim across it, but he shall take no weapon.
I will follow him with a tomahawk. If Old Shatterhand can get across,
and reach that cedar standing there in the plain, he is saved, and his
comrades are free; they can go where they will. But if I kill him before
he reaches the cedar they, too, must die, but not by torture; they shall
be shot. Let all the braves signify that they hear my words and agree
with them.”
“How!” rose the answer in concert.
It may be imagined how excited they were at this announcement; Sam,
Dick, and Will more than I.
“These fellows have chosen badly; because you are our superior it
doesn’t follow that you know how to swim. What nonsense! Their real
reason is that you’re a tenderfoot. I should have taken this; I’d have
shown him that Sam Hawkins can go through the water like a trout. But
you! Consider, my dear young friend, that not only your life but our
lives hang on this; if you fail I can never speak another word to you.”
“Don’t worry, my dear Sam; I’ll do what I can. I don’t think for a
moment the Indians have any underhand reason for choosing me. I am sure,
too, I can save you more easily than you could have saved us.”
“Well, I hope so. And it’s for life or death. You mustn’t spare
Intschu-Tschuna; never think of doing that.”
“We’ll see.”
“That’s no answer; there’s nothing to see. If you spare him, you’re
lost, and we with you. These redskins can throw a tomahawk a hundred
feet away and cut off your fingers. You’ll get it in the back or head
before you can get over, no matter how well you swim.”
“I know, my dear Sam, and I know, too, that a thimbleful of wit is worth
more than a barrel-full of mere strength.”
“Wit! What good is that against a well-aimed tomahawk?”
“It helps, Sam, it helps; and I have a plan. Remember this: If I drown
we are saved.”
I said this hastily, for the three chiefs now came over to us.
Intschu-Tschuna said: “We will now free Old Shatterhand, but he need not
think he can escape, for more than a hundred will follow him to the
water’s edge.”
“It would never occur to me,” I said, “for, if I could get away, it
would be disgraceful to desert my comrades.”
I was liberated, and moved my arm to test its powers. Then I said: “It
is a great honor for me to contest with the chief of the Apaches, but it
is not an honor for him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I am no adversary for him. I have bathed, of course, but I
would not dare cross such a broad, deep river as that is.”
“I am sorry to hear it; Winnetou and I are the best swimmers of the
tribe, and it is no victory for us to conquer a poor swimmer.”
“And you are armed, while I am not; I go, then, to my death, and my
comrades must also die. When will you strike me with the tomahawk?”
“When it pleases me,” he said, with the contemptuous smile of a virtuoso
to an amateur.
“It may be done in the water?”
“Yes.”
I tried to appear more anxious and cast down than ever.
“And can I kill you?” I asked meekly.
He gave me a look which said plainly: “Poor worm! there’s no question of
that.” But he said: “It is a contest for life or death; you may kill me,
but in case such a thing happens you must still reach the cedar.”
“And I shall not be held guilty of your death?”
“No; if I kill you, your comrades must die; but if you kill me and then
get to the cedar, you are free. Come.”
He turned away, and I pulled off my coat and vest. Sam cried out to me
in anguish: “If you could see your face and hear the mournful tone of
your voice! I am in deadly fear for you and for ourselves.”
I could not answer him, for the three chiefs would have heard me; but I
had acted thus to make Intschu-Tschuna feel secure and less on his
guard.
“One more question,” I said before I followed him. “In case we are free,
shall we get back our property?”
He gave a short, impatient laugh, as if he thought this an insane
question. “Yes, you shall have it,” he said.
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
“Even horses and guns?”
He turned on me angrily, saying: “Everything; I have said it. A crow
flew beside an eagle in contest of speed, and asked what it should
receive if it conquered the king of birds. If you swim as stupidly as
you ask questions, I am sorry I did not give you an old squaw for an
adversary.”
We passed through the half-circle, which opened to make way for us. As I
passed Nscho-Tschi she gave me a glance in which she bade me farewell
forever. The Indians followed us, and settled down to watch the
interesting spectacle which was about to begin.
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