WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT.

COMPANION VOLUME.

The Treasure of Nugget Mountain. Edited by Marion Ames Taggart. 12mo, cloth, 85 cents.

JACK HILDRETH AMONG THE INDIANS.

WINNETOU,

THE APACHE KNIGHT.

ADAPTED FOR OUR BOYS AND GIRLS FROM C. MAY

BY

MARION AMES TAGGART.

❦

New York, Cincinnati, Chicago:

BENZIGER BROTHERS,

Printers to the Holy Apostolic See.

Copyright, 1898, by Benziger Brothers.

CONTENTS.

WINNETOU, THE APACHE KNIGHT.

CHAPTER I.
TOWARD THE SETTING SUN.

It is not necessary to say much about myself. First of all because there is not very much to tell of a young fellow of twenty-three, and then because I hope what I have done and seen will be more interesting than I am, for, between you and me, I often find Jack Hildreth a dull kind of person, especially on a rainy day when I have to sit in the house alone with him.

When I was born three other children had preceded me in the world, and my father’s dreamy blue eyes saw no way of providing suitably for this superfluous fourth youngster. And then my uncle John came forward and said: “Name the boy after me, and I’ll be responsible for his future.” Now Uncle John was rich and unmarried, and though my father could never get his mind down to anything more practical than deciphering cuneiform inscriptions, even he saw that this changed the unflattering prospects of his latest-born into unusually smiling ones.

So I became Jack Hildreth secundus, and my uncle nobly fulfilled his part of the contract. He kept me under his own eye, gave me a horse before my legs were long enough to bestride him, nevertheless expecting me to sit him fast, punished me well if I was quarrelsome or domineering with other boys, yet punished me no less surely if when a quarrel was forced upon me I showed the white feather or failed to do my best to whip my enemy.

“Fear God, but fear no man. Never lie, or sneak, or truckle for favor. Never betray a trust. Never be cruel to man or beast. Never inflict pain deliberately, but never be afraid to meet it if you must. Be kind, be honest, be daring. Be a man, and you will be a gentleman.” This was my uncle’s simple code; and as I get older, and see more of life, I am inclined to think there is none better.

My uncle sent me to the Jesuit college, and I went through as well as I could, because he trusted me to do so. I did not set the college world afire, but I stood fairly in my classes, and was first in athletics, and my old soldier uncle cared for that with ill-concealed pride.

When I left the student’s life, and began to look about on real life and wonder where to take hold of it, I was so restless and overflowing with health and strength that I could not settle down to anything, and the fever for life on the plains came upon me. I longed to be off to the wild and woolly West—the wilder and woollier the better—before I assumed the shackles of civilization forever.

“Go if you choose, Jack,” my uncle said. “Men are a better study than books, after you’ve been grounded in the latter. Begin the study in the primer of an aboriginal race, if you like; indeed it may be best. There’s plenty of time to decide on your future, for, as you’re to be my heir, there’s no pressing need of beginning labor.”

My uncle had the necessary influence to get me appointed as an engineer with a party which was to survey for a railroad among the mountains of New Mexico and Arizona—a position I was competent to fill, as I had chosen civil engineering as my future profession, and had studied it thoroughly.

I scarcely realized that I was going till I found myself in St. Louis, where I was to meet the scouts of the party, who would take me with them to join the surveyors at the scene of our labors. On the night after my arrival I invited the senior scout, Sam Hawkins, to sup with me, in order that I might make his acquaintance before starting in the morning.

I do not know whether the Wild West Show was unconsciously in my mind, but when Mr. Hawkins appeared at the appointed time I certainly felt disappointed to see him clad in ordinary clothes and not in the picturesque costume of Buffalo Bill, till I reflected that in St. Louis even a famous Indian scout might condescend to look like every-day mortals.

“So you’re the young tenderfoot; glad to make your acquaintance, sir,” he said, and held out his hand, smiling at me from an extraordinary face covered with a bushy beard of many moons’ growth and shadowed by a large nose a trifle awry, above which twinkled a pair of sharp little eyes.

My guest surprised me not a little, after I had responded to his greeting, by hanging his hat on the gas-fixture, and following it with his hair.

“Don’t be shocked,” he said calmly, seeing, I suppose, that this was unexpected. “You will excuse me, I hope, for the Pawnees have taken my natural locks. It was a mighty queer feeling, but fortunately I was able to stand it. I went to Tacoma and bought myself a new scalp, and it cost me a roll of good dollars. It doesn’t matter; the new hair is more convenient than the old, especially on a warm day, for I never could hang my own wig up like that.”

He had a way of laughing inwardly, and his shoulders shook as he spoke, though he made no sound.

“Can you shoot?” asked my queer companion suddenly.

“Fairly,” I said, not so much, I am afraid, because I was modest as because I wanted to have the fun of letting him find out that I was a crack marksman.

“And ride?”

“If I have to.”

“If you have to! Not as well as you shoot, then?”

“Pshaw! what is riding? The mounting is all that is hard; you can hang on somehow if once you’re up.”

He looked at me to see whether I was joking or in earnest; but I looked innocent, so he said: “There’s where you make a mistake. What you should have said is that mounting is hard because you have to do that yourself, while the horse attends to your getting off again.”

“The horse won’t see to it in my case,” I said with confidence—born of the fact that my kind uncle had accustomed me to clinging to high-strung beasts before I had lost my milk-teeth.

“A kicking broncho is something to try the mettle of a tenderfoot,” remarked Hawkins dryly.

I suppose you know what a tenderfoot is. He is one who speaks good English, and wears gloves as if he were used to them. He also has a prejudice in favor of nice handkerchiefs and well-kept finger-nails; he may know a good deal about history, but he is liable to mistake turkey-tracks for bear-prints, and, though he has learned astronomy, he could never find his way by the stars. The tenderfoot sticks his bowie-knife into his belt in such a manner that it runs into his thigh when he bends; and when he builds a fire on the prairie he makes it so big that it flames as high as a tree, yet feels surprised that the Indians notice it. But many a tenderfoot is a daring, strong-bodied and strong-hearted fellow; and though there was no doubt that I was a tenderfoot fast enough, I hoped to convince Sam Hawkins that I had some qualities requisite for success on the plains.

By the time our supper was over there was a very good understanding established between me and the queer little man to whose faithful love I was to owe so much. He was an eccentric fellow, with a pretence of crustiness covering his big, true heart; but it was not hard to read him by the law of contraries, and our mutual liking dated from that night of meeting.

We set out in the early dawn of the following morning, accompanied by the other two scouts, Dick Stone and Will Parker, whom I then saw for the first time, and whom I learned to value only less than Sam as the truest of good comrades. Our journey was as direct and speedy as we could make it to the mountain region of New Mexico, near the Apache Indian reservation, and I was welcomed by my fellow-workers with a cordiality that gave rise to hopes of pleasant relations with them which were never realized. The party consisted of the head engineer, Bancroft, and three men under him. With them were twelve men intended to serve as our protectors, a sort of standing army, and for whom, as hardworking pioneers, I, a new-comer, had considerable respect until I discovered that they were men of the lowest moral standards.

Although I had entered the service only for experience, I was in earnest and did my duty conscientiously; but I soon found out that my colleagues were genuine adventurers, only after money, and caring nothing for their work except as a means of getting it.

Bancroft was the most dishonest of all. He loved his bottle too well and got private supplies for it from Santa Fé, and worked harder with the brandy-flask than with his surveying instruments. Riggs, Marcy, and Wheeler, the three surveyors, emulated Bancroft in this unprofitable pursuit; and as I never touched a drop of liquor, I naturally was the laborer, while the rest alternated between drinking and sleeping off the effects.

It goes without saying that under such circumstances our work did not progress rapidly, and at the end of the glorious autumn and three months of labor we found ourselves with our task still unaccomplished, while the section with which ours was to connect was almost completed. Besides our workmen being such as they were, we had to work in a region infested with Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches, who objected to a road through their territory, and we had to be constantly on our guard, which made our progress still slower.

Personally my lot was not a bed of roses, for the men disliked me, and called me “tenderfoot” ten times a day, and took a special delight in thwarting my will, especially Rattler, the leader of our so-called guard, and as big a rascal as ever went unhanged. I durst not speak to them in an authoritative manner, but had to manage them as a wise woman manages a tyrannical husband without his perceiving it.

But I had allies in Sam Hawkins and his two companion scouts, Dick Stone and Will Parker. They were friendly to me, and held off from the others, in whom Sam Hawkins especially managed to inspire respect in spite of his droll peculiarities. There was an alliance formed between us silently, which I can best describe as a sort of feudal relation; he had taken me under his protection like a man who did not need to ask if he were understood. I was the “tenderfoot,” and he the experienced frontiersman whose words and deeds had to be infallible to me. As often as he had time and opportunity he gave me practical and theoretical instruction in everything necessary to know and do in the Wild West; and though I graduated from the high school later, so to speak, with Winnetou as master, Sam Hawkins was my elementary teacher.

He made me expert with a lasso, and let me practise with that useful weapon on his own little person and his horse. When I had reached the point of catching them at every throw he was delighted, and cried out: “Good, my young sir! That’s fine. But don’t be set up with this praise. A teacher must encourage his stupid scholars when they make a little progress. I have taught lots of young frontiersmen, and they all learned much easier and understood me far quicker than you have, but perhaps it’s possible that after eight years or so you may not be called a tenderfoot. You can comfort yourself with the thought that sometimes a stupid man gets on as well as or even a little better than a clever one.”

He said this as if in sober earnest, and I received it in the same way, knowing well how differently he meant it. We met at a distance from the camp, where we could not be observed. Sam Hawkins would have it so; and when I asked why, he said: “For mercy’s sake, hide yourself, sir. You are so awkward that I should be ashamed to have these fellows see you, so that’s why I keep you in the shade—that’s the only reason; take it to heart.”

The consequence was that none of the company suspected that I had any skill in weapons, or special muscular strength—an ignorance that I was glad to foster.

One day I gave Rattler an order; it was some trifling thing, too small for me to remember now, and he would have been willing to carry it out had not his mood been rather uglier than usual.

“Do it yourself,” he growled. “You impudent greenhorn, I’ll show you I’m as good as you are any day.”

“You’re drunk,” I said, looking him over and turning away.

“I’m drunk, am I?” he replied, glad of a chance to get at me, whom he hated.

“Very drunk, or I’d knock you down,” I answered.

Rattler was a big, brawny fellow, and he stepped up in front of me, rolling up his sleeves. “Who, me? Knock me down? Well, I guess not, you blower, you kid, you greenhorn—”

He said no more. I hit him square in the face, and he dropped like an ox. Fearing mischief from Rattler’s followers, and realizing that now or never was my authority to be established, I drew my pistol, crying: “If one of you puts his hand to a weapon I’ll shoot him on the spot.” No one stirred. “Take your friend away, and let him sober up, and when he comes to his senses he may be more respectful,” I remarked.

As the men obeyed me, Wheeler, the surveyor, whom I thought the best of the lot, stepped from the others and came up to me. “That was a great blow,” he said. “Let me congratulate you. I never saw such strength. They’ll call you Shatterhand out here.”

This seemed to suit little Sam exactly. He threw up his hat, shouting joyously: “Shatterhand! Good! A tenderfoot, and already won a name, and what a name! Shatterhand; Old Shatterhand. It’s like Old Firehand, who is a frontiersman as strong as a bear. I tell you, boy, it’s great, and you’re christened for good and all in the Wild West.”

And so I found myself in a new and strange life, and beginning it with a new name, which became as familiar and as dear to me as my own.

CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST BUFFALO.

Three days after the little disciplining I had given Rattler, Mr. White, the head engineer of the next section, rode over to us to report that their work was finished, and to inquire what our prospects were for making speedy connection. When he set out on his return he invited Sam Hawkins and me to accompany him part of the way through the valley.

We found him a very agreeable companion; and when we came to the point where we were to turn back we shook hands cordially, leaving him with regret. “There’s one thing I want to warn you of,” Mr. White said in parting. “Look out for redskins.”

“Have you seen them?” Sam asked.

“Not them, but their tracks. Now is the time when the wild mustangs and the buffaloes go southward, and the Indians follow in the chase. The Kiowas are all right, for we arranged with them for the road, but the Apaches and Comanches know nothing of it, and we don’t dare let them see us. We have finished our part, and are ready to leave this region; hurry up with yours, and do likewise. Remember there’s danger, and good-by.”

Sam looked gravely after his retreating form, and pointed to a footprint near the spring where we had paused for parting. “He’s quite right to warn us of Indians,” he said.

“Do you mean this footprint was made by an Indian?”

“Yes, an Indian’s moccasin. How does that make you feel?”

“Not at all.”

“You must feel or think something.”

“What should I think except that an Indian has been here?”

“Not afraid?”

“Not a bit.”

“Oh,” cried Sam, “you’re living up to your name of Shatterhand; but I tell you that Indians are not so easy to shatter; you don’t know them.”

“But I hope to understand them. They must be like other men, enemies to their enemies, friends to their friends; and as I mean to treat them well, I don’t see why I should fear them.”

“You’ll find out,” said Sam, “or you’ll be a greenhorn for eternity. You may treat the Indians as you like, and it won’t turn out as you expect, for the results don’t depend on your will. You’ll learn by experience, and I only hope the experience won’t cost you your life.”

This was not cheering, and for some time we rode through the pleasant autumn air in silence.

Suddenly Sam reined up his horse, and looked ahead earnestly through half-closed lids. “By George,” he cried excitedly, “there they are! Actually there they are, the very first ones.”

“What?” I asked. I saw at some distance ahead of us perhaps eighteen or twenty dark forms moving slowly.

“What!” repeated Sam, bouncing up and down in his saddle. “I’d be ashamed to ask such a question; you are indeed a precious greenhorn. Can’t you guess, my learned sir, what those things are before your eyes there?”

“I should take them for deer if I didn’t know there were none about here; and though those animals look so small from here, I should say they were larger than deer.”

“Deer in this locality! That’s a good one! But your other guess is not so bad; they certainly are larger than deer.”

“O Sam, they surely can’t be buffaloes?”

“They surely can. Bisons they are, genuine bisons beginning their travels, and the first I have seen. You see Mr. White was right: buffaloes and Indians. We saw only a footprint of the red men, but the buffaloes are there before our eyes in all their strength. What do you say about it?”

“We must go up to them.”

“Sure.”

“And study them.”

“Study them? Really study them?” he asked, glancing at me sidewise in surprise.

“Yes; I never saw a buffalo, and I’d like to watch them.”

I felt the interest of a naturalist, which was perfectly incomprehensible to little Sam. He rubbed his hands together, saying: “Watch them, only watch them! Like a child putting his eye to a rabbit’s hole to see the little bunnies! O you young tenderfoot, what I must put up with in you! I don’t want to watch them or study them, I tell you, hut hunt them. They mean meat—meat, do you understand? and such meat! A buffalo-steak is more glorious than ambrosia, or ambrosiana, or whatever you call the stuff the old Greeks fed their gods with. I must have a buffalo if it costs me my life. The wind is towards us; that’s good. The sun’s on the left, towards the valley, but it’s shady on the right, and if we keep in the shade the animals won’t see us. Come on.”

He looked to see if his gun, “Liddy,” as he called it, was all right, and I hastily overhauled my own weapon. Seeing this, Sam held up his horse and asked: “Do you want to take a hand in this?”

“Of course.”

“Well, you let that thing alone if you don’t want to be trampled to jelly in the next ten minutes. A buffalo isn’t a canary bird for a man to take on his finger and let it sing.”

“But I will—”

“Be silent, and obey me,” he interrupted in a tone he had never used before. “I won’t have your life on my conscience, and you would ride into the jaws of certain death. You can do what you please at other times, but now I’ll stand no opposition.”

Had there not been such a good understanding between us I would have given him a forcible answer; but as it was, I rode after him in the shadow of the hills without speaking, and after a while Sam said in his usual manner: “There are twenty head, as I reckon. Once a thousand or more browsed over the plains. I have seen early herds numbering a thousand and upward. They were the Indians’ food, but the white men have taken it from them. The redskin hunted to live, and only killed what he needed. But the white man has ravaged countless herds, like a robber who for very lust of blood keeps on slaying when he is well supplied. It won’t be long before there are no buffaloes, and a little longer and there’ll be no Indians, God help them! And it’s just the same with the herds of horses. There used to be herds of a thousand mustangs, and even more. Now a man is lucky if he sees two together.”

We had come within four hundred feet of the buffaloes unobserved, and Hawkins reined in his horse. In the van of the herd was an old bull whose enormous bulk I studied with wonder. He was certainly six feet high and ten long; I did not then know how to estimate the weight of a buffalo, but I should now say that he must have weighed sixteen hundred pounds—an astounding mass of flesh and bone.

“That’s the leader,” whispered Sam, “the most experienced of the whole crowd. Whoever tackles him had better make his will first. I will take the young cow right back of him. The best place to shoot is behind the shoulder-blade into the heart; indeed it’s the only sure place except the eyes, and none but a madman would go up to a buffalo and shoot into his eyes. You stay here, and hide yourself and your horse in the thicket. When they see me they’ll run past here; but don’t you quit your place unless I come back or call you.”

He waited until I had hidden between two bushes, and then rode slowly forward. It seemed to me this took great courage. I had often read how buffaloes were hunted, and knew all about it; but there is a great difference between a printed page and the real thing. To-day I had seen buffaloes for the first time in my life; and though at first I only wished to study them, as I watched Sam I felt an irresistible longing to join in the sport. He was going to shoot a young cow. Pshaw! that, I thought, required no courage; a true man would choose the strongest bull.

My horse was very restless; he, too, had never seen buffaloes before, and he pawed the ground, frightened and so anxious to run that I could scarcely hold him. Would it not be better to let him go, and attack the old bull myself? I debated this question inwardly, divided between desire to go and regard for Sam’s command, meantime watching his every movement.

He had approached within a hundred feet of the buffaloes, when he spurred his horse and galloped into the herd, past the mighty bull, up to the cow which he had selected. She pricked up her ears, and started to run. I saw Sam shoot. She staggered, and her head dropped, but I did not know whether or not she fell, for my eyes were chained to another spot.

The great bull, which had been lying down, was getting up, and turned toward Sam Hawkins. What a mighty beast! The thick head with the enormous skull, the broad forehead with its short, strong horns, the neck and breast covered with the coarse mane, made a picture of the greatest possible strength. Yes, it was a marvellous creature, but the sight of him aroused a longing to measure human strength with this power of the plains. Should I or should I not? I could not decide, nor was I sure that my roan would take me towards him; but just then my frightened horse sprang forth from our cover, and I resolved to try, and spurred him towards the bull. He heard me coming, and turned to meet me, lowering his head to receive horse and rider on his horns. I heard Sam cry out something with all his might, but had no time even to glance at him. It was impossible to shoot the buffalo, for in the first place he was not in the right position, and in the second place my horse would not obey me, but for very fear ran straight towards the threatening horns. The buffalo braced his hind legs to toss us, and raised his head with a mighty bellow. Exerting all my strength, I turned my horse a little, and he leaped over the bull, while the horns grazed my leg.

My course lay directly towards a mire in which the buffalo had been sleeping. I saw this, and fortunately drew my feet from the stirrups; my horse slipped and we both fell.

How it all happened so quickly is incomprehensible to me now, but the next moment I stood upright beside the morass, my gun still in my hand. The buffalo turned on the horse, which had also risen quickly, and came on him in ungainly leaps, and this brought his flank under my fire. I took aim. One more bound and the buffalo would reach my horse. I pulled the trigger; he stopped, whether from fear or because he was hit I did not know, but I fired again, two shots in rapid succession. He slowly raised his head, froze my blood with a last awful roar, swayed from side to side, and fell where he stood.

I might have rejoiced over this narrow escape, but I had something else to attend to. I saw Sam Hawkins galloping for dear life across the valley, followed by a steer not much smaller than my bull had been.

When the bison is aroused his speed is as great as that of a horse; he never gives up his object, and shows a courage and perseverance one would not have expected of him. So this steer was pressing the rider hard, and in order to escape him Sam had to make many turns, which so wearied his horse that he could not hold out as long as the buffalo, and it was quite time that help arrived.

I did not stop to see whether or not my bull was dead. I quickly reloaded both chambers of my gun, and ran across the grass towards Sam. He saw me, and turned his horse in my direction. This was a great mistake, for it brought the horse’s side towards the steer behind him. I saw him lower his horns, and in an instant horse and rider were tossed in the air, and fell to the ground with a dreadful thud. Sam cried for help as well as he could. I was a good hundred and fifty feet away, but I dared not delay, though the shot would have been surer at shorter range. I aimed at the steer’s left shoulder-blade and fired. The buffalo raised his head as if listening, turned slowly, then ran at me with all his might. Luckily for me, his moment of hesitation had given me time to reload, and therefore I was ready for him by the time the beast had made thirty paces towards me. He could no longer run; his steps became slow, but with deep-hanging head and protruding, bloodshot eyes he came nearer and nearer to me, like some awful, unavoidable fate. I knelt down and brought my gun into position. This movement made the buffalo halt and raise his head a little to see me better, thus bringing his eyes just in range of both barrels. I sent one shot into the right, another into the left eye; a quick shudder went through his body, and the beast fell dead.

Springing to my feet, I rushed toward Sam; but it was not necessary, for I saw him approaching.

“Hallo!” I cried, “are you alive?”

“Very much so, only my left hip pains me, or the right; I’m sure I can’t tell which.”

“And your horse?”

“Done for; he’s still alive, but he’s torn past help. We’ll have to shoot him to put him out of his misery, poor fellow. Is the buffalo dead?”

I was not able to answer this question positively, so we made sure that there was no life in my former foe, and Hawkins said: “He treated me pretty badly, this old brute; a cow would have been gentler, but I suppose you can’t expect such an old soldier to be lady-like. Let us go to my poor horse.”

We found him in a pitiable condition, torn so that his entrails protruded, and groaning with agony. Sam loaded, and gave the poor creature the shot that ended his suffering, and then he removed the saddle and bridle, saying: “I’ll be my own horse, and put these on my back.”

“Where will you get another horse?” I asked.

“That’s the least of my troubles; I’ll find one unless I’m mistaken.”

“A mustang?”

“Yes. The buffaloes are here; they’ve begun travelling southward, and soon we’ll see the mustangs, I’m sure of that.”

“May I go with you when you catch one?”

“Sure; you’ll have to learn to do it. I wonder if that old bull is dead; such Methuselahs are wonderfully tough.”

But the beast was dead, as we found on investigation; and as he lay there I realized more fully what a monster he was. Sam looked him over, shook his head, and said: “It is perfectly incredible. Do you know what you are?”

“What?”

“The most reckless man on earth.”

“I’ve never been accused of recklessness before.”

“Well, now you know that ‘reckless’ is the word for you. I forbade you meddling with a buffalo or leaving your hiding-place; but if you were going to disobey me, why didn’t you shoot a cow?”

“Because this was more knightly.”

“Knightly! Great Scott! This tenderfoot wants to play knight!” He laughed till he had to take hold of the bushes for support, and when he got his breath he cried: “The true frontiersman does what is most expedient, not what’s most knightly.”

“And I did that, too.”

“How do you make that out?”

“That big bull has much more flesh on him than a cow.”

Sam looked at me mockingly. “Much more flesh!” he cried. “And this youngster shot a bull for his flesh! Why, boy, this old stager had surely eighteen or twenty years on his head, and his flesh is as hard as leather, while the cow’s flesh is fine and tender. All this shows again what a greenhorn you are. Now go get your horse, and we’ll load him with all the meat he can carry.”

In spite of Sam’s mocking me, that night as I stood unobserved in the door of the tent where he and Stone and Parker sat by their fire I heard Sam say: “Yes, sir, he’s going to be a genuine Westerner; he’s born one. And how strong he is! Yesterday he drew our great ox-cart alone and single-handed. Now to-day I owe him my life. But we won’t let him know what we think of him.”

“Why not?” asked Parker.

“It might swell his head,” replied Sam. “Many a good fellow has been spoiled by praise. I suppose he’ll think I’m an ungrateful old curmudgeon, for I never even thanked him for saving my life. But to-morrow I’ll give him a treat; I’ll take him to catch a mustang, and, no matter what he thinks, I know how to value him.”

I crept away, pleased with what I had heard, and touched by the loving tone of my queer friend’s voice as he spoke of me.

CHAPTER III.
WILD MUSTANGS AND LONG-EARED NANCY.

The next morning as I was going to work Sam came to me, saying: “Put down your instruments; we have something on hand more interesting than surveying.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll see. Get your horse ready; we’re going to ride.”

“And how about the work?”

“Nonsense! You’ve done your share. However, I expect to be back by noon, and then you can measure, as much as you will.”

After arranging with Bancroft for my absence, we started; and as Sam made a mystery of the object of our expedition, I said nothing to show that I suspected what it was.

We went back of the ravine where we were surveying to a stretch of prairie which Sam had pointed out the day before. It was two good miles broad, and surrounded by woody heights, from which flowed a brook irrigating the plain. We rode to the westerly boundary, where the grass was freshest, and here Sam securely tied his horse—his borrowed horse—and let him graze. As he looked about him an expression of satisfaction shone on his rugged face, like sunshine on rocks. “Dismount, sir,” he said, “and tie your horse strong; we’ll wait here.”

“Why tie him so strongly?” I asked, though I knew well.

“Because you might lose him. I have often seen horses go off with such companions.”

“Such companions as what?” I asked.

“Try to guess.”

“Mustangs?”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve read that if domestic horses weren’t well tied they’d join the wild ones when a herd came along.”

“Confound it! you’ve read so much a man can’t get the best of you.”

“Do you want to get the best of me?”

“Of course. But look, the mustangs have been here.”

“Are those their tracks?”

“Yes; they went through here yesterday. It was a scouting party. Let me tell you that these beasts are uncommonly sharp. They always send out little advance-parties, which have their officers exactly like soldiers, and the commander is the strongest and most experienced horse. They travel in circular formation, stallions outside, mares next them inside, and the foals in the middle, in order that the males may protect the mares and young. I have already shown you how to catch a mustang with a lasso; do you remember? Would you like to capture one?”

“Certainly I would.”

“Well, you’ll have a chance before noon to-day.”

“Thanks, but I don’t intend to catch one.”

“The dickens you don’t! And why not?”

“Because I don’t need a horse.”

“But a real frontiersman never asks whether he needs a horse or not.”

“Now look here, Sam; only yesterday you were speaking of the brutal way the white men, though they do not need meat, kill the buffaloes in masses, depriving the Indians of their food. We agreed that was a crime against beasts and men.”

“Assuredly.”

“This is a similar case. I should do wrong to rob one of these glorious fellows of his freedom unless I needed a horse.”

“That’s well said, young man; bravely said. Any man, any Christian worth calling so, would feel thus; but who said anything about robbing him of his freedom? Just put your education in lasso-throwing to the proof, that’s all.”

“That’s a different thing; I’ll do that.”

“All right; and I’ll use one in earnest, for I do need a horse. I’ve often told you, and now I’ll say again: Sit strong in your saddle, control your horse well when you feel the lasso tighten, and pull; for if you don’t you’ll be unseated, and the mustang will gallop off, taking your horse and lasso with him. Then you’ll lose your mount and be, like me, only a common foot-soldier.”

He was about to give more advice, but stopped suddenly, and pointed to the northern end of the prairie. There stood a horse, one single, solitary horse. He walked slowly forward, not stopping to graze, turning his head first to one side, then to the other, snuffing the air as he came.

“Do you see?” whispered Sam. “Didn’t I tell you they’d come? That’s the scout come on ahead to see if all’s safe. He’s a wise beast! See how he looks in all directions! He won’t discover us, though, for we have the wind towards us.”

The mustang broke into a trot, running to the right, then to the left, and finally turned and disappeared as we had seen him come.

“Did you see him?” cried Sam admiringly. “How wise he is! An Indian scout could not have done better.”

“That’s so; I’m surprised at him.”

“Now he’s gone back to tell his general the air is pure. How we fooled him! They’ll all be here shortly. You ride back to the other end of the prairie, and wait there, while I go towards them and hide in the trees. When they come I’ll chase them, and they’ll fly in your direction; then you show yourself, and they’ll turn back towards me. So we’ll drive them back and forth till we’ve picked out the two best horses, and we’ll catch them and choose between them. Do you agree?”

“How can you ask? I know nothing of the art of mustang-catching, of which you are past master, and I’ve nothing to do but follow your directions.”

“All right. I have caught mustangs before to-day, and I hope you’re not far wrong in calling me a ‘master’ of that trade. Now let’s take our places.”

We turned and rode in opposite directions, he northward, I southward to the spot where we had entered the prairie. I got behind some little trees, made one end of the lasso fast, and coiled the other ready for use. The further end of the prairie was so far off that I could not see the mustangs when they first appeared, but after I had been waiting a quarter of an hour I saw what looked like a dark cloud rapidly increasing in size and advancing in my direction. At first it seemed to be made up of objects about as big as sparrows, then they seemed like cats, dogs, calves, and at last I saw them in their own proportions. They were the mustangs in wild gallop, coming towards me. What a sight these lordly beasts were, with their manes flying about their necks, and their tails streaming like plumes in the wind! There were at least three hundred head, and the earth seemed to tremble beneath the pounding of their hoofs. A white stallion led them, a noble creature that any man might be glad to capture, only no prairie hunter would ride a white horse, for he would be too conspicuous to his enemies.

Now was the time to show myself. I came out, and the startled leader sprang back as though an arrow had pierced him. The herd halted; one loud, eager whinny from the white stallion which plainly meant: Wheel, squadron! and the splendid fellow turned, followed by all his companions, and tore back whence they had come. I followed slowly; there was no hurry, for I knew Sam Hawkins would drive them back to me. I wanted to make sure I was right in what I had seen, for in the brief instant the herd had halted it seemed to me that one of them was not a horse, but a mule. The animal that I thought a mule had been in the front ranks, immediately behind the leader, and so seemed not merely to be tolerated by its companions, but to hold honorable rank among them.

Once again the herd came towards me, and I saw that I was not mistaken, but that a mule really was among them, a mule of a delicate light brown color, with dark back-stripe, and which I thought had the biggest head and the longest ears I had ever seen. Mules are more suitable for rough mountain-riding than horses, are surer-footed, and less likely to fall into abysses—a fact worth consideration. To be sure they are obstinate, and I have known a mule be beaten half to death rather than take another step, not because it was overladen or the way was hard, but simply because it would not. It seemed to me that this mule showed more spirit than the horses, and that its eyes gleamed brighter and more intelligently than theirs, and I resolved to capture it. Evidently it had escaped from its former owner and joined the mustangs.

Now once more Sam turned the herd, and we had approached each other till I could see him. The mustangs could no longer run back and forth; they turned to the side, we following them. The herd had divided, and I saw that the mule was with the more important part, still keeping beside the white horse, and proving itself an unusually strong and swift animal. I pursued this band, and Sam seemed to have the same design.

“Get around them; I left, you right,” he shouted.

We spurred our horses, and not only kept up with the mustangs, but rode so swiftly that we headed them off from the woods. They began to scatter to all sides like chickens when a hawk swoops down among them; and as we both chased the white stallion and the mule, Sam cried: “You’ll always be a greenhorn. Who else would pick out a white horse?”

I answered him, but his loud laugh drowned my reply, and if he thought I was after the white horse it did not much matter. I left the mule to his tender care, and in a moment he had come so near her that he threw the lasso.

The noose encircled the beast’s neck, and now Sam had to hold on as he had directed me to do, and throw himself backward to make the lasso hold when it tautened. This he did, but a moment too late; his horse did not obey on the instant, and was thrown by the force of the jerk. Sam flew through the air, and landed on the ground with a thump. The horse shook himself free, and was up and off in a moment, and the mule with him, since the lasso was fast to the saddle-bow.

I hastened to see if Sam was hurt, and found him standing, much shaken, but not otherwise the worse. He said to me in mournful tones: “There go Dick Stone’s chestnut and the mule without saying good-by.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No. Jump down and give me your horse.”

“What for?”

“To catch them, of course. Hurry up.”

“Not much; you might turn another somersault, and then both our horses would be gone to the four winds.” With these words I put my horse after the mule and Dick’s horse. Already they were in trouble, one pulling one way, the other another, and held together by the lasso, so I could easily come up with them. It never entered my head to use my lasso, but I grabbed the one holding them, wound it around my hand, and felt sure the day was won. I drew the noose tighter and tighter, thus easily controlling the mule, and brought her back, together with the horse, in apparent subjection to where Sam stood.

Then I suddenly pulled the noose taut, when the mule lost her breath and fell to the ground.

“Hold on fast till I have the rascal, and then let go,” shouted Sam, springing to the side of the prostrate beast. “Now!” he cried.

I let go the lasso, and the mule instantly jumped up, but not before Sam was on her back. She stood motionless a moment in surprise, then rushed from side to side, then stood first on her hind legs, then on her fore legs, and finally jumped into the air with all four bunched together, and her back arched like a cat’s. But still little Sam sat fast.

“Don’t get near; she’s going to try her last hope and run away, but I’ll bring her back tamed,” shouted Sam.

He proved to be mistaken, however; she only ran a little way, and then deliberately lay down and rolled. This was too much for Sam’s ribs; he had to get out of the saddle. I jumped from my horse, seized the lasso, and wound it around some tough roots near at hand. The mule, finding she had no rider, got up and started to run off; but the roots were strong, the noose drew tight, and again the animal fell. Sam had retired to one side, feeling his legs and ribs, and making a face as if he had eaten sauerkraut and marmalade.

“Let the beast go,” he said. “I believe nobody can conquer her.”

“Well, I guess not,” said I. “No animal whose father was no gentleman, but a donkey, is going to shame me. She’s got to mind me. Look out.”

I unwound the lasso from the bushes, and stood astride the mule, which at once got up, feeling herself freed. Now it was a question of strength of legs, and in this I far surpassed Sam. If a rider presses his beast’s ribs with strong knees it causes intense pain. As the mule began to try to throw me as she had Sam, I caught up the lasso, half hanging on the ground, and fastened it tight behind the noose. This I drew whenever she began any of her tricks, and by this means and pressure of the knees I contrived to keep her on all fours.

It was a bitter struggle, strength against strength. I began to sweat from every pore, but the mule was dripping, and foam fell from her lips in great flakes. Her struggles grew more and more feeble, her heavy breathing became short gasps, till at last she gave in altogether, not willingly, but because she was at her last limit, and stood motionless with bulging eyes. I drew long, deep breaths; it seemed to me as if every bone and sinew in my body were broken.

“Heavens! what a man you are!” cried Sam. “You’re stronger than the brute! If you could see your face you would be scared; your eyes are staring, your lips are swollen, your cheeks are actually blue.”

“I suppose so; that comes of being a tenderfoot who won’t be beaten, while his teacher gives in and lets a horse and a mule conquer him.”

Sam made a wry face. “Now let up, young fellow. I tell you the best hunter gets whipped sometimes.”

“Very likely. How are your ribs and other little bones?”

“I don’t know; I’ll have to count ’em to find out. That’s a fine beast you have under you there.”

“She is indeed. See how patiently she stands; one feels sorry for her. Shall we saddle and bridle her and go back?”

The poor mule stood quiet, trembling in every limb; nor did she try to resist when we put saddle and bridle on her, but obeyed the bit like a well-broken horse. “She’s had a master before,” said Sam. “I’m going to call her Nancy, for I once had a mule by that name, and it’s too much trouble to get used to another. And I’m going to ask you to do me a favor.”

“Gladly; what is it?”

“Don’t tell at the camp what has happened this morning, for they’d have nine days’ sport with me.”

“Of course I won’t; you’re my teacher and friend, so I’ll keep your secrets.”

His queer face lighted up with pleasure. “Yes, I’m your friend, and if I knew you had a little liking for me, my old heart would be warmed and rejoiced.”

I stretched out my hand to him, surprised and touched. “I can easily give you that pleasure, dear Sam,” I said. “You may be sure I honestly care for you with real respect and affection.”

He shook my hand, looking so delighted that even my young self-sufficiency could perceive how lonely this rough, cranky old frontiersman was, and how great was his yearning for human sympathy.

I fastened Dick Stone’s horse with the lasso, and mounting mine, as Sam got on Nancy, we rode away.

“She’s been educated, this new Nancy, in a very good school,” Sam remarked presently. “I see at every step she is going to be all right, and is regaining the old knowledge which she had forgotten among the mustangs. I hope she has not only temperament but character.”

“We’ve had two good days, Sam,” I said.

“Bad ones for me, except in getting Nancy; and bad for you, too, in one way, but mighty honorable.”

“Oh, I’ve done nothing; I came West to get experience. I hope to have a chance at other sport.”

“Well, I hope it will come more easily; yesterday your life hung by a hair. You risked too much. Never forget you’re a greenhorn tenderfoot. The idea of creeping up to shoot a buffalo in the eye! Did ever any one hear the like? But though hunting buffaloes is dangerous, bear-hunting is far more so.”

“Black bear?”

“Nonsense! The grizzly. You’ve read of him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, be glad you don’t know him outside of books; and take care you don’t, for you might have a chance to meet him. He sometimes comes about such places as this, following the rivers even as far as the prairie. I’ll tell you more of him another time; here we are at the camp.”

“A mule, a mule! Where did you get her, Hawkins?” cried all the men.

“By special delivery from Washington, for a ten-cent stamp. Would you like to see the envelope?” asked Sam, dismounting.

Though they were curious, none asked further questions, for, like the beast he had captured, when Sam wouldn’t he wouldn’t, and that was the end of it.

CHAPTER IV.
A GRIZZLY AND A MEETING.

The morning after Sam and I had caught Miss Nancy we moved our camp onward to begin labor on the next section of the road. Hawkins, Stone, and Parker did not help in this, for Sam was anxious to experiment further with Nancy’s education, and the other two accompanied him to the prairie, where they had sufficient room to carry out this purpose. We surveyors transferred our instruments ourselves, helped by one of Rattler’s men, while Rattler himself loafed around doing nothing.

We came to the spot where I had killed the two buffaloes, and to my surprise I saw that the body of the old bull was gone, leaving a broad trail of crushed grass that led to the adjoining thicket.

“I thought you had made sure both bulls were dead,” Rattler exclaimed. “The big one must have had some life in him.”

“Think so?” I asked.

“Of course, unless you think a dead buffalo can take himself off.”

“Must he have taken himself off? Perhaps it was done for him.”

“Yes, but who did it?”

“Possibly Indians; we saw an Indian’s footprint over yonder.”

“You don’t say! How well a greenhorn can explain things!” sneered Rattler. “If it was done by Indians, where do you think they came from? Dropped from the skies? Because if they came from anywhere else we’d see their tracks. No, there was life in that buffalo, and he crawled into the thicket, where he must have died. I’m going to look for him.”

He started off, followed by his men. He may have expected me to go, too, but it was far from my thoughts, for I did not like the way he had spoken. I wanted to work, and did not care a button what had become of the old bull. So I went back to my employment, and had only just taken up the measuring-rod, when a cry of horror rang from the thicket, two, three shots echoed, and then I heard Rattler cry: “Up the tree, quick! up the tree, or you’re lost! he can’t climb.”

Who could not climb? One of Rattler’s men burst out of the thicket, writhing like one in mortal agony.

“What is it? What’s happened?” I shouted.

“A bear, a tremendous grizzly bear!” he gasped, as I ran up to him.

And within the thicket an agonized voice cried: “Help, help! He’s got me!” in the tone of a man who saw the jaws of death yawning before him.

Evidently the man was in extreme danger, and must be helped quickly, but how? I had left my gun in the tent, for in working it hindered me; nor was this an oversight, since we surveyors had the frontiersmen purposely to guard us at our work. If I went to the tent to get the gun, the bear would have torn the man to shreds before I could get back; I must go to him as I was with a knife and two revolvers stuck in my belt, and what were these against a grizzly bear?

The grizzly is a near relation of the extinct cave-bear, and really belongs more to primeval days than to the present. It grows to a great size, and its strength is such that it can easily carry off a deer, a colt, or a young buffalo cow in its jaws. The Indians hold the killing of a grizzly a brilliant feat, because of its absolute fearlessness and inexhaustible endurance.

So it was to meet such a foe that I sprang into the thicket. The trail led further within, where the trees began, and where the bear had dragged the buffalo. It was a dreadful moment. Behind me I could hear the voices of the engineers; before me were the frontiersmen screaming, and between them and me, in indescribable agony, was their companion whom the bear had seized.

I pushed further in, and heard the voice of the bear; for, though this mighty beast differs from others of the bear family in not growling, when in pain or anger it utters something like a loud, harsh breathing and grunting.

And now I was on the scene. Before me lay the torn body of the buffalo, to right and left were the men, who were comparatively safe, having taken to the trees, which a grizzly bear seldom has been known to climb, if ever. One of the men had tried to get up a tree like the others, but had been overtaken by the bear. He hung by both arms hooked to the lowest limb, while the grizzly reached up and held him fast with its fore paws around the lower part of his body.

The man was almost dead; his case was hopeless. I could not help him, and no one could have blamed me if I had gone away and saved myself. But the desperation of the moment seemed to impel me onward. I snatched up a discarded gun, only to find it already emptied. Taking it by the muzzle I sprang over the buffalo, and dealt the bear a blow on the skull with all my might. The gun shattered like glass in my hand; even a blow with a battle-axe would have no effect on such a skull; but I had the satisfaction of distracting the grizzly’s attention from its victim.

It turned its head toward me, not quickly, like a wild beast of the feline or canine family, but slowly, as if wondering at my stupidity. It seemed to measure me with its little eyes, deciding, between going at me or sticking to its victim; and to this slight hesitation I owe my life, for in that instant the only possible way to save myself came to me. I drew a revolver, sprang directly at the bear, and shot it, once, twice, thrice, straight in the eyes, as I had the buffalo.

Of course this was rapidly done, and at once I jumped to one side, and stood still with my knife drawn. Had I remained where I was, my life would have paid for my rashness, for the blinded beast turned quickly from the tree, and threw itself on the spot where I had stood a moment before. I was not there, and the bear sought me with angry mutterings and heavy breathing. It wheeled around like a mad thing, hugged itself, rose on its hind legs, reaching and springing all around to find me, but fortunately I was out of reach. Its sense of smell would have guided it to me, but it was mad with rage and pain, and this prevented its instinct from serving it.

At last it turned its attention more to its misfortune than to him who had caused it. It sat down, and with sobs and gnashing of teeth laid its fore paws over its eyes. I was sorry that necessity for saving human life was causing the big fellow such pain, and, with pity for it, as well as desire for my own safety, tried to make it short. Quickly I stood beside it and stabbed it twice between the ribs. Instantly it grabbed for me, but once more I sprang out of the way. I had not pierced its heart, and it began seeking me with redoubled fury. This continued for fully ten minutes. It had lost a great deal of blood, and evidently was dying; it sat down again to mourn its poor lost eyes. This gave me a chance for two rapidly repeated knife-thrusts, and this time I aimed better; it sank forward, as again I sprang aloof, made a feeble step to one side, then back, tried to rise, but had not sufficient strength, swayed back and forth in trying to get on its feet, and then stretched out and was still.

“Thank God!” cried Rattler from his tree, “the beast is dead. That was a close call we had.”

“I don’t see that it was a close call for you,” I replied. “You took good care of your own safety. Now you can come down.”

“Not yet; you make sure it’s truly dead.”

“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 on 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.”