“Now Old Shatterhand may shoot,” said Winnetou. “One—two—”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “I stand up fairly to the Kiowa chief, but he has turned half around, so that the side of his face is towards me.”
“I may do so,” said Tangua. “Who shall forbid it? There was nothing said as to how we should stand.”
“That is true, and Tangua certainly may stand as he likes. He has turned his side to me because, that being narrower than the breast, he thinks it will be harder for me to hit, but he is mistaken; I can hit him just as well. I might have shot without a word, but I’ll be honorable with him. He was to have a wound only in the right knee, but now that cannot be, for if he stands with his side towards me the shot will shatter both knees. That is the only difference; he can do as he likes; I have warned him.”
“Shoot with bullets and not with words,” he answered, ignoring my warning.
“Now Old Shatterhand shoots,” said Winnetou. “One—two—three.” My bullet whistled through the air. Tangua uttered a loud shriek, dropped his gun, threw up his arms, waved them about wildly, and fell.
“Uff! uff! uff!” echoed all around, and every one ran over to see where he had been wounded. I also went over, the Indians respectfully making way for me.
“In both knees, in both knees!” I heard on all sides.
Tangua lay moaning on the ground as I came up; Winnetou knelt by him examining the wound. He saw me coming, and said: “The shot has gone just where my white brother said it should; it has broken both knees. Tangua can never again ride out to cast his eyes on the horses of another tribe.”
When the wounded man saw me he began another torrent of abuse, but I compelled him to be silent a moment, and said: “I warned you, and you would not heed the warning; you alone are to blame.”