“So all the pale-faces say. Men call themselves Christians, yet do not act as such. I cannot understand how it is that only one man, and now that you have come I will say two men, of all the pale-faces I have known, lived up to the Christian belief. We have our good Manitou, who wishes all men to be good. I try to do as He wishes. Perhaps I am a Christian—a better one than those who are so particular about the name, but have no love in them, and never follow Christian teachings. So never speak to me of your faith, and never try to make me a man who is called a Christian, yet may be none. That is the request you must fulfil.”
I gave the promise, and have kept it. Are words necessary? Is not practice a more eloquent preacher than mere speech? “By their fruits ye shall know them,” said Our Lord; and I vowed in my heart to be Winnetou’s teacher by my life. There came an evening at last, never to be forgotten, when he spoke on this subject himself, and in bitter pain I reaped the fruit of loving prayer and patient sowing as the dearest friend I ever had lay dead with the waters of baptism glistening on his brow.
Now I contented myself with a pressure of his hand, signifying that I understood all the bitterness the wrongs of his race caused him, and we said no more. Presently we arose, for the sun had gone down in splendor, and the river was growing purple as the light faded. We went back to the pueblo, and the brave chief, who was looking for us, welcomed us with a fatherly kindness I had not felt in him before. We sat down to our smoking meal together, and the beautiful Fair Day served us so gracefully, so affectionately, that I thought with wonder how truly among all sorts of men home was home, and love made home-coming sweet.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE BURIAL OF KLEKI-PETRAH.
The morning dawned fair and warm, and the pueblo was early astir for the burial of Kleki-Petrah. Not all of the Apaches lived in the pueblo, for though it was large it would have been far too small to have accommodated them. Only Intschu-Tschuna and his most important braves dwelt here, forming with their families and herds of horses the central point of the tribe of Mascaleros-Apaches. From this pueblo the chief ruled over the tribe, and thence took long journeys to the various branches of the great Apache family which acknowledged him as their head.
Representatives of every tribe had assembled to pay their last tribute to the white friend whom they had all loved and honored, and who had been faithful to them even unto death.
We, my comrades and I, repaired early to the spot where the grave was to be erected. I estimated the height and breadth of the mass of stone, and then, taking a tomahawk, Hawkins, Stone, Parker, and I went through the woods, following the river downward, seeking a suitable tree from which to make a cross.
When we returned to the burial-place the sorrowful ceremonies had begun. The Indians had worked rapidly on the construction of the tomb, which was nearly finished. It was surrounded by braves, who were intoning their peculiar and profoundly touching death-song. Its dull, monotonous tone was broken occasionally by a shrill, piercing cry, which startled the ear as a sudden flash of lightning from heavy clouds startles the eye by flashing across it. Twelve Indians were working on the tomb under the direction of the two chiefs, and between them and the singers danced a figure decked in all the insignia of his race, and making grotesque, slow motions, and curious leaps.
“Who is that—the medicine-man?” I asked.