Winnetou, the Apache Knight

by Marion Ames Taggart; Karl May

He looked at me as he said these words, and, seeing my face unchanged, asked: “Are you not shocked?”

“Nonsense! who could suspect you of a great crime? I doubt your being a thief or a murderer.”

I laughed as I spoke, but he said gravely: “Thank you, but you are mistaken. I was a thief, for I stole much that was priceless. And I was a murderer, the worst of murderers, for I slew souls. I was a teacher in an advanced school, it does not matter where. I was born a Catholic, but lost my faith, and my greatest pride lay in being free and having dethroned God, and all my influence and skill went to robbing others of their faith. I had great power over men, and numberless were the hearers whom my lectures led into infidelity. Then came the revolution. He who acknowledges no God recognizes no king or authority as sacred. I placed myself at the head of a lawless band of malcontents, who acclaimed me as their leader, and we rose in mad rebellion against constituted authority. How many fell in that struggle! I was a murderer, and the murderer not only of these, but of others that perished later behind prison walls. I fled from my fatherland to escape a like fate. I had no father or mother, no brother or sister; not a soul wept for me, but many cursed me as the cause of their sorrow. In fleeing from the police I ran one day through a little garden and entered a dilapidated house, where I found an old mother and her daughter in direst need. They told me their pitiful story with bitter tears. They had been comfortable, the daughter married but a year to an honest man who earned enough for a decent livelihood. He had heard my lectures, and been led away by them. He persuaded his father-in-law to join him and take part in the rebellion under my leadership. The young man fell on what he thought a field of honor, but the old father was imprisoned. The women told me this not knowing it was their listener who was responsible for their wretchedness. God’s mills began to grind. Freedom was mine still, but peace was gone. I wandered everywhere, but found no rest. I was often on the verge of suicide, but a hand held me back—God’s hand. At last I reached the United States, and came to the West. In Kansas I met a priest, one of my own countrymen, and he saved me. He dispelled my doubts, and gave me back faith and contentment. Dear Lord, I thank Thee for it.”

He was silent awhile, with hands folded and gaze directed heavenward. Then he resumed: “I fled from the world and men to do penance, and turned towards the wilderness. I saw the red man’s wrongs, and my heart overflowed with wrath and compassion. I resolved to atone as far as might be for my wrong to the white man by devotion to the red. I went among the Apaches, learned their tongue, and became their teacher. Winnetou is my especial charge; were he the son of a European lord he would be a renowned prince, for he is richly endowed by nature. Would that I might see him a Christian! But though I have taught him all I could of Catholic truth, it may never be, for he shrinks from deserting the religion of his ancestors. However it may end I will remain with him to the day of my death. He is my spiritual son; I love him more than myself, and it would be joy to me to receive in my own heart a shot intended for his, for I would gladly die for him, feeling that perhaps such a death might wash away the last stain of my sins.”

His head sank on his breast, and I remained silent, feeling that anything I could say would be trivial after such a confession, but I took his hand and pressed it heartily. He understood, and returned the pressure.

After a time he spoke again. “Why have I told you this? I have seen you to-day for the first time, and probably we shall never meet again. Has it been by the inspiration of God? For I, the former blasphemer, now seek to find His will in all things. There is an indefinable feeling of melancholy in my heart, which is not exactly sorrow. It is like the feeling that comes to one when the autumn leaves are falling. How shall my tree of life shed its leaves? Gently and after they are sere, or shall it be cut down before its natural time has come?” He gazed in silence down the valley, where I saw Intschu-Tschuna and Winnetou returning. They were mounted now, and leading Kleki-Petrah’s horse.

We rose to go to the camp, which we reached as the Indians came up. Rattler leaned against the wagon, his face on fire, for in the short time that had passed he had drunk as much as he possibly could, and was a horrible sight. His eyes were like a wild beast’s, and I made up my mind to watch him, for he was dangerous.

The chief and Winnetou dismounted and came towards us. “Have my white brothers decided to go or stay?” asked Intschu-Tschuna.

The head engineer had thought of a compromise, and said: “We must stay here whether we would or not, and obey the command laid upon us. But we will send to Santa Fé and ask for instructions from those that sent us, and then we will answer.”

This was a cunning thought, for by that time our work would be done. But the chief said decidedly: “I will not wait. My white brother must say at once what he will do.”