Rattler had filled a glass with whisky, and came towards the two Indians, saying incoherently: “If the Indians will drink with me we will go, if not we won’t. Let the young one drink first. Here’s fire-water, Winnetou.”
He held out the glass. Winnetou stepped back in disgust.
“What! You won’t drink with me? That’s an insult. Here, take the whisky, you red dog; lick it up, if you won’t drink it.” Before any one could stop him, he had thrown the contents of the glass in the young Apache’s face. According to Indian custom such an insult was to be avenged by death, but Winnetou merely struck him to the earth, while, like his father’s, his face betrayed no sign of what he felt, and the drunkard picked himself up and staggered back to the wagon.
“Once more,” said Intschu-Tschuna, “and this is the last time, I ask: Will the pale-faces leave our valley to-day?”
“We cannot,” was the reply.
“Then remember there is strife between us.”
I started towards them, but the three strangers turned back to their horses without noticing me.
From the wagon came Rattler’s voice crying: “Get out, you red coyotes! but the young one shall pay for knocking me down.” Quicker than it can be told he had snatched a gun from the wagon and aimed it at Winnetou, who was standing alone, without protection, where the bullet must have found him; nor was there time to warn him.
Kleki-Petrah cried in anguish: “Down, Winnetou, down,” at the same time springing before the young Apache. The shot whistled through the air. Kleki-Petrah fell to the ground with one hand at his breast, while at the same moment Rattler fell, struck by my hand. I had sprung at him as soon as I saw his intention, but too late.
A cry of horror arose from all sides; only the two Apaches were silent. They knelt by the friend who had given his life for them, and examined his wound. It was close to the heart, and the blood flowed from it in torrents. I, too, knelt by Kleki-Petrah, whose eyes were closed and whose face was fast growing white and drawn.