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.”