Winnetou, the Chief of the Apache, Part IV, Sans-ear

CTPDC Publishing Limited

CTPDC Publishing Limited, 28 Ashfield Road, Liverpool, L17 0BZ, United Kingdom

Translation and editorial material copyright M. A. Thomas 2014

Cover illustration: Council of War by Edward S. Curtis, Library of Congress Prints and Photographic Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection LC-USZ62-106884

All rights reserved.

THE TRANSLATOR’S FOREWORD

Karl May was born in 1842, and over 35 years he wrote a huge number of adventure stories. His popularity has been unbroken in many countries around the world, especially among the youth, in spite of his misfortune that Hitler named him as his favourite writer.

He wrote his books in the style of village story tellers. A focus is on the adventures, and nothing restricts the flight of fantasy. There is no fully developed story line in May’s Western books: it is the series of escapades that give the impression of fullness. The characters in his books do not change as the plot develops, and there is very little analysis of the psychology of his heroes. Yet, in spite of these literary shortcomings, the popularity of his books has not suffered.

This enduring popularity, apart from the dare-devil adventures, could partly be explained by the basic moral foundation. In the world of May’s books the good and the evil struggle with each other, and the good always wins even if the positive heroes sometimes have to pay a heavy price for their victory. This moral stance and the adventure are united in the heroes. The positive heroes are men who have no shortcomings. They are not only just and honest people, who are ready to act for justice, but also strong and clever men, who can shoot and ride as nobody else. The evil are represented by villains who are overpowered by their own wickedness, and defeated by the heroes at the end.

The aim of this English translation was to retain these characteristics, while modernising the style, and editing parts that were erroneous or could evoke unpleasant associations. Therefore, this English translation is an unabridged, but edited version of the Winnetou Trilogy.

As to the style the editing involved some minor structural changes. May often used extremely long dialogues to carry the story forward. Without changing the content, these were made more concise, or were replaced by summarising paragraphs. Interjections (e.g. said, asked, etc.) were also introduced where they were appropriate. In some cases descriptive paragraphs were transformed into dialogues.

Geographic errors, such as names of rivers, mountains, settlements, and forts were corrected, and these names now follow the current conventions.

Tribal names (sometimes names of various bands) were also corrected and transliterated to the currently accepted forms (for example Oglala instead of Ogalalla). In Part III, one of the villains is described as the Athabaskan chief. Athabaskan is a language family (the Apache language is a Southern Athabaskan language). I replaced this with Arapaho, because of the area where the events take place, and also because the Arapaho tribe formed an alliance with the Comanche in the South, thus would have been enemies of Winnetou.

The word Manitou was avoided. It is an Algonkian name for a transcendent being, thus the Apache chief would not have used it. Instead of confusing the reader by using different names, the expression of Great Spirit was preferred. Similarly, the word wigwam was replaced. Some of the tribes mentioned by May built wigwam-like huts, but they did not call these wigwams.

Unfortunately, most of the ethnographic errors could not be removed. The reader will not have a true picture of the life of the Native Americans’ from May books.

The social order of the Native Americans were very different, and much more varied. Here I list only the most important ones. Most tribes did not have a supreme chief (May assumes that both the Apache and the Comanche had such an office). War chiefs (peace chiefs are never mentioned in Winnetou) were elected, and the office was not inherited by the son. Many tribes followed a matrilineal system, that is, the children from a relationship belonged to the mother’s clan. Therefore, the father and the son belonged to two different social groups.

May described the Mescalero Apache as a quasi-pueblo Indian tribe (leaders living in the pueblo, and the rest of the tribe in a tent village, which is a projection of European feudal social structures onto the Native American tribes). In reality the culture of the Apache was similar to the Plains Indians’ mode of life.

No peoples buried the man with his horse as May described in Part I, and suggested in Part V. In reality, the animal was skinned, and the bones put in the skin, and buried with the person. This was corrected by making the scenes more concise.

The religions of the Native Americans were more varied than it appears in the book. May, essentially, projected a version of Christianity onto the Native Americans. This could not be fully removed, but wherever it was possible, it was toned down. The passages in which May described his own religious moral were removed, because these seem to be forced upon the heroes (Winnetou’s quasi-conversion to Christianity in Part V in particular) and also because most of them are bound to the perceptions of the 19th century. They actually weaken the story.

The editing of sensitive issues, words and passages that could be perceived as insulting to nations or races, involved different tasks.

In May’s books many, if not all, important heroes are German, and Karl May often, quite clumsily, wrote about German superiority. This had to be addressed. These parts were either removed or toned down without removing the nationality of the heroes.

Prejudicial or racist comments by May were deleted. The comical role of Bob, the black servant in Part IV was eliminated. However, it was impossible to completely achieve this aim about certain Native American tribes. In May’s stories the Apache are the noble people, and any tribe hostile to them are mean, cruel, etc. Various Sioux tribes (especially the Oglala), the Comanche, and to some degree the Kiowa are described in a particularly bad light. It was possible to tone down these comments somewhat, but they could not be fully removed without breaking the story.

Finally, the spelling of Indian names was changed to approximate the English pronunciation. Hawkins’s name was changed. May spelt it as Hawkens, which could have caused confusion for an English speaking audience. For the same reason the spelling of Old Shatterhand’s first name, Charley, was changed to Charlie, and one of the minor character’s name from Hoblyn to Hoblin.

I believe that with these changes the core of May’s world, the action, the adventure, the dreaming of heroic deeds, and the struggle for a kind of justice have become more emphasised, and more accessible for the reader.

M. A. Thomas

THE GREAT WESTERN RAILWAYS

I had ridden since dawn, and I must have made a long way. The Sun was on its zenith, and its rays made me quite sleepy. I decided that I would have a rest, and eat my lunch. Around me the infinite prairie stretched, whose chains of hills were like the frozen waves of a sea. It had been five days since a large Oglala band had dispersed our little group. Since then I had not met a single human being. I had got used to the loneliness of the forest, but it started to become too much. I was longing for someone to talk to, if for nothing else, to see if I had not forgotten how to speak.

There were no streams or springs, thus I did not have to look for a resting place with water, and I could stop where I felt like. At the bottom of one of the hillocks I tethered my horse, took the blanket from him, and went to the top of the hillock to rest. I left my horse at the bottom so that a potential enemy could not spot it, and I took the highest point to be able to see far, while remaining invisible.

I had enough reasons for being careful. Twelve of us left the Northern Platte along the eastern side of the Rocky Mountains to get to Texas. We knew that many Sioux tribes had gone on the warpath. Some of their warriors were killed, and they wanted revenge. Even though we tried to avoid them, they unexpectedly attacked us. In the battle they killed all but five of us, and dispersed the surviving ones to all directions. They could see from our tracks that we were heading to the South, and surely they would continue to pursue us. In such circumstances it could happen that one wrapped himself in his blanket in the evening, and awoke on the happy hunting grounds, scalped.

I took out a piece of dried bison meat, and rubbed it with gunpowder as I had run out of salt. Then I started to chew it with the hope that with the industrious work of my jaws I could swallow it. After eating in so torturously, I stretched out on my blanket, and lit a self-made cigar as I had run out of real cigars much earlier.

As I was smoking I noticed a moving dot on the horizon, and it was coming towards me. I sat up to have a better view. Soon I recognised that it was a rider who sat on the saddle in the Indian way, that is, leaning forward. He was about one and half miles from me. He rode slowly, so at his speed it would have taken half an hour until he would get close to me.

As I watched him, I noticed, to my surprise, four more moving dots, much further behind the rider. This rider, judging from his clothing was a white man. And the other four? Were they Indians who pursued the white rider? I took out my telescope, and it confirmed my assumptions. I could even see their weapons, and the colours on their faces. They were Oglala, the most warlike Sioux. They rode on great mustangs, while the white man was on a fairly lazy, and shapeless animal. He was now close enough for me to observe him thoroughly.

He was a small, gaunt man. He wore a shabby felt hat. One of the brims of the hat was missing. This would not have been particularly surprising on the prairie, but it emphasised one of the characteristics of the white rider: he did not have ears. Only red marks showed where his ears had been cut off. He had a blanket on his back that covered him so much that only his legs were visible. On his legs he had strange boots, the ones known only in South-America. There, when the guacho kills a horse, he immediately skins it, and puts the skin on his feet fresh and warm. When the skin cools, it shrinks, and excellently covers the foot and the leg of the guacho, except for his soles. This does not bother him as he is always on horseback.

This rider had a gun, but it was rather old. His horse had a disproportionately large head, and terribly long ears, but it did not have a tail. It had the impression of a mixture of a donkey and a camel. While it walked, it hung its head, and even more its ears like a Newfoundland water dog. He had a comic impression, but I did not laugh. The West had taught me not to judge people by their appearance, but by the character. It seemed that this man was oblivious to the danger behind him, otherwise he would not have ridden so slowly and comfortably. In his absent-mindedness he did not even look back.

When he got to a hundred steps from me, he noticed me, or maybe his horse noticed my mustang. In any case, his horse suddenly pulled back its ears, then let them drop again. For this signal his master wanted to dismount to examine the tracks that his sad animal found. However, before he got off, I shouted to him, ‘Good man! Come closer!’

I sat up so that he could see me. Two heads turned to me, the rider’s and the horse’s. The horse’s ears came forward as if they wanted to greet me.

‘Shout quieter, young man,’ he replied. ‘It’s not advisable to shout in such a place. Come, Tony!’

The mare continued, but then stopped by my mustang.

‘Where are you going, good man?’ I asked.

‘None of your business!’ he replied briefly.

‘You are rude!’ I complained. ‘You know, I’m used to being answered in a polite way. Why don’t you want to tell me where you have come from, and where you are going?’

‘I can tell you if you are so curious, Mr Distinguished Gentleman! Look, I came from there, and I’m going there!’ he replied, and pointed first back, and then forward.

I saw that he looked at me with such a contemptuous disgust. He probably thought that I was a Sunday hunter who was broken off from his company, and considered himself a true Westerner. I understood him well. Two weeks earlier I had bought my equipment, and a new suit in Fort Randall. My clothing was still relatively clean. As to my weapons, I always kept them clean. This was contrary to the habits of the hunters.

‘Then just carry on with your business,’ I said. ‘But you could look back, because four Indians are pursuing you. It’s unfortunate that you haven’t noticed them.’

‘I haven’t noticed them? Don’t tell me! Four Indians are after me, and I don’t notice them! Well, young gentleman, you are mistaken. I noticed them so much that now I’ll start a big arc, and get behind them. So far the landscape wasn’t right, but among these hills I can do it. If you want to learn something, hide here for ten minutes, and then you’ll see how an old hunter sorts out four reds who follow him. Come on, Tony!’

He did not care with me anymore, and rode away. In a few minutes he disappeared behind a hill. I understood his plan. He wanted to ride around the hills to get behind the Indians. He could not have done it on the flat plains, because the Indians would have seen through his plan. In any case, there were four of them against one, thus, to be on the safe side, I took my gun out, and waited for the events.

The Indians came in a file. The one who rode in front suddenly stopped. He was astonished that the man had disappeared. Now the four Indians were next to each other, and they were discussing something. I could have shot at them with my bear slayer, and I was considering whether I should do it, when a gun went off, and it was immediately followed by another shot. Two Indians fell off their horses dead, and an ear-piercing scream resounded at the same time, ‘Hi-hiy-hiyyy!’

It sounded like the victory cry of the Indians, but it came from the throat of the strange, small hunter whom I now noticed at the end of the valley. He had disappeared behind me, and now he was in front of me. After the two shots he pretended to be fleeing. His mare ran with great endeavour, and its long ears were fluttering in the wind. The rider loaded his gun while galloping. It was obvious that it was not the first time that he had been in such a situation. He was calm, quick, and skilful. I appreciated him more and more.

The two remaining Indians sent bullets after him, but they did not hit him. They yelled, grabbed their tomahawks, and galloped after the paleface. He did not care with them for a while, then he suddenly jerked the reins, and with this he turned his horse. The mare stood motionless. The small man lifted his gun, aimed, and in the next moment two shots popped. The two Indians crashed on the ground with bullets in their heads.

The man got off his horse to examine his enemies. I also hurried there.

‘Well, Sir, do you know now how four Indians can be sent to hell?’ he asked.

‘Thank you, Master,’ I replied. ‘It was a good lesson.’

‘I wonder what you would have done,’ he remarked in a superior tone.

‘I wouldn’t have thought of …’

‘You wouldn’t, would you?’ A smile appeared on his face. It was ambiguous, but it was a smile. ‘And what did you learn?’ he asked.

‘I learnt that I wouldn’t have thought of riding around half a world,’ I continued. ‘It’s necessary only on the open prairie. In this hilly area, like this, you could have solved the problem with some craftiness.’

‘Look at him! He knows it! Who are you?’

‘I’m a writer,’ I replied.

‘Writer? What’s that? Do you have a problem here?’ he asked, and tapped on his head.

‘You can be sure that the answer is no.’

‘Then I don’t understand you,’ he said. ‘What is it you are writing and for whom? ‘

‘For others to read,’ I replied.

‘I still don’t understand,’ he said. ‘One does something for himself. For example, I kill a bison, because I’m hungry, and I want to eat. I don’t do it for others.’

‘The same is about writers, but there is a difference. Writers write because they want to eat. But