FOR two weeks I lingered by Winnetou's grave. I was benumbed at first, and saw the good people working on the new Helldorf Settlement, and listened to their voices as in a dream, too listless and heavy-hearted to be of any use, or feel any interest in what went on around me.

The kindly settlers tried to arouse me from my lethargy of sorrow sufficiently to be of some use in planning the little settlement for which Winnetou died. Helping others helped me, as it does every one, and two weeks after Winnetou had been laid to rest in the heart of the mountain I realized that I must no longer dally by his grave. My friend's last request called me for its fulfillment.. I must go back to Rio Pecos to tell his people how he died, and then to Nugget Mountain to find the paper which should speak his last words to me.

I parted from the good settlers with hearty affection and regret on both sides, and leaving Walker with them till he should be quite recovered, and they well established, mounted on Swallow, who was thoroughly rested, and set out on my long ride.

I was so impatient to get Winnetou's letter that I went straight to Nugget Mountain, leaving Rio Pecos till afterward. The way was dangerous, but I rode cautiously, and came safely through the Sioux country, and

then the Kiowas', and at last, one night toward sunset, saw once more Nugget Mountain rising before me. I laid at its foot till dawn, and then with a heavy heart, climbed the mountain which I had last seen when Winnetou and I descended it together.

The tombs were there undisturbed. The stone mound beneath which Intschu-Tschuna rested on his horse, with his weapons around him, as became a brave warrior, and beside it the stone pyramid, with the branches of the tree waving from its apex, beneath which Nscho-Tschi sat sleeping her last sleep. And now in the heart of the Wyoming mountains, Winnetou was at rest.

I looked around to be sure that I was alone, and with my knife cut out a piece of turf in the spot Winnetou had designated, and began digging. I spread my coat on the ground, and piled on it the dirt I took out to fill in the hole again afterward. I worked with feverish haste, stopping at intervals to listen for a step or a voice. The hole grew deeper and deeper, and at last my knife struck a stone, which I took out, and then a second one which lay under it, and then I saw a square space, lined with stone, and perfectly dry. At the bottom was a leather wrapped package: the will of my brother Winnetou. The next moment I had thrust it in my pocket, and was hastily filling in the hole. This went much faster than the digging, for I had only to shake back the dirt in my coat, pound it down, replace the piece of sod I had cut out, and no one could tell that a hole had been dug there.

Thank heaven! I had succeeded! I listened; there was not the slightest sound. I opened the leather, which was held together with nails, and inside

was a second cover, which Winnetou had tied together with deer tendons. I cut them, and saw several leaves of closely written paper. For Winnetou could write; Kleki-Petrah, his white teacher, had taught him this, as well as so much else. He had never had much occasion to use this accomplishment, and he wrote the careful, stiff hand of a school-boy trying to follow his copybook faithfully, but he wrote very plainly. How long, how very long he must have worked over this last message to me!

My eyes filled with tears; I dried them, and read: "My dear good brother: You live, and Winnetou, who loved you, is dead. But his soul is with you; you hold it in your hand, for it is written on these pages. Let the words rest in your heart. You shall learn the last wish of your red brother, and read many words from him which you will never forget, but first I will say to you what is necessary to say. Here you have not the only will of Winnetou, for it lives in the souls of his red warriors. This is for you alone. You will see a great deal of gold, and will do with it what my spirit tells you. It lies hidden in Nugget-tsil --" I had read to this point when I heard a voice behind me saying: "Good day, Mr. Shatterhand. Are you perfecting yourself in the spelling-book?" I looked up. Santer stood by me smiling derisively.

The shock of seeing him, of raising my eyes from Winnetou's last words, as I sat by his father's grave, to the face of his murderer, was indescribable, and at the same instant I recognized the fact that I had been guilty of the greatest stupidity of my life. I had laid aside all my weapons, even my belt with my knife and revolver, because they were in my way as I bent down to

dig, and had left them ten feet behind me. And now here was Santer!

He laughed as he saw my futile movement for my weapons. "Not a step from that spot; not a movement after your weapons, or I'll shoot instantly. I'm in deadly earnest," he said.

His sudden appearance so stunned me, that I stared at him without moving. "At last I've got you," he continued. "Do you see my finger on the trigger? The least movement, and I'll blaze away into your brains. You did not expect to meet me here, eh?"

"No," I answered quietly.

"Well, you'll be glad to hear how it came about. I've been to tell Tangua that the Apache cur, your friend, was at last put an end to, for I knew how glad he'd be to hear it. And then I came here with three men that I've got together to look for that gold which I know is somewhere in this mountain. You see, I am frank with you, because you're in my power, and because I know it drives you mad to hear that I shall get your beloved redskin's treasure at last. What is that paper you have in your hand?"

"A tailor's bill," I said.

"Yes, of course. Don't be funny. I tell you, you dog, it's all up with you."

"Or with you; it's one of the two, that's certain." "Impudent mongrel that you are! You snarl like a cur to the last. But that's all the good it will do; I repeat: It's all up with you, and that paper in your hand will give the information we want."

"Come get it then."

"I'll have it fast enough, but I won't take any risks with such a dangerous fellow as you are. Come here,

and bind him, Gates." At these words three men came out from behind the trees with thongs in their hands.

"Drop that paper, and hold out your hands to him," ordered Santer.

I obediently dropped the paper.

"Now your hands." I held them out to Gates with apparent submission, but in such a way that he had to get between me and Santer to tie them.

"Stand aside; you're in the way of my gun," he shouted. Before Gates could move I had seized him around the waist, lifted him, and hurled him against Santer, who sprang aside, but too late. He was knocked down, and his gun dropped from his hand. In an instant I was kneeling on him. A blow from my fist knocked him senseless. Then I arose, and shouted to the others: "That was proof that I am Shatterhand. Drop your weapons, or I'll shoot; I too am in earnest."

I had taken Santer's revolver from his belt, and aimed at the three men. "Go and sit down on the grave of the chief's daughter," I said, choosing this place because it was farthest from the weapons, and they obeyed promptly.

"This is awful," moaned Gates, rubbing his sides." Perfectly horrible. I flew through the air like a ball. I'm sure I'm broken somewhere."

"It's your own fault; take care nothing worse happens to you. Now, give me those thongs."

He produced them, and I bound Santer's feet together, and his arms behind his back. It was not long before he opened his eyes, and saw his comrades sitting on the Indian girl's grave. I was fastening my belt. "Have you blabbed?" he asked Gates at once.

"No," replied Gates.

"What should he blab about?" I demanded.

"Nothing."

"See here, speak up, or I'll open your mouth. Now then?"

"About the gold," Santer answered with apparent reluctance.

"Is that true; did he mean nothing else?" I asked Gates. "That's all," he replied. "I don't believe you; your face and manner show you are trying to deceive. Was Santer alone when he came up here, except for you?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is the end of your gold, for Santer is my prisoner, and must pay for his crimes with his life."

Santer laughed scornfully as I said this, and I turned to him. "You will feel less like laughing a little later. What is to prevent me putting a bullet through your head?"

"Yourself. Everybody knows Old Shatterhand is afraid to kill a man."

"I certainly am no murderer, but you have deserved death again and again. I am a Christian, and do not seek revenge, but you must be punished."

"Don't make beautiful speeches. It's all the same thing whether you call it punishment or revenge, so don't show off with your Christianity."

"I have no idea of taking your life, but I will send you to the nearest fort, and deliver you over to justice."

"Really? Do you know I venture to doubt that? I think you'll be carried off yourself, and as I'm not such a pious saint as you it won't occur to me to re-

nounce my revenge. There they are already, see They're coming." He uttered these words triumphantly, and with good reason, for a howl arose on all sides at once, and the Kiowas in full war-paint burst upon me. Gates had lied to me; Santer had not been alone in coming here, but had brought the Kiowas with him to Nugget Mountain to celebrate the death of Winnetou by his father's grave.

The attack was so sudden that I had not time to think, and drew my revolver, but as I saw myself surrounded by sixty warriors I put it back in my belt. Flight was impossible, and resistance useless. I drew back from the hands stretched out to seize me, and cried in a loud voice: "Old Shatterhand yields himself a prisoner to the Kiowas. Is the young chief here? To Pida, but to him only, I will freely give myself up."

"Freely!" mocked Santer." This fellow who calls himself Old Shatterhand so loftily, needn't talk about doing it freely. He has to give himself up or be taken by force. Seize him." He took care not to seize me himself, however, though the Indians had liberated him. The Kiowas obeyed him, and crowded around me, but used no weapon because they wanted to take me alive. I defended myself with all my might, and knocked down several, but of course I could not have withstood such numbers, if Pida had not appeared and cried: "Stop! Let him alone; he gives himself up to me, and there is no need of attacking him."

Santer cried out angrily: "Why should he be spared? Let him have as many blows as there are arms to give them. Take him; I command it."

The young chief stepped up to him, and said with a

gesture that did not signify much respect for him: "You dare to give commands here? Do you know who leads these warriors?"

"You."

"And who are you?"

"The Kiowas' friend, whose will it is to be hoped they will respect."

"A friend? Who says that?"

"Your father."

"That is not true. Tangua, the Kiowa chief, never used that word toward you. You are nothing but a paleface whom we merely tolerate among us." Then turning to me, Pida said: "Old Shatterhand will be my prisoner. Will he freely give me what he has with him?"

"Yes."

"And let himself be bound?"

"Yes."

"Then give me your weapons."

I was pleased that he asked this of me, for it showed he feared me. I gave him the revolver and knife, but the Henry rifle and bear-killer Santer picked up, and appropriated to himself.

"Put those down," said Pida, turning on him. "Why do you take my guns?"

"Not such; they're mine."

Pida raised his hand threateningly. "Lay them down this moment."

"I will not."

"Bind him again."

As Santer saw the hands extended to seize him, he threw down the weapons, saying contemptuously: "Here they are, but you won't keep them; I'll complain to Tangua."

"Do," said Pida, with a scornful look.

Santer came over to me. "You may have the guns," he said, "but I will have everything in his pocket."

He stretched out his hand toward the pocket where I had put Winnetou's letter. "Back," I ordered.

He fell back, frightened by my voice, but rallied instantly, and said: "I will know what you dug up."

"Don't try to take it."

"I certainly will. I know it will make you crazy to have this treasure in my hands, but you'll have to stand it."

He made a dash at me with both hands. Mine were not yet thoroughly bound; with a jerk I freed them, took Santer by the breast with my left hand, and with the right gave him a blow on the head that felled him like an ox.

"Ugh, Ugh, Ugh," cried all the Indians.

"Now bind me again," I said, holding out my hands to them.

"Old Shatterhand tells his name by his acts," said the young chief admiringly. "What is it that this Santer wants from you?"

"A written paper," I answered, not daring to tell him more.

"He called it a treasure."

"Nonsense; he doesn't know what it is. Whose prisoner am I, yours or his?"

"Mine."

"Then why do you allow him to attack and rob me?"

"The red warriors will have only your weapons; they cannot use anything else."

"Is that any reason to give it to this fellow? Is Old

Shatterhand a boy that any ragamuffin can empty his pockets? I gave myself up to you, and respect you as a warrior and a chief; don't forget I too am a warrior whose footstool this Santer is only fit to fetch."

The Indians respect pride and courage, even in a foe, and Pida remembered that I had once taken him captive, and treated him kindly. I counted on this, and not in vain, for his eyes were far from unfriendly as he answered: "Old Shatterhand is the bravest of the white warriors, but the one you have knocked down has two tongues, and two faces, and sometimes shows one, and sometimes the other. He shall not touch your pockets."

"I thank you. You are worthy to be a chief, and will be the most renowned of the Kiowas. A noble warrior kills his foe, but does not humble him."

I saw my words made him proud, and the tone was almost compassionate in which he said: "Yes; he kills his foe. Old Shatterhand must die, and not only die, but be tortured."

"Torture me, and kill me; you shall not hear a groan from my lips, but keep this beast away from me."

Santer recovered consciousness at this moment, and springing to his feet, darted toward me, raging like a wild beast. He drew his pistol, and cried: "You cur, your last hour has come."

The Indian next to him knocked up his hand, and the shot whizzed by harmlessly.

"Why do you stop me?" he roared, turning on the Indian fiercely. "I can do what I will, I tell you."

"No; you cannot do what you will," said Pida, going up to him, and taking hold of his arm warningly. "Old Shatterhand belongs to me; his life is mine; no one

else can take it. You did my father a service, for which we allow you to be with us; don't presume on it. I tell you if you touch Old Shatterhand you shall die by my hand."

"Then what are you going to do with him?" asked Santer, sullenly.

"Take him to our village, where he will die."

"You are very foolish. He has been taken prisoner often, and he will escape again if you do not kill him here, where his friends, and your enemies are buried."

"Silence! Pida is not foolish. Nor will he escape. He shall be watched so that flight is impossible, but he shall be treated as such a renowned warrior should be."

"Confound it! Treated like a renowned warrior! Why don't you twine garlands around him, and hang orders on his breast?"

"Pida does not know what orders and garlands are," said the young chief simply. "But he knows that he will treat Old Shatterhand very differently than we would you, if you were our prisoner. No more words. Go back among my warriors. We will start at once for Salt Fork, and take our prisoner to Tangua, the chief."