THE NIGHT OF THE MESCALERO APACHE CALLED WINNETOU

By Andamogirl

WWW / W

2. SANTA FE

Three days later, a few miles from Nugget-tsil,

at sunset

Major Artemus Gordon, tired-looking, halted his horse in front of the group of Apache warriors holding a makeshift stretcher made with large branches which was covered with a black and red blanket - on which Winnetou's prone body was lying, motionless.

They led the funeral procession and were followed by Old Shatterhand, mounting Hatatitla and holding the reins of Winnetou's horse Iltschi, and by all the people of Winnetou's whole band, consisting of about a hundred men, women and children.

He dismounted and looked at the late Apache Chief who and then at Old Shatterhand who accompanied his blood brother's remains to his final resting place, the plain in front of Nugget-tsil, where his father and sister were buried.

He sighed, sadly, and then said, "On my way back to Fort Niobrara with the bandits and their arsenal in tow, I heard from soldiers who fought Tangua and his warriors and Rollins and his men... what had happened, and I came to meet you as soon as I could. I'm really sorry."

Old Shatterhand swallowed a lump in his throat, his eyes watery. "He saved my life. That bullet was meant for me, and he placed himself in front of me, to save me. I… I lost him." He said, misery and pain on every line of his face.

On the verge of tears, he remembered Rollins's lethal shot on the Apache Chief, then holding Winnetou's limp body in his arms, his brother's blood all over his hands.

He then remembered Winnetou's black horse, Iltschi galloping up, and neighing in farewell. From afar, the bells of Santa Fe sounded, followed by his brother last words, interspersed with pants, as he struggled to regain his breath. "Winnetou's soul must go… goodbye, I'm ready… my brother… my brother…"

He would never forget Winnetou's face too. His bronze skin was very pale, covered with sweat, his lips losing their color, nor his haggard gaze.

Winnetou looked up at his people who were gathered in front of him, among the rocks, but couldn't see them. His mind rapidly darkening was already moving towards death – and he was watching something else, maybe the eternal hunting grounds, he thought.

OId Shatterhand said something in Apache, in a flat voice, and the men put the stretcher down. "You can say goodbye."

His face grim, Artemus knelt beside the body and lowered his eyes as a sign of respect. Seeing him like that, sent a pang of pain to his heart.

The blond man said, "Winnetou told me that his death was near three days ago, when we were both standing by the lake, at sunset, at the Jicarillas' camp. I told him, 'it can't be, my brother's wrong,' but he was wright. He had foreseen his own death... when I thought it was impossible."

Major Gordon nodded. "I know from fighting side by side with Indians during the war, that they can do amazing things." His voice rasped with raw emotion, his shoulders hunched, he said, "Without you I wouldn't be alive right now. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I will miss you, Winnetou, great Apache Chief, a lot. I know that you will be happy in the eternal hunting grounds, with your ancestors."

He stood and looked at Winnetou's noble, peaceful face – then noticed a trickle of fresh blood running down underneath the bandage that the Apache had over his heart and which was soaked with red – like his fringed and beaded deerskin shirt.

He drew his eyebrows together in confusion. Dead people didn't bleed, especially if the death had occurred several hours earlier as it was for Winnetou, he thought.

It only meant one thing. "He's not dead!" Artemus exclaimed and then touched a hand to Winnetou's neck, pressing two fingers against the Indian's pulse point. His skin was warm, he realized. "He's warm, not cold as a dead body," he said and then shifted his hand up to the Apache's mouth, hovering it just in front of his pale lips, feeling a shallow breath there. Then, just to be sure, he searched for Winnetou's heartbeat, placing a hand over the Chief's bloodied chest, feeling it move slightly.

His heart aching, Old Shatterhand stared at Gordon in stunned silence, an expression of absolute disbelief on his face. "What?" He finally rasped.

Then, angry, his lips pulled thin, the tall man dismounted. He felt like punching the Major in the face for saying such things, which hurt.

He joined the officer, fist tightened and growled audibly. "Why are you telling me this Gordon? I'm already suffering in ways you can't imagine! I was there, at my brother's side when the medical officer from Fort Niobrara took Winnetou's pulse and found none. None! And he declared him dead. He was dead! You're talking nonsense, Major! Winnetou's dead, he's dead." His voice broke. "He's dead."

Frowning, Artemus ignored Old Shatterhand's anger due to his immense grief and replied, "And how long did that doctor take his pulse for? Five seconds?"

Old Shatterhand remembered the Captain placing two fingers against the side of Winnetou's neck, on the pulse point, keeping them here for… two seconds. "Less," he just said.

Major Gordon furrowed his brow, upset by the medical officer's lack of professionalism. "Winnetou's in a coma, he's not dead. In his case, the heartbeat is almost imperceptible. You have to wait at least two minutes to find it. He's still alive. The medical officer should have checked that."

Old Shatterhand's first reaction was absolute, raw guilt. "How did I not see that he was still alive?" He reached out and felt for the pulse in Winnetou's neck with a trembling hand – and waited thirty seconds, finally feeling the weak, faint but steady beating of his brother's heart under his fingertips.

Then, it was strong disbelief. Just to be sure, he placed his hand above Winnetou's slightly parted lips. His warm breath was so shallow he hardly was able to feel it, but it was there. "He's… he's breathing!" Then he got really scared and paled. "That's awful! I could have… I could have…" He trailed off with a bitter taste, like ashes, on the back of his tongue.

He choked out a quiet sob, guilt taking over.

He could have let the Apache elders bury Winnetou 'alive' under a big tumulus of rocks as like Intschu tschuna and Nscho-tschi had been after their death, at the foot of Nugget-tsil. His beloved brother would have died there, really died. And before that, as Winnetou's last family member he would have had to kill Iltschi because his blood brother had to be buried like a brave warrior, mounting his horse, with his favorite weapons arranged around him, like his father was entombed.

Old Shatterhand tried to feel less guilty, thinking that the band's medicine man would certainly have noticed that his Chief was still alive at pre-burial ceremonies... or not.

He imagined Winnetou, in the dark, alone, suffocating from lack of oxygen... and hit his chest with his fists, hard, self-punishing.

Seeing that, Gordon said, "Enough! Winnetou's alive, and that's all that matters. Forget the other things! Past is past, let's move forward!"

Finally, his eyes twinkling with pure joy Old Shatterhand grinned from one ear to the other, his heart pounding in his chest and said, "Winnetou-Winnetou is still alive! I can't believe it!"

He immediately repeated the wonderful news in Apache language and the Mescalero Apache people raised their arms to the sky and thanked Manitou for allowing them to keep their great Chief at their side to guide and protect them.

Then several warriors touched Winnetou's forehead and confirmed that the great warrior was warm, thus still alive! And cries of joy rang out in the air.

Then the whole band chanted, "Winnetou! Winnetou! Winnetou!" for several minutes, dancing around their unconscious leader, to thank Manitou.

Old Shatterand furrowed his brow with curiosity. "What provoked this coma?"

Removing his hand from Winnetou's neck Artemus asked, "It can be many things, head trauma, infections, a powerful drug... and also coma can follow a shutdown of brain oxygenation related to shock and respiratory arrest…"

Old Shatterhand said, "If it can help, he lost consciousness and woke up a few times before… slipping into prolonged unconsciousness."

Artemus theorized, "This is what happened. He lost consciousness and woke up a few times because hiis heart stopped and restarted and the lack of oxygen caused him to slip into a coma – and then Winnetou had what's called a cardiac arrhythmia. The heartbeats don't work properly, causing the heart to beat too fast, too slow or irregularly. In Winnetou's case, I think it was too slow and when the medical officer took his pulse, for a few seconds, he found none."

Old Shatterhand nodded. "Winnetou's strong, he's the strongest man I know. He didn't give up and fought hard for his life and he won."

Gordon smiled. "Yes, he did and won. His heart is beating again, albeit slowly because of his state of weakness, and his breathing is shallow."

Old Shatterhand nodded, now feeling deeply worried. "Winnetou has a bullet lodged near his heart. That medical officer from the Fort couldn't remove it. I suppose he thinks any wounds to the chest are a guaranteed death sentence… What we do we do now? Winnetou needs all the help he can get. I don't" want to lose him. I couldn't bear it."

The Major said, "Winnetou's alive, yes, but he has a serious injury and he's lost a lot of blood. He needs a very talented surgeon and will have to undergo surgery to remove the bullet, and luckily there's one right here in Santa Fe. He's a friend of mine, Dr. Martin Gerald. There's no time to waste, the infection will develop quite rapidly. Let's turn around! We'll carry him there on that stretcher because the shocks from a wagon could cause the bullet to move towards the heart and kill him."

Old Shatterhand said to the warriors carrying Winnetou who was lying comatose on the stretcher, "Let's turn around! And walk slowly and gently," in Apache language.

It was going to be a very long way to Santa Fe. Fortunately, the full moon shining in the starry sky, would be their ally in lighting their way.

WWW / W

Santa Fe,

Dr. Martin Gerald's office, in the middle of the night,

Examination room,

Dr. Martin Gerald, was a small, compact old man with gray hair and a matching moustache. He was dressed in a nightgown, was barefoot and had a nightcap on his head.

Stifling a yawn, he placed the rounded end of his stethoscope on Winnetou's bloodied chest, at the level of his heart then waited to find a heartbeat.

He found a faint one, then two slow heartbeats and others, and then said, in awe, "He's still alive, and believe me, it's a true miracle! Manitou is protecting him, that's true. He shouldn't have lived with such a bad – and usually deadly chest wound."

Old Shatterhand nodded, a living picture of deep worry. "But his condition has worsened, doctor. Now he has a high fever and his breathing is labored – and his lips are turning blue."

Gerald replied, "I'm not surprised, he's in respiratory distress after being injured like this several hours ago, and I'm very surprised, no, I'm flabbergasted, that he didn't react that way sooner, but that's good, otherwise you would have brought me a dead body." Then looking at Old Shatterhand the surgeon said, "The bullet missed Winnetou's heart but has definitely pierced his left lung and the lung has collapsed, that's why he has difficulties in breathing." And they both noticed that Winnetou's breath was now erratic. "It's a good thing he's deeply unconscious so he doesn't feel any pain, or panic because he's having trouble breathing, but I'm going to fix that right now." He fished a syringe out of his big black bag and removed the hypodermic needle. "I need to expel the air inside the chest cavity, to relieve the pressure, that's why he can't breathe," and, with that, he stabbed Winnetou's injured lung with it.

In reaction Winnetou twitched lightly and Old Shatterhand cringed in sympathy.

A few seconds later, there was a whistle through the needle as air was leaving the collapsed lung and Gerald announced. "It's working."

It took a couple of minutes to release the air and then Winnetou relaxed slightly against the examination table and started breathing almost normally – but was still in a coma and his slack face was still ashen-white from lack of blood.

Gerald continued, "Now he can breathe. It was the first thing to do. Now, Winnetou needs blood to regain some strength before the operation, so that he's in a condition to withstand it. Since you are his blood brother, Old Shatterhand you won't mind giving him some of your blood?"

In response, the tall man rolled up the sleeve of his fringed brown deerskin shirt. And said, "Everything you need to help Winnetou doctor."

The physician turned around and then headed toward the dresser opposite where he kept the pouch holding his surgical instruments and stopped beside Artemus, leaning against the wall. He noticed the dark bags hanging beneath his friend's eyes, showing how little he had slept in the past days.

Concerned, Gerald asked, "How long has it been since you slept?"

Blinking slowly, Artemus replied, "I don't know, and it doesn't matter, Martin. What's important is to treat Winnetou's wound and bring him back, oh and we're sorry for waking you up at four in the morning, but Winnetou needs an urgent operation."

Dr. Gerald nodded. "I know that. I can remove the bullet and heal my patient, but, unfortunately, I can't do anything about his coma. Only Winnettou can come out of the coma. But the good thing is that his body reacted instinctively when I stabbed his collapsed lung with a needle to release the pressure in his chest cavity and let the air escape. If he hadn't reacted, I'd have been led to believe that the coma would have been even deeper and maybe permanent. I've seen these cases before. And people didn't survive. The coma's deep, but he'll come out of it, but how and when, I don't know." He paused until Old Shatterhand realized what he had just told him and then accepted it. "That's one relief at least, he's still alive." He paused. "I don't need you, Artemus, you can go rest in the next room, there's a bed. You look like the living dead."

Shaking his head, Artemus ran his fingers through his shaggy curls and then said, "No, I'm fine, Martin, I want to stay here, near Winnetou. Without him I'd be dead." His limbs tired and heavy, he said, "I'm gonna sit down," and collapsed limply into an armchair and yawned.

Old Shatterhand grabbed the pot of coffee which was sitting on the stove, found a big cup on the nearby table and then said, "And without you Winnetou would be dead by now, really dead." Then he poured the hot liquid in the mug it and handed it off to the Major.

Reaching out, Artemus nodded. "That's true," and took the steaming tin cup. "Thanks. Martin here will take very good care of Winnetou, he's a great doctor and very talented surgeon. He's saved my life several times before Stephen Henderson took over, who, among other things, is also General Grant's personal physician." He took a cautious sip, grimaced at the bitterness of the black beverage and then lowered the offending cup to the wooden floor. "But Martin's coffee is just awful!" He yawned again, his eyes struggling to stay open as his vision was getting foggy.

Martin Gerald nodded. "Stephen is a much better doctor than I am, and an exceptional surgeon. You're in very good hands, Artemus." Seeing Old Shatterhand's expression of interest, he explained, "Being a spy is a dangerous profession, as you can imagine and Artemus here ended up in my hands far too many times when I was still the head surgeon in General Grant's army. He's been shot and stabbed several times." He touched his left leg and added, "I was treating wounded soldiers on the battlefield when a shell exploded nearby and I was hit in the leg by a few shrapnel. Stephen Henderson who was my assistant performed a successful surgery on me, and I was able to keep my leg. Anyone other than him would have cut it off because it was in such bad condition, but not him, he was able to save it, and I'll always be very grateful to him. But my career as army surgeon ended at that point and Stephen replaced me at General Grant's side. It was months before I could walk again and with a limp. After I'd recovered, I came back here, where I was born and raised before I left for the North, to join the Union troops."

He took what was necessary for the blood donation from the sideboard – a scalpel, a leather strap, a glass bowl, a large syringe and a local disinfectant bottle - and sat them on a table. Then he looked down again at Artemus, who was losing his fight against exhaustion.

Frowning in concentration, Artemus tried to force his eyes open but found he couldn't. All his strength gone, he surrendered to sleep and drifted off, his head resting down against his chest.

Gerald smiled in relief. "He's asleep, finally."

Old Shatterhand smiled. "I don't know him very well, but he seems like a good man." And saw Dr. Gerald nodding in agreement.

The physician added, "Yes, he is. Artemus is kind and generous, he's loyal and brave, he's trustworthy, strong-willed, humorous and very talented. He speaks several languages and dialects and can take any accent. He is one with his character when he is in disguise, that's why he's the best of all spies. He also can invent all kinds of weapons and explosives and he is an excellent cook. Everyone wishes they had a friend like him, and I'm very lucky, oh he's also incredibly lucky too." Looking at Winnetou who was laid on his examination table, the bronze coloration on his face almost gone, the doctor said, "Once the blood donation is done, you will help me wash him from head to toe. I can't treat his chest wound while he's dirty. That way, I'll prevent infections. In his condition an infection would be fatal."

He sat the leather pouch on a table and then gently removed the Apache's light grey deerskin shirt, which he placed it on a chair.

He knew a war shirt was a precious outfit for Indians.

Then Gerald used scissors to cut the bloody bandage, in order to get a better look at the harsh red inflamed wound and frowned in concern.

He pressed the back of his hand to Winnetou's forehead and the frown deepened. "He's much too warm. It means that his wound is infected. It was bound to happen, but it's not too bad yet, I'll take care of it," he said reassuringly.

Martin Gerald opened the black leather pouch in which his pristine surgical instruments were aligned and protected and took a scalpel and a thin metal tube with a wooden handle. "It's a surgical probe. I need to determine where the bullet exactly is so that it can be removed more easily," he explained to the broad-shouldered man.

Old Shatterhand nodded. "I hope it's not too deep."

He used a cloth and a bottle of disinfectant to clean them, then scalpel in hand, he re-opened the wound that had closed up a bit, cutting the entrance wider – and dark, almost clotted blood immediately oozed from it.

Old Shatterhand grimaced at the sight, hurting for his brother.

Dr. Gerald found the projectile easily, and pulled the bloody surgical probe out from the injury. "The bullet is lodged near his heart, it's deep, but I can remove it. I've already done such an operation twice, and both times the patient completely recovered without any after-effects," he said, reassuringly.

Old Shatterhand heaved a long sigh of relief. Then he explained, "The Captain who patched him up couldn't remove it – or didn't want to, I don't know. He just told me, 'He's in God's hands now'." He frowned in anger. 'And I felt like I was going to strangle him right then and there!"

He still wanted to.

Gerald nodded. "I'm not surprised that he didn't do more than that – and that you reacted that way. He thought removing the bullet wasn't necessary as he thought his patient was going to die." He smiled reassuringly noticing that Old Shatterhand looked worried again. "Don't worry. It's going to be all right. He's in good hands. I can work miracles."

The broad-shouldered man smiled, hearing this. "Thank you."

Then the surgeon cleaned the swollen wound with a cloth and water and slowly wiped the blood away, then he said, "I need to drain the pus to prevent septicemia."

Using his disinfected scalpel, the surgeon cut the wound back open, and then firmly pressed his fingers against the sides of the wound.

Old Shatterhand looked away, bile welling up in his throat.

Immediately, a mix of blood and bad-smelling yellowish-greenish pus gushed out. "As I suspected, it's infected," the older man said, as he disinfected the wound thoroughly.

He took a piece of gauze, and using the surgical probe, pushed it into the gaping wound, gently. "I can't continue to remove the pus this way, because I might make the bullet move, and I don't want it to move. If it did, it could be fatal for Winnetou. I'm going to use this stripe of gauze and the remaining pus will be evacuated by capillary action, it should take a minute or two, no more," he explained to the pallid and silent blond man, standing at his side.

Once that was done, the doctor went to his desk and grabbed the bottle of whiskey which was sitting there, and pulled out a glass from a drawer.

He poured the amber liquid into the glass and offered it to Old Shatterhand whose tense face was now a little greenish. "You need it, my boy. Bad night, huh?"

Old Shatterhand nodded. "And it was a bad day too, doctor. I thought I had lost Winnetou." And while holding his glass, he noticed that his fingers were sticky with blood - Winnetou's blood and he swallowed hard. He gulped the shot of alcohol and gave the empty glass back to Gerald. "Thank you."

Gerald nodded, his face drawn as he dug through his memories of the war. "I lost very dear friends during such terrible battles, Shiloh, Vicksburg, Chattanooga, Cold Harbor where I was injured… and most of them died on my table. Unfortunately, there was nothing I could do to save them. It was real butchery. Bullets, bayonets and shells did terrible damage. It was horrible. It was like being in hell. I waded through blood and guts, worked alongside piles of corpses and severed limbs... I will be haunted by all these horrible images, by the smells of death, by the screams of pain and terror, by the groans of agony, by the pleas of the dying to be finished... for the rest of my days." He sighed and then added, "Mercifully, it's over." He smiled and squeezed Old Shatterhand's shoulder. "He won't die, I promise."

Old Shatterhand nodded. "Thank you, doctor."

The surgeon removed the piece of gauze, stained with yellowish pus and then, a little clear reddish liquid oozed from the wound, a telltale sign that the infection was gone. "It's clean now," he said.

Scalpel in hand, he removed the necrotic tissue around the wound and then poured some disinfectant over it. "It's nearly over," he commented to the blond man.

Taking a clean cloth, he gently patted the wound dry. "There, it's over," he said to Old Shatterhand who looked exhausted.

Looking down at Winnetou, laid as still as the dead, Old Shatterhand said, "I'll be in the waiting room if you need me, doctor."

He was ready to leave the room, to the brink of nausea when he saw a pitcher, a bar of soap, and a bowl on the table, near which a towel was folded in four. "May I wash my hands?"

Gerald nodded. "Of course."

Old Shatterhand washed his hands thoroughly, while seeing himself holding Winnetou's limp and bloody body in his arms, removing any trace of Winnetou's blood on his fingers, as if he wanted to, at the same time, erase everything that had happened.

Then without a word, he left the examination room with a tight throat - thinking about the delicate operation that was going to be performed next.

WWW / W

In the examination room

Martin Gerald pulled out a bowl from the cupboard, filled it with a bottle of whiskey and put the scalpel, forceps and tweezers in it, in order to sterilize them. He didn't have enough disinfectant for that, and strong alcohol would do the job.

He checked his patient's pupils and nodded. Winnetou was still deeply unconscious – and thus wouldn't need to be anesthetized.

While waiting for the instruments to be disinfected in the cheap whiskey, the surgeon poured tepid water on the area around the entry wound which was still oozing a clear reddish liquid and then cleaned it with a cloth and did it again and again until nothing more came out of the wound.

Once his instruments were disinfected, he cut the entrance of the wound, enlarging it, then got the forceps inside for lack of anything more appropriate to keep it wide open - and noticed that Winnetou's hands had twitched involuntarily.

Injecting even a sedative could have a negative effect on his patient's already fragile breathing, that's why he chose not to do it. Winnetou's body would more or less react on instinct during the operation, but his mind was utterly senseless and lost to the world, he thought.

He moved the two branches of the forceps and engaged the locking mechanism to keep the wound wide-open so that he could easily reach the bullet lodged deep into the flesh.

He ignored the flinch that followed.

With the aid of a pair of pliers with long, narrow clamping jaws he grabbed a hold of the bullet and pulled the piece of metal from Winnetou's inert body, who, pale as a ghost, still unconscious was breathing fast and shallow, and then dropped it into a tray that sat on the table nearby.

He tossed the bloodied instruments in the bowl of whiskey which turned red. "It's over, and everything went well, I'm not going to hurt you anymore," he said, looking down at his comatose patient.

Gerald skillfully probed the wound with his fingers – to assess the damage caused by the projectile and found nothing life-threatening – the broken tissue and severed blood vessels would regenerate on their own, with time, he thought.

There was a sudden gush of blood and the surgeon quickly applied a heavy bandage and pressure over the gaping wound.

He managed to stem the escaping blood, repaired the minor damages the bullet had made and then poured a bottle of disinfectant over the wound itself.

He reached forward to do the first stitch – and carefully closed the wound shut, drawing the edges together, while glancing from time to time at Winnetou's slack face – which was covered with a sheen of sweat.

Finally, the stitching was done and Gerald tossed the needle and thread on the table and then examined his handiwork, satisfied.

He placed a piece of gauze over the stitched wound and then wrapped a bandage around the Apache's bare torso.

He smiled, happy and relieved that all went well.

He glanced at Artemus who was still dead to the world, sleeping, curled in on himself in the armchair, snoring lightly then he covered the Apache with a blanket up to his shoulders.

He took the bloodied apron off, folded it over the back of a chair and then left the room to head to his upstairs apartment.

He needed to freshen up a bit.

WWW / W

Later, in the waiting room

After a quick clean-up, Gerald came back in the room where he received his patients and found Winnetou's blood brother sitting on a chair, fingers drumming on the armrests.

Old Shatterhand stood up so violently the chair almost fell over. "How is he?" He asked as he immediately began questioning, chest tight with anxiety. "Did you remove the bullet? What about his lung? What about his wound? Has it re-infected?"

Martin Gerald smiled and responded, "Calm down young man, please. I managed to extract the bullet and I repaired the damage to the lung and the infection is gone, definitively. By some miracle the damage inside was limited. The bullet missed his heart by a hair's breadth, and also every vital organ and artery. The bullet also missed the ribs by half an inch and so he avoided organ damage from any stray bone splinters. It happens almost all the time with chest wounds. He's alive and will make a full recovery. You got him here just in time... Any later, he would be dead." He paused, rubbing tired eyes and then he added, "He's not alright, not yet. It's too early to tell. I'll see how he's doing in a few hours, and I have good news. His coma is not deep because he has responded to the pain during the operation. He'll wake up, when I can't tell, but he will, I'm sure of that and I'm hopeful he will recover just fine."

Old Shatterhand nodded, feeling the tension in his shoulders relax considerably at those words. Smiling, he grabbed the surgeon's hand and shook it. "Thank you very much, doctor for what you did. I will be eternally grateful for what you've done."

Martin Gerald smiled broadly. "It was my pleasure. Now you need to rest, Old Shatterhand. There's a bed in the adjacent room. I'm going to stay with Winnetou. It could be a while before he wakes up. You could see him in the morning."

Exhausted from the sudden drop in adrenaline and emotions, between grief, mourning on the one hand, and relief and joy on the other, got the better of the last strength of the blond man. "You're right, thanks doctor." And he headed towards the back door.

WWW / W

Late in the morning

In the adjacent room

Standing by his blood brother's bed, Old Shatterhand was grinning from ear-to-ear.

He'd been staring at Winnetou's chest for the last fifteen minutes, watching it rise and fall, the Apache's breathing steady and calm, hypnotized-like by this simple and natural movement that meant everything to him – Winnetou was still alive.

Artemus said, "He's out of danger, now."

The blond man blinked out of his 'trance' and then then looked at Major Gordon who was standing beside the small bed on which Winnetou was laid, motionless. He nodded. "Yes he is."

The officer noticed that there was a light film of perspiration covering Winnetou's forehead and cheeks. The Apache no longer wore his snakeskin head-band and his black-raven long hair was loose, covering his shoulders and part of his slack face.

His lips were slightly open as if he was ready to talk, but he couldn't. Not yet anyway.

Old Shatterhand could see utter exhaustion in every line of the Major's pale face and hazy eyes. "Did you manage to sleep?"

Rubbing his stubbled chin Artemus responded, his voice rough from lack of sleep, "I did, yes, but not enough," and then he yawned widely. "I had a report to write for General Grant and he likes details. He's not gonna like reading that Cortez's second-in-command Castillo got away and probably fled to Mexico, bringing a few men with him the others being arrested. I was up most of the night writing it, I must have slept two hours at most... How is he?"

Winnetou's face was still and expressionless with shadowed eyes. His wholly naked body, hid by a blanket up to his waist, was completely relaxed.

He looked like he was sleeping peacefully – but wasn't.

A new bandage crossed his powerful hairless chest. The Apache red and black blanket covered the lower part of his lithe, yet muscular and strong body.

Old Shatterhand looked back at Winnetou, who remained as still as a rock. His face drawn he rubbed the worry lines in his forehead.

Then he lowered his hand and said, "His fever's down, and that's a good sign. He still hasn't woken up, but thanks to my blood, he's gaining strength and he's stable. Dr. Gerald told me he reacted to pain during the operation and so his coma isn't deep. He'll wake up, when he doesn't know, but he's sure he will." He looked down at Winnetou and added, "I hope he comes out of his coma soon." He placed his hand over Winnetou's chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall. "At least he's still alive, thanks to you."

Pulling up at chair, Artemus sat on it and then said, "I did what Winnetou did with you once. I leaped on a Confederate soldier before he had time to shoot and kill General Grant, using my own body as a shield. I received the bullet that was meant for him."

The broad shouldered man was impressed. "You saved General Grant's life?"

Smiling Artemus nodded. "I did, yes. I spent two days between life and death, Dr. Henderson saved my life but I fell into a coma. Ulysses S. Grant talked to me, for hours, and hours… I don't remember about what exactly, probably about great battles of the past, because I love history... thinking that I'd come back, hearing his voice. It didn't work though."

Old Shatterhand raised a puzzled eyebrow, "But something worked, obviously."

Eyes twinkling with amusement Artemus replied. "General Grant had a great idea! He ordered me to wake up, barking, ""Lieutenant Gordon! It's General Grant! Wake up! That's an order! You have to protect me against my enemies! Do your duty son!" and as a good soldier, I obeyed."

The blond man smiled. "I don't think it's going to work with Winnetou. He's a Chief, he doesn't take orders from anyone. Not even from me."

Gordon asked, "How did you meet?"

Old Shatterhand chuckled. "He stabbed me in the neck – almost killing me and then captured me. I was brought to the pueblo and Nscho-tschi, Winnetou's sister healed me and then I earned Winnetou's trust and respect when he found out I was the one that rescued him from the Kiowas that had captured him, saving his life. We became blood brothers. It's a long story and that's the short version."

Intrigued, Artemus asked. "He speaks English very well. Where did he learn our language?"

Old Shatterhand responded, "Winnetou and his sister Nscho-tschi – which means Beautiful Day, had a white man as a teacher when they were young, the Apaches called him Klekih-petra, which means White Father. Klekih-petra considered Winnetou as his spiritual son. He was Nscho-tschi and Winnetou's friend and protector too. He lived with the Apaches for thirty years, until he was killed by a bandit called Santer, several months ago, protecting Winnetou with his own body, sacrificing his own life for him. After that Winnetou was captured by the Chief of the Kiowas, Tangua, who planned to torture him and then kill him. Before he died, Klekih-petra's last words to me were, "You must save Winnetou and be brothers, brothers." He paused, remembering what had happened, vividly. Then he said, "And I did." He paused, and curious, he asked, "And why did you become a spy?"

Major Gordon smiled. "Long story short, I was an actor before the war a very good one, not to brag, and being a spy allows me to continue to disguise myself and play all kind of different characters - women included. It's the perfect work for me, and I would also add that I love danger and adventure. I love what I do, a lot." He smiled and then continued, "Talk to Winnetou, tell him whatever you want, the whole point is for him to hear your voice and follow it, and if he does, he'll be back."

Old Shatterhand was surprised. "You think he can hear us?"

Artemus nodded and then said, "Yes, he can believe me. When I was in a coma; if I couldn't move, see anything or talk, I could hear everything. That was terrible, awful. It was like being a prisoner in your own body. But I knew Grant was here, and I was sure that somehow, he would help me to leave my comatose state, and I was right. He talked to me, a lot and I woke up. It's the only way you can help him."

Old Shatterhand nodded. "I want to help him. Winnetou's everything to me, he's my best friend, my partner, my brother, he's my family."

Smiling, Artemus said, "You're a lucky man then."

The blond man nodded. "I hope one day you will meet such a man, with whom you will become one, your soul mate."

Immediately Artemus pictured James West in his mind. "I've already found him. But it's a long story." (A. N. read my story called "TNOT First Mission"). He stood and said, "I'm gonna go make some coffee and prepare a copious breakfast. We'll need that." Then he left the room.

WWW / W

Old Shatterhand nodded. "Let's do it."

Sitting on a chair beside Winnetou's unconscious form, he started talking about his duel with Winnetou's father the chief, Intschu-tschuna (Good Sun), then talked about Nscho-tschi, who had fallen in love with him and wanted to go to St. Louis to learn the white man's language and customs. Then he spoke of their tragic deaths, Nscho-tschi dying in his arms, and his vision blurred out.

He let out a strangled sob.

He gripped Winnetou's warm hand tightly and then pressed his forehead against his brother's temple, not able to hold back the tears falling from behind his lashes.

Overwhelmed by raw emotion, he closed his eyes and cried. He finally let his emotions and grief out and managed to control himself after long minutes.

He pulled back, opening his teary eyes and pleaded, "Please, wake up Winnetou, wake up." But there was no response, nothing that would signify that he'd been heard. "Please, Winnetou, please, I need you, I can't do anything without you, I'm lost without you, I'm incomplete. We are one, my brother, two souls in the same body, I can't live without you, come back please," he said, and felt his voice crack on the last word, then he closed his eyes again and prayed.

Five minutes passed and then… there was a slow fluttering of Winnetou's eyelashes as he struggled his way back to consciousness.

He attempted to open his eyes, which took a considerable amount of effort on his part, managed it, for split second and closed them again.

He moved his fingers, a little, waking slowly, progressively.

Old Shatterhand abruptly stopped crying when he felt Winnetou's fingers twitch in his hand and his head shot up, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy, wide in surprise.

He stared at Winnetou with a heart full of hope and rasped, "Winnetou?"

He opened his hand and then watched in awe Winnetou's fingers move into his palm, just slightly, but they were moving. Then saw a single tear running down his brother's cheek. "It worked! Winnetou! Please come back!" He said, with a heart full of hope. He sat on the edge of the bed and cupped the Apache's face – Winnetou releasing a hoarse broken sound. "Come on! Wake up brother! Come back to me, Winnetou. You can do it!" His voice cracked, then. "You're my brother and I love you, I want you back by my side… You're all I have Winnetou, please come back." He paused to calm down and then he raised his voice. "Winnetou wake up!" He called out, and gently tapped on his brother's high cheekbone.

It was there, a voice, distant, faint and muffled, but there it was. He tried to understand the words, but couldn't. It was incomprehensible.

Then he recognized Old Shatterhand's voice. Winnetou couldn't tell what his white brother was saying and it forced him to leave the darkness. His brother could be in danger! Winnetou needs to help Old Shatterhand! He thought.

Old Shatterhand chanted frantically, "Winnetou, come on, you can do it! Winnetou!"

Frowning, Winnetou focused on his brother's tensed voice and… reached the surface, seeing light, leaving darkness behind.

Old Shatterhand sighed in relief and then beamed with utter joy when he saw Winnetou's gray-green eyes half-opening and a heard a faint whimper come from the injured man.

Then Winnetou looked at Old Shatterhand, squinting at the blurred day light, wincing and ignoring the pain. Blinking blearily a few times, he let his eyes relax, opening them further and then croaked, his voice gravelly, "My brother…"

Old Shatterhand pressed Winnetou's hand in his. "My brother."

He licked his chapped lips, trying to bring the other man into focus and then then said, "Winnetou's heart is pleased, is light and full of peace… because Winnetou can see his brother again, be with him again. Winnetou knew that the God of Death, Anawi would bring Old Shatterhand into the happy hunting grounds of Manitou so he could stay at Winnetou's side… Winnetou and Old Shatterhand will live here together, for eternity..." His words were slurred and he had trouble keeping his eyes open.

The blond man shook his head and broke out into a shining smile. "No, I'm not dead. I'm very much alive and you are alive too, Winnetou. I'm glad you could rejoin the world of the living."

Stunned by the incredible news, Winnetou stared at Old Shatterhand, blue eyes wide with shock. "Winnetou is not dead?"

Old Shatterhand placed Winnetou's warm hand over his heart. "No, you're not. Feel my heart beat in my chest. brother." Then he placed the Apache's hand over his own heart. "And yours. Our hearts are beating as one, since our blood has mingled."

Utter confusion took over Winnetou's face as he remembered very clearly, that he had been shot and then choked on a sob as he remembered the excruciating pain, no, the white-hot agony which had encompassed his chest.

He had never felt anything like that in all his life.

Then he remembered he had been dying, laid down on a blanket, covering a dead tree trunk and tears fell from his tired eyes.

The cold darkness of death had closed in on him as his brother was holding him in his arms. "Winnetou doesn't understand… Winnetou was dead…" He said, totally lost, his voice sounding shaky and faint, as he still could feel the pain of a bullet tearing into him.

Old Shatterhand shook his head. "You didn't die, Winnetou."

Winnetou took a sharp intake of breath and yelped as his entire chest was on fire, and then started hyperventilating as he tried to catch his ragged breath.

He propped himself up, on his elbows, in an attempt to sit up, but an exploding wave of pain rippling through his whole chest, forced him gently back to the bed, eyes screwed shut tightly. "No. It is not possible. Winnetou was dead… Winnetou was in the eternal hunting grounds…" His voice trailed off in disbelief. But he couldn't remember anything of them.

Old Shatterhand smiled, grabbing Winnetou's hands in his. "It's alright, Winnetou, you're safe, calm down. You're having a panic attack, but it won't last. Breathe, breathe," he said to the Apache, his fingers intertwining with Winnetou's. "You didn't die. It's a long story. See? I was wright, no one can foresee his own death, not even the great Winnetou."

Winnetou took several deep, steadying breaths and grunted as each of them made the burn in his chest a little more painful. Then he managed to relax and Old Shatterhand released him. "Winnetou was mistaken, Winnetou didn't go to the eternal hunting grounds and that is why Winnetou can't remember anything of them," he said, sounding raspy.

Old Shatterhand smiled, "And I'm so very happy you didn't! We have many happy days in front of us, my brother," he said.

The Apache nodded. "Ntcha-nha, Manitou ncho… Manitou is great, and all powerful. He saved Winnetou's life so that Old Shatterhand and Winnetou can continue their work together to maintain peace and goodwill between our two peoples."

The blond man added, "Yes, you're right, and fight crimes and injustice too." He smiled and continued, "And he used Artemus Gordon to save you. It's a long story." He fetched a pitcher and a glass from the nearby table. "You must be thirsty."

Winnetou nodded. "Winnetou can't wait to hear what happened." And then he winced. He was in great pain, but an Apache never complained when he was wounded and died in silence, he thought. He tried to keep an impenetrable face.

Old Shatterhand put the glass against Winnetou's chapped lips. "Drink it, it will do you good."

The Apache swallowed eagerly and the cold water eased the dryness of his throat. "Thank you," he said with a grateful smile.

He glanced down at his chest and saw a large bandage crossing his torso from side to side there, with a small dot of blood seeping through the left part. "The bullet hit Winnetou here."

Old Shatterhand sat the glass back on the small bedside table and then said, "Yes, and that bullet was lodged close to your heart. Dr. Gerald, a very talented surgeon removed it last night and repaired your punctured lung too. We're in his office in Santa Fe.

Winnetou took in his surroundings. The room was small, with a window with white curtains, letting in the daylight. There wasn't much furniture, a table, a sideboard, an armchair, and a bed on which he was lying, a pillow under his head.

Old Shatterhand's brow furrowed as he remembered every detail of what had happened at Nugget-tsil. To save his life, Winnetou had placed himself in front of him, then shot in the chest, the Apache Chief had collapsed. Then he had straightened up, his features strained in pain, then he had passed out in his arms.

He sighed and scowled. "I know where you were hit, my brother. I was there, remember?" He paused and pursed his lips. "That bullet was aimed at me, you sacrificed yourself to save my life," he said, visibly upset. "I thought I had lost you."

The Indian noticed his brother's bad mood and said, "Winnetou will always step in to take a bullet for his brother to protect him, to save his life. If Winnetou did not save his brother's life, Old Shatterhand would have died. Winnetou is not going to apologize for doing the right thing. Winnetou could not let Old Shatterhand die," he said. He fell silent seeing that Old Shatterhand was still upset by what he had done and then added, "Old Shatterhand is the only family Winnetou has left."

Old Shatterhand felt a surge of warmth envelop his heart and spreading in his chest as he was very moved to hear this. "And you're the only family I have left, Winnetou." He cracked a smile. "Thank you – and I would take a bullet for you too, without hesitation."

He lowered his forehead and touched Winnetou's. "I love you, my brother." Then, he heard, "Winnetou loves you too, brother."

The Apache raised his hand, touched Old Shatterhand's wet cheek, gently, with his calloused fingertips. "Old Shatterhand cried for Winnetou…"

Old Shatterhand nodded, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yes, I did, twice. The first time was when I held you in my arms, dead – well, at that time I thought you were dead." Curious, he asked, "What brought you back to me Winnetou? Did you hear me?"

The Apache smiled weakly and then replied, "Yes. Winnetou heard you crying, then Winnetou heard your voice and recognized it, but Winnetou couldn't understand the words you were saying … it was like Winnetou's brother was talking in a low voice, with his hand in front of his mouth. Winnetou thought his brother was in danger and needed help."

Old Shatterhand nodded and smiled. "And you came back to help me. Thank you for your 'help', even if I wasn't in any danger."

Fighting to keep his eyes open, as he was very, very tired and weak, Winnetou asked, "How long was Winnetou dead?"

The tall man responded, "Not dead, in a coma. A whole night plus a few hours this morning, and that's already too much. I'm glad it lasted only a few hours."

Frowning, Winnetou asked, "What is a coma?"

Old Shatterhand explained, "Let's say a coma is a deep state of prolonged unconsciousness where the person looks like he or she is dead. He or she doesn't talk, doesn't move, doesn't open his or her eyes. If you want you can ask Dr. Gerald some questions."

Winnetou nodded, frowned in concern, and then asked, "What about my people?"

Old Shatterhand pressed his brother's shoulder reassuringly. "Everybody's fine. They're staying in army tents in the plain in front of Nugget-tsil. They're under the protection of the soldiers who take care of them. They'll stay there until you can rebuild the pueblo and set up the tepees."

Closing his eyes in tiredness, Winnetou mumbled, "Winnetou and his band are going to relocate somewhere else, more accessible, by a lake or river, with grasslands for horses and lots of small game, and where the bison will not be far away." Then he stifled a yawn.

There was a squeak as the door opened.

Dr. Gerald entered the small room where he kept his most seriously ill patients. He was holding a tray filled with what was necessary for cleaning and redressing the wound.

He grinned seeing that the Apache had had woken up from his comatose state. "Ha! Winnetou! You're awake and back with us! That's fantastic!"

Old Shatterhand nodded. "Yes, Major Gordon told me to talk to him, that the sound of my voice was going to bring him back to me, and it worked. I have to tell him the good news, where is he?"

Gerald smiled. "He's sleeping on the couch. I put a little of a sleeping potion in his coffee after he made breakfast. He needs to rest, and it was the only way for him to rest. With the dose I gave him, he should sleep for two days, maybe three. Oh, breakfast is ready!"

Tbc.