The Ghost of the Llano Estacado

By Karl May

In this sequel to Karl May's The Son of Bear Hunter the heroes of the great adventures in the Yellowstone National Park are heading for a meeting on the hunting ground of the Apache tribe. Shortleg Frank and Bob are coming from the East, Old Shatterhand from the North, Winnetou, Bear Hunter and his son from the South. Their pathways meet at

• Language: English
• Publisher: CTPDC Publishing Limited
• Release date: Dec 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781910472118

Karl May

Karl May wurde am 25. Februar 1842 als fünftes von vierzehn Kindern einer bitterarmen Weberfamilie in Hohenstein-Ernstthal in Sachsen geboren. Ein durch Not und Elend bedingter Vitaminmangel verursachte eine funktionelle Blindheit, die erst in seinem fünften Lebensjahr geheilt wurde. Nach der Schulzeit studierte May als Proseminarist an den Lehrerseminaren Waldenburg und Plauen. Seine Karriere als Lehrer endete bereits nach vierzehn Tagen, als die Anzeige durch einen Zimmergenossen wegen angeblichen Diebstahls einer Taschenuhr zu einer Verurteilung führte und May aus der Liste der Lehramtskandidaten gestrichen wurde. In der Folge geriet er auf die schiefe Bahn und verbüßte wegen Diebstahls, Betrug und Hochstapelei mehrere Haftstrafen. Von 1870 bis 1874 saß er im Zuchthaus Waldheim. Nach seiner Entlassung wurde er im Alter von 32 Jahren Redakteur einer Zeitschrift und begann Heimaterzählungen und Abenteuergeschichten zu schreiben. Sein stetes literarisches Schaffen war ungewöhnlich erfolgreich und machte ihn bald zum bedeutendsten Autor von Kolportageromanen und Trivialliteratur des 19. Jahrhunderts in Deutschland. Seine Abenteuerromane, die an exotischen Schauplätzen im Wilden Westen und im Orient spielen, wurden in 33 Sprachen übersetzt. Durch seine archetypischen Wildwest-Helden Winnetou und Old Shatterhand erlangte Karl May literarische Unsterblichkeit und wurde zum meistgelesenen Autor deutscher Sprache. Mays letztes Lebensjahrzehnt war von einer beispiellosen Hetze wegen seiner früheren Straftaten und vermeintlicher Unsittlichkeiten in seinen Kolportageromanen überschattet. Zermürbende Verleumdungs- und Urheberrechtsprozesse, in die er sich verstrickte, vermochten seinen tief verwurzelten christlichen Glauben, von dem sein literarisches Werk von Anfang an durchdrungen ist, aber nicht zu erschüttern. Mit den letzten beiden Bänden des Romans Im Reiche des silbernen Löwen und seinem dem Surrealismus nahestehende Symbolroman Ardistan und Dschinnistan schuf er in seinen letzten Jahren ein heute literarisch hochgeachtetes mystisches Spätwerk. Jubelnde Anerkennung erlebte er am 22. März 1912, als er auf Einladung des Akademischen Verbands für Literatur und Musik in Wien einen Vortrag Empor ins Reich der Edelmenschen hielt. Eine Woche später, am 30. März 1912, starb Karl May in seiner Villa Shatterhand in Radebeul bei Dresden an Herzversagen.

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CTPDC Publishing Limited

28 Ashfield Road, Liverpool, L17 0BZ, United Kingdom

Translation and editorial material copyright M. A. Thomas 2014

Cover illustration Band of Mounted Navahos Passing through Cañon by Edward S. Curtis, Library of Congress Prints and Photographic Division, Edward S. Curtis Collection LC-USZ62-38863

All rights reserved.

THE TRANSLATOR’S FOREWORD

Karl May was born in 1842, and in 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. This is 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 is 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 bad associations. Therefore, this English translation is an unabridged, but an edited version of The Ghost of the Llano Estacado.

The Ghost of the Llano Estacado is a sequel to The Son of Bear Hunter. However, there are new characters, and new problems in it for the translation.

There several versions of this book. Firstly May published it in a boys’ journal, and then as a book. In these the Snuffles (two Westerner brothers) play an important role. In later editions the Snuffles were simply replaced (without changing a word of their conversations) with Tubby Jemmy and Long Davy by the publisher of Karl May’s works. Obviously, they did so, because one of May’s appeals is the recurring characters. However, I thought that the idea of new characters was a good one, and the Snuffles were likeable enough, so I stuck with May’s, rather than his publisher’s version. As a result, however, Jemmy and Davy have a negligible role in the book, and only their names are mentioned occasionally.

Ethnographic errors were fewer in this book, as there are very few Indians, although it remains unclear what Winnetou was doing in the area without his band or tribe. The family link between Brave Heart and Fiery Star is somewhat problematic (as many Comanche bands followed the matrilineal line), but it is unimportant from the prospective of the book.

The single most important problem was geography. Karl May completely misunderstood both the geography and the origins of the name of the Llano Estacado.

The Llano Estacado is normally translated as Staked Plains to English, but the name of Palisaded Plateau would be better, because the name comes from the view of the plateau from several directions (the cliffs bordering the plateau look like palisade). May’s interpretation of the name of the Llano Estacado was wrong, but it plays such a central role in the story, that there was no way to change to it. Secondly, although the Llano Estacado was an arid area, it was not a desert. Again the storyline depends on May’s perception of the Llano Estacado as a desert so overwhelmingly that no change could be made to correct it.

Frank’s name, just as in The Son of the Bear Hunter, was translated as Shortleg Frank. May called Frank Hobble Frank, whilst this is fine, but it presents an incorrect picture of the man for an English-speaking audience as Frank does not hobble, but limps. However, I could not see limping as a kind nickname, and Frank certainly deserved one. Thus in all my translations he is called Shortleg Frank in this book. Although to a lesser extent than in The Son of Bear Hunter, Frank’s dialogues suffered in the translation, because his humour in these relies on the understanding of regional stereotyping in Germany, and his misunderstanding of foreign words. Without extensive explanations these would have been inaccessible to an English speaking audience, thus I decided, instead of long footnotes that would have distracted from the story, to shorten his speeches, but still retain the essence of them (for example, his great attachment to ghosts and spirits).

Comments that could have caused misunderstandings or uncomfortable feelings for the modern readership were fewer in this book than in May’s other westerns. Firstly, the villains do not team up with Indians. Secondly Bob suffers no racial stereotyping. Just the opposite: he is a proud man, and, without spoiling the plot, in this book May’s strong conviction against slavery is manifest. Thirdly, just as in May’s other books, most of the heroes (Old Shatterhand, Shortleg Frank, Tubby Jemmy, Juggle Fred, Bear Hunter and his son, Helmer, and very likely Blood Fox) are Germans or have German ancestry. Without removing the references to their nationality, I toned them down.

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 justice have become more emphasised, and more accessible for the reader.

M. A. Thomas

BLOODY FOX

Two men, a white, and a black man, rode next to each other. Both had strange clothing. The white rider wore Indian moccasins, leather trousers, and such a coat that could have been a dinner jacket at some point in history. The two wings fluttered on the two sides of the horse. Its colour used to be blue, but now it faded. The coat was decorated by epaulets, and bright brass buttons. He wore a huge black, female hat, he called it Amazon hat, and from this a yellow-painted, probably fake, ostrich feather swung. The lean man carried a double-barrelled gun. He had a knife, and two revolvers in his belt.

The black man was a broad-shouldered, strong man, a real giant. He also wore moccasins with Indian leggings. On his upper body he wore the tunic of the French dragoon officers. It was an excellent piece, even if it was worn, but nobody could know how it got from its original owner to the back man. Probably a French officer wore it during the Mexican intervention. The main trouble with this coat was that it was too small for the current owner. He could not even button it up. To compensate it, he wore a red-black chequered scarf that he tied around his neck. He did not wear any hat. He had a double-barrelled gun, a knife, an outdated revolver, and a bayonet, whose journey to the current owner was just as mysterious as that of the tunic.

Their horses were excellent. They had made a long way, yet, they freshly lifted their hooves.

The riders were passing by a stream. Here the grass was lush, and green, unlike the grass a few steps away among the yucca, where some very tall bear grass withered.

‘Terrible area,’ remarked the white rider. ‘It’s much nicer in the North, isn’t it, Bob?’

‘Indeed,’ nodded Bob. ‘I wish we found Mr Helmer’s house! I’m hungry like a shark that can eat a man with one bite!’

‘There’s no shark that could eat you with one bite,’ laughed the other. ‘But as to the appetite, I’m hungry too.’

‘Is Helmer’s Home far?’

‘I don’t know! It’s somewhere here, that’s for sure. According to the instructions we got this morning, we should be there soon. Look isn’t it a rider over there?’

He pointed to the right over the other side of the stream. Bob stopped his horse, and put his hand above his eyes to protect them from the Sun’s descending rays.

‘Yes, Mr Frank,’ he replied. ‘A rider. Small man, big horse. Heading this way.’

The rider approached in quick trot, but when it arrived, he did not stop, and continued his journey as if they had not existed.

‘Strange man,’ hummed Frank. ‘On this damned area people are happy if they meet someone, while this hurries without talking to us. Either a hermit, or his conscience is not clear.’

‘Why don’t you call him?’

‘You are right, Bob! Shout after him! He can surely hear your roaring voice.’

Bob formed a cone of his two huge hands, and shouted after the rider, ‘Hallo! Hallo! Stop! Why do you avoid us?’

His thundering voice would have woken the dead. The stranger pulled the reins of his horse, and stopped. Frank and Bob caught up with him. When they were close enough, they saw that it was not a small man, but a young man, who had barely grown out of adolescence.

He was dressed as Californian cowboys: his clothing was made of leather, and had a large sombrero. Instead of a belt, he tied a red scarf around his waist. There were two revolvers, decorated with silver, and a Bowie knife in this scarf. In front of him there was a heavy, double barrelled gun. On the two sides of the saddle, leather pieces hung down. It was common in Mexico, and it was useful for protecting the legs of the rider against arrows and spear. The stranger’s face was suntanned, and rough because of the wind, and it made it masculine. There was a long scar from the top left corner of his forehead to his right eye. The wound had long healed, but a red, thick scar remained, and would remind the man to something until the day of his death. There was something else that showed early maturity of the young man. He lifted his heavy gun with ease. His dark, big eyes looked at the two riders, who stopped him, searchingly. He sat on the horse proudly, and securely like an adult.

‘How do you do, my boy?’ greeted him Frank.

‘How do you do?’ replied the young man.

‘Tell, me do you know this area?

‘A little bit,’ replied the other with a mocking smile that showed that he had known every bush there since his childhood.

‘Is there a house here called Helmer’s Home?’

‘There is.’

‘Is it far?’

‘It depends. It’s shorter this way, quicker that way.’

‘Why do you answer like this? Are you sulking because I called you boy?’

‘Not at all! You can call me as you wish, but then you shouldn’t complain about my answer.’

‘You are right. Let’s shake hands. I’m a stranger here, and I have to go to Helmer’s Home. Please tell us the way. I hope you won’t mislead us.’

The young man accepted the handshake, and replied, ‘Only villains mislead the travellers. I’m heading to Helmer’s Home. If you want to follow me, you can.’

He started his horse, and the other two followed. He turned away from the stream to the South.

‘We hoped to get there along the stream,’ remarked Frank.

‘You could do that,’ replied the young man, ‘but then instead of half an hour, it would have been a two-hour journey. The stream makes a big arc there.

‘Do you know the host?’

‘Mr Helmer? Of course!’

‘What sort of man is he?’

Frank and Bob rode on the stranger’s right and left side. The young man looked at them searchingly again.

‘He’s got good eyes,’ he answered. ‘He knows people well. He receives good men in a friendly way, but he’s short with rascals.’

‘I’m glad. Then we don’t have to be afraid.’

‘It depends. If you are honest men, there is nothing you cannot ask from him that he wouldn’t do.’

‘I heard he has an inn.’

‘An inn, and a store. But he doesn’t do it for profit. He wants to help his hunter friends. You can buy everything there that a traveller needs at the lowest possible price. But if he doesn’t like you, he would not sell you anything. Not even at triple of the price.’

‘Is he so eccentric?’

‘He is not eccentric, only he tries to keep the villains, who make Texas, and especially this area so infamous, away from himself.’

‘Do you also live here? Are you a farmer?’

‘I don’t have a farm or a house, but I live here. I’m free like a bird, or rather like the game. I don’t have anybody in this world.’

‘Not even parents?’

‘Neither parents, nor relatives.’

‘What’s your name, if I may ask?’

‘I don’t even have a name. I’m known as Bloody Fox.’

Frank was astonished. ‘Bloody Fox …This suggests something terrible …’

‘Are you surprised?’ continued the young man. ‘I have to say that my parents, my family and their companions were murdered in the Llano Estacado. I was the one to survive. They found me blood stained, with a huge wound on my forehead. I was about eight years old then.’

‘Good Lord! Poor child! How did it happen? Robbers? Bandits?’

‘Bandits, nodded the young man. ‘The vultures of the desert.’

‘I see. So you had nothing, but your life and the memory. I’m surprised that you survived it.’

‘Helmer found me in the dust. He took me to his house on his horse. I lay in a bed with fever, half unconscious for months. When I recovered, I could not remember anything. I had forgotten how to speak, I had forgotten even my name. I could only remember the terrible quarter of an hour, when the vultures attacked us. If I could forget that too! Then I wouldn’t have to constantly think of revenge. Because ever since I think that I’m alive only for the revenge.’

‘Is it why you are called Bloody Fox?’ asked Frank with true sympathy.

‘Yes. Because I was blood soaked when I was found, and in my delirium I kept on speaking of some fox. Maybe I thought of a fox that gets into the chicken pen, and kills the chicks. My only desire is to punish the murderers.’

Under the effects of the memories he was shivering, he was grinding his teeth, and looked possessed.

‘So this scar on your forehead,’ asked Frank embarrassed, because he was afraid that he would be insensitive.

‘Yes the mark of that quarter of an hour,’ replied the young man. But let’s not talk about it. Look! Here we will meet the stream again. On the other side of the stream there is a forest, and behind the trees Helmer’s land starts.’

‘Good. Then let’s talk about Mr Helmer. Is he a born American?’

‘No, not at all,’ replied Blood Fox. ‘He was a forester in Germany. However, he got into some argument with the landlord, and he could never get a new job there. So, he came over to America.’

‘A forester?’ exclaimed Frank. ‘I was a forester back in Germany too!’

‘Interesting,’ nodded the young man. ‘However, so far you questioned me. Could I ask a few questions too? This black gentleman’s name is Bob, isn’t it, and if I’m not mistaken Slipping Bob.’

Bob stood up on his horse. ‘Oh!’ he exclaimed. ‘If you know me, why do you tease me?’

‘I don’t!’ cried the young man. ‘I don’t want to tease you. We are already friends. Tell me, who gave you this name?’

‘The Indians, when I couldn’t yet ride, and always slipped off the horse, but now I’m a good rider.’

To show off, he spurred his horse, and galloped towards the small forest.

‘Do you know Bob?’ asked Frank surprised. ‘Unbelievable.’

‘Why would it be unbelievable? I know you too.’

‘Then what’s my name?’

‘Frank, and if I don’t hurt you with it, Shortleg Frank.’

‘Right! But how do you know it, my son? This is my first visit in the area.’

‘The Llano is not so backward as not to know the famous people of the prairie,’ replied the young man smiling.

This felt good to Frank and for a moment his dinner jacket almost burst in his pride.

‘I? Famous?’ he exclaimed pretending modesty. ‘Who talked to you about me?’

‘Another famous man. Mr Pfefferkorn, who is known as Tubby Jemmy.’

‘What? My best friend! Where did you meet him?’

‘A few days ago at Dry Fork Washita River. He came to like me, and it was reciprocal. He told me that you agreed to meet at Helmer’s Home.’

‘This is true. So will he come?’

‘Yes. He had something to arrange in the North, and I arrived earlier. But he’s coming. As soon as you said that you were a forester in Germany, the whole mosaic made a picture.’

‘I’m very happy. Did he talk about our shared adventures?’

‘The journey to the Yellowstone? In great detail. It was very exciting to hear it, but you had to do it! And how brave and competent you were, Frank!’

‘So Jemmy didn’t say anything bad about me?

‘Good Lord! No!’ exclaimed the young man. ‘How could he?’

‘Well, you know, we had our disagreements. But here we are at the forest, and there is Bob. How do we go further?’

‘We cross the stream, go across the forest, and we will then arrive.’

It was easy to go across the forest, as there was not much undergrowth. On the other side of the forest, they arrived to a well-cultivated maize, potato, and oat fields. It was the black sand area of Texas, and it promised a good harvest. The stream also increased the value of the farm, as it ran by the house. There were stables, and other agricultural buildings behind the house.

The house was a stone bungalow, although in the two ends there