Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (4 page)

Horn, astride Pilgrim, followed at hoof and heels by the Apache Kid, led the attack and headed straight for Goklaya’s wickiup.
Horn and the Kid kept up an alternating barrage of lead aimed at the wickiup’s entrance. Whoever was in there would have to
stay in.

The village erupted with screams, human and animal, as from every point of the compass death lanced out of the barrels of
rifles and guns. The attack was devastating and, from a military point of view, an almost immediate success, turning the quiet
village into an abattoir.

The yelling cavalry charged at Goklaya’s remuda and succeeded in scattering the frightened horses. Several of the wickiups
were set afire and the flames and smoke added to the chaos. Dogs barked, babies cried, and squaws screamed because death was
not for the braves only. Women and children caught in the crossfire fell upon the already fallen, lifeless bodies of their
husbands and fathers.

Charging horses lurched, twisted, and slipped in the soft, moist earth as troopers flew off their mounts onto the retreating
Apache braves.

Sieber yelled commands, and Captain Crane
yelled them again and carried them out. His soldier’s instinct and training prevailed, and Captain Crane never paused to consider
the deaths of the innocents, because unless all re sis tance was crushed, he, too, might be dead at any moment.

Horn and the Kid, both with Winchesters in hand, leaped off their mounts and raced toward the entrance of the large wickiup.

Goklaya and two squaws were tearing off a back section of the structure as Horn and the Kid smashed through the front entry
with pointed rifles. Both squaws, gripping knives, plunged at the intruders. Without hesitation the Kid swung the stock of
his Winchester, clubbing one squaw on the side of the skull, as Horn’s rifle butt broke the other squaw’s knife wrist, then
plunged into her rib cage, knocking her to the floor.

Goklaya realized that it was too late to try to fit through the small, jagged rupture at the rear of the wickiup. He spun like
a frenzied cat and with the same movement pulled a knife and a Colt .45 from his silver-studded weapons belt.

Just as Goklaya’s gun cleared the black-leather holster, Horn fired his Winchester. The bullet shattered the barrel of the
chief’s Peacemaker, and blood splattered from the palm of Goklaya’s right hand. But the Indian’s left hand, still holding
the hunting knife, raced at Horn’s throat with the full weight and strength of Goklaya’s body behind it. The Indian was too
quick and too close for Horn to fire his long gun again. But Horn was too quick for Goklaya’s knife, which missed its twisting
target by a hairsbreadth.

Horn and Goklaya fell to the ground, grappling
in a whirlwind of fury. The fingers of Horn’s right hand clawed and dug into Goklaya’s wrist as the gleaming blade of the Indian’s
knife quivered less than an inch from Horn’s eye. The scout’s left hand grabbed a mass of Goklaya’s hair and tore the chief’s
head backward, giving the Apache Kid a clear and unmoving target. The Kid quickly wacked his Winchester’s barrel across Goklaya’s
forehead, knocking him off Horn and onto his back.

In the next instant the tip of the Apache Kid’s long gun pressed against Goklaya’s nose, and the great warrior knew he had
been captured.

Outside in the village, most of Goklaya’s braves who were not already dead suffered the same fate. About a dozen had vanished
into the rocks and narrow ridges. The body count, excluding women and children, was at least twice that number. Of the remaining
warriors, nearly half had suffered wounds before throwing down their arms in surrender.

The wails and moans of the wounded and the crying of women and children still pierced the camp as Horn and the Kid stepped
out of the wick-iup’s entrance, holding Goklaya between them. Then, as if an unseen blanket smothered the village, there was
silence.

All living eyes, Indians’ and troopers’, froze on the great Apache chief. There was blood on his hand and head.

Then Sieber motioned to Crane, and the two men moved forward. They stopped a couple of feet from the brace of scouts still
holding Goklaya.

“Captain Crane, meet your prisoner Goklaya,”
said Horn. “Around here the Mexicans call him Geronimo.”

At last Horn had said the word
Geronimo
. Sieber, the Kid, Crook, and Horn had vowed never to speak that name until the last of the warring Apache chiefs had been
subdued. The other officers and men knew and respected that vow. They, too, had sworn never to call him by his bloodstained
name until he was dead or captured.

Now the deed was done. The word could be spoken. Geronimo stood captured, bloodied but unbent. By sight his age was indeterminate.
He might not have been fifty, but actually he was more than sixty. He was tall, nearly six feet, and broad of chest. He had
a terrifying countenance, with black, bullet-hole eyes that reflected cunning and hate but never fear—even now. He had a hawk
nose and a thin slash of mouth that, because of an old wound, drooped to the right in a perpetual sneer.

Geronimo had been captive before, but never before by force. Always he had surrendered voluntarily, when it suited him—when
the snows painted the peaks above the timberline and winter drew close and cold. When there was no grass to graze his herds,
no food to feed his followers and no ammunition to kill his enemies, Geronimo would call for a
yoshte
with the white man’s army. He would agree to go back to San Carlos and be a reservation Indian. A good Indian.

And then in the spring, with full bellies, Geronimo and his followers would bolt the reservation on stolen horses, with guns
and ammunition
enough to start a new war until he wanted to surrender again.

But this time he hadn’t wanted to surrender. Geronimo had been beaten by those more cunning and crafty and as cruel as he.
There were the dead women and children as testament to that cruelty. Geronimo had not only been captured, but he had been
humiliated. He stared at the Apache Kid, then spoke.

“Hayasaha-more.”

“What did he say?” Captain Crane asked.

“Nothing much,” Horn answered. “He swears to kill the Kid.”

Geronimo turned his face and spoke to Horn. “Nan-Tan-Lupan.”

“Gray Wolf’s busy,” Horn replied. “He sent us little lambs instead.”

“
Yoshte,
Nan-Tan-Lupan,”Geronimo said.

“You can tell that to Captain Crane. And you’ll have to tell him in American.”

Geronimo looked at the young captain.

“I want to talk with my friend General Crook.”

The young captain spoke with surprising authority. “You’ll have to talk with
General Nelson Appleton Miles.”

Fort Bowie turned out in full parade for the proceedings. At Sieber’s suggestion, Captain Crane had sent a rider north across
the border to dispatch word of Geronimo’s capture.

But strangely there were no cheers at the sight of the returning troopers, scouts and their prisoners. The civilians, soldiers,
miners, and other citizens of Fort Bowie stood without words at the wonder of the event. Geronimo and the remnants of the
bloodiest brigade of renegades in the southwest— or anywhere—marched to the beat of hooves and drums. They were horse less
and weary, many of them still streaked with the now brown-dry smears of their own blood.

As the procession moved past Ryan’s store, Horn looked for Shana. She was there on the porch. She smiled, even more beautifully
than Tom remembered. This time there was no mistaking the wave. Horn touched the brim of his hat and rode with the rest toward
headquarters.

General Nelson Appleton Miles stood in full and splendid regalia, shiny as a newly minted silver dollar. Somewhere he had
liberated a long white feather of some sort, and apparently in the belief
that it added a splash of dash, bravado, or gaiety, he had planted it at a jaunty angle on the brim of his cavalry hat. In
truth, it looked ridiculous.

Captain Crane saluted and spoke to his commanding officer. “General Miles, your prisoner. Geronimo.”

Besides raiding, killing, mating, smoking, and drinking, Geronimo was partial to talking. He considered himself an outstanding
orator, the equal of Satanta, the Kiowa chief who was known as the Great Orator of the Plains. On the occasions of his past
surrenders Geronimo had publicly speechified for the better part of an hour on the merits of his case. He saw no reason to
make an exception in the present situation.

“You are the
nan-tan?
” Geronimo inquired of Miles, who looked haughty but blank.

“Leader,” Sieber interpreted.

“I am,” Miles confirmed with condescension.

“We make
yoshte
,” Geronimo proceeded. “Your soldiers—no, not soldiers; cowards to the core, butchers of squaws and babies—will pay with their
unworthy lives. You bring me back to live on the reservation. I have been there before and tried to live in peace with seven
other tribes who are our enemy. We are not farmers, but you make us plant crops. This we did among the sandstorms, centipedes,
and rattlesnakes. But much of the land promised us has been taken away, bite by bite. Mormon farmers came and claimed the
best land, poor as it was. Miners swarmed in from both sides and dug out metal they call copper. We are given beef that only
buzzards would eat. Indian agents use our warriors and children to dig coal for their own profit.

“We are not allowed to drink our ancient brew,
tizwin,
or cut off the nose of an unfaithful wife.

“Your soldiers and scouts sneak on our land like wolves in the night and carry away our women, who are never seen again. Soldiers
hide along the ridges and use our men and women for target practice, and we have nothing to shoot back with but rakes and
hoes.

“To these and many other wrongs you bring us back, to live not as men and women, not even as pets, but as a herd of worthless
creatures, penned without pride or honor, groveling on our own ground for enough to eat—we who are hunters, with no man our
equal.

“But Nan-Tan, you cannot hold Goklaya. I am not a pet. I am not a plow beast. I am not even a man. I am the spirit of all
my people who came before me, whose bones are buried in our land. I will not sell those bones cheap. And I will not squat
like a toad in the desert to be squashed by the boots and hooves of your troopers.

“I will ride free to the ridges, the highlands, and the mountains with the spirits of my ancestors.”

Geronimo looked from Sieber to Horn; then his mad gaze locked on the Apache Kid.

“But first I will kill these three.” Geronimo turned again to Miles. “What do you say to that, Nan-Tan?”

“Slap him in leg irons,” General Nelson Appleton Miles replied.

An hour later General Miles sat behind his desk, the desk that had been Crook’s, smoking a cigar. The desk and the map on
the wall were about the only
things that remained as a reminder of the “Wilderness General.” The room, no longer spartanly furnished, had been redecorated
with pictures of Miles and other prominent people including Grant, Sheridan, Sherman, and of course, Sherman’s niece, Mrs.
Miles. Assorted flags, swords and miscellaneous mementos cluttered the room.

Horn, Sieber, the Apache Kid, and Captain Crane sat uneasily watching the cigar smoke twist and curl toward a hanging lamp
while they waited on the words of Geronimo’s “conqueror.”

“Captain Crane,” Miles said slowly and with deliberation, “I want to commend you on the speed, accuracy, and efficiency with
which you carried out my instructions.”

Crane squirmed with obvious and honest embarrassment. “Beg pardon, sir, but as you read in my report, it was these three men
who deserve—”

“Yes, I read your report, Captain.” Miles blew out another patternless cloud of blue smoke. “You’re too damn modest. You and
the rest of my command did a first-class piece of work. And now with Geronimo’s capture we can close the book on the Apaches.”

“Yeah, well…” Horn stroked at his lean, stubbled chin. “Geronimo can open that book up again. You heard what he said,
and he broke out of San Carlos before.”

“He won’t escape this time,” Miles smiled. “I’m sure of that.”

“It’s good to be sure,” Sieber observed.

“He won’t escape,” Miles added, “because I’ve made arrangements to ship him and what’s left of his band to Fort Marion.”

“You don’t mean that swamp down in Florida?” Sieber spat some tobacco on the floor.

Miles took notice, then replied, “That’s exactly where I do mean.”

“Apaches can’t survive in that swamp country,” said Horn.

“Seminoles do,” Miles countered.

“They’re a different breed,” Horn tried to reason. “Apaches are desert and mountain people. They’re susceptible to swamp fever
and a dozen other diseases.”

Miles knocked ashes off his cigar. “Nevertheless, they’ll leave by rail as soon as I arrange a few final details.”

“It just don’t…” Sieber started to spit again but swallowed instead. “It just don’t seem right, General.”

“It does to me.” Miles smiled with supreme satisfaction.

“You know”—Horn rose from his chair—“this was their real estate in the first place.”

“That’s ancient history now. This is a new day, with new ways. And you men will have to get used to those ways too.”

“Such as?” asked Sieber.

“Such as, Mr. Sieber, you and your men can draw the pay General Crook promised, then consider your job terminated.”

The Kid spoke for the first time. “Terminated— that does mean ‘done,’ don’t it?”

“It do.” Horn nodded.

The Kid rose. So did Sieber, followed by Crane.

“Who’s gonna scout for you?” Sieber asked.

“Nobody. The scout is obsolete,
like the bow and
arrow.” Miles smiled with satisfied finality. “That’s it, gentlemen. Thank you and good day. Captain Crane, I’d like you to
stay a moment.”

As the three scouts reached the door, Sieber let fly a spray of brown spittle.

The three scouts went by the quartermaster’s office and picked up their pay. Then, as they crossed the compound of Fort Bowie,
they stopped in front of the blacksmith’s, where a large crowd had gathered. Horn, Sieber, and the Apache Kid paused and viewed
the result of what they had been paid to do.

Geronimo, surrounded by soldiers, stood in the middle of the smithy’s shop, which had only three side walls, and an open front.

The smith and his two apprentices worked quickly and efficiently. From the forge they took red-hot strips of iron wagon tires
about an inch thick and fashioned them into rings with protruding lips, through which they punctured rivet holes. Each of
the two rings was linked together by a heavy chain less than two feet long.

The glowing set of ankle irons was tossed sizzling into a large basin of water to cool off. A couple of soldiers led Geronimo
close to the anvil. The blacksmith clapped an iron on one of the chief’s ankles and hammered the lips shut. His apprentice
carried a red-hot rivet from the forge. The blacksmith hammered it shut. The procedure was repeated on the
other ankle, and the war chief of the Chiricahuas stood shackled.

Geronimo could no longer run or ride. He could only walk and stumble with heavy, halting steps. But he could still hate. And
his eyes flashed hate at the three scouts. That hate settled on the Apache Kid. Without words, with an unspoken promise, Geronimo
silently repeated his vow to kill the Apache Kid. And the Kid understood. So did Sieber and Horn.

The three scouts turned and walked away.

In Ryan’s store, Shana had just sold Mrs. Dock-weiler needles and thread and was walking the overweight and overtalkative
woman to the door, when she caught sight of Horn and his companions.

Mrs. Dockweiler kept spewing out enough words to choke a cow, but now Shana heard none of them.

Since the day Tom Horn walked into the store, Shana had found herself thinking of no one else— except, of course, her brother,
whom she had loved.

Tim had been easy to love—bright, strong, and with a bent for laughter. After their mother and father died, Tim had made sure
that Shana wanted for nothing. He had sent her to Wellesley, where she never quite fit in. She was accepted by the other girls
and was even very pop u lar, but in her heart Shana knew she wasn’t really a part of all that. It was all too confining, too
conforming. She wanted to be free of the confinements, the conformities. She wanted to move west like her brother. And now
she was here—but Tim was dead.

There had been a young man, handsome and rich,
from a Boston banking family. He loved Shana—or said he did. He would have married her. For a time they were unofficially
engaged. He wanted to make it official, but then Tim died and Shana came west.

Brent Bradford was tall, rich, well mannered, well dressed, and well educated with all the attributes a Wellesley girl seeks
in choosing a husband. But somehow when all the attributes were put together in making Brent Bradford, something had gone
wrong—at least for Shana.

If Bradford had had to make it on his own he might have been a better and stronger person. He was born with not only the proverbial
silver spoon, but an entire place setting. Since he was her only child after three miscarriages, his mother smothered him
with comfort and sop. She saw to it that his every moment was carefree and consequently he cared for nothing except for Shana,
or so he said. Bradford graduated from Harvard in the upper third of his class. Had he ever opened a book, he would have been
class valedictorian.

Besides his easygoing attitude, there was something in his physical makeup that Shana resisted. There was something too moist
in the touch of his hand, too dry in the touch of his lips—the few times Shana allowed his lips to touch hers. He was the
sort who was pleasant enough company in a room full of people or even at a dinner party of four. But when Shana and he were
alone there was an uneasiness.

And now there was Tom Horn. He was not what could be considered well dressed and probably slept in his clothes as often as
not. And he was not well educated in terms of books. Shana had yet to
touch his hand or lips, but she was not uneasy at the prospect. As for anything more, she tried to prevent herself from thinking
about it. She didn’t always succeed.

Shana watched as Tom Horn walked across the compound. His movement was strong and graceful, with long, smooth strides, a slight
forward bend to his outsized shoulders sloping down muscular arms to large rawhide hands. His head tilted a touch to the right,
and his chin was always thrust ahead, giving the impression that he was smelling as well as looking where he was going. He
appeared relaxed yet always ready to spring. Shana kept looking at him and even failed to acknowledge Mrs. Dockweiler’s garrulous
goodbye.

“What do you think ol’ Geronimo’ll do when he finds out what Miles’s got in store for him?” the Kid wondered aloud.

“What can he do,” replied Sieber, “with that iron bracelet on his legs?”

“Yeah,” Horn snorted. “Well, fellas, how does it feel to be obsolete?”

“Feels thirsty,” said Sieber.

“We can do something about that,” Horn philosophized.

The Apache Kid pulled some of his pay out of his pocket and waved it around.

“Got enough to buy out Rosa’s for a week or two. I ain’t slept in a bed since you two busted up that party.”

“Let’s hit the saloon,” Horn pointed toward
Van Zeider’s
cantina.
“I could use some good whiskey.”

“Or
any
whiskey,” Sieber added.

As the three scouts headed toward the
cantina,
Captain Crane, who had emerged from Miles’s headquarters, moved quickly to intercept them. There was a troubled look on the
young officer’s face.

“Tom! Mr. Sieber! Hold up a minute, will you?”

“What’s the matter, Captain?” Horn smiled. “Did General Miles forget to tell us something?”

“I…I’m sorry about General Miles’s attitude....”

“He’s a fool,” said Sieber, “and that’s not his only fault.”

“Forget it, Captain,” said Horn. “That’s ancient history.”

“In my report I made it quite plain that Geronimo’s capture was entirely your doing and without the three of you I’d probably
be either lost or dead—or both.”

“Never mind that, Captain,” Horn replied. “You’ll do to cross the river with and we’ll miss Miles like a toothache.”

“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Crane said.

“Yeah,” Horn grinned, “and maybe there’s a herd of wild elephants in Tucson.”

“Captain.” Sieber touched the sleeve of Crane’s tunic.

“Yes, sir?”

For the first time there was a trace of warmth in the old scout’s attitude toward the young officer. “I’ve found that feeling
sorry for yourself is a poor
medicine, so would you consider joining three obsolete scouts for a drink?”

“Mr. Sieber,” Crane gulped, “I’d consider it an honor.”

As the four men proceeded in step toward the
cantina,
they crossed in front of Ryan’s store. Shana had taken up a broom and was sweeping the porch, which she had swept an hour
earlier.

Tom Horn’s eyes took her in the way a stallion takes in the sight of a fine young mare. He hoped she didn’t realize what he
was thinking as he watched her body move and her hands direct the long stem of the broom across the spotless porch. She was
dangerous, and Tom knew it. Not because she had aroused Tom Horn’s mating instinct. Many women, Indian and white, had done
that. But for the first time another instinct had been stirred in him. He wanted to hold her, soothe and protect her, to make
sure she was not alone, to say things he had never said before. Dangerous!

“Welcome back, Tom.” Shana stopped sweeping, brushed back a soft strand of an errant gold curl from her smooth brow, and smiled.

“Thank you Miss Ryan,” Tom said a little uncomfortably. “Oh, this is Al Sieber, the Apache Kid, and a friend of ours, Captain
Crane.”

Shana nodded acknowledgment. So did the men.

“Haven’t sold out yet?” Horn asked.

“Not yet.”

With a trace of impatience, Sieber glanced toward the
cantina.

“I’m thinking of staying,” she added.

“Interesting,” said Horn, and walked away with the others.