Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (8 page)

“And you, Mr. Horn, better have another cup of coffee.” Shana poured from the pot into the mug in Horn’s hand. When she walked
to replace the pot on top of the stove, Horn laced the brew with a double shot of whiskey from his bottle. Shana observed
him and smiled. “It’s customary to add a little sugar or cream.”

“Different tribes, different customs.” Horn drank the hot fluid from the mug with an amazingly steady hand and looked at Shana
Ryan.

She wore no makeup. And though she was just as covered as if she were wearing a dress, there was something about the sight
of this beautiful woman in her nightclothes that betrayed a heretofore unacknowledged intimacy between them. Part of it was
the way her silken hair fell in unstudied waves over her shoulders and rested softly on her breasts. Part of it was her surprisingly
small slippered feet. And part of it was that unmistakably sensual nocturnal look in her wide-set eyes. Tom Horn remembered
how he had thought of her that night just before the attack on the Apache village, wondering if he would ever see her again.
And now here they were alone at night in a warm and private place.

“Would you like me to fix you a couple of eggs to go with that coffee?” Shana asked. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“No, thanks,” Horn said, then added, “You’re a good woman.”

“Thank you.”

“And your brother was a good man.” Horn was by no means sober yet. “So’s Al Sieber, a good man…and Captain Melvyn Crane,
and General Nelson Appleton Miles is a good man…and everybody…but the Apache Kid. He ain’t no good. You see, he’s
an Indian…so”—Horn took a deep gulp from the mug—“we’re gonna send the Apache Kid away…with all the other bad Indians
to some place where we won’t have to worry about ’em no more....”

Unconsciously, Horn’s thumb and forefinger were rubbing the talon at his throat.

Shana pointed. “May I ask what that is you wear around your neck?”

“Oh, it’s just…just an eagle claw.”

“I noticed Mr. Sieber and the Apache Kid also—” “Yeah,” Horn interrupted. “Al gave ’em to us when he said we were…well,
he gave ’em to us some time back.”

“One of the men here told me that Mr. Sieber raised the Apache Kid.”

“From a pup.”

“And you, too?”

“I was some older when I got to know Al…but he taught us both, like his own sons.”

“In a way that makes you and the Apache Kid sort of brothers, doesn’t it?”

“No. It don’t.” Horn paused. “But we are.” He set the mug down. His head had become heavy, his eyes weary. He leaned his head
back on the couch. “Funny—my brother’s an Indian…and I’m not.”

Tom Horn closed his eyes.

Geronimo’s eyes were open.

In a few minutes it would be 2:00 a.m. Geronimo had no watch, but he knew what time it was.

He stood near the bars and looked across the darkness at the unmoving figure of the Apache Kid, lying in the opposite cell.
Each of the other cells held two and some even three Indian prisoners. Only Geronimo and the Kid had private accommodations,
such as they were.

The long, narrow chamber had been sectioned off into a dozen small cells on each side. The cells were now dark and quiet except
for the intermittent snoring of some restive brave. At the end of the north side were the guards’ quarters. Two soldiers,
Sergeant Edward Krantz and Private Slim Dawson, were on duty that night. They weren’t expected to remain awake, and they didn’t.
Sergeant Krantz, the ranking trooper, slept on a cot, while Dawson made do in a chair.

Outside, the night sank into its deepest darkness, and in that darkness a figure skulked toward the west wall of the guard
house. He was a young Apache brave named Mandan, dressed in a dirty, ill-fitting United States Cavalry uniform consisting of kepi, tunic, and trousers—but Mandan still wore the soft, silent moccasins
of the Apache. Mandan had a pistol in his holster, another gun was tucked in his belt, and he carried three sticks of dynamite
lashed together and with a six-inch wick.

Fifty yards farther out in the darkness, another Apache buck named Chukra sat on a wagon hitched to a pair of strong, fast
horses. Chukra was also dressed in what passed for a United States
Cavalry uniform in the dark. Near his knees were two Winchesters, loaded.

Mandan reached a spot below one of the windows of the guard house. A bird call came from between his thin lips.

From inside the cell, a bird named Geronimo answered the call.

Mandan placed the dynamite at the base of Geronimo’s cell, lit the fuse, ran as fast as he could along the wall for about
thirty feet, then flattened himself against it.

Inside, Geronimo was braced in a corner farthest from the exposed outer wall.

The explosion went off, and the wall blew away as if it had been hit by a cannonball.

Every Indian in the guard house, including the Apache Kid, bolted to his feet.

All but the Kid and Geronimo began yelping, screaming, and chanting. In the guardroom, Sergeant Krantz leaped up and Dawson
fell from the tilted chair onto the earthen floor.

At the sound of the discharge, Chukra lashed the horses, and the wagon rattled toward the blown-out wall.

Mandan appeared at the newly made opening and tossed Geronimo a pistol. Encumbered by the heavy leg irons, Geronimo turned
and fired the pistol at the Apache Kid’s cell.

The Kid dived into a corner behind the bunk. Geronimo fired again and again. Two of the shots hit the iron bars in the Kid’s
cell; the rest ripped and ricocheted around his hunched-up body.

The wagon clattered to a stop at the opening, and Mandan yelled for Geronimo to hurry. Geronimo
threw the empty pistol at the Kid’s cell and clanked through the hole in the wall. Mandan helped the chief onto the wagon
just as Krantz and Dawson appeared at Geronimo’s cell and fired their pistols toward the fleeing Apaches.

“Geronimo!” Krantz yelled to everyone and no one. “It’s Geronimo! He got loose! He’s escaping!”

Dawson ran down the long, ghostly corridor toward the outside to rouse the fort.

But the fort was already roused. The dynamite and gunshots had done that well enough. Soldiers and civilians alike thought
Fort Bowie was under siege. Soldiers and civilians, blasted out of tranquil slumber, were grabbing rifles and guns and, still
in night clothes, some nearly naked, were running about to defend their lives and fortunes. Somewhere a bugle sounded assembly.

But Tom Horn had a head start.

Except for his hat, he was already dressed and armed on the porch of Ryan’s store. At the sound of the explosion, he had sprung
awake. Shana had been in her room asleep. Horn ran through the apartment and the store and tore open the front door.

Now Horn stood on the porch, pistol in hand, and watched the wagon roaring flat out in his direction and toward the vast black
night below the fort. It looked as if a trooper were at the reins and another next to him, but even in the darkness, Horn
recognized the unmistakable figure of Geronimo standing in the bed of the wagon, firing a Winchester at some scurrying soldiers.

Wherever that wagon was heading, Horn would make sure it wouldn’t get there.

Horn shot the horse nearest him. The animal screamed, tumbled in its traces, and fell dead, taking the other horse down with
him and tipping over the wagon. The wagon rolled twice, throwing off the three Indians, then thumped to a dusty stop with
all four wheels spinning in the air.

Mandan was first to his feet. He fired toward Horn. Just as the bullet shattered the store window behind him, Horn took aim
at the exposed Indian. Horn’s slug tore through Mandan’s throat.

Chukra was on one knee, also in the open. His pistol went off three times before two of Horn’s bullets dropped him.

Geronimo, dazed by the fall and hampered by the chains, crawled on his elbows and knees toward the fallen Winchester. He reached
it just as Horn arrived to kick the rifle out of Geronimo’s grasp.

Once again the old warrior looked up into the barrel of Tom Horn’s gun.

A crowd consisting of nearly everyone in the fort converged around Horn and Geronimo.

If General Nelson Appleton Miles looked ridiculous in his white-plumed hat, he looked even more ridiculous without it in his
stocking feet, military tunic, and underwear. The sword he held in his hand completed the effect.

They were all there—Sieber, Shana, Crane, Karl Van Zeider, Pete Curtain, Doctor Barnes, Nurse Thatcher, Baldy, and even Peg.

“By heaven!” Miles roared at Horn. “How did this red dev il get out of that guard house?”

“Don’t ask me, General—I’m retired.” Horn pointed to Geronimo. “Ask him. But I don’t think he’ll tell you.”

Doctor Barnes walked over. He had just finished examining Mandan and Chukra.

“Those other two aren’t going to be telling any more lies or having any more breakfasts. Tom, you shoot better by dark than
by daylight.”

“Just aimed at the sound of their guns,” said Horn.

“Yeah, well, one of ’em must of had his gun in his throat.” Barnes glanced at Nurse Thatcher, who in her nightgown resembled
a fugitive scarecrow. “Come on, Nurse Hatchet. Those poor souls are beyond any harm you can do them.”

“Captain Crane,” Miles commanded, pointing his sword toward Geronimo, “I want this man handcuffed. And make arrangements to
have him and the rest of his savages shipped out by Monday.”

“Just a minute, General.” Doctor Barnes had overheard Miles and turned back. “Monday’s only four days from now. Some of those
people are sick and wounded. They’re not fit to travel yet.”

“Fit or unfit, every damn one of them is going to be on that train out of here on Monday. Is that clear, Captain?”

“Yes, sir,” Crane responded.

“Good night.” Miles reflexively started to sheath his sword, until he realized that there was no scabbard attached to his underpants.
Sword in hand, he headed toward his quarters.

Geronimo’s eyes burned into Horn. He said nothing as Crane and six troopers led him back to the guard house.

“Tom?” Shana Ryan put her hand on Horn’s arm. “Are you all right?”

Horn smiled and nodded.

“Tom, are you coming?” Sieber asked.

“Yeah, I’m coming.”

“Very fortunate, Mr. Horn,” Van Zeider intoned.

“What’s fortunate?”

“Why, the fact that you were near this particular spot so late at night—or early in the morning.” Van Zeider looked with
implication from Ryan’s store to Shana to Horn.

The muscles in Horn’s neck tensed, and he started to move a step toward Van Zeider, but Shana’s hand squeezed his arm even
tighter.

“Well good-night, everybody.” Van Zeider hooked both thumbs into his vest and walked away.

“I’m gonna get some sleep if it kills me,” said Sieber, and moved in the opposite direction.

“Tom,” Shana whispered, even though the two of them stood alone in the darkness, “you left your hat inside.” She smiled.

“I know,” said Horn. “And my bottle. Gives me an excuse to come by tomorrow.”

By the first light of sunrise, Horn and Sieber walked toward Sieber’s horse, which was already saddled and ready to ride. Sieber
would get to Globe by horse back and take the overnight stage to Prescott. With any luck, he’d be back in Bowie before Monday.
Of course, it might take Governor C. Meyer Zulick longer than that to reach a decision in the matter. Governor Zulick was
not an impulsive man. He had to be sure of his legal footing before treading a tightrope.

Sieber did his best to work the morning stiffness out of his legs and back. He bent from one side to the other, arched his
spine, hinged up one knee then the other. He took hold of the pummel, worked his boot into the loop of the stirrup, and levered
his body onto the saddle.

“Well, Al,” Horn said, “use them spurs.”

“I intend to.” Sieber patted the mane of his horse.

“No. I mean on your friend—Lead Ass Zulick.”

“I’ll do what I can, but he’s awful set in his ways. You know how cautious them lawyers are. Say, where’s your hat?”

“Huh? Oh, I…I musta lost it last night.”

“You better go look for it. That’s a good hat. Well, tell the Kid I’ll do what I can.
Auf Wiedersehen.
”

“
Adiós,
Al.”

Still hatless, Tom Horn opened the door to the guard house and walked in. Even though Krantz and Dawson were no longer on
duty, they were still in the guards’ quarters drinking coffee, along with Sergeant Pat Cahill and trooper Dennis Ward, who
had relieved them a few minutes ago.

“Mornin’, Tom,” Krantz greeted, lifting a cup. “Care for some tar? Fresh made.”

“No, thanks.”

“Look, Tom,” Krantz went on, “me and Dawson here didn’t get a chance to thank you last night. We thought it wise to stay outta
General Miles’s sight-lines before he started askin’ too many how’s, why’s, and wherefore’s, but you pulled our butts outta
the burner. Did Geronimo get away, ol’ Miles mighta had us shot. So…well, thanks.”

“Forget it,” Horn answered.

“Geronimo won’t forget it,” Sergeant Cahill said. “That was his last hurrah. He’s got more iron on him than a kitchen stove.”

“Can I go back there and talk to the Kid?” Horn nodded toward the cellblock.

“You bet,” Cahill smiled, “so long as Dennis here goes back part ways with you. Those Apaches’d sooner peel your hide than
anything I can think of.”

“Thanks.” Horn started toward the cellblock.

“Oh, and Tom…” Cahill almost winced. “We had to cuff the Kid, too—orders.”

There was a lethal silence as Horn walked the
long corridor bisecting the cellblock. Every cold, black Apache eye followed his every step. Hate hung thick as paste in the
stillness.

As Horn passed, Geronimo’s eyes were twin vials of venom. He had been moved three cells toward the guardroom. Two other Apaches
had been evicted and transferred into another chamber so Geronimo still possessed private accommodations. He also possessed
a set of handcuffs. Rather, they possessed him.

Horn stopped and looked at the dynamited cell a moment, then turned to the Apache Kid, who stood by the iron bars.

“Howdy, Kid.”

For answer the Apache Kid brought up to his chest both fists bound by the iron handcuffs.

“Yeah, I know.” Horn bit his lip. “Look, Kid, Miles is fixing to ship you and…the rest of ’em out of here on Monday.
…” Horn stopped and looked into the Kid’s eyes. “You already knew, didn’t you?”

The Kid nodded slightly.

“
How
did you know? Did the guards tell you?” “No.

I just knew. Remember, I’m an Indian.” “Al’s already on his way to Prescott.
We hope to get word before then.”

“Tom, it’s no use. I’ll do what I have to.”

“Now, don’t try anything dumb, Kid.” Horn motioned toward the hold in the opposite cell. “He tried and didn’t get very far.”

“If I did break out, would you come after me, Tom, like you did him?”

“What kind of talk is that? You know better, you know that I—”

“I know,” the Kid answered.

“Ol’ Geronimo had some help,” Horn changed the subject, glanced again at the blown-out cell. “Dynamite, horses, wagon, and Winchesters—white man’s help.”

The Kid nodded in agreement.

“You’ll have help too, Kid—but a different kind. We’ll do it legal.” Horn pulled a pouch out of his breast pocket. “Here’s
tobacco and the makings. I’ll be back.”

“Skookum,”
said the Kid, and took the pouch with his manacled hands, then motioned to Horn’s head. “Where’s your hat?”

“Huh? Oh, I musta left it back in the room. Well, see you, Kid.”

Horn turned and without looking in either direction started to walk toward trooper Dennis Ward, who waited halfway up the
corridor.

If it began by signal, the signal was unseen and unheard. As Horn took his first step he listened to a low, plaintive wail.
It came from the mouth of every penned-up Apache in the guard house except for Geronimo and the Kid. Horn had heard it before—the
knell of death, the mysterious but unmistakable dirge to the dead. Tom Horn knew that the litany was for him. But it was not
a lamentation; it was a celebration, a chant celebrating the death of an enemy—Tom Horn.

Shana Ryan was dragging a bushel of potatoes when Tom Horn walked into the store.

“Good morning, Tom.”

“Morning. Here, let me do that. Where do you want it?”

“Over there.” Shana pointed to a pile of groceries
by the counter. “I’m getting an order ready for the Chandlers.”

“What you ought to get is some help around here.”

“I had some. But after payday he decided to get drunk. Haven’t seen him since,” she smiled.

“Speaking of drink…” Horn cleared his throat. “I want to thank you for what you did last night and to apologize—”

“No apology necessary. You were a perfect gentleman.”

“At one in the morning? With a snootful? It’s a good thing you take in strays.”

“I’m very particular about the ‘strays’ I take in, Mr. Horn. But this fellow said he was looking for a hooty owl, and…”

“Yes, ma’am. I remember. And some of the other things I said, well...”

“You were very nice. I’ve never been called a bird of paradise before. I suppose you’ve come for your whiskey and your hat.”

“Just as soon leave the whiskey here, but I never knew so many people noticed a hat before.”

“Follow me,” Shana said, leading the way toward the apartment. “I thought it best not to bring it out here, just in case some
curious customer started asking questions about it.”

“Like that Van Zeider? I didn’t like what he said last night and the way he said it.”

“There’s not much about Karl Van Zeider that you do approve of.” Shana handed Horn his hat.

“Let’s put it this way”—Horn adjusted the hat on his head to its accustomed angle—“if he don’t go to hell, there’s no use
having one. Well, thanks.”

Horn extended his hand. Shana fitted her palm into his. Tom’s was a big hand, hard and used to the feel of reins, the curve
of a pistol, and the metal and wood of a Winchester—a hand that had dealt death. Still, there were warmth and tenderness to
its touch. For an instant Shana felt safe and secure. She had thought about him last night as she lay in her bed—how awkward
and almost childlike he seemed, loyal and concerned about his friend the Apache Kid…questioning the inequities of man’s
inequities to man. He was shy and considerate— and then the change outside, with a gun in this same hand. He had stood nerveless,
defiant in death’s doorway, shooting the horse and, with bullets flying at him, killing two men and kicking the rifle out of
Geronimo’s grasp.

He was a changeable man, this Tom Horn, whom she had met only a short time ago—a sudden man. But he had warmth and a tender
touch. Reluctantly, she took her hand from his.

“Can I help you with the rest of that order out there?” he asked.

“I’m sure the Chandlers would be very pleased,” Shana smiled, “and I would too.”

“So would I,” Tom Horn said, and gently touched the tips of his fingers to the flesh of her forearm as they walked from the
apartment into the store.