Tom Horn And The Apache Kid

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “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.

  Chapter Ten

  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.

  Chapter Eleven

  Customers at the Van Zeider cantina were sparse. Fewer than a dozen sat in bunches of three and four at tables, and two others leaned against the bar and chinned with Peg, the bartender. No one knew or cared what Peg’s real name was; since he had long ago been fitted with a wooden rig that substituted for his missing right leg, everyone called him Peg. He didn’t seem to mind—particularly if the caller was buying him a drink. Peg was tall, more than six feet, and in his mid-fifties, with uncombed hair and an untrimmed beard. He wore a soiled, collarless striped shirt. Wide dirty suspenders held up a pair of frayed pants.

  The three scouts and Captain Crane walked through the open door. Horn motioned for them to sit at an empty table near the window, then walked to the bar.

  “One bottle,” ordered Horn, and slapped money on the counter.

  “I hear you boys treed that Apache son of a bitch.” Peg waddled a step, picked up a quart of whiskey, and set it next to the money.

  “Four glasses,” Horn said.

  Peg wiped at his whiskey-soaked whis kers, ran a dirty palm across his crop of mottled hair, and reached under the bar. He brought up a glass, then another, then a third. He hesitated, bit his yellow teeth into his lower lip, and looked toward the Apache Kid.

  “Four glasses,” Horn repeated.

  Peg set up another glass.

  Horn picked up the bottle with his left hand, stabbed the four glasses with the fingers of the other hand, and proceeded to the table where Sieber, the Kid, and Crane sat waiting.

  As Horn walked across the room none of the customers drank or spoke. All eyes were aimed point-blank at the Apache Kid.

  Peg leaned across the bar, poured a drink for a customer who hadn’t asked for one, and whispered a few words. The customer, known only as Baldy, a wizened old coot, hairless as a sausage, nodded, threw the drink down his throat, and scuttled out the door as fast as his weedy curled legs could convey him.

  Horn paused a beat and pointedly looked around at all the silent, staring citizens. That look from Tom provided incentive enough for the locals to go back to drinking.

  Horn loosed the four glasses onto the table, then set the bottle directly in front of the Apache
Kid with the label straight at him.

  The Kid looked from the label up to Tom. It was the same whiskey the Indians were drinking at the ranch they turned into a slaughter house in Mexico.

  “That brand sure gets around,” said the Kid.

  “Boys,” said Sieber, “we can chew the cud of deliberation some other time. We’re here to do some by-God drinking with our ol’ hunting partner Captain…Say, Captain, you must have a first name—most everybody does.”

  “Of course I’ve got a first name.”

  “Well, say it, boy,” Sieber barked. “Say it!”

  “It’s…Melvyn.”

  “Melvyn!” Sieber roared. “Melvyn! Sounds like aby-Godminister.”

  Horn shoved the bottle toward Crane. “Well, Melvyn, go ahead. Pour.”

  Captain Crane poured.

  “Did you see that, boys?” Sieber bellowed. “Filled all four glasses to the lip. Never spilled a dollop!”

  “A good, steady hand,” said Horn, lifting the glass nearest him. “A toast. General George Crook!”

  “General George Crook!” all repeated.

  They drank.

  “Pour,” said Horn.

  Captain Melvyn Crane poured.

  “To the U.S. Army scouts!” he said.

  “We’ll get to the scouts later,” Sieber declared. “General William Tecumseh Sherman!”

  “General William Tecumseh Sherman!” the voices echoed.

  They drank.

  “Pour,” said Horn.

  Captain Melvyn Crane poured. This time several dollops overflowed onto the already whiskey-stained tabletop.

  “General Ulysess Simpson Grant!” Horn toasted.

  “General Ulysess Simpson Grant!” the words charged back.

  They drank.

  “Pour!” Horn and the Kid exclaimed simultaneously.