The Kid knew that Al Sieber was no longer capable of riding with the cavalry, but he strained for the sight of Tom Horn and was relieved and pleased that he never saw him.
The people at Fort Bowie, civilian and military, were not pleased by the sight of Tom Horn. They never said it to his face, but they whispered of everything from apathy to cowardice to complicity.
Horn and Sieber hadn’t spoken since the blow was struck. Whenever they met, Sieber looked straight ahead. Horn would slow down and hope the old scout might give a sign or word to change things, but Sieber hobbled on as if Horn didn’t exist.
Shana asked Tom if she could talk to Sieber, but Horn told her that nothing Shana could say or do would sway the old scout’s attitude. Things would just have to stay as they were until something happened. And things stayed as they were between Horn and Shana. There were embraces and good-night kisses, but after that single night of complete intimacy and consummated passion, he never again ventured into her bedroom.
For Shana Ryan it had been a delirious, dizzying, explosive experience alternating between initial exotic plunging pain and soaring serene rapture, from sublime submission to joint participation to eager, ravening initiative. Horn was sensual yet savage, gentle, and aggressive. She didn’t want to think of it, but it was as if she hadn’t lost herself to one man that night—it was as if she had been made love to by half a dozen. She often lay in that same bed reliving everything she could remember, thinking of the only man she’d ever been with and somehow a little afraid to be with him again. They never spoke of that night, but sometimes even when customers were present in midday or while they were having dinner or walking along the compound, a look would come between them, and each knew the other was remembering that night.
That look came between them now, late at night in the store, as they finished the monthly inventory. Shana purposely broke the spell.
“Well, that’s it.” She put the clipboard and pencil on the counter. “I didn’t realize—”
“That’s it, all right,” Horn interrupted. “Business is about half what it used to be.”
“That’s part of storekeeping too,” she smiled, “good times and bad.”
“Come on, Shana—you know people are staying away from here as much as they can on account of me.”
“That’s not true.”
“The hell it’s not. They look at me as if I was the Apache Kid.” He gazed out the window. “Maybe it’s best if I leave Bowie.”
Shana walked to him, turned him toward her, and kissed him. It was not a kiss of passion, but more of comfort and assurance. “Best for whom? Not for you and me. I’m not a squaw, Tom Horn, that you can just walk away from. Am I?”
“No.” He held her. “It wouldn’t be easy to walk away from you.”
They kissed again, not a kiss of comfort and assurance but a kiss that stirred the memory of their night.
“Tom, the night that I was your squaw…”
“No, Shana, you weren’t. Don’t say that. It wasn’t that way, not with you…not with you.” Both his hands touched her face. “I’d…better get out of here.”
He picked up his hat and went for the door.
“Tom, tomorrow’s Sunday. Let’s go on a picnic, just you and I. I’ll fix a basket. Would you like to do that?”
“I would,” he said, and went out the door.
He walked along the moonlit grounds and turned a corner. A fist crashed into his face. Four burly men began to beat him. They were shadows but struck with substance. Horn struck back. One went down, then another.
A knife glinted and slashed across Horn’s shoulder. Horn hit the knifer, who spun into a window, shattering it.
Two sentries ran toward the noise.
At the sight of the sentries the attackers scattered, absorbed by the chocolate shadows. Karl Van Zeider had been watching from a corner. He retreated and disappeared in the darkness.
“Horn,” one of the sentries asked, “is that you?”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?” the other inquired.
“I’m all right.”
“That’s too bad,” came an answer.
Tom Horn rubbed at the blood on his shoulder, picked up his hat, and walked toward the place where he slept.
Chapter Twenty-eight
It was almost noon.
Tom Horn lay on the blanket beside the clean stream that sparkled in the radiant summer sun, his hat near the nearly empty picnic basket and his gunbelt unfastened and laid in a loop by his side. Shana sat watching him. Even in these pleasant, peaceful surroundings, he didn’t seem completely relaxed. There was always the edge of readiness about him. She noticed that the butt of the pistol, as always, was close to his hand.
“Tom, would you like some more chicken?”
“No, thanks. But that was the best bird I ever did taste.”
“Thank you. A little more wine?”
“No, thanks. Can’t remember the last time I had wine. Sure went down smooth, but it hasn’t got much of a bolt to it.”
“It’s not supposed to,” Shana smiled. “It’s a social drink.”
“By that you mean civilized?”
“That,” she said, “depends on how much you drink. Too much will produce a very uncivilized headache.” She moved her face close and kissed him lightly on the lips.
“And that,” Horn assessed, “is a very civilized kiss.”
“A Sunday kiss.”
“Look,” he said, and pointed to the sky as a lone bird flew across the yellow sun to the south. “Don’t see ’em that low too often.”
“A vulture?”
“Not hardly. That’s an eagle, a golden eagle, and there’s a lot of difference.”
“It’s hard to tell from this distance.”
“I suppose.” Horn leaned on his elbow. “Most people look alike from a distance. Can’t tell the buzzards from the eagles, the scavengers from the hunters. But nothing much gets close to an eagle unless the eagle comes after it.”
“I’ve heard stories that they attack children.”
“Not true—just stories. The eagle is nature’s noblest bird, a true hunter. Vultures are scavengers. That’s why they’re built different.”
“How different?”
“Vultures don’t attack. They live off the dead. Don’t have strong feet like the eagles, with sharp claws.”
“Like the talon you’re wearing around your neck?”
“That’s right. One of the tools of the hunter. And eagles have hunters’ eyes, placed forward and with telescopic vision.”
“But the eagle kills, preys on other living things.”
“Has to. That’s part of nature.”
“To kill?”
Horn pointed to the picnic basket. “Somebody did in that bird we just ate. Eagle’s got to eat too, feed his young. And he’s good at it. That’s why he’s got the Indians’ respect. Indians put great store in eagles. Big medicine.”
“Not just Indians,” said Shana. “I remember in school that from ancient times the eagle was regarded as an almost mystical symbol in religion and mythology.”
“I don’t know about the mystical part, but it’s the best hunter in the sky. Nature saw to that.”
“When you say nature, you mean God.”
“If you like, just so you remember sometimes nature’s cruel—but it never lies. Only people can lie. It’s something we managed to invent, like war and money.”
“But we have to have money.”
“Why?”
“Well, to buy things.”
“Trouble is, people want too many things, things they don’t really need. You see, an Indian, like all nature’s other animals, will only kill as much as he needs to eat. But once you get civilized, you start to accumulate things, and if you have to lie and make war and cheat, well, you can just chalk that up to being civilized. Eagles and Indians are better off not civilized.”
“What about scouts?” Shana smiled.
“I g
uess we’re someplace in between.” Horn shrugged. “But remember, I’m not a scout anymore.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Scouts don’t go on picnics—or drink wine.”
“You think you can get used to it?”
“The picnic part, not the wine. That’s too civilized.”
She came close again. This time it wasn’t a Sunday kiss.
They didn’t get back to Bowie until after dark.
Chapter Twenty-nine
It was an early-August evening. Tom Horn prepared to close the store while Shana prepared dinner in the kitchen.
A stranger entered and looked the place over— not just looked, but assessed, evaluating the sight and even the scent of the establishment.
He looked as out of place as lace on a saddle blanket. The stranger was obviously a man of the East, a man of quality, if quality could be mea sured by manner and wardrobe. He wore an expression of genteel aloofness and a double-breasted, six-button blue suit exquisitely tailored to his tall but moderate measurement.
His was a handsome face, looking every month of its thirty-four years, with burnished eyes and hair to match, crowned by a color-coordinated Homburg. All this was framed by a terra-cotta cape hardly necessary on a warm summer night. His right hand brandished a pearl-handled malacca walking stick.
Tom Horn resisted his initial impulse to laugh or at least smile at this unique specimen of sartorial elegance in a place such as this.
“Evening,” said Horn with a trace of amusement. “Is there something I can get for you?”
“Yes, there is,” the stranger replied. “If she’s on the premises, you can get me my fiancée.”
Suddenly there was nothing amusing about the stranger.
Horn stood silent for a moment.
“I presume you’re Tom Horn.” The man spoke in a light, lilting, almost rhythmical tone. “I’m Brent Bradford, and I’ve come from Boston to see Shana. Would you be good enough to announce me?”
It wasn’t necessary. Shana had heard Bradford’s unmistakable voice. She now stood at the apartment doorway. If the ghost of Paul Revere had appeared she would not have been more surprised and startled. If Brent Bradford had meant to make an effective entrance, he could not have been more successful. He was on center stage and in complete command of the little drama. He caught sight of Shana at the doorway, removed his Homburg, went to her and kissed her with his thin dry lips before she recovered her composure.
“Shana, you were never lovelier—and in a kitchen apron. What a quaint touch! Aren’t you going to say you’re happy to see me?”
“Yes, of course, Brent. Of course. It’s just that I’m so...”
“Pleased?”
“Well, yes, and surprised.”
“Why should you be surprised? What’s a four-thousand-mile odyssey to a man in love?” Bradford looked from Shana to Horn. “Isn’t that so, Mr. Horn?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Horn replied.
“Oh? Pity. Well, if Helen could launch a thousand ships, why shouldn’t Shana be responsible for a few railroad and stagecoach connections?”
Another moment as the silence built.
“Brent, you’ve met Tom. He’s my…partner.”
“We’ve not been formally introduced; however, Mr. Horn’s reputation has assumed legendary proportions. Well, I hope you two are prospering.”
“I was just closing up,” said Horn. He picked up his hat. “Good night, Mr....”
“Bradford,” the banker replied.
“Tom, aren’t you staying for supper?” Shana inquired awkwardly.
“You two’ll have a lot to talk over. Good night, Mr. Bradford. I hope you had a good trip.”
“That,” said Bradford, “has yet to be determined.”
Tom Horn left without saying anything further.
“Big, handsome fellow, isn’t he?” Bradford removed his cape and placed it, the cane, and Homburg on the counter. “Rather rough-hewn; seems somewhat anomalous in these surroundings. More suited to a livery stable, I’d say. But then you, too, look a little incongruous. Would you mind taking off that apron and greeting your fiancé in more suitable attire for the occasion?” Bradford took a small velvet jewelry box from his pocket, opened it, and displayed a large, sparkling diamond ring.
“Brent…!”
“Shana, apron and all I love you, intend to marry you and take you away from this musty, brummagem mercantile madness back to Boston and civilization.”
“Brent, I had no idea you were so impetuous and…dashing.”
“Oh, I can dash along with the best of them where you are concerned.” He took the ring from its case and held it glittering between his thumb and forefinger. “I hope it’s the right size. If not, we can have it adjusted back in Boston.”
“I’m flattered that you’ve gone to all this trouble and expense; I really am, Brent—even fascinated….”
“Good. Very good. I was hoping my unannounced appearance would have just such an effect.”
“But I can’t go back. Not now.”
“Why not? Because of the imposing Mr. Horn? I’m sure he can make some other arrangement. The company won’t be as good, but he’ll find something else, somewhere else. He has that itinerant look about him. And you and I will settle by the bay and live happily ever after. How is that for a charming libretto?”
“But Brent, I have the store to—”
“Sell the store. I happen to know you have a buyer.”
“How do you know?”
“Mr. Van Zeider wrote and told me.”
Shana stiffened. At the mention of Van Zeider’s name, Brent Bradford’s journey came into focus. A lot of things came into focus. If the Machiavellian Karl Van Zeider couldn’t get the store one way, he would find another. That other was Brent Bradford.
“What else did Mr. Van Zeider write and tell you?”
“Shana, look at me and listen carefully. This is the most important moment in both our lives.” The look on Bradford’s face and tone in his voice differed from the way Shana remembered the banker. He displayed an intensity she had thought him incapable of—even a strength. “I love you. I didn’t know how much until you went away. I know you considered me something of a fop. I probably was and probably still am—but not as much of a fop as I used to be. I’ve never had a worry in the world, never wanted for anything. It was all there. Until you left. Then I realized the thing I wanted most was gone. Somehow that changed me, Shana. I’m not the same as I was before you left.”
“Neither am I, Brent. I couldn’t lie to you or try to deceive you....”
“If it’s about you and Horn, I don’t want to hear. I’m not altogether naïve, and I can’t pretend it didn’t hurt at first. It still does. But the hurt doesn’t matter or mean as much as you do. I love you and want you to be my wife. As for Mr. Horn, I’ve found out all about him. He’s no more a merchant than you are. He’s lived with savages because he, too, is a savage. And given half a chance he’ll revert to that savagery. I don’t want you to be here when he does. What’s happened, happened. What’s going to happen is infinitely more important and lasting. I had to come and tell you that.”
“Brent, you don’t make it easy.”
“I don’t intend to. And in your heart you know you don’t belong here with these people in this benighted place. The West isn’t for everyone, and everyone isn’t for the West. It might have sounded and seemed adventurous. Well, you’ve had your adventure, and I’ve had my awakening. I’m leaving tomorrow. I have to. There’s a board of directors meeting soon, and I’m being named president of Bankers Trust. I don’t expect you to come with me. But I’m leaving this.” He placed the ring back in the case and put it on the counter. “I’ll wait if it takes a month or a year or ten years. I love you Shana. We belong together.”
He came to her and kissed her, this time with an intensity and strength she had never felt in him before. Still she didn’t respond as she had with Tom Horn.
Bradford pu
t on his hat, picked up his cape and cane, and started for the door. Even his step was different, more mature and assured.
“I’ll be waiting, Shana,” he said, and was gone.
It was nearly midnight.
Tom Horn sat at the table near the window in Van Zeider’s cantina. Both elbows rested against the arms of the chair and his chin between his knuckles of both fists as he looked at the untouched whiskey bottle and shot glass in front of him.
There were a couple of the usual card games going on, and as usual Baldy and Peg, primed by the pump of conversation juice, were on either side of the bar philosophizing. Both Peg and Baldy cut their conversation to a standstill when they saw Shana Ryan enter, stand at the doorway, and look at Tom Horn.
Horn rose and went to her.
“Tom, I want to talk to you,” she said softly.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
“Then take me home.”
Horn nodded and guided her to the door.
“Hey, Mr. Horn,” Peg blurted, pointing toward the bottle on the table, “that jug’s paid for.”
“You drink it,” Horn replied, and escorted Shana out of the cantina.
They walked for a way in silence toward the store.
“Tom, I want to tell you about Brent and me.”
“Why aren’t you with your fiancé? He came a long way for your company.”
“He’s not my fiancé—and Brent’s leaving tomorrow.”
“Are you going with him?”
“He asked me to.”
“That figures.”
“I’m not going. At least, not tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“A lot of reasons. I’m walking with one of them. Tom, I should have told you about him, but I thought that was all in the past.”
“You don’t owe me any explanations. I guess I’m the one doing the owing.”
“Tom, he knows about us. All about us. I never thought he could accept something like that, but he’s changed. I suppose we all have.”
Tom Horn And The Apache Kid Page 14
