by Neil Hunter
‘Last night I heard much noise. Shooting and a great explosion. Today more shooting.’ She touched his arm. ‘I disobeyed you, Brand. In my heart I could not forget you and thought you might be hurt. So I came to find you — but I was discovered and brought here.’
‘Hell, it’s nice to see a friendly face.’
‘Apaches make talk. Hold council. Will they go to San Carlos?’
‘It’s what I’m waiting to hear. I made my case but I surely don’t know if it did any good.’
Niana smiled. ‘Do you still live?’ she asked, and when he nodded she went on: ‘Then you spoke well. If your words had not touched their hearts you would be dead already.’
Somehow her words failed to convince Brand completely. He took her to where he had been sitting. They squatted in the dust and Brand leaned his rifle close by. He squinted up at the sun-bright sky. It was going to be a long wait, he decided.
Mid-afternoon and a figure detached from the distant group of Apaches and approached Brand.
It was Che.
‘It is good to see the granddaughter back with her people, Niana,’ the Apache said. ‘I mourn that Nante is dead, but my heart gladdens at your sight.’
Niana smiled shyly, lowering her eyes.
‘It pleases me to look upon you again, Che.’
Brand suddenly felt he was playing gooseberry. He climbed stiffly to his feet.
‘Che.’
The Apache looked him in the eye, his own expression giving nothing away.
‘We have talked. Now it is over. We have made our choice, Brand. We have reached a decision.’
Chapter Fifteen
Al Sieber slammed his pen down in disgust and screwed up the report he’d been trying to write for the last hour. He flung the ball of paper aside and scrubbed a big hand across his face.
It was all a damn waste of time.
The days and weeks spent chasing all across the territory after Geronimo, all a damned waste. Geronimo would show himself when he decided it was the right time. Until then he would remain hidden for as long as he wanted, and not even Crook could flush him out. Not this time. Even Sieber and his scouts couldn’t find the Apache. And Sieber was tired of trying. He wanted a rest. But he knew he wouldn’t get one. Crook was back at Fort Apache for the moment. He would give his men a day or so of rest and then they would be off again.
‘Shit,’ Sieber muttered.
He got up from behind his desk and crossed to the stove. He picked up the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. He wandered towards the door, leaning his great bulk against the frame and stared out across San Carlos. The reservation stewed in the heat. Nothing was moving. It was too damned hot to move. The heat danced up off the hard earth, the glare hurting Sieber’s eyes. He drank his coffee, gazing off into the far distance, seeing nothing.
‘Hey, Al, we got callers.’
Sieber jerked out of his reverie. He saw Tom Horn standing there, a wide grin on his face.
‘What you smirkin’ at? All I was doin’ was some thinking.’
Horn nodded. ‘Sure, Al.’
‘Visitors you say? Where?’
Tom Horn pointed out beyond the reservation. A pale cloud of dust rose against the blue sky. Ahead of the dust was a large group of riders, with others on foot, and they were making directly for San Carlos.
‘Now who…?’ Sieber asked.
‘Only one I can think of,’ Horn said.
Sieber suddenly grinned. He tossed his empty cup on to the window sill and grabbed his hat off its peg.
‘Damn me if he don’t gone an’ done it.’
He strode to the middle of the compound and stood, hands on hips, watching the approaching group come closer. He stayed where he was until they rode into San Carlos and drew to a halt.
‘Hello, Al.’
Sieber glanced at the dusty, unshaven and gaunt faced man who spoke to him from the back of an Apache pony. A tall, dark-haired man with bitter eyes, a grubby bandage around his left arm.
‘Hell, you are a sorry sight, Jason.’ Sieber waited until Brand dismounted. ‘But it is damn good to see you. And your friends.’
Brand beckoned a young Apache forward.
‘Che, this is Al Sieber. He’s a good man. You can take his word as you take mine.’
Sieber nodded to the Apache.
‘Che, let’s get your people settled. I guess you all could use food and water.’
Brand turned away to let Sieber take over. This was his department. Brand had done his part.
‘Brand!’
He turned at the sound of his name. It was Che. The Apache sat his pony, looking down at Brand. There was a moment of considered silence before Che spoke.
‘Brand — it is well done?’
Jason Brand nodded. ‘Yes, Che, it is well done.’
‘Enjuh, Brand.’
Che nodded, satisfied. He raised his hand then turned his pony to where Sieber waited, and gave the people of Nante into the hands of the Pinda Lickoyi.
As Che left him Brand continued on into the admin building. All he wanted now was to get cleaned up and get some sleep. He almost missed the figure leaning against the wall near the door.
‘Good trip?’ Tom Horn asked, his tone pleasant enough.
Brand gazed at him with aching eyes. He noticed the shadow of a faint scar on Horn’s jaw at just about the spot he’d hit the man. A thin smile edged his lips.
‘All the better for seeing you, Tom,’ he said quietly and walked on by.
He located the small room he had used last time and dumped his gear and rifle in a corner. He took off his gun belt and hung it over the back of a chair close to the low cot he would sleep on. After a struggle he got his boots off. He took off his socks too, enjoying the coolness of the floor under his bare feet. Brand peeled off his shirt. That was when he remembered there were no washing facilities in the room. He debated for a moment. The lure of the cot was too much to resist. He decided to sleep first and get cleaned up later.
He had only been stretched out for a couple of minutes before he heard a tap at the door.
‘Yeah?’
‘It is Niana.’
‘Come on in.’
She stood looking down at him.
‘I have come to say goodbye.’
‘You leaving?’
‘I am leaving the world I shared with you to return to my people.’ Her dark eyes searched his face. ‘You understand?’
‘Guess so. And I’m real sorry.’
‘We both go our own way. But I will always remember you, Jason Brand. My thoughts will be of you often.’
Brand stood up and she came to him. He held her for a time. There was no hesitation as she rose on her toes to kiss him. Her mouth was soft and moist. Brand felt the press of her firm breasts against his chest and for a moment he almost let himself weaken. Yet it was Niana who stepped back, face flushed, eyes searching his face. Then she smiled.
‘May the spirits ride with you, schichobe,’ she said, and then she turned and was gone.
Epilogue
Crook had his peace talks with Geronimo and the Apache agreed to surrender. But fate stepped in once again. The morning after the talks, Geronimo, who appeared to be drunk according to observers at the time, changed his mind and led his people away.
General Nelson A. Miles took over from Crook, and during the long months that followed he pursued Geronimo relentlessly. Aided by Tom Horn, who did a great deal to ease the way towards talks with the Chiricahua’s leader, Miles eventually got Geronimo to surrender once more. This time the agreement held.
It was the beginning of the end of Apache resistance. By the end of the year Geronimo and his people had been transported to Fort Marion, Florida.
Later they were sent to Mount Vernon Barracks on the Mobile River in Alabama. The place was a breeding ground for sickness, and after much pleading by people like George Crook and John Clum, Geronimo and his people were sent to Fort Sill, Oklahoma in 1894. There they were to remain. Ger
onimo died in 1909 and was buried in the Apache cemetery. It is said that his bones were eventually removed and returned to his native South-west. Back to the land he had fought so long to keep for his Apaches.
Despite his success with the Army Tom Horn eventually moved on. He became a Pinkerton Detective and stayed with them until the early 1890s. At this time his life took a complete change. Moving to Cheyenne Horn hired out as a Range Detective to a number of unnamed cattle barons. Range wars and trouble with nesters and sheep men meant there was ample work for a hired gun — which was actually what Horn had become. He killed a fair number of men during his employment and built a reputation as being cold-blooded in the execution of his trade. In 1902 the cattle men were still at war with the sheep-herders. It was in that year that Tom Horn made his final kill and ultimately his first mistake when he shot and ambushed a fourteen-year-old boy. The shooting was fatal. There were various reports about the killing. It was generally accepted that Horn had shot the boy by mistake — he had been lying in wait for the child’s father. A US deputy marshal managed to become friendly with Horn — to the extent of getting him drunk enough to admit killing the boy. To ensure that the confession was not wasted, the deputy — a man named Joe LeFors — had witnesses hiding nearby and word-for-word notes were taken. Tom Horn was subsequently arrested and stood trial. The jury found him guilty and Horn was sentenced to hang. Though many thought he would escape paying the price Tom Horn had no way out this time. In 1903, in Cheyenne, he climbed the steps of the gallows and was hanged with a rope he had made while sitting in his cell. It was a bitter end to a career that had started out so well.
If his father had not been murdered by another Indian, the Apache Kid’s life might have turned out differently. Al Sieber explained to the Kid of the need to bring the killer in to stand trial. But the Kid was still an Apache and he obeyed tribal law, tracking down the murderer and executing him. Afterwards the and his companions rode into San Carlos to surrender to Sieber. Sometime during the parley an Apache started shooting. In the ensuing melee that followed the Apache Kid and his companions made their escape. Al Sieber sustained a wound in one foot – a wound that became one of the factors in his eventual departure as Chief of Scouts.
The Apache Kid fled San Carlos, taking the trail he was to follow for the rest of his life. Though the big names of the Apache nation faded from the public memory in the near future the Apache Kid was to remain a talking point for many years. Years during which he engaged in a single-handed war against the white population of the South-west, and mainly directed at the US Army.
The battle lasted until 1894. Then the lone Apache Kid vanished. A man named Edward Clark, a former scout himself, whose partner the Kid had killed five years before, was camping at Rifle Springs. He fired on two Apaches, a man and a woman, who tried to steal his horses. The woman died. The man escaped. Clark was certain it had been the Apache Kid and insisted he had wounded him. Nobody was ever found and Edward Clark went to his grave still claiming it had been the elusive renegade and that his, Clark’s, bullet had ended the Apache Kid’s life.
All that was certain was that the Apache Kid had disappeared.
Speculation was rife for years to come. Had the Kid been hit by Clark? Had he managed to crawl away to die in some lonely place – if it had been the Kid in truth? Or had he made it across the border into Sonora and lost himself in his Sierra Madre hideout? There were many theories and they all remained unanswered. No one really knew the truth.
The mystery remained and persisted. If anyone did know the truth they stayed silent, perhaps realizing there was little point adding to the speculation surrounding the Apache Kid’s disappearance. Then again there were those who kept their own counsel, seeing no gain in spreading their own glory. If they had achieved anything, the doing of the deed was enough in itself.
The Apache Kid rose from sergeant in Al Sieber’s scouts to become a legend, and legends have a way of lingering long after the fact has ceased to provide answers.
After a few days rest ex-US Marshal Jason Brand saddled up and rode out of San Carlos. He never returned to the reservation. He did meet up with Al Sieber a number of times, but only heard the stories about Tom Horn — which suited him. Once clear of San Carlos he put his horse on the trail that led down into Mexico. There was a small ranch there and he had promised Sarita that he would return. For once he wanted to keep a promise.
Somewhere at the back of his mind he had the feeling his time with her was limited. News of his involvement with Crook and Sieber would eventually reach Washington and once that happened it would filter through to Frank McCord — that was if McCord had not already found out where Brand had been taking his unofficial break. It would not be a surprise to find someone waiting for him at Sarita’s.
One way or another McCord would summon him, and Brand knew he would respond. The St Clair affair had been settled once and for all, and that settling had finalized his grieving over Sarah Debenham’s death.
Brand knew now there was no escaping his destiny. It wasn’t as if he had any other choice. What else was there for a man such as himself? Where was there he could go to escape? And if he did elude that destiny, what would he find to replace it?
Jason Brand had the answers even as he formed the questions in his mind.
Piccadilly Publishing
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Read more in the BRAND series
By NEIL HUNTER
1: DAY OF THE SAVAGE
2: HARDCASE
3: LOBO
4: HIGH COUNTRY KILL
5: DAY OF THE GUN
6: BROTHERHOOD OF EVIL
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