Tom Horn And The Apache Kid

by Andrew J. Fenady

  “The only thing he’ll ride from now on is a pair of crutches.”

  “Damn!” Horn whispered.

  “You look like you took a flogging yourself, boy,” Barnes said. “Go home and get some bed rest.”

  Horn nodded. He and Shana walked toward the door.

  “Good night, Doctor.” Shana managed a smile.

  “Good night,” Doctor Jedadiah Barnes said, “And let me tell you something, young lady. You’re the prettiest female either side of the Pecos, just in case somebody hasn’t already told you.”

  The scent of early-summer flowers drifted up and through Fort Bowie from the dark fields below.

  “Tom,” said Shana as she unlocked the door, “would you like to come in? I’ll fix you something to eat.”

  “Thanks, Shana. Don’t feel like eating.”

  “A shot of hooty owl?”

  “That neither.”

  “Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry. I know how close the three of you were.”

  “Do you? If I had just got there a little earlier, everything would’ve been different. If…” Horn shrugged. “But that’s a mountain of an if.”

  “You can’t blame yourself. You and Mr. Sieber were doing everything you could to help him.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then why? Why did he do it?”

  “ ’Cause it was the Kid who’d have to do time in Yuma.”

  “That didn’t give him reason to—”

  “No, it didn’t. But we haven’t used much reason in dealing with the Apaches either.”

  “You can’t condone what the Kid’s done?”

  “No, I can’t condone it. But the Kid got into this because he threw a knife into a white man who was trying to kill me. And I can’t forget that...”— Horn turned and started to walk away—“...and a lot of other things. Good night, Shana.”

  A silent silhouette moved in the darkness along the riverbank through the dejected cottonwoods toward the mesquite and cactus that led to the slumbering San Carlos Reservation. The Apache Kid had tied the dangling bracelet to his wrist to prevent any rattle that would betray his presence. He still carried the Winchester.

  The Apache Kid noiselessly pulled aside a skin covering the entrance of the wickiup and peered into the dark interior. What he looked for was not here. A thin, aged Indian was sleeping between two squaws, both of them old and fat.

  At the third wickiup the Kid found what he had come for. A young squaw slept in the arms of her husband. A thin nightshirt lay loosely on her well-proportioned body. The Kid stepped into the warm, dark privacy of the hut. He raised the Winchester and brought the butt of the rifle down hard on the skull of the sleeping brave.

  The young squaw bolted up. At the sight of her stricken husband, she started to scream, but the Apache Kid’s fist slammed into the side of her face, and she fell back unconscious.

  The Kid lifted the young squaw over his shoulder, picked up his Winchester, and walked with his prize out of the wickiup into the black of the simmering night.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  The bugler blew assembly. Fort Bowie was already bustling with activity. Besides the troopers gathering into formation and the civilians going about their early-morning business, a delegation of reservation Indians milled near General Miles, who stood watching from the porch of his headquarters. Tom Horn approached the general. Miles ignored the former scout’s presence.

  “Where they going, General?” Horn inquired.

  “The Apache Kid’s crimes are no longer a civilian matter. I’m ordering Captain Crane to bring him in.”

  “That’s a tall order,” said Horn, walking away.

  Captain Crane was ready to mount as Tom Horn appeared.

  “Morning, Captain,” Horn greeted.

  “You heard what happened last night?” Crane asked.

  “No.”

  “The Kid visited one of the villages at San Carlos. Killed an Indian and kidnapped his wife.”

  Horn did his best not to react visibly to the captain’s news. Crane mounted.

  “You’ll never find him, Captain.”

  “We could if you came along.” Crane stared at Horn for a moment. Without answer Horn turned and moved off.

  He saw Shana coming out of the store carrying a tray filled with food and a pot of coffee.

  “Good morning, Tom.”

  “Morning.”

  “I thought I’d take some breakfast over to Mr. Sieber. Care to come along?”

  “I would.” Horn reached out and took the tray.

  When Horn and Shana entered, Doctor Jedadiah Barnes and Nurse Thatcher were in the dialectic throes of discussing a clean shirt she held in her hand.

  “You wear the damn thing, Hatchet. I’m not taking this shirt off until it’s dirty, and it’s damn well as clean as it was the day I put it on. Good morning, Shana. Hello, Tom.”

  “I bring this old curmudgeon a fresh shirt,” exclaimed Nurse Thatcher in disgust, “and he’s too damn stubborn to put it on!”

  “I’ll put it on next week. Go back to your bed-pans and leave us in peace.”

  “I think I’m going to quit.”

  “You been promising that for ten years.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to get somebody else.” Nurse Thatcher turned again to Shana and Horn and added, “But nobody with the sense of a cockroach would put up with him.”

  “What you got there?” Doctor Barnes pointed to the tray in Tom’s hand.

  “Shana made some breakfast for Al. Is it all right if we go in?”

  “Move on in,” said Doctor Barnes.

  Al Sieber was sitting up in bed looking out the window when Shana and Horn entered.

  “See you’re up already,” said Horn, setting the tray on a table next to the bed.

  “Hell, no, I ain’t up. But I’m awake. Who can sleep with all these damn bugles blowing!” Sieber pointed to the tray. “That for me?”

  “Shana fixed it.” Horn nodded.

  “Didn’t figure you did. Looks too organized. Morning, Miss Ryan.”

  “Good morning.” Shana smiled and lifted the large blue-and-white-checked napkin from the tray, revealing a plate with eight strips of bacon, four scrambled eggs, three slices of toast, and jam next to the coffeepot.

  “Hell,” said Sieber, “the king of En gland don’t eat any better than that.”

  “The king of En gland’s name is Victoria,” Horn observed, “and she’s the queen.”

  “Never mind the details; just pour the coffee,” ordered Sieber.

  From outside there came another order, and the troopers moved out behind Captain Crane.

  “What’s going on out there?” asked Sieber after taking a healthy gulp of coffee.

  “Our Captain Crane and half the troopers at Fort Bowie are going after the Kid.”

  “Fat chance.” Sieber dug into the breakfast. “Yep,” Horn answered.

  “These eggs musta been layed by some prize hen, ma’am. Never tasted ’em this good before.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tom. Ain’t you going?” Sieber asked.

  “Going where?”

  “You know damn well. After the Kid.”

  “Haven’t been asked to go.”

  Horn and Shana visited with Sieber until he finished eating, then went back to her apartment behind the store, where Shana duplicated the breakfast for Horn. It was Tom’s first hot food since the steak in Globe.

  Afterward, as Tom carried his fourth cup of coffee with him, Shana officially opened the store for business. Then she remembered something. “Tom, I have your money in the safe. Shall I get it for you?”

  “We won’t be needing it for the Kid’s trial,” said Horn. “There’s no lawyer in the world could get him off now. Might as well leave it there till I figure out what I’m going to do.”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “Well, I’ve got two hundred to go with that thousand. Might buy out a claim—or even a ranch.”

  “If
you’re considering going into business, I have a proposition to make you.”

  “I’d like to listen,” he smiled, and sipped from the coffee mug.

  “The Van Zeiders have offered me three thousand dollars for the franchise. The store’s too much for me, but I could use a partner. Would you consider buying half interest for a thousand dollars?”

  “No.” Horn paused as disappointment settled on Shana’s face. “But I would consider buying a third interest for a thousand.”

  As Shana smiled and stepped toward him, the brothers Van Zeider entered the store. “Good morning!” Karl beamed. “Well, Mr. Horn, I’m surprised you aren’t leading the expedition.”

  “I am. Didn’t you see me riding out there in front?”

  “Tom has other plans,” Shana said. “He’s become my partner in the store.”

  The brothers Van Zeider exchanged glances; then Karl fingered the gold fob. “Oh, I see.” Karl Van Zeider nodded. “Then I suppose it’s too late to make you another offer?”

  “Yes,” Shana replied, looking at Horn.

  “Well come along, Emile. We have work to do.” Van Zeider led his brother toward the door. When they were nearly there, he turned and added as an afterthought, “By the way, congratulations, Mr. Horn. I’d say this setup beats…”—he looked at Shana—“…living with the Apaches.” Both Van Zeiders smiled and walked out.

  Horn started after them, but Shana stopped him. She took the mug from his fist. “Let me get you some more coffee”—she extended her right hand— “partner.”

  Horn put his big hand around hers.

  “Thanks, partner.”

  Outside, Karl and Emile Van Zeider walked toward the cantina in silence for some distance. Emile adjusted the sling on his arm. “A hell of a lot of good it did,” he said, “to get rid of Ryan.”

  “Shut up!” Karl snapped.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The sun came up a bold red ball over the rim of the eastern ridge. The Apache Kid grabbed the sleeping young squaw by her wrist and pulled her toward him. For a merciful moment she had forgotten where she was. But the cruel realization seared like a hot brand in her brain, and she remembered. She would remember the last two days and nights as long as she lived.

  The Apache Kid had satisfied his lust time after time. Now he would take her again, high on the rocky cove where they had spent the night. He pulled off her torn garment and moved himself onto her trembling body. He pressed his mouth against her bruised face and onto her lips. She felt his bone-hard hands, with the iron cuffs still around one wrist, prowling over the flesh of her naked body. She closed her eyes and prepared for what would come. She didn’t know whether her husband was alive or dead, but she wished that she were dead.

  She knew she wasn’t. The Apache Kid reminded her again that she was still alive—alive enough to feel pain and humiliation and hate.

  For four days and nights Captain Crane and his command combed the Superstition Mountains, searching for tracks or signs. There weren’t any— or if there were, none of the troopers was capable of reading them. Without the scouts they saw only empty ridges, vacant ravines, desolate coulees, and naked peaks.

  As they climbed higher they dismounted and led their animals across razorback rocks. This was not horse country. Only goats and mountain sheep could find footing, not troopers whose boots were made for stirrups instead of steep, towering terrain.

  The Apache Kid and his captive were nowhere near the area the troopers searched. They had left the Superstitions and moved along a stream that snaked south and led to a valley where cattle grazed. The Kid knew if there were cattle, there would be a ranch.

  On a Sunday morning the ranch lay peaceful, compatible with the tree-lined stream—a house, a barn, a corral with a dozen horses, a pen with as many pigs, and an overcrowded chicken coop.

  With the young squaw kneeling at his side, the Apache Kid watched from distant cover as the family, Sunday clean from their Saturday baths and dressed in their churchgoing best, walked from the house toward the buckboard. A tall, angular man who looked more like a preacher than a rancher was followed by his pregnant wife and three small children of assorted ages and sizes.

  The Kid waited while the buckboard pulled away from the house and disappeared to the south; then he looked down at the squaw. She was a pathetic sight. Even though she had washed in the refreshing stream the evening before, she was now worn and weary from the ordeal she had endured through the night and morning at the Kid’s hands. The remnants of the thin nightshirt hung ripped and loose, exposing most of her abused body.

  The Kid pulled her up and shoved her toward the ranch. He walked alongside, with the Winchester in his right hand and the handcuff suspended from the left.

  The Kid paused in front of the corral. He looked over the horses. The Appaloosa gelding wasn’t the biggest of the herd, but the Kid liked the look of the animal, broad of chest and with finely muscled legs. That was the one he would take when he finished the business at hand. He shoved the squaw into the barn.

  The Kid found what he was looking for. He handed the squaw a hammer and chisel, put his left hand on the anvil, and stretched the loose cuff taut with his right. The Winchester leaned against a stack of hay, within easy reach.

  The squaw struck at the lip of the Kid’s cuff. He felt pain but didn’t wince. He nodded at the squaw, and she struck again and again.

  A sleepy-eyed, toothless man, wearing trousers, slippers, and a nightshirt but carrying a handgun with cartridge belt and holster, came out of the house, cocked his head, and listened to the sound of the hammering. Then he moved toward the barn.

  One, two more blows, and the handcuffs snapped loose just at the instant the toothless man appeared at the door with his gun pointed at the Kid.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man blustered. For answer the Apache Kid in a swift motion grabbed up the rifle, shoved the squaw in front of him, and fired past her, hitting the toothless man in the chest.

  But the man’s gun went off as he fell, and a bullet tore into the girl’s side. She staggered but stayed on her feet.

  The Kid walked to where the man had fallen. His foot went under the man’s shoulder, and with Winchester still pointed, the Kid rolled him face up.

  The toothless man gazed with open but unseeing eyes. The Kid lifted the gun and cartridge belt from the ground, motioned at the wounded squaw to follow, then walked toward the Appaloosa.

  A set of broken handcuffs lay on top of General Nelson Appleton Miles’s neat and orderly desk. The general puffed a cigar as the tall, angular man went on with his story.

  “...When we got back from church we found Jess. That’s—that was—our hired hand—shot dead in the barn. Two of my best horses gone, a knife, some airtights, and—”

  “Airtights?”

  “Canned goods, General.”

  “Your hired hand wasn’t a churchgoer?”

  “No sir, but a good man. Oh, there was some other blood in the barn.”

  “Let’s hope it was the Apache Kid’s. Come in,” Miles responded to the knock on the office door. An adjutant entered. “What is it, Pitt?”

  “You wanted to be notified when Captain Crane came in, sir. Well, he’s coming in now.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And those Indians from the reservation are still waiting.”

  “Yes.” Miles rose and picked up his hat from the hanger. “Well come along. We may have some good news, Mr.…Bellcamp, is it?”

  “Bellknap,” answered the tall, angular man.

  “Yes, Bellknap.” Miles adjusted his hat more to his liking, took the handcuffs from his desk, and led the way. “Come along.”

  Al Sieber sat on a chair on the Ryan store’s porch—his leg, still in splints, resting on a box— and watched as Crane’s contingent led their bone-weary animals, some of which were limping. So were some of the soldiers. Tom Horn walked out of the store and stood a moment next to the pair of crutches tilted against the
wall beside Sieber.

  “Well,” Sieber spat out a spray of tobacco juice, “at least he got back.”

  “Yeah. I’ll go over and see what else he got…or didn’t.”

  “He didn’t.” Sieber spat again.

  Nine reservation Indians waited in front of the headquarters building as Miles, Bellknap, and Pitt came out. Miles approached Crane. The captain and his men stood sore and gritty from the expedition. In contrast, General Miles was fresh and immaculate and most military.

  “Did you find the Apache Kid, Captain?”

  “Not a trace of him, sir.”

  “Well, here’s a trace of him, Captain.” Miles brought up the broken cuffs he had held behind his back and thrust them close to the Captain’s dirty, stubbled face. “Why did you come back before you completed your mission?”

  “Horses went lame, sir, and some of the men—”

  “Then tomorrow you’ll take fresh horses and fresh troopers, go out again, and carry out your mission.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “By the way”—Miles pointed to the reservation Apaches—“those Indians, they’re relatives of the girl who was stolen. They’ve volunteered to help find the Apache Kid. See if they can be of some use.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But find the Apache Kid—dead or alive, find the Apache Kid and bring him in!”

  Miles turned smartly and marched back into his headquarters as Horn walked up to Crane.

  “Well,” said Horn, “your ‘headquarters general’ is finally showing a little sense.”

  “Using Indians to chase an Indian.”

  Horn walked back to the store and stood next to Sieber.

  “When they going after him again?” the old scout asked.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “I hope they don’t find him. You know why?”

  “Yeah, I know why.” Horn started into the store. “They won’t,” he added.

  The Apache Kid, with the white-hot blade of the knife in his hand, knelt over the wounded, nearly naked squaw, who lay by the campfire. Her eyes burned with fear and pain, and as the Kid pressed the scorching blade against her bleeding flesh, cauterizing the wound, she passed out.