Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (12 page)

It was almost dark as Karl Van Zeider walked into the stable of the Van Zeider Brothers Livery. A loaded wagon was covered
with heavy tarp. Emile Van Zeider and Pete Curtain each sat on a bale of hay, a bottle of whiskey on a stool between them.
The sling had been removed from his arm, and Emile puffed on a cigar as he drank.

“Goods all loaded?” Karl Van Zeider asked.

Emile exhaled and nodded toward the wagon. “Did you take the labels off?”

Emile nodded again.

“All right, then.” Van Zeider fingered the fob. “Hitch up and leave before dawn. With luck you’ll be in Nogales Saturday.”

Emile looked up at his brother. They were a study in contrasts, the Van Zeiders, the result of different mothers. Karl was
tall, slim, and smooth. Educated, assured, and cunning, he was a cold creature but civil, always civil and controlled. Karl
was a man of moderation where liquor, women, and tobacco were concerned but immoderate in the ambition department. Emile was
bigger and coarse, with a hogshead face, pocked and with piggish eyes. He was a man who took orders along with
whiskey, women, and cigars and whose ambition was only for more of the same—much more.

“You don’t mind,” Emile smiled, “if me and Pete spend the weekend in Nogales, do you?”

“With all that money? Yes, I do mind. And tell señor Delegado that the price has gone up to fifty dollars a case.”

“What if he won’t pay?”

“He’ll pay.” Van Zeider started to walk away.

Emile inhaled the smoke of his cigar. “Karl, I was just thinking—our old friend Geronimo is long since in Florida by now.”

“So?”

“So,” shrugged Emile, “I kinda miss him, that’s all. He sure brought things to a boil around here. Looks like the Apache Kid’s
aiming to take his place.”

“Geronimo can be in hell as far as I’m concerned. He’s no longer of any use and as for the Apache Kid, he’s just one lone,
stupid savage who won’t bring in enough troopers to line our pockets. We’ve got to look to other sources. The Apache Kid amounts
to an insignificant, impertinent pest.”

“Tell that to the cavalry.”

“Never mind the cavalry. I’m just telling you— get to Nogales and back as soon as you can; we’ve got business to take care
of.” Karl Van Zeider walked out of the stable into the darkness.

Pete Curtain shrugged. “Well, you tried.”

“Who knows, Pete?” Emile swallowed a shot of whiskey. “Maybe we’ll have some trouble with the wagon, have to lay over in Nogales
a day or two anyhow.” Emile worked his wounded shoulder around. It felt pretty good.

Al Sieber watched from his chair on the store porch as Karl Van Zeider walked by without greeting. Sieber spat tobacco and
glanced inside at Horn and Shana.

She held a clipboard and pencil, making notations. There was a look of comfort and satisfaction on her face as she watched
Tom Horn move to the next shelf.

“Look here, Shana,” he said. “I don’t see any sense in this inventory business. It’ll just be different tomorrow.”

“But this is part of storekeeping,” she smiled.

“Well, it’s the part I don’t like.” He moved a step closer. “Matter of fact, the only part I do like is—” Horn stopped as
he saw Sieber outside rise with difficulty and reach for his crutches. “Hey, Al, where you going?”

Sieber wedged the crutch handles under his armpits and started to move.

“Al…” Horn moved to the open door. “I asked you where—”

“I heard you,” Sieber snorted. “No law against a man getting a drink around here, is there?”

“Well, just hold on a minute,” Horn smiled, “and I’ll get a drink with you.”

“You tend to your beans and bacon!” Sieber snapped, and started to hobble away.

“Okay, Al,” Horn said with a wounded tone. “I’ll see you later.”

“Suit yourself,” Sieber shot back from the night.

Tom Horn walked into the store, closed the door, and looked down at the floor. He thought of the countless days and nights
Sieber and he had shared without a floor beneath them, with only grass or
sand or rock. Their home had been anywhere they unsaddled their horses. He thought of the days when Sibi’s Boys rode to hell
with their hair on fire and came back to laugh about it.

Shana broke the long silence. “I thought we might offer him a job here at the store, but...”

“Shana, he’s only got one thing on his mind.”

“What’ll happen when he finds out he won’t ever be able to go after the Kid?”

“I don’t know. I flat out don’t know. But it’s better that he can’t. I think the Kid’d kill anything or anybody who tried to
take him.”

“Tom,” she moved close. “I’m glad you’re not going after him. No matter what he’s done.”

“Maybe I’m afraid to go.”

“I don’t believe that.” She put her arms around his waist as if to protect him and herself.

“Good sense to be afraid of some things. They say an Apache only knows two emotions—fear and hate.”

“I don’t believe that.” Her arms still encircled him.

“Neither do I,” he smiled. “I’ve seen different.”

“How long,” Shana withdrew her arms, “did you live with the Apaches?”

“Almost three years on and off. It was Al’s idea. Wanted me to get to know the Apache language and their ways. Said it would
make me a better scout.”

“I think it made you a better person.”

“Don’t know about that”—Horn shook his head— “but I got to like it.”

Shana walked a few steps toward the counter, then turned and faced him again. She wondered if it was proper, if she had the
right to ask the question.

Horn read the struggle in her face. “What is it, Shana? What’s wrong?”

“When you say you lived with them…does that mean you...”

“It means I lived with them.”

“You found the Apache…women…attractive?”

“Some of them—and attentive.”

“Was there one particularly attractive—and attentive?” A strange sound had come into her voice, a sound unlike her, a sound
she didn’t savor. “I’m sorry, Tom. It was crass of me to ask.”

“I’ll tell you this,” Horn said, moving to her. “There was no one like you.”

“At least you managed to say good-bye to all that,” she smiled, and blew out the lamp on the counter.

“No.” The store was now illuminated by a solitary lamp on the wall. Horn moved with his easy, pantherine grace and blew out
the flame. “There’s no word for hello or good-bye in Apache. Man just comes and goes.” He moved close enough to touch her,
but didn’t.

“That is strange,” she whispered in the darkness.

“They’re afraid if you make some farewell gesture you might die and never come back.” As he spoke her face was inching nearer
and nearer, until she kissed him as he finished.

It was more than a kiss, and both of them knew it. It was an invitation, a prelude, a consent. It wasn’t only their lips that
met and melded. Their bodies molded into each other—his, lean and strong and hard, pressing; hers, soft and pliant, receiving.

Civilization was a million miles from here; Boston, another time, another world. Laws and
rules and customs were stripped away. This was the West, still a wilderness, savage and naked but truthful. She knew the truth.
She felt it coursing through her.

“I’m glad,” she said, trembling, “you’re not going away.”

He lifted her from the ground, one arm around her back, the other under the bend of her legs.

“To night I’ll be your squaw,” she whispered in the dark.

“To night,” he said, “you’ll be my woman,” and carried her to the apartment.

Against the dawning sun the Appaloosa picked its way carefully along the ragged ridges of the high country and negotiated
the narrow, hazardous defile. The Apache Kid now wore the gun and belt of the hired man he had killed. Behind him the mare
carrying the dazed and wounded Indian woman followed, trying to duplicate the Appaloosa’s footing.

The squaw was barely conscious, her hand pressing against her side at her wound, which had opened. Blood spilled between her
fingers down her naked leg. She breathed in labored spurts, fighting for strength to go on. Then she no longer fought or cared.
She could endure no more, nor did she want to. She wanted to be free. But there was only one freedom. It was not on this earth.
Suddenly she felt light, exalted, euphoric. She dropped the reins. She knew the end had come—another beginning.

She tumbled from the horse and plummeted below, slamming crazily, bouncing, twisting, crashing over and over against the jagged
rocks.

The Kid looked back for a moment at the riderless horse and then below.

His expression never changed.

Two of the reservation Indians stayed with Crane and the main contingent. The others forked out trying to pick up the Kid’s
tracks.

It was past noon when one of the Apaches who had left Crane motioned to his companion and pointed toward a squadron of buzzards
circling far in the distance.

One of the Indians waited at the site near the buzzards; the other rode back for Crane. Neither had been given a weapon. General
Miles didn’t believe in arming Apaches under any circumstances.

When Crane arrived, the waiting Indian pointed below toward the buzzards at work on the flesh of the young squaw. Crane pulled
his rifle from its boot and fired. The dirty black birds screamed, and feathers flecked off as they flew away.

The Apache Kid studied the tracks without dismounting. Even on horse back he could read all he needed to know: A four-up wagon
with a heavy load had passed, heading southwest toward Sonora, not more than an hour ago. He reined the Appaloosa, dug his
moccasins into the animal’s flanks, and rode directly south.

The four tired horses pulling the heavy, rattling wagon labored against the incline on the trail that wound south to Sonora.
Pete Curtain snapped the reins, ribboned through his thick fingers and the horses hastened their pace. Emile Van Zeider took
the first puff from a fresh cigar and passed a whiskey bottle to Curtain, who took a pull and passed it back.

“By this time tomorrow,” Van Zeider remarked, “we’ll be in Nogales.”

It was his last remark.

A bullet through his head put a finish to all his remarks.

Pete Curtain reflexively turned toward the stricken man. Even before Van Zeider’s cigar and whiskey bottle hit the boot of
the wagon, the second and third bullets tore into the driver’s chest, and Curtain let loose of the ribbons as he fell dead
from the seat.

The Apache Kid watched for a moment from behind the wind-rubbed boulder at the crest of the incline, then walked to the Appaloosa,
mounted with Winchester still in hand, and rode toward the waiting wagon.

The Kid looked at the dead face of Emile Van Zeider. Van Zeider with his shotgun had triggered the Kid’s troubles. His end
had come too swiftly, too easily. The Kid thought to himself that he should have made Van Zeider suffer. He thought of taking
Apache vengeance on the dead body. Instead, he went through the pockets of the corpses, kept what he wanted, then jumped aboard
the wagon and ripped the tarp with his knife.

A few minutes later the Apache Kid rode south on the Appaloosa, and drank from a whiskey bottle. He had unhitched the four
horses, and the wagon now burned behind him. The fire intensified until the volatile fluid within the bottles began a series
of explosions and set off a blaze of flame and smoke that could be seen miles away.

“General Miles,” Karl Van Zeider fumed, “I demand the immediate apprehension of this barbarian.”

“You do!” Miles remarked from behind his desk.

“Yes, I do. It seems inconceivable to me that the whole United States Army—horses, foot and dragoons— can’t catch one half-naked
Apache.”

“It does to me, too,” Miles replied.

“I have influence in high places, General, both civilian and military, you can be sure—”

“I can be sure of one thing, Mr. Van Zeider—if you’re about to threaten me,
don’t
. I’ve faced bigger odds and prevailed. I never went to West Point, but I have a Congressional Medal of Honor that damn few
West Pointers ever won. I’ve dealt with military snobbery and congressional bungling. I’ve dealt with the Nez Percé and the
Sioux, and by the Lord Harry I’ll deal with the Apache Kid without any intimidation from you!”

“I want to see him hanged,” said Van Zeider.

“So do I, Mr. Van Zeider. So do we all. Captain Crane—”

“Captain Crane doesn’t know a rock from a toad.”

“That’s enough of
that!
Captain Crane will—” A knock on the door interrupted General Miles. “Come in.”

The adjutant entered. “Tom Horn’s here.”

“Tell him to come in.” Miles turned to Van Zeider. “I’ve sent for the man who knows every rock and toad in the territory.
Come in, Mr. Horn. Sit down.”

“I’ll stand,” said Horn without greeting either man.

“You heard what happened to Mr. Van Zeider’s brother?”

“He got caught smuggling whiskey across the border,” Horn replied.

Van Zeider took a step. “Look here you—”

“Take it easy, Van Zeider,” Horn said without looking at him. “Yeah, I heard,” Horn answered Miles.

“And about the Indian girl?”

“That, too.”

“I’ve talked to Mr. Sieber.” Miles lapsed into diplomacy, “unfortunately, his injury, which you well know was inflicted by
the Apache Kid, prevents him from going after this cold-blooded murderer. Mr. Horn, I’m giving you that assignment—at full
pay, of course. Captain Crane—”

“Now hold up, General. In the first place, you’re the one who said that scouts were obsolete.”

“I was wrong,” Miles admitted—“at least in this case.”

“Well, I took you at your word, because in the second place, General, you’re not talking to a scout; you’re talking to a storekeeper.
I’m a storekeeper.”

“And the Apache Kid is a murderer!”

“I don’t deny that. There’s a lot of murderers on the loose.”

“I can’t force you to do it,” Miles reasoned, “but—”

“No, you can’t.”

“...but I can ask you,” Miles’s voice became oratorical, “on behalf of every decent citizen of this territory—”

“Save the speeches; I’m not listening.” Horn pointed to the wall behind Miles’s desk. “Why don’t you pick up your gold sword
and go chase him yourself?”

Horn turned and started to walk away. Karl Van Zeider blocked his path. “You’re a filthy coward!”

“Get out of the way.” Horn shoved him hard, smashing Van Zeider against the wall, then walked out.

Captain Crane stood outside the headquarters building. He started to say something as Tom Horn walked by, but Horn paid no
heed and kept walking.

Horn brushed by a customer just leaving the store and entered. Shana was at the cash register, and Al Sieber stood propped
by his pair of crutches near the counter.

“Well?” Sieber demanded.

“Well, what?” Horn was close to trembling.

“Now you been asked. What did you tell him?”

“Al,” Horn pleaded, “don’t ask me.”

“I
am
asking you.” Sieber took a step on the crutches. “I raised him from a pup. But when your pup turns out to be a mad dog, it’s
your job to kill him. Well, I ain’t able to do that, Tom. I know I’ll be
a cripple for the rest of my life. But I raised you, too—and I’m asking you.”

“Somebody else’ll get him.”

“Not before he spills blood on every road and ditch in the territory. Never mind what he’s done to me. He’ll go on killing
and plundering until he’s shot down like the mad dog he’s turned into. Now what about it!”

Horn said nothing. He lowered his look from the old scout’s stare. But Sieber knew the answer. He dropped his right crutch
and smashed his big fist into Horn’s face, knocking him into a row of flour sacks. Sieber himself nearly fell with the blow.

Horn did not wipe the blood from his mouth. Nor did he look up at the man who struck him.

Al Sieber struggled and finally managed to pick up the fallen crutch. “Move your things outta my place,” Sieber said, hobbling
toward the door, “and stay the hell away from me. I haven’t got any sons anymore.”

When Sieber left, Shana rushed to Horn, but he waved her away and rose to his feet.

“He’ll get over it, Tom,” she tried to reassure him. “He’ll understand.”

“No he won’t,” said Horn, “because he’s right. But I just can’t do it. The Kid’ll never let anyone bring him in. If I found
him I couldn’t shoot him from behind.” Horn tasted the warm, sweet blood at his mouth, then wiped it clean.

Tom Horn rented a room in one of the boarding -houses and continued to work at the store. In three months, the reward for
the Apache Kid, dead or
alive, escalated in direct proportion to his depredations, from one thousand to six thousand dollars.

A second and third young squaw were kidnapped, ravaged, and left dead. Reservation Indians along with Crane and every available
trooper pursued the phantom killer who roamed unseen— except by some of his victims—under the sizzling-hot summer sun and
the cold rays of the incon stant moon. The Apache Kid pillaged from as far north as Socorro, south past the border into Chihuahua
and Sonora—from mountains and buttes through dry riverbeds, ranches, and deserts. Another of Van Zeider’s freight wagons was
ambushed, the driver and guard killed, and the wagon set aflame. General Miles even armed some of the Indian guards at the
reservation. Two of them were killed and their ammunition stolen.

By summer’s end the United States Army was no closer to catching the Apache Kid than it had ever been. Time and again the
Kid watched invisible from a vantage point as sweat-soaked patrols passed in the distance, seeking tracks or signs and finding
only failure and frustration. The men of these patrols were the same troopers with whom the Kid, along with Sieber and Horn,
had once ridden.

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.