Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (16 page)

A lingering summer wind held the first hint of autumn, along with the faint taste of last night’s rain. The clear Arizona air,
scented by late-blooming flowers, foretold that soon summer would pass and other things with it. The waning year would give
way to winter as time was giving way gradually to a new century and new ways.

The question was whether the West had been won— or defeated. The outlook depended on whether you were white or red, on whether
you had been one who survived with the endless stretch of wagon trains that lumbered out of Kansas and Missouri—or whether
you were bleached bones in the desert. It depended on whether you rode with Crook at Salt River Canyon or Custer at Little
Big Horn. Not just the strong survived, but also the cunning, the careful, and the just plain lucky. Those at Fort Bowie this
mordant morning had survived—at least so far.

There were as many people around as usual, but they were somehow more quiet than usual, and their attention if not their eyes
angled toward Tom Horn as he strapped the saddlebags on Pilgrim’s back.

“The trouble is,” Doctor Jedadiah Barnes said to Nurse Thatcher while they watched through the window, “the Apache Kid was
an Indian who thought he could live as a white man, and Tom Horn is a white man who tried to live like an Indian.”

“Was that really so bad?” Nurse Thatcher asked.

“No, it wasn’t bad,” Doctor Barnes reflected. “Maybe it was just too soon.”

Tom Horn still showed the marks of the fight with the Apache Kid. There was also a mark on his manner that showed as he tied
the bedroll on the animal.

Shana approached. “Tom, I’m sorry for what I said last night.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He did not look at her.

“Don’t you care enough to make it matter?” Horn didn’t answer.

“Don’t you?” she repeated.

“Not now,” said Horn as he saddled up.

She felt everything slipping away—her illusions about the West, her outlook on life and love, the passion of summer’s muffled
night dispelled by the cold, angry dawn, the promises of unbound youth fettered by the heavy chains of reality, almost as
real and heavy as those that girdled Geronimo. Maybe Brent Bradford had been right, at least about one thing: the West was
not for everyone, and everyone was not for the west. Shana tried to cling to a last desperate hope like a fluttering bird fighting
a wild wind.

“Tom,” she asked, “will you come back?”

“No.”

“What about your interest in the store?”

“I’m just not a storekeeper. Give my share to Sieber if you want.”

Without good-bye, without looking back, he directed his animal toward the fort entrance. He remembered his words to Shana—that
it wouldn’t be easy to leave her. It wasn’t easy. But Horn believed it was best, at least for her. There was a part of him
forever sealed off—a territory within him wild and uncharted, pulling him across the next horizon toward the distant mountains.
Without that part he could not be a husband. The Apaches were in chains now or confined to reservations, but the Apache part
of Tom Horn was still free.

Out of a discolored, distorted face, Karl Van Zeider watched through the
cantina
window. He was already making plans. With Horn gone, those plans would come to fruition much sooner and easier. Van Zeider
would survive—and prevail. He felt the strength and ambition returning to his battered body, and his aching brain surged with
confidence in the future.

General Miles and Mary stood on the headquarters porch along with Captain Crane. Horn approached but looked straight ahead.

“Nelson,” Mrs. Miles inquired, “was that man in your army?”

“No, no, Mary,” General Nelson Appleton Miles replied. “He was just a scout.”

Captain Crane’s look was one of unqualified disgust. He moved away from his superior and walked toward Horn, who now rode by.
The captain threw a salute to the scout. Horn kept riding.

Al Sieber leaned on his crutches near the fort entrance. Here Horn paused.

“Where to?” Sieber asked.

“Miles was right about one thing,” Horn shrug -ged, “the day of the scout is over—at least around here.” Horn’s face was calm,
his voice even. “Might head up toward the Platte.”

Al Sieber knew he was saying good-bye to his other son. He looked at Horn, and his eyes swam with memories. “If you run across
Crook, well...”

“Yeah. Take care of yourself, Al….” Tom Horn tore the thong and eagle claw from his neck and handed it to Sieber. “And
this.”

That was it. Horn started to ride away. Shana Ryan came and stood next to the old scout.

Sieber looked at Tom Horn riding away from Fort Bowie. The chief of scouts took something from his pocket, and his eyes went
down to the beaten-upold hand.

It was open now, and in the creased and callused palm were two eagle claws. “Sibi’s Boys,” he whispered

Other
Leisure
books by Andrew J. Fenady:

THE TRESPASSERS

BIG IKE

THE REBEL: JOHNNY YUMA

RIDERS TO MOON ROCK DOUBLE EAGLES

A LEISURE BOOK®

February 2009

Published by

Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

200 Madison Avenue

New York, NY 10016

Copyright © 1984 by Andrew J. Fenady

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