Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (6 page)

The long, narrow stone guard house was built along the western slope of Fort Bowie’s compound. A few slim slits embedded with
iron bars served as windows but didn’t afford the residents much of a view. The barred, unglassed apertures did allow the
sizzling summer wind and dust to make the structure insufferably hot in summer and the ragged, ice-edged wind and grit to
make it shivering cold in winter.

If a prisoner had to pick a season of residence, autumn or spring were the times. But that was little consolation to the Apache
Kid. Horn and Sieber had no trouble getting in to see him. The guards were old friends. The trouble came in telling the Kid
of Miles’s decision. Both men leaned hard against the bars confining the former scout. Horn and Sieber tried to appear casual,
even optimistic, but as Geronimo stood in the nearby cell and stared across at his infernal enemies, the words came in short,
harsh whispers from the two scouts.

No matter how soft their whispers, they knew that Geronimo would hear—if he hadn’t somehow got word of the Kid’s fate already.
Secrets were
short and few around Bowie, especially where Geronimo was concerned.

“Miles says he’s shipping you to Florida,” Horn said in a low voice.

“On the same train as…” Sieber motioned his head almost imperceptibly toward Geronimo.

The Apache Kid was stunned. He tried not to show it. It showed.

“Thought it was better you heard it from us instead of strangers,” Tom added.

Maybe it was. Still, for the Kid it didn’t do much to lessen the impact.

“Yeah, thanks,” the Kid said, avoiding the eyes of both men.

“Look, Kid,” Horn hastened, “it’ll be days, maybe weeks before Miles arranges for that train. A lot can happen. We’re gonna
send a telegraph to Crook—”

The Kid interrupted, “You think that the Cheyenne or the Sioux will deliver that telegraph to ol’ Gray Wolf?”

“We’ll get word to him,” Horn went on, “and Al’s gonna go see the governor.”

“They’ll set Miles straight.” Sieber nodded. “Him and his goddamn chicken-feathered hat, which he ain’t got much brains under.”

“You know,” Horn said, “the governor’s a good friend of Al’s.”

“Hell, yes,” said Sieber. “ ‘Zuly’ owes me a fistful of markers.”

“Tom…Al…” The Kid’s voice seemed to come from another world. “You ever been locked up?” He was only inches away
from the two scouts, but the distance couldn’t be measured.

“We’ll get you out, Kid,” said Horn. “You’ve done a lot for the army.”

“But I’m an Indian.” It wasn’t a statement from the Kid but an indictment.

Horn nodded. “Yeah, you’re an Indian.”

“Not to them I ain’t.” The Kid motioned toward Geronimo and the other locked-up Apaches. “So what
does
that make me?”

There was a stifling moment of silence.

“I don’t know, Kid,” Horn answered. “I don’t know. But we’ll do everything we can. Come on, Al.”

Al Sieber reached through the bars and touched the Apache Kid’s shoulder.

“You take care of yourself…Sibi’s Boy.”

Horn and Sieber turned and walked toward daylight.

The Apache Kid gripped the bars until the blood flushed out of his fingers.

The sneer on Geronimo’s face was closer to a smile than it had ever been—a smile of triumph.

“Sibi’s Boy!” The Apache Kid let loose of the bars and allowed the blood to flow back into his cold fingers. He walked to the
wall and inhaled the upstart summer air that wandered loose and free outside the guard house.

“Sibi’s Boy.” The Apache Kid touched the eagle claw at his throat. For years it had been a sign that he belonged to something,
to someone—that he mattered.

“Sibi’s Boy”—with the skill, strength, and advantages of his Apache heritage, he could look at the forest and the mountains
and on the ground and read every sign there.

“Sibi’s Boy”—who could also walk with pride and accomplishment in the white man’s world and work for a white man’s pay.

“Sibi’s Boy”—who now hung suspended between two worlds, unclaimed by either, denied by both: reviled by the Apache, rejected
by the white man.

“Sibi’s Boy”—convicted and condemned. Was he really Sibi’s Boy? Had he ever been?

Horn and Sieber paused in the cool afternoon shade thrown along the east side of one of the adobe structures. Each man rolled
a cigarette. Horn fired up a match on the seat of his trousers and lit Sieber’s smoke, then his own.

Neither man had spoken in the few minutes since they left the guard house. The image of the Apache Kid confined in such a scant
space seemed as unnatural as that of a panther in a purse. But a panther could tear his way out of a purse; the Kid was penned
by stone and iron in a cell not much broader than the smile that used to be on his face.

“You know,” said Horn, “maybe we’re going about this from the wrong direction.”

“Well, if you know another direction, point us toward it.”

With thumb and forefinger Horn took the cigarette from between his lips and jabbed toward Dr. Jedadiah Barnes’s office-hospital.

“What’s the matter?” Sieber inquired. “You sick?”

“No, but an acquaintance of ours is. You remember our old friend Emile Van Zeider. Maybe we ought to pay him a visit.”

“And finish him off?”

“No,” Horn replied. “And eat a little crow.”

Both men pinched out their cigarettes and started to walk.

“I’d sooner eat a centipede,” Sieber said.

As Dr. Jedadiah Barnes walked into the room, Tom Horn pulled the Apache Kid’s knife from the post where the crusty doctor
had stuck it.

“From what I hear the Kid won’t have much need of that thing where he’s going, unless they let him hunt crocodiles,” the doctor
observed, “Al, how’s the rheumatism?”

“I’ll be cured just like the rest of your patients— when I’m dead.”

“With all that lead in you, you should have been dead a long time ago.”

“I been sent for, but I ain’t went.”

“Well, I got somewhere to go,” Barnes said, snapping shut his worn and scarred medical bag, “so spell out what you came for.
It’s not like you fellas to waste time with giggle talk. Nurse Hatchet!” he hollered toward what served as the hospital ward.
“Let’s get a move on!”

Immediately a tall, razor-thin, middle-aged woman in a nurse’s uniform appeared and took up a sliver of space in the doorway.
She did in fact have a face like a hatchet blade, slender and severe. The effect was continued upward by the wide parting
of her thinning hair directly in the middle of her head.

“Damn you, Jedadiah! I’ve told you a million times not to call me hatchet. My name’s Thatcher, and after nineteen years at
your elbow you damn well know it.
Thatcher!
”

“I did say Thatcher, goddammit! You must be losing your hearing along with your memory. Maybe I ought to get you an ear trumpet.”

“You do and I’ll know where to stick it! Hello, Al, Tom.”

Both men nodded and smiled. They had been listening to the verbal crossfire between Dr. Barnes and his nurse for a long time.

“We’ve got to go and clean up what’s left of those Apaches you boys shot up, if they don’t die from the filth of that pigpen
they been laid in,” Doctor Barnes said, picking up his medical bag. “We got empty beds here, but the army’s afraid those redskins’ll
contaminate the white man’s hospital. You never did say why you come by.”

“We never got the chance,” Sieber allowed.

“Well, you got it now. Speak up!”

“We’re here to visit your patient,” Horn explained. “Mr. Van Zeider.”

A look of incredulity crept across Doctor Barnes’s well-creased face. “You’re the last ones I ever thought’d come to call
on him. He’s right in there, mean as a peed-on rattler—unless Florence Nightingale here just poisoned him. Matter of fact,
his brother’s in there with him. You get two for the price of one, and that’s no bargain. Step right in: it happens to be
visiting hours—always is.”

Horn and Sieber nodded and started walking toward the ward.

“Just a minute,” Doctor Barnes said, pointing to the Apache Kid’s knife still in Horn’s hand. “I wouldn’t advise taking that
thing in there with you. Might stir up some unpleasant memories. Well, come on, Nurse Hatchet; let’s get a move on.
The sight of you might shock some of them savages into recovery.”

“If the smell of you don’t kill ’em first,” Nurse Thatcher declaimed as they walked out the door.

There were eight beds in the ward. Emile Van Zeider, the only patient, lay propped on a bed near a window overlooking the
compound. On a table next to him was a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and beside the table stood Karl Van Zeider, his usual
serene self, smiling and twisting his fob on the gold chain laced through his vest.

“Well, this is a peculiar turn of events,” Karl Van Zeider commented as Horn and Sieber entered. “Emile, look who’s come to
call on you.”

Emile grunted and reached for the whiskey bottle.

“I know you’re here to see Emile,” Karl continued. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation with the eccentric Doctor
Barnes.”

“Actually,” Horn said, “what we’ve got to say concerns both of you.”

“That sounds logical,” Karl Van Zeider said, nodding agreeably, “since my brother and I are partners—not equal partners, of
course, but partners nevertheless. Are you looking for work?”

“No, that’s not why we’re here,” Horn managed. “We’re here to ask you to do something—or I guess not to do something.”

“I can’t imagine what you would want—or not want—us to do. Can you, Emile?”

“No.” Emile poured another double shot into the water glass in his hand.

“It’s about the Apache Kid,” Horn said.

“Oh, yes. I understand he’s due to take a trip
shortly, along with your other red brothers, to a more tropical climate.”

“Van Zeider, I’m not here to argue the merits of Miles’s decision where the rest of those Indians are concerned,” said Horn.
“That’s another matter. But you know the Apache Kid’s not like the rest of ’em.”

“You hear that, Emile? Mr. Horn says the Apache Kid is not the same as the others.” Van Zeider turned back toward Horn. “And
why isn’t he, Mr. Horn? Because he calls himself Sibi’s Boy, shares lodgings and women with you two, and parades around the
territory as if he were the equal of a white man? Is that what makes him different in your eyes?”

Both Horn and Sieber restrained the impulse to leap upon Van Zeider and tear the tongue out of his head.

“No, that’s not what makes him different,” said Horn.

“Then what does?”

“He’s different because he chose to be different. And he’s worked damn hard at it. He gave up the ways of his people. He learned
to read and write— and when the time came to fight, he fought with us and against them.”

“For pay,” Van Zeider smiled.

“Everybody works for pay, Van Zeider. You, your brother, Sieber, me—everybody. But everybody doesn’t risk his life. The Kid
did, again and again. If he’d ever been captured by any one of those tribes, do you know what they would’ve done to him? I
don’t think you and that civilized mind of yours could ever imagine. There’s not a man, woman, or child in this fort, in most
of this
territory, that doesn’t owe the Apache Kid more than any amount of money can buy. You don’t mea sure the risks he took in
money.”

“What is the point of all this oratory, Mr. Horn? What are you soliciting?”

“I’m asking you and your brother not to bring charges. I’m asking you to go and talk to General Miles on the Kid’s behalf.
He won’t listen to us— Crook would have—but what you say to Miles would carry an awful lot of weight. It might tip the scales
for the Kid. If Miles turns him loose, we give you our word the Kid’ll leave this part of the territory. You won’t ever see
him again.”

“You forget one fact, Mr. Horn—among other facts—this passionate patriot of yours, this exemplary citizen, tried to murder
my brother.”

“And you forget that your brother here was about to squeeze off a load of shot into my back.”

“That’s a lie!” Emile barked. “Besides, I gave you all fair warning to get out!”

“That brings up another matter,” Karl Van Zeider persisted. “For years while your precious General Crook was the high hickalorum
around here, you people ran roughshod over everything and everybody. The rules weren’t meant for you and your pampered scouts.
You thought your boots were filled with something special.”

“Come on, Tom,” said Sieber. “Let’s get out of here.”

Karl Van Zeider went on, “You were breaking one of those rules in the
cantina
because no matter what you say or think, the Apache Kid is an Indian. But I’ll say one thing: For sheer gall you get the
prize for coming here now when just a short
time ago in front of Miss Ryan you made it abundantly clear you didn’t like me and made insinuations and accusations about
me which were unfounded and untrue. Well, I’m still that same person, Mr. Horn, and now you come yelping like the injured
party.
There’s
the injured party, Mr. Horn!” Van Zeider pointed to Emile. “And I’m still that same person you don’t like—not red, yellow,
black, or blue, but
white
. I take pride in that whiteness, and I don’t give a fig for the Apache Kid or the rest of those inferiors penned up with him.
Miles can ship them to Florida or to hell. I only wish the both of you were going with them. Good day,
gentlemen
.”

“Yeah, good day, Van Zeider,” Horn said, “but there’ll be another day.”

“If that’s a threat, pardon me for not trembling,” Van Zeider replied.

“Come on, Tom,” Sieber urged. “Let’s get outta here before I do something permanent.” The two scouts wheeled and walked out.

Karl Van Zeider cackled audibly as they left.

“I wouldn’t laugh at them two,” Emile warned his brother, taking another drink. “I just wouldn’t.”

“When I need or want your advice, dear brother, I’ll ask loudly and clearly.”

“Sure, sure, Karl. You’re the boss.”

“Thank you for the reassurance.”

“But ask or no, I’ll tell you this: I think what you got set up to night is a mistake. You’re taking a chance of—”

“I’m taking no chance whatsoever. There’s no way we can be linked to Geronimo’s…shall we say, dash for freedom.”

“But why help him bust out?”

“Because I have use for him a little longer in these parts. You have to admit that up to now he’s been
very
useful.”

“Yeah, but suppose they kill him while he’s trying to bust loose?”

“Suppose they do?” Karl Van Zeider smiled. “We’ll be no worse off than if he were away. I’m not sure he’d be either.”

“I guess you’re right.” Emile shrugged.

“Quit guessing, Emile, and let me do the brain-work.” Van Zeider pointed to the nearly empty whiskey bottle. “And go easy
on that. We’re supposed to sell it, not swill it.”