Tom Horn And The Apache Kid (9 page)

At noon on Monday, a steaming locomotive pointing east, coupled to two cars and a caboose, waited on the tracks near the depot
where a large platform festooned with red, white, and blue streamers had been set up for the celebration.

It would be an event to remember, a historical highlight in the short but sanguine saga of the Arizona Territory. Soon Geronimo
and the shackled remnants of his brigade, along with the women, wounded, and children of his tribe, would be loaded like cattle
and exiled forever from their homeland.

The order went down from General Miles that every trooper would wear a clean uniform and polished buckles, buttons, and boots.

Hundreds of citizens converged from many miles to cast a final look at Geronimo, the scourge of the territory, and to participate
in a ceremonial tribute to the territory’s great liberator General Nelson Appleton Miles.

Even throughout this last hour, Doctor Barnes and Nurse Thatcher circulated among the infirm and wounded Apaches who had been
herded to the depot. Some of the Indians were too sick or weak to stand. Up to almost the last minute, doctor
and nurse changed ban dages and dispensed drugs to the dazed and bewildered Chiricahuas.

A brass band struck up “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” while dozens of white children who had been excused from school that
day scampered among the attending adults. Dogs barked at the music, and stray chickens clucked in accompaniment.

A good time was being had by most—not by Tom Horn nor by Al Sieber, who had ridden in less than an hour ago and who showed
the effects of his journey. Sieber didn’t wait for a stagecoach to come back; he’d made the trip on horse back. What little
sleep he did get was in the saddle. And now Horn and Sieber were making their way toward the Apache Kid, who stood handcuffed
with the other prisoners.

“Kid,” said Horn, “Al just got back. Wore down a dozen fat horses doing it.”

“The governor’s studying your case,” Sieber said wearily. “He promised he’d do everything he could.”

“But,” Horn had to add, “it’s gonna take a while.”

“He better hurry,” the Kid said bitterly. “I got a train to catch.”

Just then, at a signal from Mr. Noah Mumford, chairman of the pre sentation committee, the band struck up a fanfare. Noah
Mumford, along with several other prominent citizens, including Karl Van Zeider, stood on the raised and decorated platform
with Nelson Appleton Miles, whose brass buttons and buckles shone in the noon sun. Another signal from Mumford finished off
the fanfare.

One of the other committeemen stepped forward and handed Mumford an ornately engraved
gold sword. Noah Mumford nodded, turned to General Miles, nodded again, faced the assembly, and cleared his throat.

“General Miles…” Mumford cleared his throat once more. “It is with deep gratitude that the good citizens of the territory
present you with this here gold sword.” Mumford held the sword by the hilt, tip toward the sun, for all the crowd to consider.
He held it there until he thought the crowd had considered it enough, then went on, “This sword is given in appreciation of
what you’ve done since you come here, and not too long ago at that. But you got the job done, and that’s the point of the
whole matter.”

Noah Mumford looked around in expectation of applause. After a short wait there was some polite hand-clapping, led by Karl
Van Zeider. Mumford took the opportunity to clear his throat again.

“We’re sure this territory, including the San Carlos Reservation, will be a better and safer place to live and work and raise
our kids now that we’re gonna get rid of…”—Noah Mumford paused and then dramatically pointed directly at Geronimo— “...them
there hostiles.”

Mumford surrendered the sword to General Miles, who bowed slightly and raised the weapon in benediction as the onlookers applauded.

“Didn’t take ’em long to forget about Crook,” said Sieber, not applauding.

“I don’t know,” Horn answered. “Rumor is, the good citizens didn’t come up with enough money for that there cutlass and the
general himself ponied up the difference.”

The general himself held up a hand, signaling
for an end to the already diminished applause so he might commence his remarks.

“Mr. Mumford, Mr. Van Zeider, distinguished citizens, and men of my command: I accept this honor and will trea sure it among
my most esteemed trophies. For years you have endured the costly, bloody, and unprovoked attacks by recalcitrant renegades
whom this government has sought to reform and redeem.

“I am convinced that there can be no permanent peace and security in this part of our great nation except in one way—namely,
the capture and complete disarmament of the hostiles and their removal beyond, far beyond, the limit of your territory.

“When this train pulls out, that is what I will have accomplished. I thank you.”

Once again Miles hoisted the sword in the air, and once again the collected citizens applauded. This time the locomotive engineer
punctuated the applause with a couple of toots from the train whistle.

Throughout the ceremony Geronimo, though fettered hand and foot, seemed fiercely unsubdued, as if his mind and eyes were unattached
to his manacled body—as if his real self were still riding free with the spring wind in the mesas and mountains, plotting
revenge on those who would rob him of his freedom. Geronimo held nothing but petty contempt for the fat-necked general who
strutted about with his plumed hat and gold sword. Geronimo would gladly face a hundred such enemies—five hundred—in preference
to the three enemies he looked upon now: Sieber, Horn, and the Kid.

At least the Kid would be within reach. And somehow Geronimo would reach out and kill him. There would be other Apaches who
would revenge themselves on Sieber and Horn.

A nod from General Miles and the loading process began. The braves were herded into the forward car. The women, two of whom
were pregnant, the children and the wounded were deployed to the rear.

Captain Crane made his way alongside Horn and Sieber, who walked with the Apache Kid.

“I’m sorry.” Crane looked into the Kid’s eyes and repeated, “I’m sorry,” then quickly walked away.

One of the soldiers took the Kid’s arm and pushed him toward the rear car with the women. “You get special treatment,” the
soldier snapped, “back there with the squaws.”

“Take it easy, Kid,” Horn said. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

The Apache Kid didn’t look back. He walked aboard the second car with the women and children.

The train whistle sounded again, and hot white steam poured from the engine.

Doctor Jedadiah Barnes and Nurse Thatcher now stepped near Horn and Sieber. There were the beginnings of tears in the nurse’s
tired eyes. The doctor pulled out an already sweat-soaked handkerchief and wiped his wet face.

“This is a black day,” Barnes said. “A black day. I begged Miles to let some of those people stay behind. There’s a half dozen
near dead. Might just as well ship ’em in coffins.
Begged
him, but he wouldn’t listen. Hell, one of them women’s so
ready she’s liable to drop that papoose before they hit the border. Well, come on, Hatchet—let’s get a move on. I’ve seen
and heard enough around here to make me bilious for a month. Say, what the hell’s a matter with you, anyway?”

“I’ve got a cinder in my eye, you old skeleton maker!” Nurse Thatcher knuckled a tear away from her bony face. “That’s what’s
a matter with me.”

“A black day,” Doctor Jedadiah Barnes repeated as he and Nurse Thatcher walked away.

The band struck up a chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.” Noah Mumford started to sing. He waved both arms and urged the crowd to join
him.

They did.

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And days of auld lang syne!

The shiny iron wheels of the engine spun and scratched for traction. The locomotive hissed steam and shuddered. The train
moved, and the couplings connecting the cars locked tight as the iron caravan crawled eastward.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne...

Tom Horn and Al Sieber caught sight of the Apache Kid at a window. He had been manacled and deprived of his freedom. He had
been arrested and convicted without judge or jury, sentenced without a hearing and exiled without appeal. He
had been stripped of everything but the clothes he wore—and the eagle claw around his neck.

Horn turned to Sieber.

“You thinking what I’m thinking, Al?”

“I guess so.”

“The Kid’s got more steam in him than that boiler,” Horn said. “I’m afraid of what he might do.”

“So am I,” Sieber nodded.

“Damn!”

The train gathered momentum, and so did the band and singers.

We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet,

For days of auld lang syne.

Later that afternoon the citizens and soldiers of Fort Bowie went back about their business. The platform was torn down. The
chief beneficiaries of the proceedings were the schoolchildren. They got the entire day off and went about the fort playing
cowboys and Indians.

Seth Barker, the homeliest boy—he was twelve— was conscripted to play Geronimo. Seth streaked mud across his face and found
a worn-out broom to serve as a Winchester.

Luke Lipercott, who had achieved the venerable age of thirteen and already shaved once a week, was the logical choice to enact
the role of Al Sieber, chief of scouts. The role of Tom Horn went to Sandy Bierce, since at age twelve he was the tallest
of the young mummers. There was much yelling and shooting and ambushing, and finally Frank Lewis, also twelve, who had appropriated
a cavalry bandana that served as his uniform, received a gold sword that formerly had been part of a wooden crate and made
a speech almost as modest as General Miles’s noontime valediction to the hostiles.

Sieber went to his place to get a little sleep. In
spite of his weariness, he knew he could sleep only in two-or three-hour spurts. Since he’d be up soon, he didn’t bother
taking off his clothes or boots. He did remove his hat and place it over his face. Ten seconds later Al Sieber was asleep.

General Miles supervised the mounting of his gold sword on a wall behind his desk. He instructed two troopers to tip the blade
slightly upward to achieve an optimistic, victorious effect.

Miles stood a moment, studying the effect. He was pleased.

Tom Horn walked aimlessly around the fort. He visited his horse, Pilgrim, in the stable. Then he wandered some more. He thought
about visiting the
cantina
and going up against some whiskey, but Karl Van Zeider might be there, and Horn had had more than enough of Van Zeider’s
society lately. After a while Tom Horn happened to wander aimlessly in the direction of Ryan’s store.

Shana Ryan happened to be unloading a wagon marked Van Zeider Freighting hitched just in front of the store. She was struggling
with a sack of flour. The sack was winning.

“Hello,” said Horn.

“Hello, Tom.”

“Just what do you think you’re doing? Where’s the teamster that delivered this load?”

Shana motioned toward the
cantina
. “He said he’d be right back, about a half hour ago. I needed some of these supplies to make up an order, so I thought...”

“You thought you’d hoist fifty-pound flour sacks?”

“I just need one for the order.”

“Want me to go fetch him? Or would you rather I give you a hand?”

“I’d much prefer your hand,” Shana smiled, “but at this rate I’m going to have to put you on the payroll.”

“I’ll settle for supper.”

“Beef stew sound all right?”

“Sounds
skookum.
”

“What’s
skookum?
”

“Indian for ‘good,’ ‘great,’ ‘hallelujah!’ ”

“Well,” she smiled, “I’ll try to make that stew as
skookum
as I can.”

As Tom Horn headed for the store carrying in his third load of supplies, Karl Van Zeider approached from the direction of
Doctor Barnes’s office-hospital. “You going into the grocery line, Mr. Horn?” Van Zeider inquired pleasantly.

“One of your teamsters is wetting his windpipe, so I’m just giving the lady a hand.”

“I did hear the scouting business isn’t so good lately,” Van Zeider commented.

“That so?” Horn set the sack of flour against a bench on the porch. “And I hear the freighting business isn’t going to be so
good now that the railroad’s come through.”

“The secret of success in business is flexibility, Mr. Horn, and I pride myself on being very flexible.”

“So’s a snake.”

“Look here, Horn—sometimes you exceed…” Van Zeider let the sentence go unfinished as Shana stepped out of the door.

“Good afternoon, Karl.”

“Good afternoon.” Van Zeider tipped his hat. “I didn’t see you at the ceremony earlier today.”

“No. I don’t relish the sight of human beings bound in irons and sent away from their homes.”

“I can appreciate that, Shana. But those renegades know nothing of humanity. They’re wild animals, and we’re all better off
without them. You’ll understand someday.”

“I hope not,” Shana replied.

“Have you been thinking of my offer?”

“I’m still thinking, Karl.”

“Well, it’s still open, and you won’t get a better one. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you two to your…storekeeping.”
Van Zeider tipped his hat again and moved away.

“Flexible,” Horn mumbled.

“What did you say, Tom?” Shana asked.

“Nothing worth repeating.” Horn started to lift the flour sack from the bench.

“Tom! Hey, Tom! Hold up a minute.” Sergeant Cahill was practically running across the compound, and with him were trooper
Dennis Ward and Al Sieber. Cahill waved a fistful of money.

“Al,” said Horn, “you up already?”

“You know I can only sleep in dribs and drabs. Besides, these two horse pestlers woke me up.”

“Any word from the governor?” Horn asked.

Sieber shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Tom, it’s that time again.” Sergeant Cahill held the money up. “We’ve collected over five hundred dollars to bet.”

“That’s more than last year,” Horn noted.

“Well, hell, you won last year, didn’t you? Oh!” Cahill turned to Shana. “Excuse me, ma’am, for the language.”

“What the hell did he win?” Shana smiled.

“Biggest rodeo in Arizona, ma’am,” Cahill bea -med. “Being held in Globe. Last year ol’ Tom set three world records and carried
off a thousand dollars prize money. We’re goin’, ain’t we, Tom?”

“Well…” Horn scratched behind his ear. “We sure could use that money, huh, Al?”

“Like a tick could use a furry place,” said Sieber.

“Me and Dennis here got some leave coming. We’ll ride along with you,”
Cahill volunteered.

“It’d be a week before we get back,” Horn reflected, and looked at Sieber. “Don’t think I ought to leave right now. I mean,
the governor might...”

“You go ahead, Tom,” Sieber said. “I’ll stay here in case any word comes through. Win some of that prize money, boy.”

“Well?” Cahill asked, looking at Horn. “Well?”

“Well,” Horn said, “anybody want to give me a hand with this load?”

“Me and Dennis’ll do ’er, Tom. Come on, Dennis— don’t just stand there like some dumb plow horse. Let’s get to gettin’.”

Doctor Jedadiah Barnes appeared from around a corner. “Tom!” The doctor was pumping for breath.

“Doc, what’s wrong?” Horn asked. “Somebody dying?”

“Somebody’s always dying. Don’t mean anything’s wrong.” Doctor Barnes pulled money out of his vest pocket and handed it to
Sergeant Cahill, then looked back at Horn. “I understand you’re going rodeoing. Want the sergeant to bet fifteen dollars on
you. That’s all.” Doctor Barnes wheeled and walked away, breathing even harder.

“Word sure does spread around here,” Sieber observed.

“When we leaving, Tom?” Dennis Ward inquired.

“Well…” Horn looked at Shana. “I’m gonna have me some
skookum
supper and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll leave tomorrow by first light.”

Horn and Shana sat at the kitchen table in her apartment, finishing dinner. The scout had taken a tub bath and changed into
his suit. His colt was still strapped on for ballast, but his freshly washed hair was parted in a straight line and scented
with lilac water. During dinner he had loosened the black string tie that had been bowed at his throat.

Shana looked beautiful and fresh as a spring garden in a blue-and-yellow dress that matched her eyes and hair. She wore a
blue ribbon at her throat with an ivory cameo pendant.

“You haven’t said much, Tom.”

“Too busy eating,” Horn smiled.

“Skookum?”
Shana pointed to his empty plate.

“Yes, ma’am. You’re a good cook.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m a good cook myself.”

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Have to be in the scouting business or go hungry most of the time.”

“Is it true General Miles is…has…?”

“Fired us scouts? It’s true. He figures from now on it’s going to be a more peaceable war.”

“Have you been thinking about what you’re going to do?”

“No, I guess not. Right now I’ve been thinking about something else....”

“The Apache Kid?”

Horn nodded.

“You’re doing everything possible, Tom. You and Mr. Sieber.”

“Yeah, and the Kid’s getting farther and farther away. Well, it sure was good stew.”

“Would you like a drink from the hooty-owl whiskey bottle?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well then”—Shana pointed to the oven—“how does fresh-baked apple pie sound?”

“Sounds good,” said Horn. “Smells good, too.”

After the pie Shana walked Horn through the darkened store and to the front door.

“Can’t recall a better dinner, drunk or sober,” said Horn.

“You earned it,” Shana smiled.

“Cahill and Dennis did most of the work.”

“Tom?” Her face looked lovely, like the ivory white cameo at her throat framed in
the moonlight, but soft and lambent.

“You take care of yourself in Globe.”

“I will.” He nodded.

“And Tom, good luck and…” Her hands moved to his shoulders, her face floated close, and her lips touched his, just touched
for a moment, then pressed warm and soft, unlike any lips Tom had kissed before. A feeling flashed through him, a feeling that
had been unborn until that moonlit moment.

“Hurry back,” she whispered.

“I will,” said Horn. “You bet I will.”

Tom Horn quietly eased into the room where Al Sieber slept. Without sound he pulled off his boots, took off his clothes, and
laid them on a chair. He
didn’t bother to turn down the blanket. In his underclothes he silently slipped into the bed and looked out through a window
at the mute spring moon.

“Anybody ever tell you,” Sieber’s voice drifted through the darkness, “that you smell real sweet?”