that old hooty owl might be in the coffeepot?” asked Tom.
“He might be.” Shana directed Horn to a couch, and he sat.
In a few minutes he had a hot mug of coffee in his hand. “I set out to find a hooty owl,” said Horn, still showing the effects
of the whiskey he had gone upagainst, “and instead I found a bird of paradise. Miz Shana, you are purely a bird of paradise.”
“And you, Mr. Horn, better have another cup of coffee.” Shana poured from the pot into the mug in Horn’s hand. When she walked
to replace the pot on top of the stove, Horn laced the brew with a double shot of whiskey from his bottle. Shana observed
him and smiled. “It’s customary to add a little sugar or cream.”
“Different tribes, different customs.” Horn drank the hot fluid from the mug with an amazingly steady hand and looked at Shana
Ryan.
She wore no makeup. And though she was just as covered as if she were wearing a dress, there was something about the sight
of this beautiful woman in her nightclothes that betrayed a heretofore unacknowledged intimacy between them. Part of it was
the way her silken hair fell in unstudied waves over her shoulders and rested softly on her breasts. Part of it was her surprisingly
small slippered feet. And part of it was that unmistakably sensual nocturnal look in her wide-set eyes. Tom Horn remembered
how he had thought of her that night just before the attack on the Apache village, wondering if he would ever see her again.
And now here they were alone at night in a warm and private place.
“Would you like me to fix you a couple of eggs to go with that coffee?” Shana asked. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“No, thanks,” Horn said, then added, “You’re a good woman.”
“Thank you.”
“And your brother was a good man.” Horn was by no means sober yet. “So’s Al Sieber, a good man…and Captain Melvyn Crane,
and General Nelson Appleton Miles is a good man…and everybody…but the Apache Kid. He ain’t no good. You see, he’s
an Indian…so”—Horn took a deep gulp from the mug—“we’re gonna send the Apache Kid away…with all the other bad Indians
to some place where we won’t have to worry about ’em no more....”
Unconsciously, Horn’s thumb and forefinger were rubbing the talon at his throat.
Shana pointed. “May I ask what that is you wear around your neck?”
“Oh, it’s just…just an eagle claw.”
“I noticed Mr. Sieber and the Apache Kid also—” “Yeah,” Horn interrupted. “Al gave ’em to us when he said we were…well,
he gave ’em to us some time back.”
“One of the men here told me that Mr. Sieber raised the Apache Kid.”
“From a pup.”
“And you, too?”
“I was some older when I got to know Al…but he taught us both, like his own sons.”
“In a way that makes you and the Apache Kid sort of brothers, doesn’t it?”
“No. It don’t.” Horn paused. “But we are.” He set the mug down. His head had become heavy, his eyes weary. He leaned his head
back on the couch. “Funny—my brother’s an Indian…and I’m not.”
Tom Horn closed his eyes.
Geronimo’s eyes were open.
In a few minutes it would be 2:00 a.m. Geronimo had no watch, but he knew what time it was.
He stood near the bars and looked across the darkness at the unmoving figure of the Apache Kid, lying in the opposite cell.
Each of the other cells held two and some even three Indian prisoners. Only Geronimo and the Kid had private accommodations,
such as they were.
The long, narrow chamber had been sectioned off into a dozen small cells on each side. The cells were now dark and quiet except
for the intermittent snoring of some restive brave. At the end of the north side were the guards’ quarters. Two soldiers,
Sergeant Edward Krantz and Private Slim Dawson, were on duty that night. They weren’t expected to remain awake, and they didn’t.
Sergeant Krantz, the ranking trooper, slept on a cot,
“He might be.” Shana directed Horn to a couch, and he sat.
In a few minutes he had a hot mug of coffee in his hand. “I set out to find a hooty owl,” said Horn, still showing the effects
of the whiskey he had gone upagainst, “and instead I found a bird of paradise. Miz Shana, you are purely a bird of paradise.”
“And you, Mr. Horn, better have another cup of coffee.” Shana poured from the pot into the mug in Horn’s hand. When she walked
to replace the pot on top of the stove, Horn laced the brew with a double shot of whiskey from his bottle. Shana observed
him and smiled. “It’s customary to add a little sugar or cream.”
“Different tribes, different customs.” Horn drank the hot fluid from the mug with an amazingly steady hand and looked at Shana
Ryan.
She wore no makeup. And though she was just as covered as if she were wearing a dress, there was something about the sight
of this beautiful woman in her nightclothes that betrayed a heretofore unacknowledged intimacy between them. Part of it was
the way her silken hair fell in unstudied waves over her shoulders and rested softly on her breasts. Part of it was her surprisingly
small slippered feet. And part of it was that unmistakably sensual nocturnal look in her wide-set eyes. Tom Horn remembered
how he had thought of her that night just before the attack on the Apache village, wondering if he would ever see her again.
And now here they were alone at night in a warm and private place.
“Would you like me to fix you a couple of eggs to go with that coffee?” Shana asked. “It’ll only take a few minutes.”
“No, thanks,” Horn said, then added, “You’re a good woman.”
“Thank you.”
“And your brother was a good man.” Horn was by no means sober yet. “So’s Al Sieber, a good man…and Captain Melvyn Crane,
and General Nelson Appleton Miles is a good man…and everybody…but the Apache Kid. He ain’t no good. You see, he’s
an Indian…so”—Horn took a deep gulp from the mug—“we’re gonna send the Apache Kid away…with all the other bad Indians
to some place where we won’t have to worry about ’em no more....”
Unconsciously, Horn’s thumb and forefinger were rubbing the talon at his throat.
Shana pointed. “May I ask what that is you wear around your neck?”
“Oh, it’s just…just an eagle claw.”
“I noticed Mr. Sieber and the Apache Kid also—” “Yeah,” Horn interrupted. “Al gave ’em to us when he said we were…well,
he gave ’em to us some time back.”
“One of the men here told me that Mr. Sieber raised the Apache Kid.”
“From a pup.”
“And you, too?”
“I was some older when I got to know Al…but he taught us both, like his own sons.”
“In a way that makes you and the Apache Kid sort of brothers, doesn’t it?”
“No. It don’t.” Horn paused. “But we are.” He set the mug down. His head had become heavy, his eyes weary. He leaned his head
back on the couch. “Funny—my brother’s an Indian…and I’m not.”
Tom Horn closed his eyes.
Geronimo’s eyes were open.
In a few minutes it would be 2:00 a.m. Geronimo had no watch, but he knew what time it was.
He stood near the bars and looked across the darkness at the unmoving figure of the Apache Kid, lying in the opposite cell.
Each of the other cells held two and some even three Indian prisoners. Only Geronimo and the Kid had private accommodations,
such as they were.
The long, narrow chamber had been sectioned off into a dozen small cells on each side. The cells were now dark and quiet except
for the intermittent snoring of some restive brave. At the end of the north side were the guards’ quarters. Two soldiers,
Sergeant Edward Krantz and Private Slim Dawson, were on duty that night. They weren’t expected to remain awake, and they didn’t.
Sergeant Krantz, the ranking trooper, slept on a cot,
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