while Dawson made do in a chair.
Outside, the night sank into its deepest darkness, and in that darkness a figure skulked toward the west wall of the guard
house. He was a young Apache brave named Mandan, dressed in a dirty, ill-fitting United States Cavalry uniform consisting of kepi, tunic, and trousers—but Mandan still wore the soft, silent moccasins
of the Apache. Mandan had a pistol in his holster, another gun was tucked in his belt, and he carried three sticks of dynamite
lashed together and with a six-inch wick.
Fifty yards farther out in the darkness, another Apache buck named Chukra sat on a wagon hitched to a pair of strong, fast
horses. Chukra was also dressed in what passed for a United StatesCavalry uniform in the dark. Near his knees were two Winchesters, loaded.
Mandan reached a spot below one of the windows of the guard house. A bird call came from between his thin lips.
From inside the cell, a bird named Geronimo answered the call.
Mandan placed the dynamite at the base of Geronimo’s cell, lit the fuse, ran as fast as he could along the wall for about
thirty feet, then flattened himself against it.
Inside, Geronimo was braced in a corner farthest from the exposed outer wall.
The explosion went off, and the wall blew away as if it had been hit by a cannonball.
Every Indian in the guard house, including the Apache Kid, bolted to his feet.
All but the Kid and Geronimo began yelping, screaming, and chanting. In the guardroom, Sergeant Krantz leaped up and Dawson
fell from the tilted chair onto the earthen floor.
At the sound of the discharge, Chukra lashed the horses, and the wagon rattled toward the blown-out wall.
Mandan appeared at the newly made opening and tossed Geronimo a pistol. Encumbered by the heavy leg irons, Geronimo turned
and fired the pistol at the Apache Kid’s cell.
The Kid dived into a corner behind the bunk. Geronimo fired again and again. Two of the shots hit the iron bars in the Kid’s
cell; the rest ripped and ricocheted around his hunched-up body.
The wagon clattered to a stop at the opening, and Mandan yelled for Geronimo to hurry. Geronimothrew the empty pistol at the Kid’s cell and clanked through the hole in the wall. Mandan helped the chief onto the wagon
just as Krantz and Dawson appeared at Geronimo’s cell and fired their pistols toward the fleeing Apaches.
“Geronimo!” Krantz yelled to everyone and no one. “It’s Geronimo! He got loose! He’s escaping!”
Dawson ran down the long, ghostly corridor toward the outside to rouse the fort.
But the fort was already roused. The dynamite and gunshots had done that well enough. Soldiers and civilians alike thought
Fort Bowie was under siege. Soldiers and civilians, blasted out of tranquil slumber, were grabbing rifles and guns and, still
in night clothes, some nearly naked, were running about to defend their lives and fortunes. Somewhere a bugle sounded assembly.
But Tom Horn had a head start.
Except for his hat, he was already dressed and armed on the porch of Ryan’s store. At the sound of the explosion, he had sprung
awake. Shana had been in her room asleep. Horn ran through the apartment and the store and tore open the front door.
Now Horn stood on the porch, pistol in hand, and watched the wagon roaring flat out in his direction and toward the vast black
night below the fort. It looked as if a trooper were at the reins and another next to him, but even in the darkness, Horn
recognized the unmistakable figure of Geronimo standing in the bed of the wagon, firing a Winchester at some scurrying soldiers.
Wherever that wagon was heading, Horn would make sure it wouldn’t get there.
Horn shot the horse nearest him. The animal screamed, tumbled in its traces, and fell dead, taking the other horse down with
him and tipping over the wagon. The wagon rolled twice, throwing off the three Indians, then thumped to a dusty stop with
all four wheels spinning in the air.
Mandan
Outside, the night sank into its deepest darkness, and in that darkness a figure skulked toward the west wall of the guard
house. He was a young Apache brave named Mandan, dressed in a dirty, ill-fitting United States Cavalry uniform consisting of kepi, tunic, and trousers—but Mandan still wore the soft, silent moccasins
of the Apache. Mandan had a pistol in his holster, another gun was tucked in his belt, and he carried three sticks of dynamite
lashed together and with a six-inch wick.
Fifty yards farther out in the darkness, another Apache buck named Chukra sat on a wagon hitched to a pair of strong, fast
horses. Chukra was also dressed in what passed for a United StatesCavalry uniform in the dark. Near his knees were two Winchesters, loaded.
Mandan reached a spot below one of the windows of the guard house. A bird call came from between his thin lips.
From inside the cell, a bird named Geronimo answered the call.
Mandan placed the dynamite at the base of Geronimo’s cell, lit the fuse, ran as fast as he could along the wall for about
thirty feet, then flattened himself against it.
Inside, Geronimo was braced in a corner farthest from the exposed outer wall.
The explosion went off, and the wall blew away as if it had been hit by a cannonball.
Every Indian in the guard house, including the Apache Kid, bolted to his feet.
All but the Kid and Geronimo began yelping, screaming, and chanting. In the guardroom, Sergeant Krantz leaped up and Dawson
fell from the tilted chair onto the earthen floor.
At the sound of the discharge, Chukra lashed the horses, and the wagon rattled toward the blown-out wall.
Mandan appeared at the newly made opening and tossed Geronimo a pistol. Encumbered by the heavy leg irons, Geronimo turned
and fired the pistol at the Apache Kid’s cell.
The Kid dived into a corner behind the bunk. Geronimo fired again and again. Two of the shots hit the iron bars in the Kid’s
cell; the rest ripped and ricocheted around his hunched-up body.
The wagon clattered to a stop at the opening, and Mandan yelled for Geronimo to hurry. Geronimothrew the empty pistol at the Kid’s cell and clanked through the hole in the wall. Mandan helped the chief onto the wagon
just as Krantz and Dawson appeared at Geronimo’s cell and fired their pistols toward the fleeing Apaches.
“Geronimo!” Krantz yelled to everyone and no one. “It’s Geronimo! He got loose! He’s escaping!”
Dawson ran down the long, ghostly corridor toward the outside to rouse the fort.
But the fort was already roused. The dynamite and gunshots had done that well enough. Soldiers and civilians alike thought
Fort Bowie was under siege. Soldiers and civilians, blasted out of tranquil slumber, were grabbing rifles and guns and, still
in night clothes, some nearly naked, were running about to defend their lives and fortunes. Somewhere a bugle sounded assembly.
But Tom Horn had a head start.
Except for his hat, he was already dressed and armed on the porch of Ryan’s store. At the sound of the explosion, he had sprung
awake. Shana had been in her room asleep. Horn ran through the apartment and the store and tore open the front door.
Now Horn stood on the porch, pistol in hand, and watched the wagon roaring flat out in his direction and toward the vast black
night below the fort. It looked as if a trooper were at the reins and another next to him, but even in the darkness, Horn
recognized the unmistakable figure of Geronimo standing in the bed of the wagon, firing a Winchester at some scurrying soldiers.
Wherever that wagon was heading, Horn would make sure it wouldn’t get there.
Horn shot the horse nearest him. The animal screamed, tumbled in its traces, and fell dead, taking the other horse down with
him and tipping over the wagon. The wagon rolled twice, throwing off the three Indians, then thumped to a dusty stop with
all four wheels spinning in the air.
Mandan
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