Read Online Tom Horn And The Apache Kid by Andrew J. Fenady - Free Book Online

bellowed. “Filled all four glasses to the lip. Never spilled a dollop!”
    “A good, steady hand,” said Horn, lifting the glass nearest him. “A toast. General George Crook!”
    “General George Crook!” all repeated.
    They drank.
    “Pour,” said Horn.
    Captain Melvyn Crane poured.
    “To the U.S. Army scouts!” he said.
    “We’ll get to the scouts later,” Sieber declared. “General William Tecumseh Sherman!”
    “General William Tecumseh Sherman!” the voices echoed.
    They drank.
    “Pour,” said Horn.
    Captain Melvyn Crane poured. This time several dollops overflowed onto the already whiskey-stained tabletop.
    “General Ulysess Simpson Grant!” Horn toasted.
    “General Ulysess Simpson Grant!” the words charged back.
    They drank.
    “Pour!” Horn and the Kid exclaimed simultaneously.
    Emile Van Zeider, escorted by five of his brawniest goons, entered and stood near the doorway. Peg nodded toward the Apache
     Kid. Van Zeider moved with heavy, deliberate steps, and his goons fanned out in a half circle rimming the window table.
    “Gentlemen,” said Van Zeider, “there’s been some mistake.”
    “Not yet,” said Horn.
    “Go away,” Sieber added, “before you make one.”
    “Me and my friends here aim to set something straight.” Van Zeider moved a step closer.
    “Yeah,” said Horn. “Well, me and my friends’ve been near enough to hell to smell smoke. And we aim to do some snorting! So
     go away. There’s a lot of generals we ain’t drunk to yet. Pour.”
    Captain Crane poured.
    “You and your friends can drink to every soldier in the United States and Russian armies, but”— Van Zeider pointed to the
     Apache Kid—“not
him
. Not in here.”
    “Why not?” Horn asked evenly.
    “We don’t sell whiskey to Indians.”
    “Don’t you?” Horn said just as evenly.
    “It’s against the law.”
    “Is it?” Horn lifted his glass. “General Philip Henry Sheridan!”
    “General Philip Henry Sheridan!” the others repeated.
    They drank—all but Horn. Van Zeider’s handshoved against his elbow, causing the scout to spill some whiskey.
    “Look what you did,” Horn said calmly.
    “We don’t sell whiskey to Indians,” Van Zeider repeated.
    “That ain’t no Indian,” Sieber said calmly. “That’s my son.”
    “Your son, my ass. He’s a redbelly, and we don’t sell whiskey to Indians.”
    “I heard you say that,” Horn nodded. “I also saw some Indians who drank your whiskey, then butchered a Mexican family.”
    “You’re a liar!” Van Zeider growled, and gripped a handful of Horn’s shirt at the shoulder.
    “Get your satisfaction, you son of a bitch!” Horn leaped to his feet and smashed the fisted knuckles of his left hand into
     Van Zeider’s cheekbone.
    The Kid had already selected his target and in an instant buried a swift, breath-busting fist into a goon’s breastbone. Sieber
     broke the whiskey bottle across the brow of another victim, but Captain Melvyn Crane was the unfortunate recipient of a foul
     blow behind his ear. However, Sieber repaid the ungallant blow-giver with a kick to the shank. Crane recovered quickly and
     delivered a crunching punch into the dastard’s teeth.
    After that the brawl got better. Chairs flew, and so did fists, elbows, bottles, and boots. Some of the customers unwisely chose
     to join in on the side of the house. They mostly got in the way of the goons, who could’ve used more professional assistance.
    Peg waddled up and down the bar, yelling unheeded advice to Van Zeider and company. VanZeider took another blow from Horn that flung him over a table toward the bar. Horn turned his attention in the direction of
     the fracas. By now Sieber had assumed a lofty, less assailable position atop the unlit iron stove and was overseeing the proceedings
     with detached amusement.
    The Kid and Crane were left to their own devices.
    Emile Van Zeider rose to both knees, shook some of the fog from his throbbing head, and pointed under