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Authors: Andrew J. Fenady
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the bar to Peg. The
bartender nodded, reached below, and hauled up a shotgun. One hand on the barrel, the other on the stock, Peg tossed the weapon
to Van Zeider, who was now on his feet.
Stock butted against his hip, Van Zeider aimed the shotgun toward Tom Horn. Fast as a wasp, the Apache Kid unsheathed a knife
and threw. The knife stuck to the hilt in Van Zeider’s chest. The shotgun tiled astray and went off, blowing the
cantina
window into bits and pieces.
General Miles and a covey of troopers appeared at the door, and things became suddenly quiet. Ridiculous white plume or no,
Miles was still the commander of Fort Bowie.
Emile Van Zeider lay near the bar on the dirty floor. His eyes, mostly white, rolled upward and toward the left. His blanched,
bloodless face twisted in pain. There was blood on his chest and more coming.
“Get that man to a doctor!” Miles barked.
Four troopers immediately rushed to carry out the command.
“It was that Injun!” Peg pointed at the ApacheKid. “That goddamn Injun throwed the knife into Van Zeider!”
“Arrest him,” Miles ordered.
Two troopers peeled off and went for the Kid. One of the troopers lifted the Kid’s Colt from his holster and the other pointed
toward the doorway.
The Apache Kid looked at Sieber, who nodded. The Kid walked ahead of the soldiers past Tom Horn, whose life he had saved.
Their eyes locked for an instant; then the Kid headed for the door.
Miles turned toward Al Sieber, who was still perched atop the stove. “Well, Mr. Sieber, what’ve you got to say?”
“I don’t suppose, General,” answered Sieber, “that you’d care to join us in a drink?”
Chapter Twelve
Shackled, Geronimo stood inside his cell gripping the iron bars as he watched the two trooopers unlock the cell directly across
from his. He could almost reach out and touch the Apache Kid. Almost. But Geronimo didn’t want to touch the Kid. He wanted
to kill him.
The iron bars clanked shut. A trooper twisted a key; then both troopers marched back up the narrow hallway dividing the two
facing rows of cages.
The Apache Kid turned and ran his fingers across the lock. He didn’t try to avoid Geronimo’s stare. The two Apaches on opposite
sides of the same war were now on opposite sides of the same cellblock.
Doctor Jedadiah Barnes had seen and stitched worse wounds—much worse. He said as much to Karl Van Zeider, who paced in the
waiting room as the doctor came out of his office carrying the knife the Apache Kid had planted in Emile’s chest.
Doctor Barnes, a venerable veteran of Civil War battlefield medicine and scores of Indian campaigns, was an informal sort of
fellow, a rumpled,rounded man with splotches of broken blood vessels splattered across his ruddy face. A set of steel-rimmed glasses framed
a pair of owlish gray eyes and strings of silver-gray hair twisted onto the front of his bison brow. A perpetual silver stubble
poked through his face. His shirt had survived many winters and few washes. His shiny blue trousers and matching vest were
embedded with smeared stains of coffee, liquor, and blood, partly camouflaged by a ramble of wrinkles. Jedadiah Barnes took
his medicine wherever he found it. He had found enough in Arizona the last dozen years to keep six doctors steeped in blood
and stitches. He saved more patients than he lost. Of course, some of his patients lost arms, legs, and parts of organs in
the pro cess, but the majority kept on living. So would Emile Van Zeider.
Doc Barnes stuck the Apache Kid’s knife into one of the posts that helped hold up the waiting room.
“He’ll be fit to walk in a week, go back to work in two. He can start drinking whiskey again most any time. Deep wound but
clean. Your brother was lucky, Mr. Van. Two inches lower woulda split his heart like a ripe tomato. Damn lucky.”
“Yes.” Van Zeider looked at the knife sticking in the post. “Well, the Apache Kid won’t be so
bartender nodded, reached below, and hauled up a shotgun. One hand on the barrel, the other on the stock, Peg tossed the weapon
to Van Zeider, who was now on his feet.
Stock butted against his hip, Van Zeider aimed the shotgun toward Tom Horn. Fast as a wasp, the Apache Kid unsheathed a knife
and threw. The knife stuck to the hilt in Van Zeider’s chest. The shotgun tiled astray and went off, blowing the
cantina
window into bits and pieces.
General Miles and a covey of troopers appeared at the door, and things became suddenly quiet. Ridiculous white plume or no,
Miles was still the commander of Fort Bowie.
Emile Van Zeider lay near the bar on the dirty floor. His eyes, mostly white, rolled upward and toward the left. His blanched,
bloodless face twisted in pain. There was blood on his chest and more coming.
“Get that man to a doctor!” Miles barked.
Four troopers immediately rushed to carry out the command.
“It was that Injun!” Peg pointed at the ApacheKid. “That goddamn Injun throwed the knife into Van Zeider!”
“Arrest him,” Miles ordered.
Two troopers peeled off and went for the Kid. One of the troopers lifted the Kid’s Colt from his holster and the other pointed
toward the doorway.
The Apache Kid looked at Sieber, who nodded. The Kid walked ahead of the soldiers past Tom Horn, whose life he had saved.
Their eyes locked for an instant; then the Kid headed for the door.
Miles turned toward Al Sieber, who was still perched atop the stove. “Well, Mr. Sieber, what’ve you got to say?”
“I don’t suppose, General,” answered Sieber, “that you’d care to join us in a drink?”
Chapter Twelve
Shackled, Geronimo stood inside his cell gripping the iron bars as he watched the two trooopers unlock the cell directly across
from his. He could almost reach out and touch the Apache Kid. Almost. But Geronimo didn’t want to touch the Kid. He wanted
to kill him.
The iron bars clanked shut. A trooper twisted a key; then both troopers marched back up the narrow hallway dividing the two
facing rows of cages.
The Apache Kid turned and ran his fingers across the lock. He didn’t try to avoid Geronimo’s stare. The two Apaches on opposite
sides of the same war were now on opposite sides of the same cellblock.
Doctor Jedadiah Barnes had seen and stitched worse wounds—much worse. He said as much to Karl Van Zeider, who paced in the
waiting room as the doctor came out of his office carrying the knife the Apache Kid had planted in Emile’s chest.
Doctor Barnes, a venerable veteran of Civil War battlefield medicine and scores of Indian campaigns, was an informal sort of
fellow, a rumpled,rounded man with splotches of broken blood vessels splattered across his ruddy face. A set of steel-rimmed glasses framed
a pair of owlish gray eyes and strings of silver-gray hair twisted onto the front of his bison brow. A perpetual silver stubble
poked through his face. His shirt had survived many winters and few washes. His shiny blue trousers and matching vest were
embedded with smeared stains of coffee, liquor, and blood, partly camouflaged by a ramble of wrinkles. Jedadiah Barnes took
his medicine wherever he found it. He had found enough in Arizona the last dozen years to keep six doctors steeped in blood
and stitches. He saved more patients than he lost. Of course, some of his patients lost arms, legs, and parts of organs in
the pro cess, but the majority kept on living. So would Emile Van Zeider.
Doc Barnes stuck the Apache Kid’s knife into one of the posts that helped hold up the waiting room.
“He’ll be fit to walk in a week, go back to work in two. He can start drinking whiskey again most any time. Deep wound but
clean. Your brother was lucky, Mr. Van. Two inches lower woulda split his heart like a ripe tomato. Damn lucky.”
“Yes.” Van Zeider looked at the knife sticking in the post. “Well, the Apache Kid won’t be so
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