Kid spoke for the first time. “Terminated— that does mean ‘done,’ don’t it?”
“It do.” Horn nodded.
The Kid rose. So did Sieber, followed by Crane.
“Who’s gonna scout for you?” Sieber asked.
“Nobody. The scout is obsolete,
like the bow andarrow.” Miles smiled with satisfied finality. “That’s it, gentlemen. Thank you and good day. Captain Crane, I’d like you to
stay a moment.”
As the three scouts reached the door, Sieber let fly a spray of brown spittle.
Chapter Ten
The three scouts went by the quartermaster’s office and picked up their pay. Then, as they crossed the compound of Fort Bowie,
they stopped in front of the blacksmith’s, where a large crowd had gathered. Horn, Sieber, and the Apache Kid paused and viewed
the result of what they had been paid to do.
Geronimo, surrounded by soldiers, stood in the middle of the smithy’s shop, which had only three side walls, and an open front.
The smith and his two apprentices worked quickly and efficiently. From the forge they took red-hot strips of iron wagon tires
about an inch thick and fashioned them into rings with protruding lips, through which they punctured rivet holes. Each of
the two rings was linked together by a heavy chain less than two feet long.
The glowing set of ankle irons was tossed sizzling into a large basin of water to cool off. A couple of soldiers led Geronimo
close to the anvil. The blacksmith clapped an iron on one of the chief’s ankles and hammered the lips shut. His apprentice
carried a red-hot rivet from the forge. The blacksmith hammered it shut. The procedure was repeated on theother ankle, and the war chief of the Chiricahuas stood shackled.
Geronimo could no longer run or ride. He could only walk and stumble with heavy, halting steps. But he could still hate. And
his eyes flashed hate at the three scouts. That hate settled on the Apache Kid. Without words, with an unspoken promise, Geronimo
silently repeated his vow to kill the Apache Kid. And the Kid understood. So did Sieber and Horn.
The three scouts turned and walked away.
In Ryan’s store, Shana had just sold Mrs. Dock-weiler needles and thread and was walking the overweight and overtalkative
woman to the door, when she caught sight of Horn and his companions.
Mrs. Dockweiler kept spewing out enough words to choke a cow, but now Shana heard none of them.
Since the day Tom Horn walked into the store, Shana had found herself thinking of no one else— except, of course, her brother,
whom she had loved.
Tim had been easy to love—bright, strong, and with a bent for laughter. After their mother and father died, Tim had made sure
that Shana wanted for nothing. He had sent her to Wellesley, where she never quite fit in. She was accepted by the other girls
and was even very pop u lar, but in her heart Shana knew she wasn’t really a part of all that. It was all too confining, too
conforming. She wanted to be free of the confinements, the conformities. She wanted to move west like her brother. And now
she was here—but Tim was dead.
There had been a young man, handsome and rich,from a Boston banking family. He loved Shana—or said he did. He would have married her. For a time they were unofficially
engaged. He wanted to make it official, but then Tim died and Shana came west.
Brent Bradford was tall, rich, well mannered, well dressed, and well educated with all the attributes a Wellesley girl seeks
in choosing a husband. But somehow when all the attributes were put together in making Brent Bradford, something had gone
wrong—at least for Shana.
If Bradford had had to make it on his own he might have been a better and stronger person. He was born with not only the proverbial
silver spoon, but an entire place setting. Since he was her only child after three miscarriages, his mother smothered him
with comfort and sop. She saw to it that his every moment was carefree and consequently he cared for
“It do.” Horn nodded.
The Kid rose. So did Sieber, followed by Crane.
“Who’s gonna scout for you?” Sieber asked.
“Nobody. The scout is obsolete,
like the bow andarrow.” Miles smiled with satisfied finality. “That’s it, gentlemen. Thank you and good day. Captain Crane, I’d like you to
stay a moment.”
As the three scouts reached the door, Sieber let fly a spray of brown spittle.
Chapter Ten
The three scouts went by the quartermaster’s office and picked up their pay. Then, as they crossed the compound of Fort Bowie,
they stopped in front of the blacksmith’s, where a large crowd had gathered. Horn, Sieber, and the Apache Kid paused and viewed
the result of what they had been paid to do.
Geronimo, surrounded by soldiers, stood in the middle of the smithy’s shop, which had only three side walls, and an open front.
The smith and his two apprentices worked quickly and efficiently. From the forge they took red-hot strips of iron wagon tires
about an inch thick and fashioned them into rings with protruding lips, through which they punctured rivet holes. Each of
the two rings was linked together by a heavy chain less than two feet long.
The glowing set of ankle irons was tossed sizzling into a large basin of water to cool off. A couple of soldiers led Geronimo
close to the anvil. The blacksmith clapped an iron on one of the chief’s ankles and hammered the lips shut. His apprentice
carried a red-hot rivet from the forge. The blacksmith hammered it shut. The procedure was repeated on theother ankle, and the war chief of the Chiricahuas stood shackled.
Geronimo could no longer run or ride. He could only walk and stumble with heavy, halting steps. But he could still hate. And
his eyes flashed hate at the three scouts. That hate settled on the Apache Kid. Without words, with an unspoken promise, Geronimo
silently repeated his vow to kill the Apache Kid. And the Kid understood. So did Sieber and Horn.
The three scouts turned and walked away.
In Ryan’s store, Shana had just sold Mrs. Dock-weiler needles and thread and was walking the overweight and overtalkative
woman to the door, when she caught sight of Horn and his companions.
Mrs. Dockweiler kept spewing out enough words to choke a cow, but now Shana heard none of them.
Since the day Tom Horn walked into the store, Shana had found herself thinking of no one else— except, of course, her brother,
whom she had loved.
Tim had been easy to love—bright, strong, and with a bent for laughter. After their mother and father died, Tim had made sure
that Shana wanted for nothing. He had sent her to Wellesley, where she never quite fit in. She was accepted by the other girls
and was even very pop u lar, but in her heart Shana knew she wasn’t really a part of all that. It was all too confining, too
conforming. She wanted to be free of the confinements, the conformities. She wanted to move west like her brother. And now
she was here—but Tim was dead.
There had been a young man, handsome and rich,from a Boston banking family. He loved Shana—or said he did. He would have married her. For a time they were unofficially
engaged. He wanted to make it official, but then Tim died and Shana came west.
Brent Bradford was tall, rich, well mannered, well dressed, and well educated with all the attributes a Wellesley girl seeks
in choosing a husband. But somehow when all the attributes were put together in making Brent Bradford, something had gone
wrong—at least for Shana.
If Bradford had had to make it on his own he might have been a better and stronger person. He was born with not only the proverbial
silver spoon, but an entire place setting. Since he was her only child after three miscarriages, his mother smothered him
with comfort and sop. She saw to it that his every moment was carefree and consequently he cared for
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