nothing except for Shana,
or so he said. Bradford graduated from Harvard in the upper third of his class. Had he ever opened a book, he would have been
class valedictorian.
Besides his easygoing attitude, there was something in his physical makeup that Shana resisted. There was something too moist
in the touch of his hand, too dry in the touch of his lips—the few times Shana allowed his lips to touch hers. He was the
sort who was pleasant enough company in a room full of people or even at a dinner party of four. But when Shana and he were
alone there was an uneasiness.
And now there was Tom Horn. He was not what could be considered well dressed and probably slept in his clothes as often as
not. And he was not well educated in terms of books. Shana had yet totouch his hand or lips, but she was not uneasy at the prospect. As for anything more, she tried to prevent herself from thinking
about it. She didn’t always succeed.
Shana watched as Tom Horn walked across the compound. His movement was strong and graceful, with long, smooth strides, a slight
forward bend to his outsized shoulders sloping down muscular arms to large rawhide hands. His head tilted a touch to the right,
and his chin was always thrust ahead, giving the impression that he was smelling as well as looking where he was going. He
appeared relaxed yet always ready to spring. Shana kept looking at him and even failed to acknowledge Mrs. Dockweiler’s garrulous
goodbye.
“What do you think ol’ Geronimo’ll do when he finds out what Miles’s got in store for him?” the Kid wondered aloud.
“What can he do,” replied Sieber, “with that iron bracelet on his legs?”
“Yeah,” Horn snorted. “Well, fellas, how does it feel to be obsolete?”
“Feels thirsty,” said Sieber.
“We can do something about that,” Horn philosophized.
The Apache Kid pulled some of his pay out of his pocket and waved it around.
“Got enough to buy out Rosa’s for a week or two. I ain’t slept in a bed since you two busted up that party.”
“Let’s hit the saloon,” Horn pointed towardVan Zeider’s
cantina.
“I could use some good whiskey.”
“Or
any
whiskey,” Sieber added.
As the three scouts headed toward the
cantina,
Captain Crane, who had emerged from Miles’s headquarters, moved quickly to intercept them. There was a troubled look on the
young officer’s face.
“Tom! Mr. Sieber! Hold up a minute, will you?”
“What’s the matter, Captain?” Horn smiled. “Did General Miles forget to tell us something?”
“I…I’m sorry about General Miles’s attitude....”
“He’s a fool,” said Sieber, “and that’s not his only fault.”
“Forget it, Captain,” said Horn. “That’s ancient history.”
“In my report I made it quite plain that Geronimo’s capture was entirely your doing and without the three of you I’d probably
be either lost or dead—or both.”
“Never mind that, Captain,” Horn replied. “You’ll do to cross the river with and we’ll miss Miles like a toothache.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Crane said.
“Yeah,” Horn grinned, “and maybe there’s a herd of wild elephants in Tucson.”
“Captain.” Sieber touched the sleeve of Crane’s tunic.
“Yes, sir?”
For the first time there was a trace of warmth in the old scout’s attitude toward the young officer. “I’ve found that feeling
sorry for yourself is a poormedicine, so would you consider joining three obsolete scouts for a drink?”
“Mr. Sieber,” Crane gulped, “I’d consider it an honor.”
As the four men proceeded in step toward the
cantina,
they crossed in front of Ryan’s store. Shana had taken up a broom and was sweeping the porch, which she had swept an hour
earlier.
Tom Horn’s eyes took her in the way a stallion takes in the sight of a fine young mare. He hoped she didn’t realize what he
was thinking as he watched her body move and her hands direct the long stem of the
or so he said. Bradford graduated from Harvard in the upper third of his class. Had he ever opened a book, he would have been
class valedictorian.
Besides his easygoing attitude, there was something in his physical makeup that Shana resisted. There was something too moist
in the touch of his hand, too dry in the touch of his lips—the few times Shana allowed his lips to touch hers. He was the
sort who was pleasant enough company in a room full of people or even at a dinner party of four. But when Shana and he were
alone there was an uneasiness.
And now there was Tom Horn. He was not what could be considered well dressed and probably slept in his clothes as often as
not. And he was not well educated in terms of books. Shana had yet totouch his hand or lips, but she was not uneasy at the prospect. As for anything more, she tried to prevent herself from thinking
about it. She didn’t always succeed.
Shana watched as Tom Horn walked across the compound. His movement was strong and graceful, with long, smooth strides, a slight
forward bend to his outsized shoulders sloping down muscular arms to large rawhide hands. His head tilted a touch to the right,
and his chin was always thrust ahead, giving the impression that he was smelling as well as looking where he was going. He
appeared relaxed yet always ready to spring. Shana kept looking at him and even failed to acknowledge Mrs. Dockweiler’s garrulous
goodbye.
“What do you think ol’ Geronimo’ll do when he finds out what Miles’s got in store for him?” the Kid wondered aloud.
“What can he do,” replied Sieber, “with that iron bracelet on his legs?”
“Yeah,” Horn snorted. “Well, fellas, how does it feel to be obsolete?”
“Feels thirsty,” said Sieber.
“We can do something about that,” Horn philosophized.
The Apache Kid pulled some of his pay out of his pocket and waved it around.
“Got enough to buy out Rosa’s for a week or two. I ain’t slept in a bed since you two busted up that party.”
“Let’s hit the saloon,” Horn pointed towardVan Zeider’s
cantina.
“I could use some good whiskey.”
“Or
any
whiskey,” Sieber added.
As the three scouts headed toward the
cantina,
Captain Crane, who had emerged from Miles’s headquarters, moved quickly to intercept them. There was a troubled look on the
young officer’s face.
“Tom! Mr. Sieber! Hold up a minute, will you?”
“What’s the matter, Captain?” Horn smiled. “Did General Miles forget to tell us something?”
“I…I’m sorry about General Miles’s attitude....”
“He’s a fool,” said Sieber, “and that’s not his only fault.”
“Forget it, Captain,” said Horn. “That’s ancient history.”
“In my report I made it quite plain that Geronimo’s capture was entirely your doing and without the three of you I’d probably
be either lost or dead—or both.”
“Never mind that, Captain,” Horn replied. “You’ll do to cross the river with and we’ll miss Miles like a toothache.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind,” Crane said.
“Yeah,” Horn grinned, “and maybe there’s a herd of wild elephants in Tucson.”
“Captain.” Sieber touched the sleeve of Crane’s tunic.
“Yes, sir?”
For the first time there was a trace of warmth in the old scout’s attitude toward the young officer. “I’ve found that feeling
sorry for yourself is a poormedicine, so would you consider joining three obsolete scouts for a drink?”
“Mr. Sieber,” Crane gulped, “I’d consider it an honor.”
As the four men proceeded in step toward the
cantina,
they crossed in front of Ryan’s store. Shana had taken up a broom and was sweeping the porch, which she had swept an hour
earlier.
Tom Horn’s eyes took her in the way a stallion takes in the sight of a fine young mare. He hoped she didn’t realize what he
was thinking as he watched her body move and her hands direct the long stem of the
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