broom across the spotless porch. She was
dangerous, and Tom knew it. Not because she had aroused Tom Horn’s mating instinct. Many women, Indian and white, had done
that. But for the first time another instinct had been stirred in him. He wanted to hold her, soothe and protect her, to make
sure she was not alone, to say things he had never said before. Dangerous!
“Welcome back, Tom.” Shana stopped sweeping, brushed back a soft strand of an errant gold curl from her smooth brow, and smiled.
“Thank you Miss Ryan,” Tom said a little uncomfortably. “Oh, this is Al Sieber, the Apache Kid, and a friend of ours, Captain
Crane.”
Shana nodded acknowledgment. So did the men.
“Haven’t sold out yet?” Horn asked.
“Not yet.”
With a trace of impatience, Sieber glanced toward the
cantina.
“I’m thinking of staying,” she added.
“Interesting,” said Horn, and walked away with the others.
Chapter Eleven
Customers at the Van Zeider
cantina
were sparse. Fewer than a dozen sat in bunches of three and four at tables, and two others leaned against the bar and chinned
with Peg, the bartender. No one knew or cared what Peg’s real name was; since he had long ago been fitted with a wooden rig
that substituted for his missing right leg, everyone called him Peg. He didn’t seem to mind—particularly if the caller was
buying him a drink. Peg was tall, more than six feet, and in his mid-fifties, with uncombed hair and an untrimmed beard. He
wore a soiled, collarless striped shirt. Wide dirty suspenders held up a pair of frayed pants.
The three scouts and Captain Crane walked through the open door. Horn motioned for them to sit at an empty table near the
window, then walked to the bar.
“One bottle,” ordered Horn, and slapped money on the counter.
“I hear you boys treed that Apache son of a bitch.” Peg waddled a step, picked up a quart of whiskey, and set it next to the
money.
“Four glasses,” Horn said.
Peg wiped at his whiskey-soaked whis kers, rana dirty palm across his crop of mottled hair, and reached under the bar. He brought up a glass, then another, then a third.
He hesitated, bit his yellow teeth into his lower lip, and looked toward the Apache Kid.
“
Four
glasses,” Horn repeated.
Peg set up another glass.
Horn picked up the bottle with his left hand, stabbed the four glasses with the fingers of the other hand, and proceeded to
the table where Sieber, the Kid, and Crane sat waiting.
As Horn walked across the room none of the customers drank or spoke. All eyes were aimed point-blank at the Apache Kid.
Peg leaned across the bar, poured a drink for a customer who hadn’t asked for one, and whispered a few words. The customer,
known only as Baldy, a wizened old coot, hairless as a sausage, nodded, threw the drink down his throat, and scuttled out
the door as fast as his weedy curled legs could convey him.
Horn paused a beat and pointedly looked around at all the silent, staring citizens. That look from Tom provided incentive
enough for the locals to go back to drinking.
Horn loosed the four glasses onto the table, then set the bottle directly in front of the Apache Kid with the label straight
at him.
The Kid looked from the label up to Tom. It was the same whiskey the Indians were drinking at the ranch they turned into a
slaughter house in Mexico.
“That brand sure gets around,” said the Kid.
“Boys,” said Sieber, “we can chew the cud of deliberation some other time. We’re
here to do someby-God drinking with our ol’ hunting partner Captain…Say, Captain, you must have a first name—most everybody does.”
“Of course I’ve got a first name.”
“Well, say it, boy,” Sieber barked. “Say it!”
“It’s…Melvyn.”
“Melvyn!” Sieber roared. “Melvyn! Sounds like aby-Godminister.”
Horn shoved the bottle toward Crane. “Well, Melvyn, go ahead. Pour.”
Captain Crane poured.
“Did you see that, boys?” Sieber
dangerous, and Tom knew it. Not because she had aroused Tom Horn’s mating instinct. Many women, Indian and white, had done
that. But for the first time another instinct had been stirred in him. He wanted to hold her, soothe and protect her, to make
sure she was not alone, to say things he had never said before. Dangerous!
“Welcome back, Tom.” Shana stopped sweeping, brushed back a soft strand of an errant gold curl from her smooth brow, and smiled.
“Thank you Miss Ryan,” Tom said a little uncomfortably. “Oh, this is Al Sieber, the Apache Kid, and a friend of ours, Captain
Crane.”
Shana nodded acknowledgment. So did the men.
“Haven’t sold out yet?” Horn asked.
“Not yet.”
With a trace of impatience, Sieber glanced toward the
cantina.
“I’m thinking of staying,” she added.
“Interesting,” said Horn, and walked away with the others.
Chapter Eleven
Customers at the Van Zeider
cantina
were sparse. Fewer than a dozen sat in bunches of three and four at tables, and two others leaned against the bar and chinned
with Peg, the bartender. No one knew or cared what Peg’s real name was; since he had long ago been fitted with a wooden rig
that substituted for his missing right leg, everyone called him Peg. He didn’t seem to mind—particularly if the caller was
buying him a drink. Peg was tall, more than six feet, and in his mid-fifties, with uncombed hair and an untrimmed beard. He
wore a soiled, collarless striped shirt. Wide dirty suspenders held up a pair of frayed pants.
The three scouts and Captain Crane walked through the open door. Horn motioned for them to sit at an empty table near the
window, then walked to the bar.
“One bottle,” ordered Horn, and slapped money on the counter.
“I hear you boys treed that Apache son of a bitch.” Peg waddled a step, picked up a quart of whiskey, and set it next to the
money.
“Four glasses,” Horn said.
Peg wiped at his whiskey-soaked whis kers, rana dirty palm across his crop of mottled hair, and reached under the bar. He brought up a glass, then another, then a third.
He hesitated, bit his yellow teeth into his lower lip, and looked toward the Apache Kid.
“
Four
glasses,” Horn repeated.
Peg set up another glass.
Horn picked up the bottle with his left hand, stabbed the four glasses with the fingers of the other hand, and proceeded to
the table where Sieber, the Kid, and Crane sat waiting.
As Horn walked across the room none of the customers drank or spoke. All eyes were aimed point-blank at the Apache Kid.
Peg leaned across the bar, poured a drink for a customer who hadn’t asked for one, and whispered a few words. The customer,
known only as Baldy, a wizened old coot, hairless as a sausage, nodded, threw the drink down his throat, and scuttled out
the door as fast as his weedy curled legs could convey him.
Horn paused a beat and pointedly looked around at all the silent, staring citizens. That look from Tom provided incentive
enough for the locals to go back to drinking.
Horn loosed the four glasses onto the table, then set the bottle directly in front of the Apache Kid with the label straight
at him.
The Kid looked from the label up to Tom. It was the same whiskey the Indians were drinking at the ranch they turned into a
slaughter house in Mexico.
“That brand sure gets around,” said the Kid.
“Boys,” said Sieber, “we can chew the cud of deliberation some other time. We’re
here to do someby-God drinking with our ol’ hunting partner Captain…Say, Captain, you must have a first name—most everybody does.”
“Of course I’ve got a first name.”
“Well, say it, boy,” Sieber barked. “Say it!”
“It’s…Melvyn.”
“Melvyn!” Sieber roared. “Melvyn! Sounds like aby-Godminister.”
Horn shoved the bottle toward Crane. “Well, Melvyn, go ahead. Pour.”
Captain Crane poured.
“Did you see that, boys?” Sieber
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