Free Tom Horn And The Apache Kid by Andrew J. Fenady

letter telling her of her brother’s death.
     In that letter he offered to buy the operation, saying that he would keep the store open until she replied. If she decided
     to sell, he would send her the money immediately.
    Shana replied that she was coming west to visit her brother’s grave and that she probably would sell but would make her decision
     after thinking things over.
    Shana had no strong ties to the East. Besides, she wanted to get away from Brent Bradford’s ever-yeasting ardor. He was convinced
     that no reasonably sane woman could continue to resist the spell of his obvious charms. At the Boston train station he pressed
     those dry lips onto hers and rubbed hischest against her breast with what he considered passion and promised to wait at the bank until she returned. As far as Bradford
     was concerned, they were all but betrothed.
    He had been waiting now at the counting house for more than two months, while writing seventeen passionate letters and receiving
     three polite but noncommittal missives in return. In his last letter Bradford had written that he was ordering an engagement
     ring that he had specially designed himself…
    Karl Van Zeider met Shana at the railroad station near Fort Bowie and escorted her to her brother’s grave. She ordered a headstone
     and had it placed.
    Van Zeider turned over the profits from the store, meager as they were, and increased his offer from two thousand dollars to
     twenty-five hundred. Shana was sorely tempted to sell. Still, she felt near her brother here, walking where Tim had walked,
     touching the things he had touched, and putting fresh spring flowers on his grave.
    She even harbored the hope that somehow Tim’s killer might be found and brought to justice. But what justice? Suppose the
     killer were hanged? What solace would that bring to her—or to Tim Ryan in his cold, narrow chamber six feet beneath the earth?
    Once again she listened to Karl Van Zeider’s courtly, caramel-coated voice as he stood across from her in the store. Perhaps
     it was the things Tom Horn said and implied, but lately Shana had begun to get a slightly different perspective of this tall,
     helpful, courtly gentleman with the restless eyes.
    “Shana”—Van Zeider reached across and gently touched her forearm—“are you listening to what I’m saying?”
    “Yes. Yes, Karl—of course I am.” His fingers were longer and stronger, but in a way his touch reminded her of Brent Bradford’s—moist
     and covetous, not warm and comforting. “What were you saying?”
    “That you seemed to be on another planet,” Van Zeider smiled. “Or maybe in Massachusetts. Were you thinking about that young
     man you’ve been writing to, Mr. Bradford?”
    “I guess in a way I was,” Shana replied, and changed the subject. “Karl, I’m glad your brother’s going to be well.”
    “What? Oh, yes, so am I. Look here, Shana, you’re a young beautiful woman. But the strain’s beginning to show. All this is
     just too much…”
    “For a young beautiful woman?”
    “Exactly.”
    “I’d better take a look in the mirror, Karl. I didn’t realize I was deteriorating so rapidly. Before you know I’ll be scaring
     the customers away.” Shana was beginning to enjoy vexing the worldly entrepreneur. “ ‘Oh, don’t go into Ryan’s Store!’ I can
     hear the mothers telling their little children. ‘There’s an old hag in there. Some say she’s a witch from Salem, a bony old
     hag with sunken eyes and a wart on her nose.…’ ”
    “Oh, stop it, Shana!” Van Zeider smiled a forced smile. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”
    “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t tease. Karl, you’ve been a big help and I appreciate all you’ve done.”
    “Look here, Shana—you know my brother and Ihave most of the franchises from Prescott to the border. Fort Whipple, Lowell, McDowell, Apache…”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “And it’s our line that freights the goods in.”
    “I know that,