Tom Horn vs. The Warlords of Krupp

TOM HORN VS. THE WARLORDS OF KRUPP

By

Jackson Paul

SMASHWORDS EDITION

* * * * *

PUBLISHED BY:

Prevail Publications on Smashwords

Tom Horn vs. The Warlords of Krupp

Copyright © 2012 by Prevail Publications


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This book is also available in a print edition at most online retailers.

This book is a work of fiction. Although many of the characters in this story are actual historical figures, they are used fictitiously for the purposes of this story.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. Vaya Con Dios, Pancho Villa

2. Teddy Roosevelt, I Hardly Knew Ye

3. He Flies Through the Air with the Greatest of Ease

4. The Wright Day to Stay Inside

5. New York, New York

6. Sailing, Sailing Over the Bounding Wave

7. Into the Fire

8. Gay Pa-ree

9. On the Good Ship Lollypop

10. Goodbye, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen

11. Beginning of the End of the Beginning

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TOM HORN VS. THE WARLORDS OF KRUPP

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1. VAYA CON DIOS, PANCHO VILLA

He wasn’t the biggest man that Tom Horn had ever seen. Heaven knows; Tiny Angulfssen back in St. Louis stood a hair’s breadth short of seven feet and had shoulders like a Brahma bull. He once carried two full-grown women, one on each shoulder. Of course, a lump of lead smaller than the tip of his little finger had put him in his grave, just like so many other men. No, this man was big, but far from the biggest. Nevertheless, the minute he stepped into the bar, every eye was upon him. He wore a blue coat that wrapped around him as if made two sizes too big—if that were possible—and then form fitted by wrapping the extra material around him. And he wore baggy grey pants over some black rounded boots with thick hobnail soles and shiny black toes covered in metal.

But the way that he dressed—odd that it was for this part of Texas—was nothing compared to one additional feature that drew everyone’s attention. As big as the man was—and he was big, mind you—two beats after he stepped through the swinging doors of the Javelina Cantina, the place burst into laughter. The big man paused as if he were expecting the outburst, but didn’t crack a smile. Instead, he stood at the entrance and scanned the occupants of the room, apparently looking for someone special.

As the laughter continued, he stepped forward to the bartender, who chuckled as well, but sobered up as the man stepped up to the bar.

Pardon me, the dark-skinned man said in a clipped accent. I am seeking someone. A Tom Horn.

The bartender stared at him, a smile threatening to break through his lips. Don’t know anyone by that name here, the bartender said. But would he be wearing a diaper on his head like you? At this the bartender burst into laughter, followed by the rest of the cantina. For the man who spoke to him wore a flowing white cloth wrapped around the top of his head.

Hey, maybe he just washed his hair, and can’t do a thing with it, someone shouted from the back, which was followed by more laughter.

In response, the big man reached out quickly and snatched the lapel of the bartender with one massive hand and lifted the man off the ground several inches, at the same time dragging him up to his eye level. He held the bartender effortlessly with one arm and stared into his eyes, no hint of amusement in his face. And the bartender—and most of the bar—stopped laughing.

I—am a Punjabi, born of the high country of my native country of India. I am the son of a warlord and grandson of a king. I have killed a tiger—a man eater—with my bare hands when I was eight. And I have killed more men since then than I care to think about, or tell you about. Now my question was a simple one. Is there a Tom Horn in this fine establishment?

He ain’t here. The words came clear and loudly from the back of the room, and the Punjabi let go of the bartender, letting the small man drop to his feet behind the bar. The big man turned to look at a smaller man, wiry, of about 40, who sat with his feet propped up on another wooden chair in the corner of the room. He was totally nondescript in the western saloon, dirty jeans and faded shirt over a worn pair of black cowboy boots. He was of average height, with a frame that appeared to have seen a lot of abuse, yet still moved smoothly and with the potential for great speed, like a rattlesnake. Steel grey eyes peered from beneath a ten-gallon Stetson with no hint of emotion in them but the sense that they were taking measure of everyone and everything they surveyed. Behind the smaller man, propped against the wall in the corner was a customized Winchester 30-30 with a brass inlay and the initials T.T.H. etched in script across the side.

The Punjabi stepped forward, the bar now grown quiet as everyone watched him cross the room, each step he took a heavy stride across the oak flooring. He crossed the distance in three steps and faced the smaller man, who looked up without emotion, at the same time reaching into a shirt pocket and pulling out papers to roll a cigarette. The Punjabi watched as his fingers flew across the paper in a drill that they obviously had gone through thousands of times, and now completed without a casual thought. The cigarette rolled, the smaller man flicked it to his lips in an effortless motion, then left it dangling from his lips. He looked up slowly at the Punjabi, who still stood in front of the table like a massive oak in a forest of smaller scrubs.

Something else I can help you with, pardner? the smaller man asked, one eyebrow coming up.

You would not be this Tom Horn I seek? the Punjab asked.

The smaller man shook his head slightly.

Tole you, he left here for New Mexico Territory about two days ago. Said he had a date with some cattle rustlers.

The Punjabi eyed the smaller man warily, his eyes flashing back to the Winchester propped against the corner, then back to the man’s face.

I suppose someone with a reputation like that of Tom Horn must be careful with whom he associates, the Punjabi said.

S’pose, the smaller man agreed.


There might be danger for a man who has been known to kill as many men as he.

The smaller man nodded. Might be.

Perhaps you can pass along a message to Mr. Horn if you come upon him in the near future, the Punjab said. Tell him that I have a proposal for him, a task of great import.

The smaller man chuckled.

Tasks of great import are the very thing that Tom Horn don’t need these days, he said. That’s what got him in trouble in the first place.

Tell him that I, Bashu, will wait for him two days. After that, I must leave, for the task I speak of will wait for no man. Not even the infamous Tom Horn.

The smaller man clucked his tongue and winked.

Now that’s a shame, ‘cuz you know Tom Horn won’t be back this way anytime soon, I imagine. He pulled his booted feet off the chair and onto the wood floor, reached behind him for the Winchester and pulled it to him, standing.

Right nice to meet you, Bashu, the smaller man said to the Punjab, reaching up and touching his fingers to the brim of his hat. I’ll be sure to pass the word along.

Bashu stood and watched as the smaller man walked across the floor to the bar and threw two small silver coins to the bartender, thanked him and walked out the front door.

The twilight had turned to darkness outside, and the man with the Winchester on his shoulder paused for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He took the time to strike a match and light his rolled cigarette, which still hung limp from his lower lip. A moment later, a man with a bowler hat and a badge on his lapel stepped up on his right.

Sure hope you and your buddies aren’t planning any trouble tonight, Tom, the lawman said, making a show of pulling his coattail free from his gun holster on the right side. Tom glanced down at the move by the lawman, then looked back into his eyes.

Oh, you know me, Sheriff. I don’t like trouble any more than you.

That’s good, because I have strict orders from Austin that we don’t stir up anything with the Mexicans or the Germans across the border. Let them stick to their business, and we will stick to ours. We don’t need any more border skirmishes.

War’s coming, Sheriff.

Not if I can help it, the sheriff said. Not in my town.

As if in reply, guns went off at the far edge of town, and Tom heard voices shouting in Spanish.

What about those who come into Presidio from across the border? asked Tom. Some of them is just looking for fun, but some are looking for trouble too.

I’ll take care of the trouble, the sheriff said quietly. You just steer clear of all of ‘em, hear me?

Tom nodded slightly, and the sheriff left him, walking quickly in the direction of the gunfire.

Don’t mind me, Sheriff, Tom said under his breath. I just got to take care of a little business. Real quiet like.  He stood in the dark of the wood walkway and stared across the street into a black alley. A few minutes later, he saw movement there, and heard a low whistle.

Tom strode across the dirt street toward the alley, which was next to the Presidio bank. He turned his back to the alley and leaned against the bank, looking out over the street. With the gathering darkness, the town had become more active. Lights came on down the street, and the gunfire continued at the edge of town. Tom was thankful that Sheriff Wicker would have his hands full with them, leaving Tom and his boys available for their own project.

Everyone ready? Tom muttered under his breath.

"Si, Senor Horn, came a man’s voice with a heavy accent. We be ready when you are."

"OK, Pablo, you and Lupe go join the rest of those Mexes headed back to the base. Kid and I will tag along, back about a quarter mile or so. You know the signal. We’ll be ready when you give it. Vaminos, muchachos."

He felt rather than heard the two men in sombreros slink off into the darkness, ready to join those who were returning across the border to the barracks in Ojinaga. Tensions ran high between ranchers here in the Big Bend area of the Rio Grande Valley and the new escalation of military in Mexico along the border. Tom had no idea what had led the Mexicans to start the military build-up, but the Germans were quick to take advantage of their insecurity, and had turned a small adobe fort into a state-of-the-art Army garrison.

And then there were those big grey things in the sky. Zeppelins, they called them. Tom thought they were the biggest tomfoolery he had ever seen. They were as huge as a mountain, and yet he still had seen no practical use for them. So far all he had seen they were good for was scaring the cattle.

And horses, Tom muttered to himself as he left his spot by the bank and headed south down the street. Horses. That was the business for tonight. He stopped for a long minute outside the livery stable, and watched as a barefoot, skinny, strawberry-haired kid of 14 in bib overalls gestured with a man in a German uniform over a contraption with two wheels and metal handlebars. Tom saw that it had started off as a bicycle, but steam came from vents on its side, and a bulbous canister rested beneath the seat.

"Nein, nein, the German said to the young boy. Ist kaput. Kann nicht reparieren."

The kid gestured palm out for the man to wait, then pushed the German’s insistent hands back and reached into his back pocket for a giant end wrench. He adjusted the nut at the top of the canister, tapped it with the side of the wrench, then pushed a lever forward. The bike chugged into life.

"Unmöglich! the German said. Vielen dank!" He reached over and grasped the hand of the kid and shook it vigorously, before mounting the metal bike with steam coming from its sides and putting into the street and off to the south.

Another happy Heine, Tom said quietly, following the uniformed man with his eyes. We can all sleep more soundly tonight. The kid looked over when he heard Tom’s voice and ran out to join him. He glanced up at him and tried to stand just like Tom.

You got the uniform? Tom asked the boy quietly. The kid nodded and tilted his head to gesture back toward the livery stable. Tom followed him back inside and put on a German uniform that the kid had stashed behind some bales of hay. It was long enough, but tight across the chest and shoulders. Tom grimaced.

Don’t these Germans eat anything? Oh, well, I don’t have to wear it long.

Tom looked down at the kid and raised an eyebrow. Now listen to me, Kid. You’re 14 years old, and if it were up to me, you’d still be home. But you’re not; you’re with me. So if you want to live to be 15, you have got to learn to mind. You got me?

The boy paused, smiling up at Tom, then nodded.

None of this daredevil stuff, hear me? You do what I say, when I say it. Got it?

The kid nodded again.

OK, we got to be on foot tonight, but just for the first part. Now let’s go get our horses.

Kid reached out, waiting for Tom to give him something, but Tom shook his head.

You get the gun when we get there. No sense blowing your foot off until we’re at a point where you can use it.

Kid’s shoulders slumped, then he nodded. The boy followed a few steps behind as Tom continued south and to the bridge that spanned the Rio Grande River.

The two of them could see the three massive, grey airships in the distance to the northwest, and they cut away from the road to Ojinaga and across country toward the base.  Tom led the way, with Kid following close behind, as they wandered through the barren rocks and sagebrush that surrounded them. They climbed an embankment, and soon they looked out over the base.

Tom had spent a year in the Army when they were storming San Juan Hill in Cuba, and so he was used to the look of a military base. This had some of the same trappings, but with some