by Mark Henry
Blake said, “A girl named Angela Kenworth was kidnapped off the NPR right-of-way yesterday afternoon.” He seemed to glow with nervous energy, and the spotted mare gave him an anxious snort. Blake noticed, and stepped away from the fence completely to keep from spooking the horse and agitating his father.
Trap calmed the new mother with a reassuring pat on the shoulder. He said to Blake, “Your mama was right. You are vexed at that. I feel bad about the girl, son, but you’ve tracked bad men before.”
Blake looked at Roman, then back at his father. “From the looks of things, it was Indians that got her.”
Trap let the odd news slide by. It was a modern world. Indians didn’t do this sort of thing anymore. “This girl any relation to Peter Kenworth of the PK Gold and Timber Company?”
“His seventeen-year-old daughter,” Roman said through his teeth, his chin on the top rail. “She was on her way to visit him from Boston where she lives with her mother. Her party was bushwhacked west of Saltese right at the junction with Goblin Creek. Most everyone else was killed and the Kenworth girl’s gone missing. The kidnappers did leave behind her little finger.”
“Still wearing a ruby ring,” Blake added, staring blankly at the nursing colt.
“I heard there was still some renegades operating out of the Sierra Madre.” Trap picked up each of the mule colt’s feet, rubbing and tapping them to help gentle it for future shoeing. “We got us some deserted places up here in Montana, but none as bad as Mexico.” His brow now furrowed deeply in thought. “Any place up here where a body could sell a white woman in this day and age?”
“Not that I know of.” Blake shook his head. “But they only took the one. There was another woman in the party. Whoever did this used her something awful, then killed her. If they were looking to sell women, why only take one and murder the other?”
The two older men looked at each other; then Trap took a deep breath. There were certain aspects of life a father hoped he never had to pass along to the next generation. “I don’t know, son. Could be a whole lot of reasons. Maybe one of them fought harder and hurt their manly pride? The Kenworth girl could be dead already somewhere else and you just haven’t found the body yet.” He shrugged. “Quién sabe?” Who knows?
Blake said, “We found a five-year-old boy hiding, but everyone else is dead. They were butchered, Pa . . .” The young lawman’s eyes turned glassy for a moment. He gave his head a shake to clear his thoughts. “Anyhow, the kid hid out in a secret compartment under the seat where Kenworth hides gold he’s bringing out from the mines.”
Blake described the bloody scene to his father. He told him of finding the frightened blond boy, wide-eyed and catatonic, hiding in the dark box under the leather seat, the ammonia smell of urine and the buzzing drone of the green flies the only thing to give away his location.
“Looks like his mama was the woman they killed.”
“Does he say it was Indians done it?” Trap straddled the mule colt and rubbed its long ears while it nuzzled the mare’s flank.
“No, but there’s arrows everywhere, and I counted at least two different sets of moccasin tracks along with a lot of boot prints. The bodies were carved up something fierce. Pa, when was the last time you heard of an Indian raiding party?”
Trap shrugged but said nothing.
Blake looked up toward the house to make sure his mother wasn’t coming. “That’s right. Nobody uses a bow anymore. I don’t know much about Flathead or Blackfoot arrows or any of the Montana tribes.”
He turned to focus on his father. “I could be dead wrong about this . . .” He paused, looking over at Roman.
“Blake says the arrows are made of salt cedar, which I assume doesn’t grow up here,” Ky said. His eyes groaned with fatigue. “I think he ought to be one who could recognize the track left by an Apache moccasin. Don’t you?”
Trap stood up and climbed back through the fence, rubbing the sore spot over his knee. “How many people know about this?”
“Old Chauncey Skidmore found the bodies while he was making his deliveries.”
“Everyone from here to Bozeman then.” Trap bounced a closed fist on the top fence rail while he thought. The dry-goods salesman was a renowned tongue-wagger. The telephone was making a general appearance around western Montana, but there were still only two surefire ways to spread information: telegraph and tell-Chauncey.
“Since it happened on railroad right-of-way, there’s been a lot of folks see it,” Blake said. “Heck, they’re ridin’ by on flatcars to have free peeks at the show.”
“True.” Roman nodded. “But I doubt anybody around here could tell the difference between an Apache arrow and a quill pen.”
“They don’t have to.” Trap chewed on the inside of his cheek while he chewed on the situation. “Most of these folks couldn’t tell Geronimo and Chief Joseph apart if you stood ’em both side by side. They’ll see a bunch of arrows and feel free to take their leave to exercise a hate for all Indians. They won’t need to take the time to focus on any tribe in particular.”
Maggie came out with three empty cups, a pot of coffee, and a sweating glass of lemonade. “I got some cold water from the springhouse for your lemonade, Ky. I’ll have fry bread in a minute,” she said, wearing a smile and a fresh calico dress that stopped just past her knees. Her hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail that hung to her waist.
Ky took the glass and nodded his approval.
“Clay never did get you to start drinking the hard stuff, did he?” Trap said sipping at his coffee. It was hot and black like Maggie’s eyes.
“Nope.” Roman winked, used to the teasing about his odd Mormon ways, and raised his glass of lemonade in salute.
“How is Kenworth weighing in on all this?” Trap wondered out loud. “I’ve heard tell he’s got his own private army.”
Roman held the cool glass up next to his temple and closed his eyes while he spoke. “He does, but most of them are out fighting fires to protect his timber investments. He’s the one that called President Taft—him or his wife. She comes from old money and has a lot of connections with the party. From what I understand, she was against the girl’s coming here at all.” The marshal shuddered. “Lizbeth Kenworth may be a small woman, but she’s as imperious as Queen Victoria. I believe I’d shoot myself if I were married to her. At any rate, the Kenworths are understandably scared. Peter knew of my service during the campaigns, and when it looked like Apaches were involved, he asked the president to have me look into it. Blake was one step ahead of him. He knew I was over in Spokane on business and eventually on my way to surprise you.”
“I needed you both,” said Blake. “Both the deputies are down in Billings. My marshal and Judge Straby are back in Washington, D.C., doing some politicking. Marshal Roman has the official clout I need to deal with the locals, and you’re the best tracker I know. Besides that, you both know Apaches.”
Trap smirked and looked over at his wife, who stood silently by his side.
“Son, I am Apache—half one at least. Since my dear mama was your grandma, that gives you a considerable amount of expertise on the subject yourself. And all the hazards that go along with it.”
“That’s why we need Mr. Roman. Kenworth doesn’t trust us redskins. There’s more out there,” Blake said. “But I’m not sure what it all means. I think you two should have a look for yourselves.” He turned to look at his mother, filling in the details she’d missed, without getting too graphic about the murders and the condition of the little Donahue boy.
“I’m worried about you out here by yourself if Papa comes with me,” Blake told her. “Most men are out working on all the fires, but people with grudges are getting mighty worked up about Indians right now. I heard an old Salish man just about got himself lynched between here and Missoula last night trying to get his loose dog back from a neighbor’s house. Quite a few of these folks still remember the Nez Percé war.”
“So do I,” Maggie said simply.
Trap snaked an ar
m around his wife’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “He’s right, Mag. Why don’t I take you over to Trissy Bloom’s place in Taft and the two of you can work on that quilt you started?”
“I’ll bring my rifle.” Maggie took the empty cups and strode for the house.
“Of course.” O’Shannon picked up his own gun.
The men watched her walk away.
“She’s pretty as ever. You remember the time... ?” Ky looked at Blake, who toed at the dirt again. “Never mind. I won’t embarrass you, boy. You’re one lucky man, O’Shannon.”
“I know.” Trap shook Ky’s hand. “It’s sure enough good to see you. Even under these circumstances. It does put me in a mind of old times.”
“Me too, Denihii.” Roman used Trap’s Apache name. “Me too. All things considered, I’m glad for a chance to ride with you again.”
“All right then.” Trap looked at his son. “I need to get dressed and get your mama over to the Blooms’ place.”
“Kenworth’s already greased the skids with the railroad so they’ll give us all the cooperation we want,” Roman said. “Just put your mule in a boxcar when you take Maggie, and then ride back from Taft to meet us after you get her settled in at her friends. You got somebody to feed your stock?”
Trap nodded. “I’ll turn ’em out into the pasture and they should be set for a while. I’ll stop in with Old Man Rosenbaum on the way into town and ask him to give a look now and then in case the fires come this way. Folks around here feel pretty much the same way about him as they do about us.”
“Good enough.” The young deputy put his hat and gloves back on. A relaxed smile returned to his face and he breathed easier now that his father had taken up his cause. “I’m going to get Marshal Roman some better work clothes, so we should get there about the same time. I got a jailer standing guard on the place, but he’s not much, so I want to hurry. Let’s say three hours at Goblin Creek. It’s about a mile before you start up that long hill from the valley.”
Trap patted his son on the back, then gave his old captain a halfhearted salute. Roman returned it with a grin.
“That was a poor excuse for a salute, O’Shannon—but you never did stand much on protocol.” The man’s eyes sparkled and he took Trap’s hand again. “Twelve years gives us a lot of catching up to do, my old friend.”
“That it does, Captain,” Trap said. “That it does.”
* * *
The two visitors had mounted their horses and trotted through the jack pines by the time Trap made it from the barn to the cabin. Maggie met him as she came out the front door with a large clay bowl covered with a cup-towel.
“I got this butter out of the springhouse when I went to get Ky’s lemonade. I was hoping Blake might stay for fry bread.”
“Sorry, Maggie. He had to push on.” Trap started through the door, but his wife rocked sideways to block him with a hip.
“I know. This is all bad.” Her face tensed. “Very bad. I was almost ready for you to go fight the fires, but now I think this trail will take you from me for a longer time. I don’t like it, but I know you have to go—for Blake’s sake. I see they gave him a badge now.” Maggie pursed her lips, then let out a slow sigh. She held the bowl of butter against her waist and ran the fingers of her free hand along the stubble on Trap’s jaw. “You’re getting a little gaunt, Husband—like a hungry wolf.”
Her face relaxed and her eyes became moist and bottomless. “I have grown used to having you underfoot, you know. We may be apart for a while.... I noticed when I got the butter that the springhouse is very cool at this time of day.”
“The springhouse is always coo . . .” Trap’s eyebrows shot up. “It is nice and cool in there, ain’t it?” He looked off through the smoke where the two men had disappeared. “But we got a lot to do and I gotta meet Blake and Ky in three hours.”
“Hurry then.” Maggie started through the trees for the earthen cellar. She used her free hand to hike her dress up just below her bottom so she could tease Trap and move faster as she sauntered through the stump row. There was an exaggerated wiggle in her full hips. A lifetime of riding and the miles she walked in the meadows near their new home had blessed her with the firm legs of a woman half her age. Bronze calf muscles flexed as her bare feet padded their way across the dusty, pine-thatched ground.
Trap felt his mouth go dry and he swung his rifle, barrel first, over his shoulder to trot after her. He too couldn’t help but think about how long he might be gone. The idea of riding with Ky again after so many years fanned a flame of adventure O’Shannon thought had long since flickered out.
Trap was proud of the man his boy had become. He knew Blake was capable; there was enough of his mother in him to see to that. Watching him work would be pure pleasure. But this business with the badge worried him. An Indian marshal investigating what people saw as an Indian killing could turn into a real powder keg.
On the other hand, women like Maggie Sundown O’Shannon only came along about every other lifetime and he’d spent enough time away from her already. He had to go; there was no question about that. It was his duty. But having to ride off from Maggie, adventure or not, left a pit in his stomach that even a romp in the springhouse wasn’t likely to cure.
CHAPTER 3
Where his son was a tall spruce, Patrick “Trap” O’Shannon was more of a broad oak. Thick arms and shoulders branched from a tree-trunk chest planted squarely over stout, if somewhat stubby, legs. He was slightly bowlegged from years in the saddle, but his sure feet gripped the earth through leather moccasins with such ferocity, it seemed he was rooted to the ground. When Trap was very young, his missionary father had told him it didn’t matter so much how tall he grew as long as he made certain the inches God gave him counted for something. He often wondered what his father would have thought about the way he’d turned out.
At a shade under five feet eight inches tall, O’Shannon paid special attention to the size of his mount. There had been plenty of tall, well-broke mules in the Army, and an equal number of stub-legged things with backs that could pack a four-poster bed. Hoping to save his knees from riding too long on a wide mule, he’d settled for one of medium height and narrower build. It also happened to be the most sullen beast he’d ever come across.
General Crook had seen the benefit of riding a mule. As a rule Trap agreed, finding most of the hybrids to be surer of foot, smoother to ride, and smarter. But smarter didn’t necessarily mean easier to get along with.
This particular mule came to him as a two-year-old by way of what seemed at the time like a shrewd trade. Since then, it had been his companion for many a mile and the last fifteen years. Trap had heard of mules living past forty. Hashkee was too mean to die any time soon and would likely see Trap go to his grave. A wild eye seemed to say that was the plan anyway. Hashkee meant angry in Apache, and the mule lived up to its name on a daily basis with pinned ears and a kinked tail at every saddling.
Tomcat-mean, with lightning hooves that had lain to rest one hapless coyote, six dogs, and too many rattlesnakes to count, Hashkee had more bad habits than most of the shavetail mules Trap had dealt with in the Army. He bit and bucked and on some rides, only knew two directions: backward and straight up.
About the time Trap had decided to put a bullet behind the animal’s ear, the two had come to a sort of understanding. Every day, for almost a month, Trap had saddled the sullen mule thinking he’d shoot it by nightfall. Hashkee had seemed to sense his peril, and from that point on gave no more than a halfhearted crow-hop while Trap was aboard. The mule never gave up its bloodlust for dogs, but Trap didn’t consider himself much of a dog lover anyway.
What Hashkee lacked in the way of good nature, he made up for with consistency. On one campaign, deep into Mexico, when oats were nowhere to be found, both Trap and his grumpy mount had gone almost a week on a jug of tepid water and a handful of stale tortillas. No matter the adversity, the animal did what was asked of it. Not that there wasn’t a certain amo
unt of griping. Hashkee was, after all, a mule. But he’d seen them safely out of many a bad scrape, and that was enough to make up for an ornery disposition.
There was no real love lost between man and beast, but on a mission like this one, the last thing O’Shannon wanted to worry over was his mount.
Leaving Maggie at the Blooms’ place was a hard thing, the hardest thing Trap had done in a long time. He felt as if he’d tied a gut to a low limb of the sycamore tree in front of their house and slowly uncoiled his insides the further he rode from his wife. When he was younger, adventure had often curled her beckoning finger and drawn him to the trail. At each separation, the cramp in his heart grew stronger, but the urgency of each campaign pushed the melancholy back to the far reaches of his mind. Over the years, though, he’d discovered Maggie had infinitely more temptations to offer than any adventure and found, to his surprise, he enjoyed the quiet evenings with her as much as any hostile engagement.
The frolic in the springhouse had been more than enjoyable; Maggie was amazing at that sort of thing. Trap’s face flushed at the memory of it. The freshness of it burned his cheeks more fiercely than the blazing sun.
He busied his mind on the task at hand and tried not to ponder on the leaving too much, but there was no way to deny the hungry nagging that got deeper with every step the mule took. It was impossible to know how long he’d have to be gone. Once Trap cut sign, he would stay glued to it no matter where it led.
He always planned for a lengthy campaign, but he didn’t need much. Three days of oat rations in a canvas nose bag straddled his saddlebags, and a wool bedroll hung across the mule’s mutton-withers tied to the pommel of his Mexican-style saddle. An extra wool shirt hid between his two saddle blankets, one of which had a hole cut in it so he could use it for a serape when he had to stand watch on a chilly mountain night. His .45-70 Marlin hung comfortably under the stirrup fender on his right side, buttstock to the rear so it didn’t catch the brush. On his left side, facing forward—away from the cantle of his high-backed saddle—hung a break-top Smith and Wesson Scofield in .45 caliber. There were newer pistols around, double-actions and fancy new auto-loaders, but if Trap was anything, he was faithful. If something worked, he stuck with it.