To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  Trap studied the dusty ground at the base of the butchered man, then around the pile of bloating horses. Many sorts of tracks stitched the area around the bodies, most of them from Jiggin’ Joe and the other onlookers; but few of them had taken time to look at the horses. A careful study of the blood-soaked dust around the bloated animals let Trap narrow the number of possible tracks to six: two moccasins and four boots. Blake had taken the time to make some decent sketches on his first trip to the site. Comparing what he had with the sketches brought the number down to five. The tracks Ky found allowed them to discard a set of hobnails that probably belonged to one of the gawking boys who’d disappeared into the trees.

  “Except for the boot tracks, it sure looks like Indians are the ones behind this,” Ky mused, looking across the parched hills in the direction of the hoofprints. Kenworth’s place was up Goblin Creek to the north. The tracks led south. “But I suppose most Indians wear boots nowadays.”

  Trap grunted in agreement. “And some white men wear moccasins. But it looks like you sure hit the mark, son. The person that left this track doesn’t land on his heels like a white man. Look here at the heavy toe on this one. Your grandma sewed moccasins just like this. They’re Apache all right—a mite new-looking, though, to be this far from home.”

  “What do you make of this, Pa?” Blake squatted next to a clump of bunchgrass.

  Trap found signs of struggle in the twists of yellow grass and dusty stones. A splash of blood cut a black line across a tuft of bent stem, too far away to come from the bodies beside the coach. The dry bunchgrass had been pressed into the dirt by a twisting heel.

  “I’ll bet one of them clipped the Kenworth girl’s finger right here.” Trap laid his hand across two long scuff marks in the dirt, turning so he didn’t cast a shadow and obscure any sign. The dusty earth was almost too hot to touch. He made a mental note of the size and shape of the girl’s track. “See where her feet went out from under her. She likely fainted.”

  Ky squatted down beside his friend and looked him in the eye. “I pray to God she fainted before she saw what they did to her companions.”

  Blake brought up an arrow he’d pulled from the coach wall and ran a finger along sparse fletching. “Trade point, salt cedar shaft. Looks like an Apache arrow to me.”

  “It does.” Trap kept his hand on the ground, as if he were gaining information from the feel of the hot earth. “I’ve seen a passel of Apache arrows in my day, but I never thought I’d see one up here in Montana in nineteen and ten. Not with blood on it anyhow.”

  Ky took off his hat and wiped his face with a white handkerchief. “Doesn’t it seem like an awfully big coincidence that the last three members of our scout-tracker unit are all in this little part of God’s vineyard at precisely the right time to track a bunch of renegade Apache?”

  “I don’t believe in coincidence and neither do you, Captain. This whole thing is a puzzlement to be sure. In the old days this is somthin’ you’d pray over and I’d consult Maggie about.” Trap thought of his old friend Clay and smiled. “And Madsen would seek the arms of an understanding woman to chase the whole thing out of his mind.”

  “We have to consider the possibility of ambush.” Roman let his gaze wander along the hazy hills above them.

  “I’d say we should count on it,” Trap said.

  “Ambush or not, the Kenworth girl’s out there and someone has to go after her,” Roman said, stating the obvious.

  The wind shifted a bit, giving Trap a whiff of the nearby corpses, and yanked him back to grim reality. “All right, Captain.” He looked across the road at Jiggin’ Joe, who stood drooling and useless, trying to hide from the hard gaze of the other three men. Trap suddenly felt the need to put as much distance as he could between himself and so much incompetence. “We should get on with it.”

  “Blake,” the marshal said, returning the hat to his head. “Have your man lay these poor souls to rest. I doubt he’d be much use to us on the trail.”

  Trap grabbed the wide horn on his saddle and started to swing up, then stopped. He turned and looked at Blake, thinking. “The sign all points south, toward the Idaho line. With the captain’s permission, I’d like you to go back and look in on your mama. I want her to try and talk with the boy. He survived all this and if he’s got a story to tell, she’s the one who can get him to tell it. If we’ve got an ambush ahead, it would sure help to know what he saw. You pie-aye back to us as soon as you can with Mr. Madsen. We’ll leave a good solid trail for you to follow. I don’t know if these renegades will stay to the mountains or not, but there are a couple of little burgs over into Idaho we should probably check.”

  “Yes, sir.” Blake nodded. “Be careful.”

  “You do the same and make fast tracks. I got a feeling these killers are headed for the High Lonesome. If they do, we’ll need you and Clay both to ferret them out.”

  Blake’s Appaloosa kicked up dust as he wheeled to lope off toward Taft.

  Trap turned his attention back to Ky. “Shall we go, Captain?”

  “You got a fine son there, O’Shannon.” A hot breath of breeze caught and tugged at Ky’s gray hair. His smile seemed out of place in amidst the surrounding. “Takes after his mother.”

  “I hope so.” Trap watched Blake disappear into the distorted waves of heat that rose up from the scorched ground. He tried not to think about the carnage thirty feet away. The possibility of ambush was almost certain, and he needed to focus all his instincts on what lay ahead.

  Trap turned the mule and trotted over to take up the kidnappers’ trail. From the corner of his eye, he saw Joe Casey retrieve his bloody hat from the butchered man’s lap and return it to his sunburned head.

  CHAPTER 4

  Fire Camp

  Blue smoke curled like a faded silk ribbon on the heavy green thatch of towering cedars. Giant trees slouched under the weight of the desolation they’d seen. Beneath the layer of smoke, the flint-hard odor of scorched earth pressed two dozen bleary-eyed men to the blackened ground like an unseen hand. The sharp smell of burned cedar stung their bloodshot eyes and pinched at their raw noses.

  Granite Creek gurgled over clean melon-sized rocks, just a few feet away from the men. It was cool and clear in contrast to the superheated oppressiveness of the gray air, but the parched men had to rely on the warm water in their canteens for moisture. Fires in the mountains had rendered most of the smaller streams undrinkable. Flowing over the charcoaled skeletons of thousands of burned trees transformed the water into lye strong enough to make soap—or eat a hole in a man’s gut.

  For now, the sound of the stream was all they had to cool them. The surviving trees gave some measure of shade; the heat of an August sun ate its way through and threatened to boil the good sense out of the already blistered men. Warm water and juice from their rations of canned tomatoes were in good supply to wash down a plentiful diet of bacon and pancakes, but the heat put a tight fist around the men’s stomachs and kept their appetites small.

  Rather than eating, the exhausted men were content to lounge here and there on dirty blankets across from blackened snags and the few remaining cedars at the far edge of the firebreak. Many of these trees were large enough that four grown men could stand in a circle and not reach around the trunk. The last night and most of the day was spent working the wide firebreak so the ranger could set a back-burn and stop one of the largest wildfires in its tracks.

  The work was much like building a road; they scraped and chopped and grubbed anything that might burn in a wide swath over a mile long. Further up the valley, Granite Creek joined a larger stream that no one seemed to know the name of and helped keep the distance manageable. Once the firebreak was completed, the men had used torches to set a back-burn ahead of the prevailing wind to burn any flammable material and starve the oncoming fire when it arrived.

  It had worked, and apart from a few spots where popping embers shot across the wide break, the backfire had stayed on the far side. When the wildfire
approached, it had no fuel and sputtered to a stop before it reached the break. The fire boss, Ranger Horace Zelinski, posted fireguards for the jumping embers and they were extinguished immediately.

  The blaze of the day contained, the break provided a safe haven for the beleaguered men. Most of them used the time to sleep, stretched out where they had fallen, exhausted on the dust and sand of the forest floor, blackened blankets pulled over soot-covered faces to hide them from the bright haze of light.

  Four of the crew sat in the shade of one of the largest cedars, playing cards on a grimy blanket. A somber mood hung above the little group and mingled with the smoke. Their voices were a buzzing whisper, drowned out from the others by the gurgling creek.

  Daniel Rainwater, a nineteen-year-old Flathead Indian with perfect white teeth, crossed his long legs under him at the edge of the dusty blanket. His poker face was a constant grin, gleaming like a crescent moon. His friend Joseph sat to his right. The same age as Rainwater, Joseph was shorter by a hand and kept his own teeth hidden behind a closed mouth. Daniel knew his friend cared little for cards, but played because he did.

  Rainwater also knew he was taking advantage, but the knowledge that the tough-minded Joseph was nearby allowed him to push things—to take chances he wouldn’t otherwise take—like playing cards with the likes of the two men across the blanket.

  Ox Monroe was easily six and a half feet of mean bone, knife scar, and fire-hardened muscle. He sported two gold front teeth that snapped together like scissors when he was angry or frustrated. The giant sported a twisting green tattoo of a serpent that started at his neck and ran down the front of his filthy shirt before it crawled out and ended in a large fanged mouth on his thick forearm. Everyone assumed he’d been a sailor, but he never said anything to confirm the rumors.

  Monroe’s companion, Roan Taggart, was a big man in his own right, but next to Ox, he was almost dwarfed. An odd scar, pale and pinched, covered the left side of his face from chin to shriveled ear. It pulled the skin tight around a squinty left eye and ran down behind his hat before disappearing beneath the frayed collar of his dingy shirt. A remnant of a nasty burn. Premature flecks of white hair had invaded Taggart’s red beard and earned him the nickname Roan at an early age. In his late forties, there was hardly any red left. A constant diet of bacon and canned tomatoes disagreed with his belly and made him prone to violent eruptions of gas that made the unscarred portion of his face go red. He blew often, and when he did, everyone else sought a safe haven upwind. Two of the crew had worked fires up on the Yellowstone, and commented on how Roan’s sulfurous additions to the air reminded them of the place.

  The buzz throughout the fire camp was that Monroe and Taggart had escaped from a prison in Colorado. The fire season was bad enough that every able body was needed, and if the authorities knew anything, they didn’t mention it.

  Both of the big men wore pistols openly on thick leather belts at their sides, but they fingered long-handled bowie knives while they played. Rainwater knew playing cards with such men was not so dangerous as winning at cards with them, but the brash young Flathead couldn’t help himself.

  Big Ox clicked his gold teeth in silent frustration, a sure sign he had a bad hand. Roan fiddled with the rawhide whang on his knife sheath. He wasn’t holding anything worthwhile either.

  Joseph had won slightly more than he’d lost, but Daniel couldn’t seem to make a mistake. If he held a pair and threw in three, he’d draw a full house. If he threw back four, he’d pull back a straight or at the very least three of a kind. As the young Indian’s smile spread, the mood across the blanket grew as dark as the blackened landscape across the firebreak.

  Roan let go of his knife handle long enough to deal the next hand.

  Monroe swept his cards up in a beefy paw. “If you ain’t a son of a whore,” he said, glaring across the blanket at Rainwater as if he’d been the one to give him the bad hand. His voice was rough and punctuated with a gritty cough.

  Daniel shrugged, but his smile only dimmed a little. At two bits a hand, he was almost seven dollars ahead and no amount of talk could chase away his happiness. He threw back three. The white crescent of teeth was unwavering as he studied his new cards and rearranged them to his liking.

  Roan drew two, passed a voluminous cloud of rotten-egg gas, and then folded. Joseph folded as well, leaving the game to Rainwater and Monroe.

  Big Ox waved away Roan’s addition to the smoky air and gave his cards a satisfied grunt. He smiled like he’d just swallowed someone’s prize poodle and fanned three jacks on the blanket. His cards in the open, Monroe’s heavy brow furrowed over seething eyes that dared the young Indian to best him. He’d stopped clicking his gold teeth, but thick fingers tapped the hilt of the long knife at his side.

  Daniel shrugged, smiled, and tossed down a straight flush, queen high.

  Monroe shot a withering look across the blanket. His dark eyes boiled like storm clouds that might at any moment shoot thunderbolts and consume what was left of the forest and Rainwater along with it.

  “You thievin’ little nit.” The giant man grabbed the greasewood handle of his long knife. The blade hissed up an inch from the sheath. But he didn’t draw it completely.

  Joseph’s hand already rested on his own blade.

  Daniel Rainwater didn’t move. Instead, he smiled his toothy smile. “Nothing harmed, Big Ox. We’ll just play for fun.”

  Ox was already up on one knee, his mood as scorched as the twisted trees across the burn. “It ain’t gonna be no fun what I aim to do with your hide, young buck. I ain’t one to lay down and take a cheatin’.” Monroe glanced down at Joseph and let loose a rumbling chuckle, which Roan Taggart joined. “You best keep that sticker hid, nigger. You’ll both be stompin’ your own guts before you skin it and I’ll already have your hair.”

  Rainwater let his eyes slide sideways to his friend. Nothing moved on Joseph but his nostrils, which always flared before he did battle. The big man didn’t scare him, but Rainwater’s own stomach churned. Not that he was afraid to die. He was enough of a warrior to accept that day when it came. He didn’t want Joseph to die on his account—especially over a card game. Using both hands, he pushed the pile of money across the blanket, being careful not to lean so far that Monroe could reach him. Joseph would certainly strike if that happened, and Daniel wanted to prevent it if he could.

  The big man jerked the blanket back toward him with a growl, upsetting the money and the cards. Most of the money was in coins, but the lone bill floated down between them in the still air. “I don’t want the stinkin’ money. I aim to take what’s mine outta your red nigger hide.”

  Roan Taggart nudged his partner with an elbow and gave a sideways nod toward their grizzly bear of a fire boss, Horace Zelinski, who stood on a burnt knoll above them, giving the little group what everyone on the crew called “the eye.” Beside him stood a white man in the khaki wool uniform of the United States Army. On the Army officer’s right stood the thickest black man Daniel had ever seen. Dressed much the same as the white officer, the Negro trooper’s muscles strained at the wool uniform blouse. If he’d taken a step sideways in front of the fire boss and the officer, the trooper would have blocked both men from view.

  Zelinski was shorter than Monroe by a head, not even as tall as Taggart. Compared to the broad Negro trooper he was willow-wand skinny, but the thunderous bark that emanated from his fearless chest seemed capable of felling trees. Some of the men who’d worked with him before swore in hushed tones they’d seen Zelinski bark at a fire only to have it turn away from his wrath.

  Brimming over with a puritanical work ethic, the forty-year-old forest ranger was the senior man in the newly created Nez Percé National Forest and he took his charge seriously. He held himself to a strict set of standards and didn’t tolerate shirkers or troublemakers of any sort.

  Rainwater relaxed slowly when he saw this man who seemed to him to be as much a force of nature as the wind or rain, or the fire itself.


  “Everything all right down there, men?”

  Monroe met the ranger’s icy stare and turned his head away, as a big bear might do when a bigger bear came in to challenge his territory. Zelinski had strong medicine, and even a stiff-necked man like Big Ox Monroe was smart enough to take note of it.

  “Everthing’s jake with us, Boss.” Instead of resheathing his knife, Monroe snatched up a can of tomatoes and used it to punch two holes in the top, looking at Rainwater with a threatening sneer while the thick steel blade slid easily through the tin lid. Waving to the fire boss, he threw the can to his lips and sucked out the juice. The liquid cut pink ditches in the black-sooted stubble as it dribbled from the corners of Monroe’s crooked mouth.

  “How about it, Rainwater? Everything all right?” The fire boss had the ability to stare down several men at one time, and Daniel couldn’t tell if he was focused in on him or Monroe.

  “We just finished a card game, Mr. Zelinski.”

  “Good enough then,” the ranger barked. His eyes never left Monroe while he spoke. “Rainwater, the Department of the Army has sent us reinforcements from the 25th Infantry. Would you be so kind as to show Corporal Rollins here a good place this side of the firebreak to set up their camp?” Zelinski gestured toward the black trooper who eclipsed the sky behind him.

  Both Indian boys scrambled to their feet. “Yes, sir,” Daniel said.

  The order given and understood, Zelinski turned and walked away with the white officer.

  Monroe wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his filthy shirt and belched. He kept his voice low so the huge trooper on the knoll above them couldn’t hear. “If you Injuns wasn’t bad enough. Now we got to sleep on the same mountainside as a bunch of . . .”

  Corporal Rollins slid down the embankment toward them and held out an enormous paw. “Bandy Rollins is my name.” He smiled through a row of white teeth on a face wide enough to match the rest of him.