To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  Her face suddenly took on the hardened edge of a flint knife. “Well, don’t you think you’re scarin’ me with all your talk of hangin’ and vigilante booger-men. I know Lucius Feak. I been a witness to what he’s capable of. He’s just as likely to come back and kill me if I talk to you or if I don’t—it don’t make no difference. My life ain’t worth a pinch anyhow and I know it. I don’t reckon I’ll make it past this coming winter no matter what happens.” She coughed again, as if to illustrate her point, and wiped her mouth with the back of a filthy sleeve.

  “So go ahead and hang me if you’re of a mind to. The way I see it, you can stay on here and pester me or you can go on and catch Lucius and his bunch.”

  Clay shook his head and followed the others out the door without another word.

  * * *

  Outside in the alley, Clay leaned back against a table-sized stump and spit at the dirt. “I’ve never felt like I needed a bath as bad as I do now—and I mean a good scrubbin’ too, not just a soak-and-ponder bath.”

  “I know what you mean,” Ky said before he turned to Trap. “Any one of you ever heard of this Lucius Feak character?”

  All the men shook their heads.

  “What about the Apache with the eye patch?” Blake said to his father. “I caught the way you three looked at each other when she mentioned him.”

  “Maybe somebody from a long time ago, son.” Trap shot a quick glance at Roman.

  “A very long time ago. And if it’s who I think it is, he doesn’t think too much of me,” Ky said.

  “Come on, boys,” Clay groaned. “Explain it all to the youngster after we’ve gone to roost. My old bones are sore and it’s too dark to track for a few hours yet. I’ve got a hankerin’ for a thick beefsteak. I’ll lay odds our pretty Miss Cora can rustle us up some before she shows me a soft bed while you make your hard, miserable camp.” Without waiting for a reply, Clay began to pick his way around the stumps and downed trees toward the back of the Snake Pit.

  Ky gave a tentative cough. “Madsen, there’s been a bit of a change in developments since you last visited Miss Cora. . . .”

  CHAPTER 14

  Angela’s horse was a poor, puddin’-footed thing with feet as big as frying pans and thick ribs that jutted from black slab sides like slats on a hay bin. It was old to boot and prone to stumbling even on the flat. The broken mountain ground was murder, and the horse spent more time down on both knees than it did on its four large feet. Both hands tied together in front of her, Angela had to claw at the saddle horn to keep from falling off into the darkness over the side of the steep trail. The jagged nub of her little finger pained her past the point of hysteria, and even the cruel rawhide gag the older Apache had tied around her mouth did little to take her mind off the stomach-churning ache in her hand.

  Angela knew how to ride. There were two fine stables not far from her house in Boston. But now, tied, weakened, and injured, she found it impossible to keep her seat. Each plodding misstep of the lumbering horse jammed or jostled the shard of bone. Her teeth slammed against the stiff gag. Tears poured from her eyes and ran in muddy lines down her filthy cheeks.

  Feak led the way on his big sorrel horse, almost out of sight in the darkness. The younger Apache followed him, just ahead of Angela. Juan Caesar brought up the rear. She knew he was back there, but didn’t dare turn around to see. It seemed to infuriate him when she looked at him, as if her mere glance was an insult to his scarred face. If she slowed or moved her head to look back, he jabbed at her cruelly with a long cedar branch he’d carved to a rough point and carried for the sole purpose of punishing her.

  They’d left Moira’s shortly after sunset, keeping to rough mountain trails well away from the railroad. The wilted prostitute had shown a tiny shred of decency when she’d offered to take Angela to the privy before they left. Feak agreed, but threatened to cut off both their noses if Angela made a run for it. He sent the young Apache to stand guard.

  Breathing open-mouthed around the gag parched and dried Angela’s throat, but she was afraid to drink any more for fear she’d have to go to the bathroom again. It didn’t really matter because no one offered her any water anyway.

  Apart from the groan of clambering horses, the creak of saddle leather, and the occasional scuff of a horseshoe against sharp rocks, the group moved in a silent parade. The air grew noticeably cooler as they gained elevation. Smoke still permeated the surroundings, and once in a while she could even see the far-off orange glow of a smoldering fire. But now and then, the telltale hint of cedar or spiced scent of Grande fir kicked up on a gentle breeze. The crisp air soothed Angela like a sip of springwater and for the first time in two days, she felt like she could breathe.

  The trail, such as it was, snaked back and forth in a zigzag pattern, working its way up the black mountains before them. Angela’s stomach flew into her mouth as her clumsy horse tripped over a root or river rock when they crossed one of the numerous little creeks and gullies that wrinkled the hillside. She gripped the saddle horn like a madwoman for fear of falling off and receiving a severe beating from the stick-wielding Juan Caesar, and somehow managed to keep her seat on the ungainly horse as it clambered up the other side. The effort brought more tears to her eyes and shot spasms of light through her head as bright as a fireworks show over Boston Harbor.

  In the darkness, she heard her mother’s nasal voice chiding her about wearing pants around such men. Her brain was fevered, and she shook her head to clear it. Deep voices drifted across a small switchback on the trail above her. She’d been hearing mutterings of one kind or another for the past several hours, and she tried to ignore them. But lights danced in the darkness along with the new voices. Lantern lights—and singing men.

  Angela shut her eyes and held her breath. She dared not hold out hope for a rescue. When she opened them again, Javi, who’d been in front of her, was gone. She risked a glance behind her, and saw Juan Caesar had dissolved into the inky darkness as well.

  “Pete, is that you?” a jovial voice hallooed from a junction in the trail above them. Small rocks skittered down the mountain as men milled about in one spot in the darkness. The glow from three lanterns cast huge shadows among the trees.

  “Who’s askin’?” Feak yelled tentatively.

  “Pete? It’s George White. The old man sent me to look after you. Fires looked like they might pen you down.” The voice from the blackness was more cautious now. “Am I talkin’ to Pete Seaver?”

  Lucius Feak cursed under his breath and drew his pistol.

  Firemen.

  Angela’s breath quickened. From the lanterns it looked like there were at least three of them, maybe more. They might stand a chance against her captors if she could warn them. She looked behind her again to make certain Juan Caesar wasn’t about to smack her with a stick. She craned her neck in an effort to stretch the leather gag and give her more room. It cut at the corners of her chapped mouth and she tasted blood on her cracked lips. She wouldn’t be able to make herself understood, but she could definitely scream.

  And scream she did. A loud, wailing cry that summed up all the trials and torments of her last two days as it curdled the cool night air. She tried to lunge her horse up the mountain past Feak, to the firefighters who meant her safety and freedom. The outlaw turned and glared at her.

  She’d misjudged how narrow the trail was as well as her stupid horse’s desire to expend no more energy than necessary to make it up the hill. Feak wheeled his mount in one smooth motion and clouted her smartly in the temple with the fist that held his pistol. Angela kept screaming when he hit her, but reeled as blue and yellow lights exploded behind her eyes. Miraculously, she kept her seat in the saddle. When the pain dulled enough for her vision to clear, she saw Feak pointing the gun at her belly.

  “You best be keepin’ quiet,” he hissed though the blackness. “I’ll kill you slow after I let the A-patch have a go at you if you don’t shut your gob.”

  “Who’s out there?” All thr
ee lantern lights flickered out at once. The voice above them was less than fifty feet away. “What’s going on here? Identify yourselves.”

  Feak held the gun barrel to his lips to remind Angela to keep quiet. “We’re just out here for the fires same as you,” he yelled up the mountain.

  “Who screamed?” George White demanded through the darkness, his voice firm as wrought iron. He spoke more quietly to his men, but it was clearly audible filtering through the trees. “McGowan! Baker! Spread out and stay quiet!” Again, he spoke with authority. “Listen, whoever you are. Identify yourselves. I am a duly appointed agent with the federal government and until I am satisfied as to what’s going on around here, you should consider yourselves under arrest.”

  Feak scoffed at such talk. “Come on down here and we’ll talk.”

  “Come up and show your . . .”

  Gunfire split the darkness on a bald knob above them. An odd moan, like the air hissing out of an India-rubber balloon, caused Angela to cringe in pity. There was a clatter in the rocks above them and something heavy slid down the mountain. A chilling scream followed off to the right, and she knew another man had died.

  “McGowan? Baker?” The demanding tone bled from White’s voice with every syllable. “Are you all right? Who’s out there?”

  Feak chuckled in the darkness. “I reckon they just be busy arrestin’ a couple of my men.”

  “Now see here. We’re firefighters in the employ of the U.S. Forest Ser . . .” White’s voice trailed off into silence.

  A short moment later, a low loon-whistle wafted down through the trees. Feak reholstered his sidearm and twisted in his saddle to face Angela. Little moonlight filtered down through the smoke and thick canopy of branches, but Feak’s yellow sneer was plainly visible in the darkness.

  “It’s all over now, little britches. Go ahead and scream if you feel a mind to, but you best follow me up the trail. Them A-patch wouldn’t want me to be losin’ their little treasure just yet.”

  * * *

  Juan Caesar was busy pulling the scalp off a dead man with silver-white hair when they arrived at the site of the massacre. He used his foot to brace himself against the dead man’s shoulder while he pulled. The popping sound the small circle of flesh made when it tore away from the bone caused Angela’s stomach to lurch and she vomited around her leather gag.

  Slumping in the saddle, she turned away only to see Javi walking out of the underbrush holding a lit lantern in one hand and two bloody scalps in the other. He smiled and offered the tangled masses of hair to Angela. When she shook her head, he shrugged and grabbed one of the scalps in his teeth as if he were about to bite off a piece.

  “Suit yourself,” he said around the morsel of flesh, “but it’s good grub.”

  Angela heaved again, tasting the bitterness already in her mouth. She had never been in a spot where things were so desperate, where there seemed no escape—no relief, no comfort. With each passing moment, the realization formed more clearly in her fevered mind. Sooner or later, she would end up like one of these poor dead souls—murdered and mutilated only to have her defiled body become an object of entertainment and derision for these savage men. Three more men were dead now, for no reason but that they got in the way. Bitter tears of complete despair caught in Angela’s throat at the thought that she might have prevented their deaths—had she only been braver and ignored Feak’s threat. Her screaming might have given them a chance.

  Feak walked up beside her and put a rough hand on her thigh. He spoke quietly as he stroked her above the knee, his voice a scornful hiss in her ear.

  “Quit your blubberin’, little britches. This is the last pee break you’ll be gettin’ for a while, so you best take advantage of it. The A-patch will be busy for a minute or two butcherin’ up the bodies so as to make things look real Injun-like. If I was you, I’d be droppin’ my drawers while they was otherwise occupied. I got my orders to deliver you unsullied, but that Juan Caesar, he hates whites. I seen what he can do to a pale woman like you, and it ain’t at all a pretty picture. If he was to get an opportunity . . .” Feak licked his lips. “I don’t know as I could even slow him down, let alone stop him.”

  Even in the darkness, Angela could see a glistening sheen of whiskey-dull lust in his black eyes. It didn’t matter anymore. If he wanted to rape her he would. If he decided to hack off another piece of her, just for entertainment, he would. There was absolutely nothing she could do about it except fight and prolong the inevitable. She knew she would fight when the moment came—but for now, she needed to go to the bathroom.

  A few feet away, in a ghostly pool of yellow lantern light, the two Apaches stooped over the lifeless corpse of George White. Engrossed in their own brutal actions, they paid no attention to Angela.

  She looked down at Feak and nodded weakly, straining her jaw against the filthy leather gag. Her lips and mouth were cracked and raw from the constant rubbing of the wide strap. She’d been able to chew the corners down somewhat, but it still kept her from closing her mouth completely. Drool and dried blood matted the tangled strands of her once-beautiful auburn hair to her cheeks.

  Feak helped her down from the horse and chuckled to himself when she said “Thank you” out of habit. “You really don’t belong out here. Do you, little britches?” He gave her a rough shove in the behind and hissed at her again, all humor draining from his ice-cold voice, “Don’t you be thankin’ me just yet. Hurry and get your squattin’ done. If you try to run, I’ll cut your nose off and feed it to Javi. He’s right partial to woman nose. Eats ’em like candy.”

  Angela bit down hard on the gag to keep from screaming again. She felt insane for thanking the man who only hours before had brutally hacked off her finger. He would likely be the one to kill her—or at the very least order her death—in the not-too-distant future.

  Stepping behind a nearby cedar tree, she fumbled with the buttons on her britches, careful to keep from bumping the inflamed shard of bone where her little finger used to be. She knew Feak was watching her from the darkness, and found she didn’t care. For some unexplainable reason, she began to laugh softly to herself. She thought of how Mother would be able to say, “I told you so.” Boston seemed so far away. For as long as Angela could remember now, her world had been nothing but rough men and savage Indians.

  When Angela was finished and buttoned up her pants, she couldn’t help but chuckle, even though the action hurt her mouth. She wondered how Mother would handle such men—or how such men would handle Mother.

  * * *

  If Lucius Feak had known the big sorrel possessed such a tendency to hold air, he never would have stolen it in the first place. The outlaw heard the noise in the thick brush behind him while he was busy tightening his cinch. A crackling rustle of branches rubbing together.

  The forest at night held so many sounds, he ignored the noise at first, but it came again, more tentative than before. Most animals didn’t creep around at night; they either walked along like they didn’t have a care in the world or ran off, crashing wildly through the underbrush. A cougar might creep, or even a bear if it was hunting—but men, they most always went sneaking around when they were in the woods.

  Another dry branch snapped in the shadows. Feak heard someone catch their breath. He looked up at the Apaches, who were still busy dragging the bodies of their victims out onto the trail so they would be easily discovered.

  This whole plan set Feak’s nerves on end. He’d never gone out and done so many bad things and then left so much sign on purpose. It went against his instincts to leave so many things undone. Killing was one thing, but leaving the bodies in the open where any lawman with half a brain could find them, that was just plum crazy.

  Another rattle of a branch jostled the darkness behind him, followed by the swish of a limb against clothing. Feak let the loose end of the latigo drop, and slowly reached for the near rein with his left hand while his right slid down to his pistol. The stupid girl sat moaning in her saddle on the o
ther side of him. Feak eased his horse around, putting himself on the ground between both animals, the girl to his back. If things turned sour, Feak could easily jump on his horse and slip off into the darkness.

  Training his revolver across the seat of his saddle, the outlaw yelled into the darkness—as much to warn Juan Caesar and Javier of approaching danger as to evoke an answer.

  “Get out here so we can see you!” Lucius’s voice was a fierce growl, and his horse threw its head and snorted with a start. Steel bits jingled in the still night, and the girl caught her breath behind him. Both Apaches vanished into the blackness.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” came a tentative voice from the dark line of mottled shadows at the edge of the trail. “Don’t shoot. It’s only us.”

  Lucius relaxed when he heard the voice. The Indians heard it too, and reappeared from the shadows to resume their grizzly fun.

  Holstering his gun, Feak finished tightening his cinch. When the two men moved in closer, he spoke to them without looking up.

  “You two are liable to get your throats cut—sneakin’ up like a couple of Papago Injuns. Get your horses and let’s get movin’. We got a little ways to go yet before we meet the big boss.”

  Billy Scudder held up a leather bag. The white elk ivories adorning the outside caught the nearby lantern light and seemed to glow in his hand.

  “She be dead then?” Feak trained his eyes on the young outlaw.

  Scudder grunted. “Cut her guts out with my own knife. Boy’s too. They won’t cause you no more trouble.”

  Javier walked in from the darkness, chewing on something. He looked at the decorated bag dangling in Scudder’s hand. “There are those among my people that believe the owner’s ghost inhabits their medicine bag after they die. They say if you hang onto one that belongs to someone else, pieces of you start to rot off. Bad medicine.” The young Apache stared into Scudder’s eyes. “I always bury or burn them after I’m through with my business.”