To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  It was the way they’d traveled in the old days. Trap on and off his horse, studying the ground, setting the pace, while the others in the squad watched for ambush. Once in a while, if the trail became forthright and relatively simple to follow, Trap might ask for a break to ease the strain on his eyes, but more often than not, the break turned into a teaching session with Trap as the headmaster, pointing out this subtle nuance or that about whatever tracks they followed. There were so many things a footprint could tell a person, if he just listened.

  Trap was fairly certain by the overlay of the tracks that he knew which horse Feak was riding. It had a loose front shoe on the left side and it stayed pretty much to the trail. It was obviously the lead horse, and many of its tracks were partially obscured by those left by the puddin’-foot. When it stopped, the horse always pranced on its front feet; an action likely caused by someone heavy-handed on the bits. Considering what he’d been up to, Trap didn’t figure Feak to be a man with a light touch when it came to horses—or anything else for that matter. The other two sets of tracks were more precise, moving in straight lines, one in front of the puddin’-foot and one behind it, sometimes fanning out in opposite directions but always returning to their spots in line. These he picked for the two Apache mounts.

  As time passed, Trap began to learn even more about them. The rear horse was most likely ridden by the older Indian because the lead fanned out on slightly more scouting trips while the rear horse stayed in place. A younger Apache would usually defer to his elder and generally do more of the work in the little group. Trap studied each set of tracks for the slight differences in hoof angle, drag, shoe and nail type, and gait so he could tell them apart as individuals in case another member of the group split off for any length of time. He used his pencil stub to scratch out some notes in his little book. Time was he’d kept all such information in his head—but those times were gone.

  The kidnappers stayed to the trail and tracking them was no more of a job than following—a fact that gnawed at the men’s craws considerably. In the old days, it hadn’t been uncommon to follow the trail of a person who wanted to be followed, but when they did, it always meant an ambush.

  By eight in the morning, the sun was full up and blazing down through the thick brown haze that was so full of sap it stung the nose and eyes and left a sticky film on clothes and skin. Even the horses began to be bothered by it, and became more agitated with every mile. Hashkee in particular had a kink in his tail. No matter how hard he coaxed, Trap couldn’t soothe him. Though the animal never hesitated, every step was a growling, pin-eared reminder of how unhappy he was with the situation. Clay had observed once that Hashkee was the type of mule who’d walk off a cliff with you if you pointed him that way, then cuss you all the way to the bottom and kick you in the afterlife.

  Blake, with his younger eyes, was the first to notice the crows and magpies flitting and fighting through smoke and yellow pine up the mountain switchback a scant hundred yards ahead of them.

  “Think something might be dead up there?” He stood in his saddle to get a better look.

  The older O’Shannon shook his head and put out an overturned hand. “Don’t stand up like that, son. Men standing tall sometimes get shot off their mounts.”

  Blake dropped back to his seat immediately with a sheepish look.

  “Don’t look so glum, boy,” Clay said, trotting up next to him. “Me and your pa learned that lesson the hard way. Lucky for us, the guy who taught us was a poor marksman and only winged me.” Clay rolled his shoulder to illustrate the wound.

  “I think Blake’s right.” Ky squinted against the cool layer of smoke that flowed downhill like a pungent river. “Something’s not right up there. Could be an animal, but we’d best not take that chance. Trap, that mule of yours still climb?”

  O’Shannon nodded and touched a knuckle to his forehead in a sloppy salute.

  “Good. You and Blake spread out to either side and go poke around up ahead. Clay and I will take up positions back here with rifles and watch for any movement at your approach.” The Arizona marshal turned to look at Madsen. “That is, if you’re not feeling too old and stove up from all your life’s escapades.”

  Clay scoffed. “Scoot on up yon hill, O’Shannon boys.” He slipped his rifle, boot and all, off the saddle and threw a leg over the horn to hop nimbly off his horse. “I still got some sass left in me.” He held his rifle in one hand, and took off his hat to squint up at the direction of the screeching birds. “Can’t see too well that far off, but we’ll do our best not to hit either of you.”

  The Texan grinned at Blake and gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Now, don’t you worry, sonny. Time was I could shoot the cojones off a horsefly at a hundred yards. Old as I am now, I just have to aim for the whole bug.”

  Trap sighed and then motioned up the trail with his chin. “You go to the north, son. Don’t be afraid to sing out if you see anything. If it’s an ambush, they already know we’re here.”

  Ten minutes later found Trap on a panting Hashkee overlooking the birds from a shadowed copse of tamarack on a little knoll above them. He called out to Blake and the men below, then let out the little extra bit of air he always kept back in his lungs when he was ghosting around on half breaths in what Madsen called his panther mode.

  “More dead,” Trap sighed to himself. He stole a moment to let himself worry about Maggie. She was a capable woman who’d proven herself in pitched battle more than once. But the missing track nagged at him. One of these raw killers was unaccounted for, and that fact alone was enough to leave his mind in a constant whirl of worry.

  Blake and his Appaloosa appeared out of some floppy-topped hemlock trees along the trail to the north of the bodies. He waved up at his father, who had already pointed his mule down the hillside and was half-sliding, half-riding toward him.

  “I got a track here I’ve not seen before,” Blake said. “It’s got a hooked shoe on the back right.”

  Trapped smiled inside himself at how well his boy was doing. It didn’t surprise him—Maggie was his mother after all—but he couldn’t help but be pleased.

  “Looks like these three unfortunate souls bumped into our killers during the night,” Ky said, his hat in hand when he and Clay made it up the switchback.

  All three of the dead were positioned across the narrow trail. Each had an exposed circle of white skull where they’d been scalped. They had been killed with a knife, all from behind. A white-haired man, young but obviously the oldest of the three, had defensive wounds on his hands where it looked like he’d been able to put up a fight at least. All were stripped of their clothes and mutilated in the same manner as the blond man at the stage massacre site.

  Clay spit vehemently into the dust. “I’m sure looking forward to the time I meet up with these folks.”

  “Blake found a new track over here, Captain,” Trap said from up the trail. “Looks like two new riders have joined up.”

  “Sure they’re not from the firefighters’ horses?”

  Blake motioned back to the woods with his rifle. “I think the dead men were on foot. I came across a mess of tracks back there where one of them was killed. Didn’t see any hoofprints.”

  Trap stood and walked up the path. “One of these belongs to our missing rider from yesterday; more than likely it’s Billy Scudder. The other track looks familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen it.” He perused the ground as he walked. “Yep, the two newcomers came out of the brush here, leading their horses.”

  He poked around in the trees for a few moments, then whistled softly under his breath. “The girl was still alive last night. She made water here behind this tree. All the tracks join up again up the trail.”

  Clay rode in alongside Ky. “Moira said Feak was supposed to meet someone he called the boss.”

  Ky nodded and tapped his saddle horn. He bowed his head in one of the little prayers he was wont to say from time to time. Everyone stood silently until he was finished.


  “We best get some rocks over these poor souls to keep the magpies off them till we can notify someone to come get the bodies.” Returning his hat to his head, Roman dismounted and looked around at the clouds of smoke coming up from behind the mountains. “I imagine there are fire crews all over up here. Somebody’s bound to be wondering about them.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Horace Zelinski slung a faded canvas rucksack over his back and tapped the canteen at his belt to make sure it had water in it. He constantly warned the men to drink. It reminded Daniel Rainwater of his own mother, the way the man took care of everyone over whom he had stewardship. When Zelinski was nearby, Big Ox and Taggart kept to themselves, unwilling to do anything in front of him. Now that he was preparing to leave, both men glared at the two Indian boys with open hostility.

  The fire boss gathered the crew around him in a little green glade of hemlock and cedars to explain his plan. “You men can obviously tell there’s a big fire brewing over that mountain to the southwest. It’s uncommonly dark for this early in the day, and the wind has an edge to it that puts some fear in me, I don’t mind saying.”

  Daniel and Joseph looked at each other, then up at the huge cloud of smoke that billowed up behind the black mountain five miles away. It rose into the hazy blue, its top knocked queerly to one side like the pompadour on a Nez Percé warrior. The Flathead elders had warned them about the late summer winds before they left to volunteer.

  Dry wind and fire always spelled disaster.

  Zelinski continued his speech. “I’m going to do some scouting and see just how big the fire is. I’m leaving McGill in charge. He knows exactly where we are and I’m sure the two Indian boys do as well. I should be back before nightfall, but if you get into something you can’t handle, follow them to safety.” He stooped to rub the shaggy head of the wolfhound at his side. “In the meantime, work on a firebreak along this creek. If the fire makes it over that mountain, we can stop it here.” He stomped a foot and pointed to the ground before him. “Right here, lads. This is where we stop it.”

  Even with the air of bravado in his voice, Daniel knew the fire boss was more than concerned about what lay in wait for him on the other side of the mountain.

  Before Zelinski was out of sight, McGill tightened the blue bandanna over his balding head and hoisted his ax. Without saying a word to the rest of the men, he walked toward the small creek and began to work on the firebreak. He was a good man and a hard worker, but possessed none of the charismatic leadership qualities of Zelinski or George White. Rather than giving orders, McGill seemed to hope he would inspire the men to work because he did—a tactic that might be successful with some of the group—but not Monroe and Taggart.

  Daniel Rainwater shouldered his ax and threw a grubbing hoe to Joseph. Zelinski was still visible making his way up the mountain trail on the far side of the trees. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be out of the sound range of a gunshot.

  Big Ox swaggered up to the two boys with Roan Taggart at his heels. “He’s about gone, young ’uns.” Monroe shook his head and sniffed, wiping his nose on the back of his forearm. “I reckon it’s only a matter of time before you niggers get what’s comin’ to you.”

  The big man was close enough that Daniel could smell the acid odor of canned tomatoes on his foul breath. “Just get to work, Ox,” said one of the men, an older fellow everyone called Swede, slapping Monroe heartily on the back. “Don’t you go scaring the children.”

  “You ready for our wrestlin’ match?” Bandy Rollins had a way of materializing out of nowhere. It was an odd skill for a man who took up so much space wherever he stood.

  Big Ox coughed. “You heard Zelinski. Why don’t you get to work and mind your own business?”

  “Oh, he wouldn’t mind. He told me I was welcome to fight whenever I pleased.”

  “Go ahead and fight yourself then. I’m goin’ to work.” Monroe turned his back just as a tall black trooper in a sweat-soaked uniform ran up and whispered urgently in the corporal’s ear.

  Rollins suddenly became animated, gesturing up and down with his huge hands before dismissing the other trooper with a curt nod. When he turned to face Rainwater and Joseph, his face was set and tense.

  “You boys gotta look after your own selves for a while. Company G’s bein’ recalled back to Avery. Seems like they got ’em a bad fire and they evacuat-in’ the whole town by train.” The trooper suddenly brightened and slapped his leg. “Why don’t you boys come and go with me. I can get you out on the trains. It sure enough ain’t safe for you here.”

  “Mr. Zelinski told us to stay here in case the fire comes this way,” Daniel said with more commitment than he actually felt.

  Rollins nodded his great head slowly, his eyes shut for a moment while he came to a decision. “All right then. I’ll likely hang, but I reckon I should go on over there right now then and shoot Mr. Ox between the eyes before I go.” The corporal hitched up his pants and started for the tree line.

  Joseph broke his customary silence. “Don’t worry about us, Bandy. We can take care of Monroe and his stinking partner.”

  Rollins turned back with a shrug. “Suit yourself then. I’ll be back as quick as I can.” He leaned in to the two Indian boys and took on a solemn tone. “You listen good to ol’ Bandy now. If either one of those two comes near you, kill ’em quick. Don’t pussyfoot around or they’ll get you for sure. You can’t trust none of these yayhoos ’cept maybe McGill, so slip away right off.”

  The corporal winked. “When I come back I’ll wrestle the son of a bitch and save the world a bullet.”

  CHAPTER 18

  “You remember ol’ Go Go Gomez?” Clay let his boots hang out of the stirrups while he rode to rest his knees. “What was his first name?”

  “Enrique,” Roman said. He’d always made it a point to know the given names of every trooper under his command.

  Clay nodded. “That’s right, Enrique Gomez. Damn, that boy could run. I wonder whatever happened to ol’ Go Go.”

  “Died,” Roman offered, his eyes on the horizon.

  “In Cuba with you and the Rough Riders?”

  “Nope, just died. Late last year. Stomach something or other, I heard.”

  Clay stared at his saddle horn and shook his head. “Damn. He was younger than me.” He looked up at Trap. “You ever think about gettin’ old?”

  The trail was clear enough that Trap could read it from atop Hashkee. He kept his head down, but glanced up from under his hat brim at Clay’s question. “I reckon I do now and again. But I don’t feel all that old.”

  Clay slowed his bay and pointed hard at Trap to emphasize his words. “Well, I read that in these United States the average man don’t live to see fifty. In fact they don’t even live to see forty-nine.”

  Trap scratched his chin and studied the tracks. He was glad Blake had faded back to be a rear guard and was spared such depressing talk. “I don’t plan on dyin’ anytime in the next year.”

  Clay slapped his thigh with a leather glove. “Well, I don’t neither, but that’s the point. You just never know.”

  “I hope you boys aren’t thinking you’re too doggone ancient,” Ky said from his mount, a few yards through the buck brush to Trap’s right. “Since I’m considerably older than either one of you.”

  “Yeah.” Clay shook his head back and forth with an undisguised smirk. “But you look old. Hell, you and Trap both look like you could be grandpas. You two make me afeard to get too near a mirror on account of what I might find lookin’ back at me.”

  “It might surprise you at that. I noticed you wear your hat a lot more than you used to,” Ky mused. “Is that because that great mop of yours is thinning a bit?”

  “I don’t believe it is,” Madsen said, snugging his hat down tighter on his head. “But even it was, the ladies would just want to rub it all the more.”

  Trap leaned back slightly in the saddle and lifted his reins. Saying nothing, he stared down at the trail for a ful
l minute, shaking his head slowly from side to side. He waved Blake up and groaned.

  “What is it, Trap?” Ky urged his lanky horse over next to the trail. “Looks like the trail splits here.”

  “Indeed it does, Captain.” Trap pointed up the dust-blown path that was wide enough for three riders abreast. “Four went that way and two—our hook-shoed newcomer and the puddin’-footed nag—went west up this old wagon track that runs along an old Nez Percé trail—dead into the High Lonesome.”

  “What lies down that trail?” Ky nodded south after the four sets of tracks.

  Trap looked at Blake. “I don’t rightly know,” Trap said.

  The young O’Shannon took off his hat and rubbed the sweat out of his eyes with a blue bandanna. “I’m not certain. I never been this far out, but I’ve heard tell of an old placer outfit that used to work off Old Man Creek. I’m thinking there would apt to be some buildings and such there, but the gold played out long ago. I reckon they’re mostly abandoned.”

  Roman crossed his arms across the pommel of his saddle and looked up into the old Nez Percé Corridor. His gray eyes squinted as if he was trying to penetrate the smoke haze that permeated the dense undergrowth of the jack pine forest.

  “You say the puddin’-foot went deeper into the High Lonesome?”

  “It did,” Trap said, “but I can’t be certain the girl’s still sittin’ the same horse.”

  Clay nodded in agreement. “It’s a pretty moldy old trick to switch horses to throw us off the trail.”

  “I don’t see anywhere they changed, but they could have done it without getting off the horses.” Blake rode down the back trail a ways and searched the dust for clues. “They did a lot of milling around back here.”

  Ky gazed up the mountain slope again, his brow creased in thought. “And that way leads directly into the midst of all the fires.”