To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “Peace!” he finally spit. “I can’t make no peace. But I will say this. If Johannes Webber is still alive, Ky Roman won’t be seein’ him in Heaven anytime soon ’cause I aim to send him to Hell the next time I run across him.”

  Both Trap and Blake looked at each other, then replaced their hats.

  “Amen,” they said at the same time.

  After they wrapped Ky in his own bedroll, they loaded him across the back of his lanky sorrel and started wearily down the steep trail for the abandoned mine shack. Trap took the lead and Blake and Clay followed, leading Roman’s horse.

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Madsen?” Blake knew his father was well out of earshot because of the blowing wind.

  “What is it, lad?” Clay looked straight ahead, but urged his mount forward to match stride with Blake’s Appaloosa.

  “What did my pa mean when he said Johannes Webber had reason to hate him?”

  Clay reined up and let his hands rest across the pommel of his saddle. He looked straight at Blake, and sighed. “It’s a story best left to your father to tell. But suffice it to say, Webber is insane. Always has been, if you ask me. I never did have much use for him—thought he had a bad smell about him—but your pa and the captain, they took him in like the stray dog he was. He is a smart one, though . . . and he firmly believes your pa had a hand in killin’ his woman.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Big Ox Monroe grabbed Joseph from behind, pinning his arms to his side and lifting his feet off the ground while he squeezed the life out of him. Daniel Rainwater looked up from felling a tangled hemlock snag just in time to see it happen. He raised the ax in protest, but before he could move, he felt a sickening blow on the back of his head.

  Reeling in pain and nausea, the boy slumped to his knees, and then fainted.

  Rainwater came to his senses a few moments later with Roan Taggart sitting heavy on his back and pulling his hands together with rough cord that the food rations came wrapped in. It cut deeply into his wrists, and Daniel bit his lip to steel himself against the pain. When Taggart rolled him over, he saw Joseph, also tied with his hands behind his back, sitting, slumped against the downed hemlock snag a few feet away.

  A man Daniel had never seen before sat on a muscular dun horse at the edge of the little glade. He was a big man, with a barrel chest and a head of thick gray hair combed straight back like a wood duck. His face was red, as if he were exerting himself at some heavy task instead of merely sitting in the saddle, and he breathed through his nose in loud puffs and snorts like a train getting ready to pull away from the platform.

  “. . . do it the way I tell you and you can be rid of the thievin’ nits and stay out of trouble to boot. Get the rest of the crew over here and put the question to them. Ask ’em what should be done with redskins who would steal from their own fellow workmen,” the man on the horse said to Big Ox, who nodded like a schoolboy getting instructions.

  “Right, none of them will take to a cardsharp,” Monroe replied.

  The red-faced man shook his head. His huffing grew even more intense. “Not cheatin’ at cards, you moron, stealing from your kit. Put some of the money and things from your outfit in their pockets. When the others see that, most of ’em will side with you right off. I’ll step in as a disinterested third party and back up your story. That should even convince any nigger-lovers you got in the group.”

  When he’d pulled the knots tight behind Daniel’s back, Roan Taggart stood up and kicked him between the shoulder blades, sending him headlong onto his face. The Indian boy rolled onto his side, curling into a ball to protect himself from another blow. Instead of kicking him again, Taggart chuckled and looked up at Monroe.

  “He ain’t so cocky once his wings is clipped.” He raised one leg and let out a ripping fart.

  “Leave him be, you imbecile.” The man on the dun shook his head in disgust, his nostrils flaring like an angry horse. “I don’t care what you do with ’em once the others decide to hang ’em. The fires are movin’ this way. Once they’re hung, we can leave ’em to burn.”

  * * *

  Ox Monroe had the remaining fire crew rounded up beside the hemlock snag in less than ten minutes. Each small group of men came in cautiously from their respective duties, eyeing the prisoners as they gathered around. Monroe had already primed the pump with stories of their treachery.

  Zelinski had left Cyrus McGill holding the reins of the small outfit of firefighters in his absence. McGill was a young man, not yet in his thirties, with a tendency toward premature baldness and hands that looked slightly too large for his sinewy arms. Though he was a strong and capable woodsman, McGill didn’t have much of a hold on the men, and Daniel didn’t expect he would do much to intercede where Big Ox was involved.

  Taggart worked on getting the ropes ready to hang the boys while Monroe produced the evidence of their misconduct: a wad of folded bills and a silver watch that he said belonged to his departed uncle.

  Joseph sat silently across from Daniel at the base of the hemlock, his dark eyes locked on the crowd. Daniel thought it funny that Joseph could look so unrepentant for something he didn’t do. It actually made him look guilty.

  “What have they got to say for themselves?” McGill did show a little backbone at least.

  The newcomer on the dun horse stepped down at this and strode forward, huffing and puffing like he might run down anyone who got in his way.

  “My name’s Tom Ledbetter,” he said. “I don’t know how many of you folks know about this because of your service up here with the fires, but there’s been a bad killin’ back down in the Bitterroot. A pretty young gal’s gone missin’ and another was butchered up somethin’ awful. Two men massacred as well.” Ledbetter stopped to let his words seep in to the smoky crowd. “It was Injuns just like these that did it. I’m on their trail now.”

  McGill rubbed his thinning, mouse-colored hair. “Well, I hate to hear about that, but these here Indians been with us for over a week. I doubt they had anything to do with it.”

  Ledbetter sneered. “I’m not sayin’ they had anything to do with it. I’m just sayin it’s natural for an Injun to be up to no good. Your own boys here got the evidence that they been up to just that.” He turned to the rest of the murmuring group, ignoring McGill as if he were no more than a flyspeck. “I ask you men, what kind of people would steal from their own troop? Are you to trust a sneak thief with your life? It’s dangerous enough out here with all these fires. I heard two men already died up at Moon Pass. It could just as easily have been two of you, especially if you can’t even trust those who work alongside you.”

  The murmur swept through the crowd again. An old Swedish fellow in the back suggested they banish the boys to their own fate among the fires.

  Ledbetter threw back his head as if in horrible pain.

  “I ain’t talkin’ about sending these redskins off so they can hurt someone else. Didn’t Ox tell you that sullen one there tried to stab him when he caught ’em stealin’?”

  Monroe’s head snapped up at that information, but the crowd was so focused on the two boys now, Daniel doubted anyone noticed. Stealing was one thing; trying to kill someone was a different thing altogether. None of the men would be able to work if they thought they might get a knife in the back as soon as it was turned.

  The old Swede bowed his head at the revelation. “Well, we have to do somethin’ about that then.” His voice was low, just loud enough for Daniel to hear.

  “That’s what I’m tellin’ you. These two are a threat to the whole group. You should get rid of ’em like you would a rabid dog before more people get hurt.”

  The muttering of the fire crew swelled as they whispered among themselves. McGill had his back to Daniel, and it was impossible to hear the conversation. From the hard looks on the soot-covered faces, it was easy to tell things weren’t looking good.

  At length, the men began to nod. Some, including the old Swede, took off their hats and stared with long, solemn fac
es at the two boys.

  McGill shook his head violently while the two ropes Taggart had prepared were thrown over a slanting tamarack that had fallen into the crook of another, above and slightly behind the hemlock snag. Neither boy struggled when they were dragged to their feet and placed on the scarred black stump of the snag. Taggart placed rough pack-rope nooses around their necks and stepped back, grinning openly.

  McGill waved his hands back and forth, and stepped in front of the boys so they could lean their knees against his shoulders.

  “This is all wrong. We should wait till the boss gets back. We got no right to do this.”

  “You got no right to stop it now that everyone’s decided,” Ledbetter said with a matter-of-fact nod. “It was a jury of their peers.”

  “I ain’t letting you do this, mister.” McGill drew his sheath knife to cut the boys’ hands free.

  “Step aside, damn you.” Ledbetter put a hand on his pistol. “Can’t you get it through your thick skull . . .”

  “Hello the camp!” A roaring voice that rivaled Horace Zelinski’s rattled the trees and caused Ledbetter to slump. Daniel turned with the rest of the fire crew and watched three men ride in through the smoky trees. The men weren’t smiling.

  Ledbetter’s twisted face tightened when he looked up, the muscles in his red cheeks clenching above his jaw. He was only a few feet from Daniel, his hand still resting on his gun. Big Ox and Roan Taggart stood to his right. All three men looked as if they’d been caught rustling cattle.

  “You know these folks?” Monroe fidgeted with his knife handle and clicked his gold teeth.

  Ledbetter nodded. “I do. They’re the lawmen lookin’ for the Injuns who done the massacre I told you about. Two of ’em are Injuns themselves.” His clenched voice was low and breathy. “They picked a hell of a poor time to show up.”

  Daniel Rainwater leaned his knees against McGill’s shoulders and watched the lawmen ride in slowly, like panthers sniffing the air. A large white man with a great curling mustache took the lead atop a muscular bay horse. A young Indian who looked to Daniel like a Nez Percé followed with an older man who could have been Indian. Each man had hard, unflinching eyes that appeared to drink in all around them at one long look. They had stern, hard-put faces that looked as if they’d seen much sadness lately. There was an air of decisiveness about them that frightened Daniel. He hoped these men didn’t want to see them hang, for if they did, he knew he surely would.

  “What do you reckon they want?” Big Ox’s brown eyes widened and darted back and forth between the new arrivals and Mr. Ledbetter.

  Ledbetter stood planted for a long moment, then shrugged and turned away. “How am I supposed to know? Don’t let ’em stop you from your hangin’, though. You’ve come too far to turn back now. Push the nits off and let ’em swing before anyone stops you.”

  “What do you mean my hangin’? You was the one to think of all this.” Big Ox’s huge head kept swinging back and forth between Ledbetter and the newcomers.

  Taggart, unnerved at his compatriot’s hesitation, raised a singed, roan-colored eyebrow and loosed a squeaky fart.

  CHAPTER 24

  “Looks like you boys are havin’ yourselves a little party,” Clay Madsen said. He reined up a few feet from the two Flathead boys, who teetered precariously on top of the hemlock snag. Though it was just after noon, the heavy forest and thick smoke made it seem like dusk. Clay had to lean forward to give the crowd a glimpse of the marshal’s badge Ky had given him. The balding man who propped up the two guests of honor gave him a smile of relief a mile wide. He looked as if he might cry with pure, unabashed gratitude when he saw the badge.

  “These Injuns stoled from my kit and were plannin’ to kill me,” a filthy, soot-covered giant said, stepping forward. Tom Ledbetter stood back and looked on but said nothing.

  “What’s your name, sir?” Clay stared down at the man with gold teeth. On top of his horse, it didn’t matter how tall the giant was. Clay was taller and had the psychological advantage.

  “Ox Monroe. Folks call me Big Ox.”

  “Well, Mr. Monroe, it looks like we got us a ticklish situation here,” Clay said, leaning back and stretching his neck to one side. Trap and Blake both had their rifles handy across their laps. “I do believe it would be better if these boys stepped down from there for a minute while we sort this all out.”

  Blake stepped down from his Appaloosa and moved to the makeshift gallows to help the bald man. Trap let his finger slide across the trigger of his Marlin.

  “Look here now.” Monroe raised a hand, his eyes flashing. “You men got no cause to stop this hangin’. We’re out here fightin’ these fires for the federal government and we got no time to lollygag with any more of a trial. We need swift justice so’s we can get on with our work.”

  Blake pulled the knife from the scabbard on his belt and cut the ropes binding the two Indian boys’ hands. He didn’t even look at Monroe. “You make a move to stop me, sir, and swift justice is exactly what you’re gonna get.”

  Trap smiled inside at the grit he saw in his son. He was indeed Maggie’s boy. The only two men worth worrying over were Big Ox and Ledbetter. Everyone else looked to be followers, blown like dandelion fuzz by whichever wind was strongest. And all appeared to be smart enough to see the prevailing wind was against the blustering giant. Clay and Blake could easily handle a blowhard like Monroe. Ledbetter never did anything but stand on the sidelines and egg others into doing the dirty work.

  The fact that they were there to stop the hanging at all was just pure luck for the boys. It was a track that led them to the fire camp—the track with the hooked back right shoe. It had split off from the others a quarter mile back at the edge of a wide firebreak. Trap had heard voices through the trees, and after a short vote they decided any man who’d been riding with the kidnappers was worth talking to, especially if he’d had anything to do with Ky’s death.

  The little fire brigade possessed only a motley-looking trio of worn-out pack mules who stood forlorn and singed in a small rope corral at the edge of the glade beside a muddy wallow of hoofprints that had once been a poor excuse for a stream that angled off of Granite Creek. As far as Trap could see, there was only one saddle horse—Ledbetter’s big dun. Unless he missed his guess, it had a hooked shoe on its right hind foot. Ledbetter had tethered the animal at the far edge of camp, and it was difficult to see through the drifting smoke and dusky shadows.

  Trap slid his rifle back into its scabbard. Throwing a leg over the saddle, he hopped to the ground, leaving Hashkee ground tied and grumpy. Considering Ledbetter’s past behavior, Trap was looking forward to a little face-to-face discussion about why he happened to be riding with known killers.

  The crowd of dirty, tired men milled about in a loose group and watched Clay explain the facts of life to Monroe. Unwilling to lose face in front of all his peers, the big oaf stood defiantly in front of the Texan’s horse, touching the hilt of the long knife that hung from his belt.

  “These niggers was found guilty by all the men here—even the cue ball.” He nodded his big head toward McGill. “He don’t have the guts to see it through, but he was in on the decision. You got no right to stop us.”

  Clay groaned and slid off his gelding so he could look Monroe in the eyes. He was a half a hat shorter, but that didn’t matter. Standing brim to brim, Clay tapped the silver badge on his chest. “I don’t even need this to stop an illegal hangin’, but I got it just the same and you can count your blessings I do, ’cause if I didn’t I’d plant you here and now.”

  Ox stared hard with coal-black eyes, but he took a half a step back as if to steady himself. “You can go to hell, mister. We ain’t scared of no law.”

  Clay closed the distance between them and sneered.

  “I don’t know what you mean by we, big’un. Your partner there’s shakin’ like a puppy passin’ a peach pit. It’s just me and you.”

  Monroe waved Clay off. “Go on then. Take your red
nigger friends and get out of here then if you love ’em so much.”

  “No, sir,” Clay said smugly. “Don’t believe I will. You’ll be the one doin’ the leavin’. Real easy now, drop your knife and that rusty old hog-leg on the ground.” Madsen turned his attention to Taggart, who stood with both hands raised high in the air. “You too, stinky. Weapons in the dirt.”

  Taggart complied, but Monroe blustered.

  “What makes you think you can just blow in here like this and start givin’ orders like you own the place? You so cocksure I won’t best you?”

  Clay rubbed his goatee with his left hand. His twinkling eyes never left his opponent. “Oh, I reckon there’s always that possibility.” He chuckled. “I suppose there’s a chance I could have a heart seizure because you’re puttin’ so much fear in me—but it ain’t likely.” Madsen’s face clouded over. “I’m sick of messin’ with you, Ox. Throw down your gun or pull it; makes no never-mind to me.”

  Monroe let out a deep breath, deflating so he looked like he shrunk a good six inches. He studied his own boots while he slowly lowered his pistol and bowie knife to the ground.

  Trap truly enjoyed seeing his old friend work. He normally would have stood by and watched, but Ledbetter had eased back through the smoky shadows to climb back on his horse.

  “Hold on there, Mr. Ledbetter.” Trap stepped in front of the dun as Ledbetter tried to slip out past the crowd.

  The right rear track of the horse hooked noticeably.

  “You step aside, runt,” said Ledbetter. “I stopped for you once. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna do it again. If you and your friends are more interested in savin’ Injuns than catchin’ the ones responsible for the massacre, then I’ll have to go do it myself.” The muscles in Ledbetter’s beet-colored jaws bunched and clenched after he spoke. His mouth pulled back into a tight grimace as the skin on his thick neck tightened in hatred. Ledbetter jerked back on the dun’s reins. The horse pranced sideways, fighting the bit.