To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “Renegade Apache my hind end,” the fire boss said under his breath as he drew his forty-four. For Horace Zelinski, a veteran of the Spanish American War and many furious battles with fire, to be faced with renegade Indians of any sort in 1910 seemed an outlandish notion and he didn’t have time to fool with it.

  “Ranger!” the familiar voice of Corporal Bandy Rollins hailed from a thick stand of alder bushes off a fork in Ruby Creek. “I brought you a lost sheep. Don’t you be shootin’ us now.”

  Zelinski let out his breath and watched as the gigantic soldier walked out of the gray cloud of smoke that poured out of the side ravine as thick as the plume from the top of a steam engine. The ranger recognized the wounded lawman.

  “What happened to you? Renegade Apache?” Zelinski chuckled holstering his revolver.

  Blake nodded and the ranger’s smile vanished. “Corporal Rollins winged him, but he slipped away.”

  Zelinski gave the boy a once-over and shook his head. “Can you walk?”

  Blake nodded. “With help.”

  “Good,” the ranger said, waiving his ragtag troop of men forward. “We don’t have the time for all this.” He looked at Rollins and then at Daniel Rainwater. Worried about more trouble with Ox Monroe, Zelinski had entrusted the young Flathead with his rifle. “If either of you see a wounded Apache and he so much as looks cross-eyed at you, shoot him.”

  Both men nodded. The face of Brandice the beetle-man creased in worry, and it looked as if he might lose control of his bowels.

  “There were two others with you,” Zelinski panted to Blake as he half-trotted beside Rollins. It amazed him how the soldier could carry the wounded deputy at such a fast pace that some of the men were having trouble keeping up.

  “Yes, sir, my father and Mr. Madsen. They went south after the missing girl.” Blake spoke through clenched teeth from the jarring gate and Rollin’s big arm around his middle.

  Horace slowed enough at that news that Brandice, horrified at the prospect of being left behind, almost crashed into him.

  “They went toward the fire?” Zelinski said.

  Corporal Rollins’s eyes caught Zelinski’s and he nodded knowingly. “I tried to stop ’em, but they wouldn’t pay me no heed at all. The little tracker just asked me to save his son here, so that’s what I’m doin’.”

  The group had to slow to pass single file around a lumbering porcupine that scurried as fast as it could down the same drainage—fleeing the oncoming fire.

  “Even the whistle-pigs are smart enough to run from this,” Zelinski said to no one in particular. He turned to look back at his collection of panting, mud-soaked, bone-weary men.

  Few of the others knew what was about to happen. All had seen fire from a distance. They’d fought it and pushed it back, moved when it got too near or jumped the breaks—even Voss’s group, who’d watched it devour their pack train, had no inkling of what was going to occur.

  First the smoke would thicken, get so hot they might not be able to see more than a few inches. Then the crown fires would tear through the tops of the trees. Running before the wind and raining down flames, these horrible, screeching demons would suck up all the usable oxygen. What little useless air was left would be superheated enough to blind them and sear their lungs closed at every attempted breath. Even if they found a way to survive all that, the ground fire would bring up the rear, eating up the thick underbrush—an unstoppable, unquenchable fury consuming everything in its path.

  “We’re here, boys,” Zelinski cried over the storm of dust and flying ash when they arrived at the tiny entrance to the mine adit. “Wet your blankets in the creek as best you can and move with speed into the tunnel.”

  “Mercy, would you look at that!” someone cried from the rear of the party. “It’s dark enough the bats have come out.” Indeed, the tiny black creatures flitted in and out of view in the swirling clouds of dark smoke. Some of them, confused or overwhelmed, flew directly into trees to be thrown to the group’s feet by the wind.

  The ravine opened up to about two hundred feet wide before them. The slanting walls rose over two hundred more on either side covered with thick stands of white pine.

  A horrendous moan like the roar of a furious ocean storm tore down the ravine toward them. It grew too dark to see more than a dozen yards.

  “I ain’t goin’ in there,” Roan Taggart yelled over the wind. He stared at the yawning six-by-six mouth of the mine adit.

  Brandice rushed past the red-bearded firefighter, happy to find some relative safety from the encroaching flames. Other men followed, their sodden wool blankets flapping wildly in the wind.

  “Monroe!” Zelinski barked into the dark hole. “Get out here and get your friend into that mine shaft!”

  As big as he was, Monroe poked his head out the adit entrance but would come no further. He looked back and forth from Taggart to the now-glowing ravine, but he dodged Zelinski’s eye.

  Flaming brands, as big as a man’s arm, began to fall in earnest and a blast of superheated wind blew in behind them, taking Zelinski’s breath away. He fought to keep his footing. He had everyone in now except Taggart.

  Zelinski grabbed at his shoulder, but Roan tore away and turned to run at the oncoming fire. A monstrous orange glow ripped through the tree crowns on either side of the ravine high above, snapping and cracking like gunfire as it was pushed by the faster winds. Trees fifty to seventy feet tall snapped like matchsticks and spun in the whirling gale. Flaming brands two and three feet long exploded into showers of sparks as they collided with the ground. Countless fires sprang up along the mountainsides, ahead of the main blaze.

  “Get back here!” Zelinski screamed above the melee. Taggart paid no attention. He seemed transfixed, staring at the orange glow up the steaming creek bed while fiery sparks spun around him like a swarm of angry wasps.

  Then, with slow deliberation, as trees flew past and the whole world seemed to melt around him, Roan Taggart pulled the revolver from his belt and shot himself in the head.

  With no time to mourn the man, Zelinski dove into the tunnel as a wave of flame engulfed the entire gorge.

  Corporal Rollins handed him a waterlogged blanket and helped him beat at the support timbers around the door as they began to catch fire.

  “Taggart . . .” Zelinski said, shaking his head.

  “I saw.” Rollins tried to hold his blanket up to block the door. Steam rose from the wet cloth and a flame caught along the bottom edge.

  Men coughed and choked in the cramped, steaming darkness. Someone in the back whimpered for his mother. Others chattered nervously like children. Cyrus McGill, with his fine tenor voice, began to sing “Abide With Me” at the top of his lungs.

  Thick smoke poured into the tunnel as the air rushed out.

  Horace Zelinski saw the world outside the opening turn bright orange.

  Then, everything went black.

  CHAPTER 30

  Angela pressed her back against the rough bark of the jack pine and cast her eyes back and forth looking for a way to run. The red dirt trail behind her led almost straight uphill. Above it marched the huge column of smoke and flame that would surely kill her. Webber was off his horse, cutting some sort of mark on the smooth red bark of an alder.

  They were heading into a circular valley surrounded on all sides by high walls of rock and towering trees. It was difficult to see what awaited them on the valley floor, for smoke poured over the cliffs filling it like a deep bowl of smoky soup. The wind stirred it some, and Angela thought she could make out the thin trickle of a small stream amid the huge boulders and thick groves of dark green trees and scrub.

  There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run without getting burned or killed. Still, it was not in Angela’s nature to march quietly to her death.

  Webber turned from his business with the knife and walked toward her. He didn’t resheath the bone-handled knife. The long blade reflected dully in the dusky haze, and Angela could see blood on the brass finger guard
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  “O’Shannon should find us soon.” He held the knife between them, staring at the blade, but didn’t threaten her with it. In fact, his tone was civil, almost friendly. His eyes were a different matter. They blazed with a fury Angela had never seen. She knew Webber had no more against her than the fire did, but it didn’t matter in either case. Both would destroy her if she got in the way—without even a hint of remorse.

  Trying to survive had overwhelmed Angela’s thought processes since she’d been abducted. She’d always assumed it was about a ransom. She’d read stories about men who kidnapped rich people’s children for money. But none of this made sense.

  Sensing she was doomed no matter what, Angela was suddenly consumed by an overpowering urge to understand.

  “Why?” Her voice still croaked from breathing around the rawhide gag. She wondered if it would ever come back—if she lived at all.

  Webber smiled and drew the blade of the knife across the palm of his hand. He let the blood drip down on the stirrup fender of Angela’s horse, then on the ground.

  “Why indeed.” He returned his knife to the sheath at his belt and wrapped a strip of cloth around his hand when he seemed satisfied with the amount of blood he’d left. “I suppose you are deserving of, if not entitled to, a few answers, my dear.” He looked back to the west. “It looks like we have a moment.” He looped the puddin’-footed horse’s lead around the low branch and beckoned Angela to follow on foot with a flick of his hand.

  It was not a request.

  “The men that are following us are the best at what they do.” Webber walked along without keeping to any sort of trail, expecting her to follow. Bunchgrass whipped in the wind at Angela’s feet, and she stumbled to keep up.

  “I used to work with them, called them my friends—until I was betrayed.”

  Webber stopped talking and Angela coaxed him. “How? What did they do to you to make you hate them so much?”

  The madman stopped in his tracks and nodded, letting his head bob up and down while he took several deep breaths. “It was the little half-breed, O’Shannon. He’s the one who’s to blame. It was his fault, but the others backed him up. They were there and thus they bear some of the responsibility—but the bulk of the burden, the bulk of the guilt falls on Trap O’Shannon. I will show him he cannot play God with other people’s lives.”

  “Why me? Why now?”

  Johannes chuckled, his gaze softening some as he looked at her. “Because, my dear, you were handy. I’d not counted on this cursed fire, but it makes little difference. I didn’t give myself much of a chance of survival anyway.”

  “What do you mean, I was handy?” Angela wanted to strangle him for not getting to the point.

  “It was my nephew’s idea really. Tom Ledbetter. I don’t know if you ever got the chance to meet him, but he works for your father. The poor boy hid under the porch while he watched my dear sister butchered by a band of Cheyenne dog soldiers. He was nine. Had what you might call a thirst for Indian blood since that time . . . and who can blame the boy?”

  Webber resumed his walking, brusquely, as if he had a particular destination in mind and it was not too far away.

  “Poor Tom knew about the debt I owed O’Shannon. When it seemed your politically connected father was having you out west for a visit, we knew he would call on the best trackers around to find you. It was Tom’s idea to have you ride in the coach and give you the ‘Western experience’ rather than your father’s model T.

  “All I really had to do was start things in motion. Natural momentum took care of the rest. You see, I know these men. I ate, drank, worked—and killed alongside them for years. A telegram here, a phone call there, it was really all too easy.”

  “How can you be sure this Trap O’Shannon won’t kill you first, if he’s as good as you say?”

  “He’s got to save you.” Johannes shrugged, as if the fact was obvious. “You see, he feels enormous guilt.”

  Angela wanted to scream. She struggled to keep up through the brush-choked trail. “If he feels guilty, then why do you still want to see him dead?”

  Johannes stopped and turned to face her. Leafy alder limbs whipped back and forth around him, adding their whispering whoosh to the moan of wind. “Guilt is not enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “I feel guilt. O’Shannon has to atone for what he did. I know him, Miss Kenworth. He’ll come for me in order to save you. No fire will be able to stop him from trying.”

  “Then you plan to kill me. You want him to fail.” Angela felt strangely calm to know her ordeal was almost at an end, one way or another.

  Webber smile serenely. “Don’t think so much, Angela. It’s not good for you.” He turned and motioned for her to follow.

  The trail flattened out into a wide valley of birch and towering cottonwood. Angela kept her head down and trudged along behind. She wondered how her end would come—a fire or at the hand of this lunatic? There were times the pain in her hand was so intense, she felt she would welcome death.

  Webber suddenly stopped in the trail ahead of her and drew his knife. Angela had just enough time to make out the figures of two men through the smoke and swaying trees before he spun her around and locked her arm behind her back. He took an iron grip on her bad hand. Searing pain shot up through her elbow at the rough treatment. She didn’t have the energy to resist.

  A thick cottonwood tree stood between them and the two other men. Webber put the blade to Angela’s throat and used his shoulder to pin her to the rough bark of the tree.

  “Be still,” he whispered. The wind was loud enough he could have yelled and the trackers would have had trouble hearing him.

  One cheek pressed against the rough bark of the tree, Angela was able to catch glimpses of her would-be rescuers. There were two of them, leading animals across a small stream not thirty feet away.

  “That’s right, my old friend. Keep coming,” Webber whispered as the two men moved cautiously in their direction. Angela could feel his muscles quiver with anticipation.

  He tightened his grip around her and jammed her harder against the tree. His breath was hot against her neck. “Now,” he hissed. “Go ahead and scream.”

  So this was it, Angela thought, and drew in a lungful of air. Before she could make a sound, the trackers stopped in mid-stream. The shorter of the two cocked his head to one side and looked hard in her direction. He dropped the reins of his mule and let his hand fall down to his pistol. The burly man next to him followed suit. He looked directly at her.

  CHAPTER 31

  “I can’t even hear myself think over this damned wind,” Clay barked as he sloshed into the ankle-deep stream. The bay gelding pulled at the reins behind him, trying to get enough slack to take a drink. Clay jerked its head up. “Stop it, you fool horse. This water’d kill you deader than a nail keg. You’re gonna force me to ride a jackrabbit like O’Shannon if you don’t watch yourself.”

  Hashkee, with plenty of slack, bent to sniff at the water, but refused to drink any.

  Trap studied the shoreline on the far edge of the creek. White-barked birch trees whipped in the wind, their limber trunks bending in great arcs with each dynamic gust. In the towering cottonwoods, leafy canopies as large as houses swished and sang on the shrieking gale. It was too dark to see into the trees more than a few yards.

  Trap caught a familiar smell on the wind and stopped in his tracks. It was an odor he recognized from the massacre site: the smell of fear.

  He looked at Clay, who for all his jabbering noticed it too and strained his eyes forward, searching the tree line.

  “There!” Clay spit. “I see him.” He started for the shore again, but Trap stopped him with a quick hand on his arm.

  “Don’t make it so easy for him,” Trap said, stepping back behind his mule. “Let’s settle in to this.”

  A shrill laugh carried toward them on the wind. “Go ahead, Clay. You can leave,” Webber shouted. “I only want Trap today. You’re free to go if you like.”
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  “I’d only circle around from behind and kill you, Johnny. You know that.” The wind was in his face and Clay had to yell to be heard.

  “Together again, eh?”

  “Yup,” Clay said, not caring if Webber heard him or not.

  “Madsen, you imbecile. You’re still playing Damon to his Pythias—too foolish to realize you are the better man. You two were always much too close for your own good.”

  “Whatever you say, Johnny.” Clay moved slowly toward his horse. “But the fact remains that I’m stayin’. I’d much rather look you in the face when I kill you than go sneakin’ around like that boob Feak you counted on to take care of me.”

  The winds from the firestorm blew in such a fury, it was impossible to know if Johannes heard anything Madsen said. Trees groaned against the stress. Ash and dust choked the air, and caused Trap to squint as he strained to see Johannes through the whirling torrents of smoke and debris. Clay pulled something out of his saddlebags and turned, a wide smile pulling back the tight corners of his mouth.

  “What have you got in mind?” Trap asked, risking a quick glance away from Webber. His jaw dropped at what he saw.

  Amid a virtual tornado of fire and sparks, Clay Madsen held three sticks of Dupont dynamite. The Texan winked. “Thought this might come in handy someday, so I borrowed it from the jail when I was lookin’ in on Maggie. I was thinking of usin’ it to blast Johannes to Hell.”

  Trap swallowed hard. “You mean to tell me I been riding beside you through these fires and all this time you’ve been sittin’ on a sack of explosive?”

  Clay shrugged off the danger. “Dynamite don’t explode unless you put a fuse to it. It just burns. You know that.”

  Trap tilted his head toward the sticks in Madsen’s hand. “Those have got fuses in them already, in case you haven’t noticed.”