To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “I’ll be damned.” Clay chuckled. “I guess they do at that.”

  “Come get what you came for,” Johannes shrieked. He threw the Kenworth girl to the ground in front of him. She landed on her knees at the base of the huge, swaying tree. “You and I have an appointment to keep, O’Shannon. Come to me and I’ll let her go to Madsen.”

  Clay tucked the dynamite in his hip pocket. Both he and Trap started for the tree line—and Johannes.

  “Both of you stop,” Webber screamed. He dragged the sobbing girl back to her feet and put the point of his knife to her throat. “One more step, Madsen, and I kill her here and now. There is only one way for her to live through this.”

  Flames ate away at the trees behind Johannes. The furious wind howling ahead of the fire sent small rocks skittering across the scoured ground. The surface of the shallow creek rolled back from the force of it at the trackers’ feet.

  “He’ll kill her anyway,” Clay groaned to Trap. “I’m sick of playin’ around. Pardon me while I go . . .”

  A horrific groan from high above caused all the men to look up. Webber moved the knife a fraction of an inch and the girl fell away, just as a fearsome wind grabbed the towering cottonwood and slammed it to the ground. The tree landed with a reverberating crack, its huge branches snapping under its own weight.

  For a moment both Webber and Angela were hidden from view by the leafy crown. Trap and Clay seized the opportunity and leapt forward. Angela crawled out of the branches to meet them.

  The fire up the canyon swept through the trees toward them with the screaming cries of a banshee. It was less than a mile away now, and they had nowhere to run but the tiny creek behind them.

  “Does Webber have a gun?” Trap yelled above the melee as Clay dragged the weakened girl into the shallow water between Hashkee and the gelding.

  “I think so,” she whimpered. Her words came on jagged breaths. “He . . . I . . . think the tree fell on him.”

  “Johannes, you all right?” Trap yelled toward the downed tree. There was no answer.

  “We’re still in the open if Johnny’s got his gun handy.” Clay gazed back in awe at the approaching firestorm. “But I reckon it won’t make any difference for any of us in a minute or two,” Orange and yellow flames surged on all sides of the valley now, pushed through the trees by the angry gale. The Texan pulled the trembling girl to his chest and patted her softly on the back to sooth her. “We got her back from Johannes, Trap, but a lot of good that does her now.” He ducked his head toward the fire, squinting at the brightness and heat of it. “This sorry little pissant creek ain’t gonna be no help at all.”

  Trap looked down at the shallow stream. Only inches deep, it barely covered Hashkee’s fetlocks. “Maybe there’s a hole further down.” He grabbed the mule’s reins and motioned for Clay to follow with Angela. “We have to try.”

  Madsen put out a hand to stop him and motioned up the canyon. “It’s too late, old buddy. We gave it our best, but that blaze will be on us momentarily. I feel good about what we’ve done. At least we can rest easy knowing these fearsome winds will blast Johannes on to Hell in a . . .”

  “How many sticks of dynamite do you have?” Trap dropped the mule’s reins.

  “Six, but I don’t . . . wait a minute.” Clay looked down at Angela and gave her an excited squeeze. “I think my little friend is gettin’ one of his famous last-minute ideas.”

  “Six should be enough—I hope. Don’t have much experience with this sort of thing.” Trap slapped Hashkee on the rump to herd him out to the stream away from the approaching firestorm. “Give me all six and get the girl back behind those rocks.”

  Clay dug the rest of the dynamite out of his saddlebags and gave it all to O’Shannon.

  “How long will fuses like this burn?” Trap yelled as Clay sloshed out of the creek with Angela.

  Clay gave him a sheepish look. “I don’t know, maybe a minute or so,” he screamed back, though he was still only fifteen feet away. “They came that way.”

  A minute or so—Trap looked back at the approaching flames. He cringed at the growing intensity of the heat. Steam rose from the edge of the tiny stream. Falling brands sang and hissed as they flew into the water like flaming arrows. Two minutes and they’d all be cooked.

  Trap estimated as best he could, and used his knife to cut the fuses in half.

  Behind him, the branches of the downed cottonwood began to burst into flame—and Johannes Webber began to scream. Trap winced at the thought of the man, even one as bent on evil as Webber, trapped under the huge tree, burning alive. Grateful for a loud wind, he tried to push the sounds out of his mind as he worked to find a place to put the explosive. O’Shannon glanced for a moment in the direction of the screaming, but saw nothing. He was certain Johannes posed him little danger now.

  Wasting precious seconds on a search, Trap finally found a small pile of rocks the size of musk melons located roughly in the center of the shallow current. Water swirled around the dynamite, but the fuses stayed dry, inches above the water. He kicked at the gravel bed, hoping it was loose enough for his plan to work.

  Small fires burned everywhere, and it was no problem to find something to light the fuse with. Trap grabbed a burning length of pine at the water’s edge and sloshed quickly back to the dynamite. He had to bend over and protect the fuses from the wind to get the fire to catch. When it did, he dropped the torch and ran, slogging for the rocks where Clay hid with Angela and the animals.

  CHAPTER 32

  The explosion knocked Trap off his feet as he stumbled behind the protection of the rocks. A muddy slurry of gravel and sand rained down in all directions. Rocks the size of his head slammed into the bank up and down the creek. Miraculously, none fell on the huddled group.

  Clay helped him up and gave him an exuberant kiss on the top of his head. “You’re a genius, O’Shannon.”

  “Is it working?” Trap mumbled to himself. Even his own voice was a muffled grunt inside his head. He couldn’t hear a thing.

  Clay chanced a peek around the boulders and slapped his friend on the back. O’Shannon looked up to read his lips. “Water’s flowin’ into your brand-new pond.”

  The ringing in Trap’s ears quieted some by the time the trio waded into the rising water. He estimated it would be four feet deep by the time it was full. He hoped that was deep enough.

  “Throw this over you,” Trap heard Clay cry above a rush of fiery wind as they led the animals into the water beside them. He was happy to see the creek already lapped at the mule’s belly. Trap took the waterlogged blanket and ducked into the water beside his friend and the girl. He thought he could still hear Webber’s screams as the molten gases engulfed the world around him.

  * * *

  Clay laughed as he sloshed out of the creek, the girl in his arms. His teeth chattered from almost an hour in the chilly, lifesaving water. “Ain’t it amazing how things change? I never thought I’d look for another fire again as long as I lived when that demon was bearin’ down on us like that. Now, I fear we’ll all freeze to death if we don’t get warm.”

  Trap looked at the smoldering remains of the huge cottonwood that had fallen on Johannes. The world was eerily quiet, with no more than the gurgle of the nearby creek and the telltale snap of burning embers. If not for Madsen’s constant jabbering, Trap would have thought he was still deaf.

  “You think he suffered bad?” The little tracker stood staring at the tree.

  “He’s been sufferin’ a lot of years, Trap. Gone plumb loco—outta his mind.”

  “I guess we should still bury what’s left of him,” Trap muttered, his eyes locked on the pulsing embers along the thick cottonwood trunk.

  Clay shook his head. “You stay here with Angela. I’ll take care of that.”

  Moments later, Clay called out from the other side of the smoldering tree. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

  Despite his fatigue, Trap trotted around the cottonwood. Angela, unwilling to
be left alone, followed.

  Johannes was gone. Madsen put his arm around a trembling Angela Kenworth and toed a shallow depression in the dirt. He shook his head and laughed out loud. “The son of a bitch cut his own arm off to get away.”

  A chill ran up O’Shannon’s spine. He looked around at the blackened, ghostlike trees. The underbrush had been burned away for miles. There was no place to hide.

  In the dirt, half hidden by the huge tree trunk, was a charred arm, the bone crushed, the flesh cut away just below the elbow. Beside the arm, in a small depression of earth, Trap found a gold pocket watch. It was still hot, and he used his bandanna to pick it up. He chewed on the inside of his cheek as he pushed the button to open the timepiece so he could look at the inscription.

  He already knew what it said.

  CHAPTER 33

  “The boss is dead,” Horace Zelinski heard a muffled voice say. The ranger couldn’t move his arms or legs, but he felt the pistol, clutched in his hand, and assumed that if he truly had crossed over, the Good Lord would have had him check his firearm on the other side.

  He had a splitting headache, and the longer he lay still, the more he became aware of the pain in his blistered hands and forearms. He reckoned the pain was a good sign, since it attested to the fact that he was alive.

  “He died valiantly.” Horace felt the gentle prod of a boot toe and heard the pinched nasal voice of Milton Brandice. “He gave his life to save the rest of us.”

  “I’m not dead yet, you patent-leather idiot!”

  The beetle specialist squealed and jumped backward as Zelinski groaned and pushed himself upright.

  Bandy Rollins gave a hearty laugh and yanked the ranger to his feet.

  “Easy now, Corporal. You’re gonna tear my wings off. I fear my flesh is a bit on the tender side after the fire.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Z. I’m just tickled to count you among the livin’.” Rollins pressed a damp rag to Zelinski’s forehead. It dripped with cool water. “Hold that up against you there. It’ll make you feel some better.”

  The moist rag helped immensely. As the pain in his head subsided, Horace slowly became aware of the men around him. Some lay on scorched ground around the tunnel opening, nursing their wounds and gasping for air like landed fish. Some wept with the relief of knowing they were alive. Daniel Rainwater sat against the mountainside with his cousin. Both of the Indian boys grinned openly when Zelinski looked at them.

  “Did we lose anyone?”

  Corporal Rollins cast his eyes at the ground. “You already know about Taggart.”

  “I remember that. Anyone else?”

  “The Swede and Ox Monroe,” Rollins said in one exhalation of breath.

  Zelinski eyed the black trooper under a crooked brow.

  Rollins raised his thick arms and shook his head. “Don’t be so quick to jump, Mr. Z. I was busy lookin’ after the wounded deputy. I didn’t have time to do no wrestlin’. Turned out I didn’t need to kill the fool anyway. Seems he was so all fired bent on savin’ his own skin, he bullied his way to the back and passed out in a seep. He drowned right there in no more than a three-inch trickle of water oozin’ in from the guts of the mountain.”

  It was easy for Zelinski to accept Monroe bullying himself to death. “And what about Peterson?”

  “Don’t know for certain,” Bandy said. “Heart seizure maybe. All of us was breathin’ the same amount of smoke. That’s for sure.”

  “How did the O’Shannon boy fare?”

  “He’s fine. Bleedin’s stopped and he’s restin’ peaceful. He’ll be up chasin’ outlaws and gals in no time. I hope not in that order.”

  “Well and good then.” Zelinski was ready to move on. The odds of any one of them surviving such a firestorm had been long in the first place. To lose only three men was nothing short of a miracle. He tossed the damp rag back to Rollins and turned to the survivors of his tired crew. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m ready to get into town for a meal and a bath.”

  A general buzz of excitement ran through the men.

  “And,” Horace added, a small tear in his eye, relief flooding his emotions, “if anyone is still alive down there to serve us, supper is on me.”

  CHAPTER 34

  August 27

  Clay let the pocket watch twirl in front of him, twisting and untwisting on the long golden chain. The weather had turned cooler and brought enough rain to stop the fires. An afternoon drizzle had beaten the dust back down, and the sun now shone bright yellow on the crest of the western mountains. The light reflected beautifully off the spinning watch.

  Trap stood in the corral, rubbing the mule colt’s ears but looking at his son, who sat on a stump, his leg in a splint courtesy of Doc Bruner. “Isn’t it about time you filled me in on everything?” Blake asked. “I was a part of it, if you both care to recall.”

  “I’d be happy to, if I understood it myself, son.” Trap shrugged and turned his attention back to the colt.

  “He sure twisted off on us, didn’t he, Trap?” Clay seemed hypnotized by the watch. “I mean, he put that young Kenworth girl through hell just to get back at you. That seems too wicked even for Johannes.”

  “His mind was gone, eaten up by revenge,” Trap mused. “How’s the girl doing?”

  “Pretty well, considering what she’s been through,” Blake offered from the stump. He seemed more outspoken now that the ordeal was over, as if he’d passed some test of manhood and was now allowed to be a larger part of the conversation. “Telegraph and telephone lines are all down, so her mother can’t get through to make her come home. She and her daddy are gettin’ reacquainted. Old Man Kenworth told me he was startin’ to think about bucking his wife and having the girl stay out here permanent. I don’t know if he’ll ever pay to get the lines fixed.”

  Clay cocked an eyebrow at Blake. “So, you been out to the Kenworth place checkin’ in on the girl, have you? Good boy. You remind me of me.”

  Blake smirked. “I took her on a buggy ride yesterday evening, but all she could talk about was how handsome and brave that Mr. Madsen was.” He threw a pine cone at Clay. “It’s like you weren’t even there, Pa. I don’t know how you put up with that all these years.”

  “Wouldn’t have bothered him unless your mama was involved.” Clay let the watch twirl around his finger while he spoke. “And she never was, to my utter dismay.”

  “You think he’s still out there?” Blake leaned forward on the stump, steadying himself on his homemade cane. He looked hard at both men.

  “I don’t know.” Trap shrugged, dropping the colt’s rear foot to stand up straight and face his son.

  “Well, I know.” Clay caught the watch in his palm and held it. “I know and so do you. Johannes ain’t dead, and that’s a fact. Any man bullheaded enough to dog after you all these years, patient enough to put together a plan like that, and tough enough to hack off his own arm to get away, didn’t die in the fire. No, sir, I don’t know how he escaped from that inferno, but I do know this: He damn sure didn’t die.”

  “So.” Blake leaned back again. He scanned the trees around him, as if a singed, one-armed Johannes Webber might come running out at any moment. “He’s still out there somewhere, making another plan.”

  “Reckon so,” Trap conceded. He bent to step through the fence rail to join Maggie, who’d come out of the house with a plate of fry bread and butter. He put his arm around her shoulders. The cooler weather over the last few days had made him a lot easier to get along with. One morning, they’d even awakened to an early dusting of snow. Maggie had been pleased. Trap had been ecstatic.

  “Well, then.” Blake looked at his mother while he spoke. “If Johannes Webber is still out there, just biding his time until he can try and kill you again, someone had better tell me the whole story.”

  “It’s hard to understand,” Trap said, repeating his earlier misgiving.

  “Still.” Clay held the watch out to Trap. “The boy’s right. Johannes is bound a
nd determined to hurt you, and by hurtin’ you, he’s likely to hurt all of us. Hard to understand or not, we got to try to figure out what’s goin’ on in that sick head of his. I say let’s find the son of a bitch wherever he is and take the fight to him.” The Texan grimaced and turned to Maggie. “Forgive the language, darlin’.”

  Maggie smiled and tapped the watch that was now in her husband’s hand. “I think Blake is right. He needs to know what happened. We have to think about the future. Sometimes, the best way to do that is to rediscover the past. To understand Johannes, stop thinking about him as an enemy. Perhaps if you would reflect on the time when you gave him this gift, you could better understand his thoughts.”

  Trap depressed the golden stem at the top of the timepiece. The round face flicked open with a whisper.

  “To: Johannes, a trusted companion,” the inscription read. “From: Trap, Ky, and Clay, 1881.”

  Maggie closed the watch and Trap’s fist in her own hands. “To catch this killer, you must remember when he was your friend.”

  EPILOGUE

  The firestorm raged on through August 22nd, finally destroying over three million acres in Idaho and Montana alone. Entire mountainsides were reduced to ash. On the 23rd, much-needed rain, and later snow, finally slowed its relentless advance.

  Scars from the fires are still visible today.

  The towns of St. Regis, Saltese, DeBorgia, and Taft, Montana, along with Grand Forks, Idaho, were actual locations. All but St. Regis are now just dots on a map, destroyed by the great fires residents later came to call The Big Blowup.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Every Boy Scout knows that with a little fuel, a little heat, and a little air you can have yourself a little fire. In the summer of 1910, the Rocky Mountain West saw giant helpings of all three ingredients—and a devastating inferno that destroyed three million acres in Montana and Idaho alone.

  The United States Forest Service, still a fledgling agency, enlisted the aid of every able-bodied man they could find to join the battle against over 1500 fires that threatened to destroy western Montana, Idaho, and southern Canada. Loggers, skid-row bums, Native Americans, miners, and Army soldiers all united in the fight.