To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  CHAPTER 23

  A day south of old Fort Defiance, Trap decided he wanted to buy Maggie a new dress. A passing stranger, likely a deserting soldier, had told them there was a town a few hours ahead. They were still a few days out of Camp Apache, but Trap didn’t know how many opportunities he’d have to buy anything like that. From what he’d seen of the frontier, new clothes and shops to buy them in were seriously lacking.

  Maggie insisted her faded skirt only needed time with a needle and thread to render it good as new, but Trap showed he’d inherited his father’s Scots-Irish resolution and insisted right back that she was getting a new dress. If she wanted to mend the old one, then she’d have two.

  Of course, he had no idea how much such a thing might cost. He had a few dollars of the money his mother had given him, and figured he could get a little more for the extra pistols he and Clay had taken from the dead outlaws.

  Buying Maggie a dress seemed like a good idea, but leaving her to do it, even for a minute, was like pulling out a perfectly good tooth. Trap held her hand from the back of his horse, looking down at her eyes.

  “Jeez-o’-Pete,” Clay said from atop his own gelding, stirrup-to-stirrup with Trap. “You two beat all I ever seen. She’s made it by herself across half the country. I reckon she’ll survive one afternoon without us.”

  Trap let his fingers slide away.

  “We should be back before dark,” he said. “You keep the Winchester with you.”

  “Clay is right,” Maggie said. “Everything will be fine. There is a nice pool down at the river. I’ll have a cool bath while you are gone.”

  “Well, then.” Madsen winked. “That changes things. I reckon I oughta stay around and see to your safety after all.”

  Trap took off his hat and slapped Clay’s horse on the rump. The startled roan jumped forward and broke into a fast walk toward town. “She needs protection from you. Let’s get gone so we can get back.”

  Trap looked over his shoulder as he urged his horse into a trot. He wondered if it would always make him so sick when he rode away from this woman.

  * * *

  Maggie watched the boys ride into the swaying waves of desert heat. It didn’t take them long to disappear among the Joshua trees and barrel cactus. She rubbed the sweat out of her eyes and sighed. Her memories of the cool mountain air of the Wallowa Valley tugged at her heart—but her future lay with Trap O’Shannon. If he was to go to Arizona, that’s where she would go as well.

  A new dress seemed a silly extravagance, but she supposed it would be nice to look her best when next she met the Reverend and Mrs. O’Shannon alongside their son.

  It felt strange to be alone again after days with the two boys. Trap was quiet for the most part, but Clay Madsen spoke enough for all three of them. Maggie walked toward the line of shimmering acacia trees that lined the riverbank. The catclaw thorns on just such trees were responsible for most of the rips on her shredded skirt.

  She smiled to herself at the thought of the fun-loving Texan. As quiet as Trap was, it was easy to tell he possessed strong feelings for her. Clay flirted constantly, but it was obvious he loved all womankind—the one he was with at the moment just a little more than all the rest.

  Black streaks lined the red sandstone cliffs that towered over the slow-moving river like a castle wall and provided a comfortable shade from the midday sun. Long strands of lime-green moss swayed like hair in the lazy current where the river widened into an emerald pool in the mountain’s shadow.

  Maggie took a quick look around and leaned the Winchester against a low bush of salt cedar at the water’s edge so she could get to it in a hurry if she had to. She hung her medicine bag beside the rifle before slipping nimbly out of her skirt and pulling her loose blouse over her head. Her knee-high moccasins came off last, and she hung them across a low branch. It was a tactic she’d learned the hard way to discourage scorpions and other stinging crawlers from making a home in the dark recesses of her tattered footgear.

  Naked on the bank, she let the hot breeze blow across her skin while she inspected the ragged clothes. Miles in the saddle and countless nights sleeping on the ground had taken their toll. Cactus and acacia brush had ripped the threadbare garments in countless spots. Maybe the new dress wasn’t such a bad idea. She carried her old clothes into the water with her. Hopefully, they would stand up to one more good washing.

  The water was warm, a refreshing contrast to the blazing air, the rock bed slick with moss. Gradually, she waded deeper into the stream until she had to hop to keep her head above water. Letting her legs come up, she floated on her back and gazed at the perfect blue sky while she kicked slowly across the deep pool. She was happy to be alone with her thoughts until Trap returned—happy to make herself feel and smell clean for him.

  With her ears underwater she couldn’t hear the rocks skitter down the red sandstone bluff above.

  Two ravens circle overhead, cawing and playing with one another like the tricksters they were. Suddenly, one of the birds dipped its wings and plummeted straight for her. Inches above the water, the raven pulled out of its dive and flew to the acacia tree beside her rifle.

  Startled, Maggie sat up to tread water. She brushed a lock of wet hair out of her eyes. The bird cawed again, then turned its head sideways and blinked a shining black eye.

  A hot wind rippled the water in front of her, sending a wave of goose flesh over her body. Something was wrong.

  Two strong kicks took her to the shore. Dripping wet, she picked up the Winchester and scanned the shadows among the bushes and rocks before she wriggled into her wet clothes one arm at a time.

  The raven flew to a nearby mesquite and began to preen while its mate soared among the cliffs above.

  Water dripped from Maggie’s hair and ran down her spine beneath her shirt. A familiar feeling tugged at her chest, as if she had walked through a spiderweb. She nodded her thanks to the bird for its warning and backed slowly into the trees.

  Someone was out there, watching her.

  CHAPTER 24

  Trap had the skinny Mexican girl at the mercantile wrap the new dress in brown paper and string. He figured Maggie hadn’t been able to open too many presents in her life, and thought she might enjoy it. It took a few minutes to pry Clay away from his flirting, but after a quick trip to the dry-goods store for a few supplies, the boys were on their way back to camp.

  Trap was anxious to get back, and kept his horse to a trot. He would have galloped if he hadn’t been afraid the heat would kill his horse.

  Skunk’s ears perked up a half mile away from the river. Trap felt the little gelding tighten its gait, and scanned the area ahead. If he’d learned anything in his short life away from civilization, it was to trust his mount’s instincts. He shot a glance at Clay, who was neck-deep in a convoluted story about his plans to ride to Mexico and marry Pilar de la Cruz.

  Madsen stopped in mid-sentence. “What’s wrong, partner? Looks like you just swallowed a bug.”

  “Can’t tell.” Trap gave the gelding its head.

  Both horses slid to a stop in the trees beside the remains of Maggie’s small fire. The pungent smell of cedar smoke hung heavy in the still air. Trap swung a leg over the saddle horn and hopped to the ground. His voice was tight as a skin drum.

  “I shouldn’t have left her.”

  “Aw, she’s likely just enjoying her little bath,” Clay said from the back of his roan. He raised his dark eyebrows up and down. “I’d be happy to go check on her.”

  Trap squatted and studied the petite moccasin tracks that led through the dark portal of acacias along the river. “We been gone a good while. I can’t see her taking a bath that . . .”

  The sharp crack of a Winchester creased the hot evening air. It came from the river.

  Trap was back in the saddle in a flash. Clay drew his pistol and the boys spurred their horses into the trees.

  A dead man lay facedown in the water, legs bobbing in the current, his hands clawed at the
bunchgrass along the rocky bank. Blood oozed from a wound underneath him and mingled with the green moss. A brindle dog lay a few feet away. A shotgun blast had torn the animal in half. Blood streaked the rock and grass where the mortally wounded animal had tried in vain to drag itself to the dead man in the water. A swarm of flies buzzed around the dog’s shining entrails and the man’s open eyes. Neither had been dead very long.

  “Van Zandt,” Trap said in a tight whisper.

  Clay scanned the waterline, his eyes following his pistol. “Yeah, I recognize that mean critter layin’ dead beside him. Glad I don’t have to fret over him anymore. I reckon that means Drum’s lurkin’ around here somewhere.”

  Trap nodded, walking along the river’s edge in search of tracks. “Van Zandt got it with a shotgun. Maggie only had the Winchester.”

  “Drum killed his own man?”

  “Here.” Trap found the cloudy boot prints in the slow-moving water where Drum had crossed. He swung back on his horse and splashed across, keeping his eyes on the water. “Clay,” he said without looking up. “I’d be much obliged if you’d keep your eyes peeled and see that I don’t get shot while I figure out where Maggie went.”

  Madsen gave a curt nod. “I’m hurt you thought I’d do anything else. Be happy to kill that son of a bitch Drum for you too.”

  “If he’s harmed Maggie, there won’t be anything of him left for you to kill.”

  Two hundred yards downriver, past the swimming hole, they heard voices coming through the trees. Trap dismounted and motioned silently for Clay to follow suit. The boys tied their horses and crept forward on foot.

  The evening was already warm, but Trap’s mind burned at the thought of any harm coming to Maggie. All he’d wanted to do over the last few months, all he’d thought about was to find and protect her. Now, he was afraid he’d failed.

  Dwarf willows and salt cedar grew thick along the sandy bank. Drum’s deep voice filtered through the coarse foliage.

  “. . . you really believed you could get away from me, you filthy little whore? Well, let me tell you something. When a woman makes eyes at me the way you did, I know what she wants. . . .” His voice was strained and breathy.

  Maggie screamed.

  “Go on and yell your fool head off.” Drum laughed manically. “There’s nobody out here to save you.”

  Trap had heard enough. He crashed through the trees with Clay tight on his heels. What he saw was like a kick to his stomach.

  Maggie’s shirt hung from her shoulders. Drum knelt on top of her, pinning both arms up above her head with a powerful left hand. His right gripped cruelly at her face, pinching her cheeks into a pitiful grimace.

  Her screams came out in a muffled groan and she arched her back, trying to throw him off. He was a big man and as feisty as she was, Maggie was no match for him in strength. Blood oozed from a jagged bite wound on her neck. The ground was plowed around them. Her bare feet bled from her kicks and struggles.

  Trap felt Clay bring up the pistol on his left. He raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t want you to have to live with this one,” he heard himself say.

  Trap’s bone-handled knife hissed from the sheath and he flew at Drum with a fury he’d never known. A brutal kick to the big man’s ribs sent him flying off Maggie with a whoof as the air left his lungs. Trap heard bones crack, but Drum lashed out with a powerful hand and swiped him off his feet. Buoyed by rage, the boy rolled quickly and was on his feet in an instant.

  Maggie ripped away the remainder of her torn blouse and moved in with him, shoulder-to-shoulder. Blood from her nose and the wound at her neck covered her heaving chest. A blade gleamed in her hand.

  “Good Lord,” Clay gasped.

  Drum lay on his side, panting and clutching his injured ribs. His eyes grew wide when he saw the knives. He shot a glance at the shotgun ten feet away, then raised a hand to ward off the attack, trying to push himself to his knees.

  It was too late.

  Trap and Maggie fell on him as one, a flash of steel, blood, and teeth—a flurry of black hair, bronze skin, and righteous indignation.

  It was over as fast as it had begun.

  * * *

  “Van Zandt wanted him to share me. Drum didn’t feel like sharing.” Maggie stooped to clean her knife and hands in the river. “I guess I need another bath.”

  Trap stood beside her. They were both covered in blood. “Are you all right?” he asked. His voice was distant in his head, as if it were coming from someone else’s mouth.

  Maggie used a bit of her torn shirt to dab some blood out of his eye. It didn’t appear to bother her that she was naked from the waist up. “He never got to do anything but bite me.” She touched the same piece of cloth to the crescent-shaped wound below her ear. “I hid in the trees as long as I could. I knew you would make it back in time.” Her eyes sparkled in the low light. Her bare shoulders trembled, but she didn’t cry.

  Clay Madsen, who talked about naked women more than any single thing in the world, took off his own shirt and held it out to Maggie. “You need this more than I do, Maggie darlin’,” he whispered gently. For all his talk, he kept his eyes pointed at the ground. He shook his head, his face a little on the pale side. “You two beat all. I seen of some strange ways of con-summatin’ a relationship in my short years, but I ain’t never even heard of anything quite so unifyin’ as two lovebirds fighting side by side to hack a common enemy to pieces.”

  CHAPTER 25

  1910

  Idaho

  The train chugged over Lookout Pass a little before noon, belching thick clouds of smoke and steam, a long black snake against a white backdrop. It lumbered slowly through the deep snow, and the engineer made frequent stops to clear downed trees or heavy drifts in the narrow canyons.

  The passengers were used to such stops and starts, so when gears ground and wheels squealed against wet tracks and they began to slow, hardly anyone gave it a second thought.

  “We oughta be getting into Mullan anytime,” Clay said. His eyes sparkled with the memories of their conversation. “I could use a little stretch. How about . . .”

  The throaty boom outside the train cut him short. Trap shot a worried look at Clay, then at his wife.

  “Was that what I think it was?” Hanna’s green eyes went wide.

  Trap stood, his hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “Let’s move away from the window until we figure out what’s going on out there.” He took a black pistol from under his coat and gave it to Maggie. “We’ll be right back.”

  Clay gave Hanna a peck on the nose. “Stay with Maggie.”

  * * *

  They met the red-faced conductor stepping back inside the door.

  “What’s the news?” Clay put a hand up to stop the blustering man. “Somebody get shot?”

  “Not as of yet.” The beefy conductor’s face glowed red, more from a brush with death than the cold. His chin quivered a little as if he might start to sob at any moment. “There’s a mob of men out there threatening to shoot anyone who gets off the train.” He took his hat off and ran a hand over a sweating scalp. “This has been one hell of a day: a phantom passenger, that high-toned Baker woman, and now I almost get my head blown off. I don’t get paid enough for all this.”

  “Did they give you a reason?” Trap needed answers, not a bunch of talk about the conductor’s bad day at work.

  The man scoffed. “Said they had orders to keep us on the train to protect the good citizens of Idaho.” He scuttled past in the narrow hallway, eager to get the train moving again.

  Clay put his hand on the door handle and shot a grin at Trap. “I was lookin’ forward to wettin’ my whistle in Mullan. Shall we see what’s eatin’ these folks?”

  “Move slow so they don’t get antsy with that scattergun,” Trap said. “I don’t like the idea of buryin’ two friends on one trip.”

  “You always were the brains of this outfit,” Clay said as he pushed open the door.

  A cold blast of air hit them full in t
he face. A bellowing order followed.

  “We mean business,” a gruff voice shouted from the tree line. “I’ll cut down the first man who steps off that train.”

  Clay held both hands out the door. “We’re not armed.”

  “I don’t give a ding-dong damn.”

  Clay turned to Trap and shrugged. “Never heard that one before.” He shouted back out the door. “You want to tell us what’s got into you folks? Mullan used to be a right hospitable place.”

  “We got orders from the United States marshal to keep all of you on that train. Deputized me over the phone, he did.” The voice was pinched, as if the speaker had a hand caught in a vise.

  “The marshal?” Trap began to chew the inside of his cheek, wondering how Blake might fit into all this.

  “That’s right. So you best stay on that train just like I tell you and nobody’ll get hurt.”

  “You allowed to tell us why?” Clay always sounded like he was in charge—mainly because he believed he always was.

  A buzzing silence followed while the men at the tree line conferred with each other. Finally, the leader spoke up again. “We’re supposed to keep you on this train until a deputy gets here from Montana this evenin’. Somebody on your train has the smallpox.”

  “Smallpox?” Clay pushed the door open and put his foot on the top step. “Do I look like I have smallpox?”

  The roar of a shotgun split the cold air. A splattering of snow kicked up on the ground twenty feet away.

  Clay moved back in the doorway beside Trap. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m not gettin’ off the train.”

  He slammed the door shut behind him.

  “Good thing he fired another warning shot.” Trap smirked and let out a tense sigh.

  “I don’t believe it was a warnin’.” Clay winked. “I reckon that ol’ boy just didn’t know the shotgun would shoot so low at that distance. You think Blake is the one comin’?”