To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  Maggie’s hair had always grown fast, and by October hung well below her shoulders. Sometimes, the way the soldiers looked at her made her smile. Other times, it put her on edge and she longed for Trap’s quick return.

  Apart from working around the modest school, Maggie had little to do but help Mrs. O’Shannon when she could. Trap’s mother was a quiet woman, pensive and slow to speak, when she said anything at all, but she had a kind look in her deep brown eyes. There was no judgment in her words, as one might expect from a mother-in-law, and Maggie enjoyed their time together.

  She especially liked shopping. Even the modest sutler’s store at a remote post like Camp Apache had so many things to choose from, a girl like Maggie, who was used to a frugal life, could spend hours browsing at the buttons and fabric and letting her imagination run wild. The only trouble was, the Reverend O’Shannon enjoyed shopping with his wife as well, and Maggie couldn’t quite tell how he felt about her.

  Rather than acceptance from the man she considered her father-in-law, she felt a sort of quiet resignation to the fact that Trap had chosen to spend the rest of his life with her. He was always kind, but distant in all his communications. Hummingbird smiled and looked at her whenever he spoke, but never made any apology for his cool behavior. The poor man appeared to be exhausted by the mere act of living since he’d had to leave White Oak.

  “I must speak to Mr. Sorenson about some socks,” the reverend said as they entered the long adobe-and-log store, one end of which sold spirits to the troops. His wife and Maggie both knew the talk about socks would be preceded and followed by a whiskey toddy to warm his bones. The store was not so large as to hide the fact that he was drinking, and he did not try. He just saw no reason to mention it out loud.

  Hummingbird gave her husband a soft look and motioned Maggie toward the bolts of cloth. They’d spoken of making some new winter dresses. “I’ll fill my list while you talk to him,” Hummingbird said to the reverend, touching him on the hand as she always did when they parted ways. “Tell me if you think of anything else you need me to buy.”

  A copper cowbell clanked on the door behind them and a familiar voice cut the close air inside the building. Maggie had her back to the entrance and couldn’t place it for a moment. When she did, her blood ran cold.

  * * *

  “Peter Grant!” James O’Shannon’s face brightened and he took the new arrival by both shoulders. “What brings you to Arizona?”

  The baby-faced lieutenant removed his hat and nodded politely to Mrs. O’Shannon. He smiled at Maggie and blushed. His entire face fluttered with nervous energy.

  She tried to keep her eyes from darting back and forth, looking for a way to escape. His countenance held the same missionary zeal as when she’d seen him last. Except for the fact that his hands were not blackened with gunpowder from shooting her people, he looked exactly as he had the day they’d met almost a year before south of the Canadian border.

  “How is your uncle these days?” Reverend O’Shannon clapped his hands together, genuinely pleased to see a familiar face in such a lonely place as Camp Apache, Arizona.

  “He’s well, thank you,” Grant said. “He sends his regards and hopes you don’t think ill of the council for sending you to this duty.” The boy’s words were guarded, as if he knew more than he said.

  “We were pleased for the opportunity to come and minister among my people,” Hummingbird said, her interjection a little out of character.

  James O’Shannon nodded in hearty agreement as if he was still attempting to convince himself. “That’s right, that’s right,” he said. “This is a wonderful opportunity for Chuparosa and me both. And the Lord knows her people need help.”

  Lieutenant Grant had stopped listening to either O’Shannon and stared intently at Maggie. “The truth is, I went to White Oak a few weeks ago, hoping to look in on Miss Sundown.”

  Maggie swallowed and bit her bottom lip, trying to keep her face passive. Her head spun, her breath came in shallow gasps.

  Cocking his head to one side like a disapproving father, Grant raised his eyebrows. “I found things in a shambles. A young Sioux boy named Big Horse or something or another was virtually running the school. Tall Horse, that’s it. He was doing a fair job of it too.

  “Mrs. Tally has undergone a complete nervous collapse. She can do little but cry, the poor old girl. She told me between sobs that you and Reverend Drum had both disappeared.” He studied Maggie’s reaction. “I’m relieved to find you safe, but left wondering what brought you all the way to Arizona. Have you got any notion of what happened to Reverend Drum?”

  Maggie shot a glance at Mrs. O’Shannon in spite of herself. Her jaw felt loose, as it did before she got sick to her stomach. “I do not know what became of him,” she whispered. She assumed what was left of his butchered body had been torn apart and devoured by coyotes, but she kept that thought to herself.

  “Peter.” James O’Shannon stepped in. “With all its other endeavors, surely the Army isn’t going to concern itself about which Indian school Maggie attends. I can assure you, she won’t run away from here.”

  Grant clenched his freckled jaw, unconvinced. “Reverend, I can assure you, the Army takes escape very seriously. The last thing I want to see is for Maggie to be sent to a reservation or, worse yet, a prison.”

  “Prison?” Hummingbird scoffed and touched Grant lightly on the shoulder, as if he’d just told a joke. “That is funny. She’s under the nose of the Army all day long here at Camp Apache. She’s done nothing wrong but run away from a tyrant who, from the sound of things, has disappeared himself.” Mrs. O’Shannon could be as protective as a mother bear when provoked. Her eyes suddenly blazed. She pulled Maggie closer with both hands.

  Maggie knew no one at Camp Apache, not even Trap’s parents, could really protect her if the Army—or more particularly Lieutenant Grant—decided she needed to be somewhere else. She was truly a prisoner of war. Her heart began to flutter in her chest. Her breath came in short gasps and she struggled to remain in control. She would have to run again.

  “I’ve seen it before.” The young lieutenant looked defiant. “There’s a women’s prison in New York with girls in it every bit as young as her. As long as she is a single girl with no one to claim her, she’s too vulnerable to be wandering around the frontier.”

  “We’ve as good as adopted her,” Hummingbird said. “I think of her as a daughter.”

  Grant stood resolute. It was apparent that he’d given this a lot of thought.

  “If you wish to adopt an Indian child, you need to go through proper channels, Mrs. O’Shannon. I’m afraid I have no choice but to take her back.”

  Maggie moved back a step. She looked for a window, a door—a weapon to defend herself. If she couldn’t find a weapon she’d use her teeth and nails.

  “Peter.” James O’Shannon took Grant by the arm and led him aside. “I can see that you harbor strong feelings for our sweet Maggie. She is a beautiful young woman and I admire your judgment. But now, I must tell you some things that will only break your tender heart. . . .” The two men stepped down the aisle beside a stack of wooden buckets until they were out of earshot.

  Maggie steeled herself and made ready to flee out the front door. Hummingbird’s calm, summer-breeze voice stopped her.

  “He must truly love you, my child,” she said.

  Maggie gave a frustrated sigh. “I am not sure if what he feels could be called love.”

  Hummingbird chuckled and shook her head. “No, no, not Peter. I speak of Trap’s father. James loves you more than he lets on—to do what he is doing now.”

  Maggie stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean? What is he doing?”

  “Something I have only known him to do twice in all the years I’ve been with him.” A proud smile crossed Hummingbird’s face. “He is going to lie.”

  CHAPTER 30

  “Their position is defensible, but they’ll run out of water sooner or later,” Lieutenant Rom
an said grimly, and passed a pair of binoculars to Trap.

  Roman and his men lay on their bellies surveying the scene before them. A red sandstone monolith rose up from the desert floor. Boulders lined a lip a third of the way down from the top, and a few gnarled trees found purchase in the meager soil among the cliffs. The cutback area in the rock was well fortified and looked big enough to hide a sizable band of Apache if they had enough supplies.

  From what Trap could tell, the scalp hunters had surprised the little band, mainly women and children, judging from the tracks, and sent them fleeing for the nearest refuge. Two boys in their teens, who’d stayed behind to give their little group time to escape, had been cut down like summer hay, scalped, and left to rot in the sun. Cedar campfires still smoldered in the sand, and much of their meager equipment lay strewn along the trail.

  They couldn’t have taken much with them. Trap doubted the whole group had more than a few gourds of water. Some barrel cactus grew up in the cracked rocks. They’d be able to squeeze some moisture out of them, but it wouldn’t be much.

  The scalp hunters had tied their horses out of rifle range and taken up positions in a sickle-shaped crescent at the lip of a shallow arroyo a hundred yards from the base of the mountain stronghold. Others ghosted in and out of the trees along a narrow creek. A scattering of boulders gave them plenty of cover.

  One of the hunters must have gotten bold and underestimated the Apache marksmen. His body pitched forward in the sand. Through the binoculars, Trap could see blood running from a wound in his contorted face. After seeing what he’d seen at the little pueblo, Trap found it impossible to feel anything close to sorrow for the filthy man.

  Potshots rang out intermittently from below. Their echoes whined across the desert on the cool evening breeze. In the rocks above, the Apache conserved their ammunition, waiting for someone else to get careless.

  Another storm boiled gray-green to the north and threatened to bring snow or hail. If it rained, the Indians could gather water and hold out a day or two more, but as long as the scalp hunters held their positions, it was only a matter of time.

  A curving line of trees at the western edge of the mountain base signified the presence of a small spring. The Apache might make a try for it in the dark of night, but Trap was certain it was guarded.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant.” Private Webber took a turn with the glasses. His voice was muffled against his own fists. “But neither one of those little groups has any love lost for the United States Cavalry. We’re liable to charge in there and get ourselves killed saving the day.”

  Trap shot a glance at Clay. He’d spent enough time around the military to know low-ranking enlisted men did not often speak so freely with an officer—even a young lieutenant. There was talk that Roman put up with it because Webber was a genius and could speak six or seven languages, including Apache and Spanish, as well as his native tongue.

  Roman demanded respect from the ranks, but he seemed to give Webber a little more leeway than normal. Martini said it was because the lieutenant knew about the man’s rough upbringing and wanted to give him an extra chance to make something of himself. Whatever the reason, Roman treated the young redhead like a wayward son who showed promise, if not forethought, in his actions.

  “Surely you have heard the old adage,” Roman patiently explained so everyone on the line could hear. “The enemy of my enemy must be my friend.”

  The troopers nodded in agreement up and down the line. Webber grinned and gave a little shrug before handing the binoculars back to his commanding officer.

  Roman scooted back a few feet behind the cover of Joshua trees before pushing himself to a kneeling position. He used a dried stick to scratch a rough map of his plan in the alkali dirt. “Mr. Martini, we’ll loop around from the west there and hit the main body of the scalp hunters from the arroyo in which they sit. Mr. Madsen, see that lone rock there above the scalp hunters and behind them?”

  Clay nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Think you can take your fancy rifle up there and pick off the ones hiding in the trees, give us a little more of an edge until the Apaches join the fight?”

  “Nothing would be easier,” Madsen said with a grim stare at the ruthless outlaws in the distance. Trap could see in the flash of his eyes he was remembering the mutilated girl back at the pueblo. “Or more of a pleasure.”

  “Very well,” Roman said. There was a fire in his eyes. He was pleased to enter into battle against such evil men. “Mr. O’Shannon, you go with Madsen and watch his back. When we take the butchers at their flank, the Apache will see we’ve given them an advantage and join the attack. That’s Juan Caesar’s band up there—not a coward in the group, I assure you.” The lieutenant looked over his small command. “We’re not great in number, but we have surprise and right thinking on our side. When the course is clear, gentlemen, never pause—proceed. Mr. Madsen, give the men ten minutes to get into position, then take the first shot that presents itself. Your gunfire will be our signal to attack.”

  “An enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Clay repeated as the group made their way, bent at the waist, through the cactus and back to their horses. “That’s an Apache sayin’ I’ve never heard of.”

  Roman chuckled, then whispered so only Trap and Clay could hear him. “That’s because it’s not an Apache saying, Mr. Madsen. It’s a custom of the Arabian sheiks.” The lieutenant speared a dusty boot through a stirrup and pulled himself up in the saddle. “But I can only assume the Apache feel the same way in that regard. I know I would.”

  * * *

  The two boys worked their way along a rocky incline across the arroyo toward a jutting stone tower. They were in full view of the besieged Apaches the entire time, but well out of rifle range.

  “Those scalp hunters are focused on the Apache and don’t know hell’s about to rain down on ’em from behind,” Clay panted as they took up a position behind a lump of orange sandstone the size of a large ox.

  He dampened the bead on his front sight with the tip of his finger so it would catch the light better, and looked down his barrel at the dark form of one of the outlaws hunkering beneath a lip of cactus and rock, out of sight of the Apache.

  “How far away you think we are?” Trap asked, taking up a position with his own rifle.

  Clay picked up a bit of sand and let it stream out between his thumb and forefinger to check the wind. He sighted down the barrel of his Sharps and adjusted the ladder on his Vernier sights. “I don’t know, two hundred yards, give or take—not far enough to fret over. You know what’s funny about this group?” Madsen looked up at Trap. “They all still got blood on ’em.”

  Over the last few months, Trap had learned that Madsen’s eyesight was impeccable. He squinted at the men squatting or kneeling here and there among the rocks below the mountain, then grunted. “Sure enough,” he said. At two hundred yards, the Texan could see as good as most people could at fifty.

  “It’s like they don’t even care if decent folks know they’re bald-faced killers.” Clay sighted down the barrel again and settled the long rifle firmly against his shoulder. “Well, sir, I’m proud to do my part to send a few of the buggers straight to Hell.”

  Clarice barked once. The big rifle bucked against Madsen’s shoulder, but her twelve-pound heft helped dampen the recoil some. A low whine flattened out against the desert sand culminating in a faint thwack an instant after one of the killers slumped to the ground. His stone hiding place was now his tomb.

  Smoke curled out of the breech as Madsen slid another round into the chamber and closed the block. He swung the Sharps to search for another target.

  There was no bugle call to signal Roman’s attack, only a wilting volley of gunfire as eight troopers swept down the arroyo at the gallop, engaging everything in their path.

  “There’s another one in the rocks over there with a gun pretty near like this one.” Madsen’s voice was tight and he spoke into the cheek-piece of his rifle. “If he
gets above the lieutenant, it’ll be a cinch for him to cut ’em all down one by one.”

  “Can you take him?” Trap asked, looking down the barrel of the Winchester and wondering if he should even try a shot at such a distance.

  “It’s better than three hundred yards,” Clay whispered. “Almost four. That’s a hell of a long shot, even for me. I think I got. . . .”

  Instead of shooting, Clay yelped and rolled to his left. “Damned scorpion!” he hissed, clutching at his right leg.

  When the boys looked between them, they saw not a scorpion, but the feather fletching of an arrow sticking up from the sand next to Clay’s leg. They made it behind the safety of a boulder, just as another arrow whistled in, zinged off a stone and careened into the canyon below.

  “Well, this mucks things up considerably,” Clay snorted. He checked the wound at his leg and found the arrow had only nicked him. “They likely dipped the damned thing in dog crap or some other such nasty thing. You think it’s Apache?”

  “Could be.” Trap lay on his back, staring up at the sky. He clutched the Winchester to his chest. The weapon felt useless against an opponent he couldn’t even see. “Webber told me there’s a big Comanche who rides with the scalp hunters. He’s called Slow Killer because he likes to scalp his victims before they’re dead. I caught a glimpse of a big boy. I think it’s him out there.”

  “Well, that’s dandy.” Madsen gritted his teeth. “I need to take care of that other shooter across the canyon before he starts takin’ out troopers, and here we are penned in by a big Comanche who wants to torture us a little before he kills us.”

  Trap glanced across the arroyo. He could just make out a lone figure picking its way through the high rocks. Gunfire in the valley said the fighting there was intense. “I see him,” Trap said. “Can you make the shot from here?”

  “I think so,” Clay muttered. “If you’ll keep Slow Killer from raisin’ my hair while I work.”

  “Do my best.” Trap gave his friend a pat on the shoulder. “You do yours.”