To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  When Trap chanced a look around the boulder, Slow Killer jumped him. Webber had been right; this Comanche was one huge Indian. He hit Trap full force, swinging an ironwood war club that missed the boy’s skull by mere inches. Trap felt the wind of it on his cheek. He brought the Winchester up to ward off a second blow just in time, and felt the gun give way in his hands like splintering stove wood.

  On his back again, he rolled to one side as the heavy club pounded the ground where his head had been. He lashed out with the rifle barrel and connected with the Comanche’s leg, but the force of the blow tore the weapon from Trap’s grasp.

  Slow Killer grinned, pulling up his long nose like a snarling wolf, and fell on top of him. The Comanche screamed like a wild man and drove a knee into the boy’s belly. Trap brought a leg up to defend himself, but felt all the wind gush from his lungs. His head reeled and he struggled to stay conscious. If he passed out for even a moment, he knew he would die.

  The Comanche wore leather leggings but no shirt. He was smeared with some kind of rancid grease, and though Trap clawed and grabbed with all his might, he found it difficult to find anything to hang on to.

  The two combatants rolled in the dirt, locked in mortal combat only feet from Clay Madsen.

  “He’s settin’ up to shoot,” Clay shouted above the fray. “Hold on one more second, Trapper, and I’ll be over there to help you. I might not get another chance at this.”

  Trap knew he didn’t have much more than a second left. Slow Killer was a powerful man and though Trap was holding his own, none of his blows or kicks appeared to have any effect on the huge Comanche.

  Summoning all his strength, Trap pushed off with both legs and rolled toward a low rock ledge. It was just high enough off the ground that both men wedged underneath it, scraping their shoulders on the top. They’d likely be sharing it with a snake or two, but that was the least of Trap’s worries. He tried to pull away and go for his knife, but the Comanche caught him in a bear hug and pulled him back, baring his teeth.

  “You stay with me, little man,” Slow Killer grunted, bashing his forehead into Trap’s nose. “You’re Apache, I can smell it.”

  Trap tried to push away, but found his strength was failing. The big Indian had him in a death grip now, pulling and threatening to break him in two. Trap struck out with his free hand, bloodying his fists as he hit sandstone as often as he connected with Slow Killer’s greased face.

  Then, Trap’s thumb slid across the Comanche’s eye. The Indian tried to jerk away, but the back of his head was tight against the rock overhang. Trap pushed hard, gouging as deeply as he could, aiming for the back of the Indian’s skull. He felt muscles separate, then tear as Slow Killer yowled and flailed wildly under the rock. There was nowhere for him to go. The Comanche vomited when his eye tore free and hung on its stem, mingling with the blood and grease on the side of his cheek.

  The crushing grip around Trap’s ribs relaxed. He gulped in air, the sound of his own wheezing loud in his ears. As soon as he could work his hands again, he drew his knife and finished the big Comanche quickly.

  Slow Killer ceased his struggles just as Clay made his shot and drew his pistol to help.

  “Damn, boy.” Clay blinked and stared, mouth agape at the gruesome scene in front of him. All the color had drained from his normally robust face. “Can’t you get in a fight without gettin’ covered in blood and guts and who knows what else?”

  Trap tried to straighten his stiff neck. His nose was completely plugged with blood from the head butt Slow Killer had given him. He panted through an open mouth.

  “Did you get him?” His vision was too cloudy to see the rocks across the valley.

  Clay grinned. “I got him. You sit down so you don’t fall down while me and Clarice give the lieutenant a little more help.” Clay picked up the Sharps again and spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “If I ever decide to fight you, remind me to shoot you from a distance. You’re too damn mean to go toe-to-toe with.”

  * * *

  True to the lieutenant’s presumption, Juan Caesar and his band poured from their hiding places among the rocks to join the battle. There were no more than a half-dozen fighting men among the Apache, but their addition demoralized the surviving scalp hunters.

  Five of the bloodstained killers attempted surrender. The Apache shot at them in any case and Private Webber, at full gallop with his saber drawn, took the head and one hand off one of the outlaws just as he was raising his arms. Only two were left alive by the time Roman called for a cease-fire and gained control of the Apaches.

  Trap and Clay stood when they saw things were well in hand below them, and half-slid, half-ran down the arroyo. By the time they arrived, Martini had the two prisoners bound with their hands behind their backs. Webber was acting as translator between Roman and a dark, pockmarked man. He was taller than the others, with a round chest that was set on somewhat gangly legs. A feather and grass hat haloed deep-set eyes that looked as though they had the capacity to melt stone. A splash of blood dripped from his right arm and the side of his ragged face where he’d killed one of the scalp hunters at close range.

  The Apache demanded control of the prisoners. Roman said the men were the Army’s problem and they would be dealt with fairly and justly for what they had done. Webber spoke excellent Apache. Better than Trap, and his rapid-fire words shot back and forth between the two leaders.

  At length, Juan Caesar tired of using a go-between and fell into halting English.

  “Will the Army use the same fairness the lying Indian Agent Brandywine uses to weigh our beef? Will it give them the same justice it gives the white settlers that fool with our women?” Juan Caesar spit vehemently on the ground, then looked directly into Roman’s face. Trap wondered how he’d fare if this man ever looked at him so directly. “I believe the words, Lieutenant-with-the-crooked-nose, but I know enough to know you cannot speak for all white eyes. You are not all places at once. Bad things happen, no matter what you say.”

  “Juan Caesar,” Roman said. “You know I am a man of my word. These men will stand trial in a military court and I myself will bear witness of the evil they have done. I will look into Mr. Brandywine and make certain he treats you with fairness. But you and your people must return with me to Camp Apache.”

  The two leaders looked at each other for a time, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. A dozen men, Apache and soldier alike, stood tense and ready to fight again. It was quiet enough to hear flies buzzing around the freshly fallen bodies. No one breathed.

  Juan Caesar let out a great sigh as his eyes darted from a ragged group of Apache women and children to the approaching storm clouds. His proud shoulders slumped and he appeared to deflate to half his former size.

  “We will go with you, Lieutenant Roman.” The Apache stared, blank-faced and focused on nothing. “What other choice do I have but to fight and die? Someday it will come to that, I think—but not this day.”

  A baby whimpered until a short woman with a scarred face hushed it with a rough hand over its mouth. Trap shuddered to think of what the ruthless scalp hunters would have done to the child.

  * * *

  The Indians traveled light and were ready to go from the moment the battle was over. Trap could tell Lieutenant Roman wanted to get back to garrison with all due speed while the Apache were being agreeable. But the coordinated movement of troops was an easy thing compared to keeping fourteen tired, hungry Indians on the trail, no matter how stoic they were.

  Roman studied the storm clouds for a moment, then turned to Sergeant Martini and spoke so Juan Caesar could hear. “We’ll ride back north for a few hours and get to the cliffs by Black Mesa. That will give us some shelter in case this weather doesn’t pass us by. Bring that sorrel gelding we saw tied in the thicket back there. We’ll butcher him when we get to camp. It looks as though these poor people haven’t had a good meal in some time.”

  The soldiers had all eaten their share of horse during hard camp
aigns, but none of them relished the idea of killing a perfectly good animal to feed Apache renegades. The Indians, on the other hand, lengthened their stride at the thought of fresh meat, and the party began to make good time. Two of the younger children climbed into the saddle with Clay. The Texan’s genuine smile was enough to calm the fears of the Apache mothers.

  Trap kept to the rear of the column now that his services as a tracker were not needed. He wanted to listen to the Apaches as much as he could, study the way they walked, and bone up on the language. The women and children grew more animated at the thought of food, and chattered enough for Trap to pick up a word or two.

  Juan Caesar, who had secured a piebald buckskin from the scalp hunters’ horses, trotted up next to him.

  “You are Denehii—the tracker,” the Indian grunted. He rode with his legs out of the stirrups.

  “That’s the name my mother calls me,” Trap answered.

  “Your mother, she is Chuparosa, an Apache?” There was a wildness about this man that set Trap’s nerves on edge, as if he was always on the brink of losing his temper and lashing out with bullet or blade.

  “She is Chiricahua.”

  Juan Caesar rode for a while before speaking again. “The holy men have spoken of you and your woman.”

  “My mother?”

  The Apache scoffed. “Your woman—the Nez Percé.”

  Trap smiled at the thought of Maggie being identified as his woman.

  “The holy men say this girl from the north has power,” the Apache continued. “They say she is like Lozan, the sister of Victorio. Some are afraid.”

  “Is that so,” Trap said, suddenly worried about what else Apache holy men might be saying about Maggie.

  Juan Caesar urged his horse faster, bolting ahead, then wheeling to block Trap’s path. Skunk pulled up short, nose-to-nose with the crazy-eyed buckskin. The Apache leaned forward in the saddle and glared with his molten eyes. He jerked a thumb back toward his chest.

  His voice was low, but strained, like a whispered shout. “I am not afraid. I see the truth about you and your woman.”

  With that, he spun the beleaguered horse again on its haunches and trotted off toward his men without looking back.

  CHAPTER 31

  There was a fair amount of backslapping and congratulations from the garrison soldiers as Roman’s troop returned to Camp Apache.

  Juan Caesar and his band were confined to the camp until a detail could be formed to take them on to San Carlos.

  Ever mindful of the dangers that faced their husbands in the field, the troopers’ wives lined the dusty parade ground as soon as they received word their men were returning from patrol. Officers’ and enlisted men’s wives mingled together at a time like this when no one knew for certain if their husbands would be part of the patrol trotting back through the gate, or slung over the back of a horse, a casualty of the mission. When Roman led his entire troop back alive, with the band of renegades, he was a hero in the eyes of the military, and more especially the military women.

  A tall blond beauty, with robin’s-egg eyes to match her smock and a smile powerful enough to knock a man off a horse, looked wistfully at Lieutenant Roman as he brought his horse to a stop and dismissed his troop to see to their mounts. An officer’s wife to the very core, she kept her distance while Roman handed his reins to a young man wearing a tan stable smock and farrier’s leather apron. He gave the man some last-minute instructions about the horse’s feet. When his business was done, he removed his gloves and hat just in time to receive a proper welcome-home kiss.

  Trap was thrilled to see his beautiful Maggie waiting for him at the far end of the parade ground, a few yards apart from the wives. His mother and father stood behind her. The looks they bore didn’t add up.

  Maggie’s round face was passive, but she bounced on her feet while she waited for him to dismount, as if she was standing on a bed of hot coals. His mother carried an expression of fatigued happiness, the way he’d seen her look after an exhausting walk in the woods. A stray lock of black hair hung across her face and fluttered with the breeze.

  The reverend looked as if he’d just taken a mouthful of sour milk and didn’t quite know where to spit it.

  Hairs stood on the back of Trap’s neck. Something was very wrong.

  Clay noticed it too. “Here you go, little buddy,” he said, drawing his face back in a mock grimace. “I’ll take Skunk for you and give him his oats and a good brush-down.” He tipped his head to Maggie and the O’Shannons, but kept his voice low, speaking from the corner of his mouth. “I’d rather face a firin’ squad than face whatever slow death they got lined up for you.”

  All instincts told Trap he should go with Clay, but the thought of being with Maggie after the long absence drew him forward. “Much obliged,” he croaked through a rapidly tightening throat.

  “You look as though you’ve taken quite a beating, son,” the reverend said as Trap approached the tight-lipped group. He could tell his father had worried about him—was glad to see him home. The poor man winced slightly at every word he spoke.

  Trap looked more like a raccoon than a man with his two black eyes and swollen nose, all courtesy of Slow Killer.

  “I am fine, thank you,” he said. “Just took a little punch in the nose.” Trap shook the reverend’s hand, kissed his mother on the cheek, and put an arm around Maggie’s shoulders to give her a squeeze. “Is everything all right here?”

  The three looked at each other. Maggie leaned into Trap, nuzzling her head against his shoulder, hiding from the rest of the world. Her whole body trembled. She appeared more vulnerable than Trap had ever seen her.

  The reverend chewed on the inside of his cheek and released a tortured breath.

  Hummingbird used both hands to smooth the front of her white smock before clasping them together in front of her. It was she who broke the awkward silence.

  “Things have happened while you were away,” she began. It reminded him of the way she’d spoken to him when he was a small child and his favorite puppy had died. “A soldier has come to call on Maggie—the very same soldier who captured her from her people and sent her to us at White Oak. It seems he has always thought to return and take her as a wife.”

  A shot through the heart would have pained Trap less. He pulled Maggie even closer and shook his head violently. “No! He can’t. I’ll fight him—we’ll run; I don’t care what I have to do.” He turned to his father. “Whatever it takes, sir, I’ll not give her up again.”

  “I know.” Tears rolled down James O’Shannon’s red cheeks.

  Hummingbird put a hand on her son’s shoulder. Her eyes wandered across the parade ground to a group of soldiers while she spoke. “Your father had to tell a little lie in order to keep Maggie from having to return to Missouri before you got back. The young man, Lieutenant Peter Grant is his name, wants to meet you.”

  The reverend suddenly took Trap by the shoulders and spun him around. His lips pursed until they were almost white and he glanced heavenward. “Forgive me, Lord,” he whispered. He shook Trap’s shoulders. “Now, son, listen to me carefully. Lieutenant Grant is crossing the parade ground as we speak. In bearing false witness to him, I have become something I despise. I don’t wish to turn my son into a liar as well.”

  Trap looked to Maggie, then his mother for some clue about what was happening. Maggie sighed. Hummingbird’s nose turned up and her eyelids fluttered with a hint of quiet amusement.

  “What is he talking about?” Trap asked.

  James O’Shannon pushed his son’s hat off his head so it fell back behind him against the stampede string. He straightened the boy’s hair as he’d done so many times before, when they had prepared for church on Sunday mornings. He then took a step back and gazed through moist, resigned eyes.

  “Patrick ‘Trap’ O’Shannon, I ask you, what is the chief end of man?” he said.

  Trap answered out of rote habit from years of reciting the Scripture. “The chief end of man i
s to glorify God and enjoy him forever. . . .”

  “Will you be able to accomplish that as the husband of Mary Margaret Sundown, otherwise known as Maggie?” The reverend’s face grew somber.

  “Yes, I would, but . . .”

  “Hush, Trap,” the elder O’Shannon snapped, looking across the parade ground. “Grant is less than a stone’s throw away.

  “Maggie,” the reverend said. He took her hand and placed it on top of Trap’s, cupping them both between his own trembling fingers. “Would you be able to do the same as the wife of young Patrick?”

  “Yes, I could, my father.” Her voice was soft as a feather. “And I will.”

  Hummingbird dabbed a tear out of her eye and sniffed.

  Trap looked up and saw a cavalry officer twenty steps away, approaching them at a fast walk, fists clenched at his sides, a determined look on his freckled face.

  “Very well then, in the name of Jesus Christ, Our Lord . . .” James O’Shannon gave an exhausted sigh and resumed his sour-milk expression. “When Grant asks you, you may tell him honestly that you are married to Maggie Sundown O’Shannon.”

  Trap’s head spun. He glanced down at Maggie, at his parents, then back to Maggie again. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. He wanted to speak, but some unseen force worked to bind his tongue. He swallowed hard, trying to keep standing on wobbly legs that felt like they were made of fresh-cut hay instead of bone and muscle.

  Grant walked up behind them and cleared his throat. Maggie must have sensed Trap’s predicament because she turned and stepped forward. “Lieutenant,” she said with an air of staunch formality. “I want you to meet my husband, Trap O’ Shannon.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Lieutenant Grant slinked away, hat crumpled in his hand after a few moments’ polite conversation. The poor man was heartbroken at having lost all chance with the beautiful Indian girl who’d no doubt haunted his dreams for the past year.

  Trap’s knees still felt too weak to operate. He sank on the steps of the modest white house that served as the adjutant’s office and attempted to gather his thoughts. Maggie and his parents had had a little time to chew on all this; he was forced to digest it all in one sitting.