To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “Chuparosa? I have,” Roman said. “She is a fine, temperate woman. I can see her teaching you to stay away from strong drink.”

  Trap took another bite. “She told me she got really drunk once on tizwin—back when she first married my father. Said she almost killed him.” Trap stared at his food while he spoke. He’d never told anyone else this story, not even Clay, but he felt like he wanted to tell the captain—to let the man know he trusted him with a confidence. “She’s afraid I’d be the same way if I ever drank. I have a bit of a temper, so she’s probably right.”

  “You have fine parents, O’Shannon,” the captain sighed. “Heed your mother’s counsel. It’ll save you a belly-load of grief.” He tipped his head toward Webber. “Take our friend Johannes there. I’ve never met a more intelligent man. His father was a hard drinker. Beat him nearly every day when he was child. My mother and his mother were friends. I promised the beleaguered woman I’d do what I could to look after her son.” Roman rubbed both eyes with the palms of his hands. “I suppose it’s not a question of deserving—heaven knows I don’t deserve all the blessing I have in my own life—but it seems to me that no one deserves the kind of upbringing Webber had. Now, he enjoys his liquor a little too much. I’m afraid it could be his downfall.”

  “That would account for all the anger wellin’ up inside him,” Trap said, a hint of melancholy in his quiet voice. He sometimes forgot that not everyone had a kind father and mother like he did.

  The girls at the bar suddenly broke into a chorus of oos and ahhs. Trap looked up in time to see Clay give the chubby one a little hand mirror and the one with the overbite a folding paper fan. They tittered and giggled and moved in closer to the beaming Texan.

  “I have to hand it to him.” Roman shook his head. “He does indeed know women.”

  It wasn’t long before the girls began to speak in hushed tones of broken English. Webber watched as two saddle-weary and sullen Mexican men shouldered their way through the broken door and eyed the sporting women.

  Roman followed his gaze to the newcomers.

  “I wonder if Madsen realizes he’s monopolizing the only other pastime in this little town besides drinking mescal.”

  “I wonder if he cares,” Trap grinned.

  A short time later, Johannes helped Clay peel the girls off him and the two took seats at the table with Trap and Roman.

  “Those two yahoos that just came in haven’t been around for a few days,” Clay whispered, stealing a piece of barbecued goat off Trap’s plate. “Before they left, they were trying to get Linda, that’s the pretty one, to give them a little bounce on credit. Both said they stood to come into a pile of money very soon.”

  “Neither of them have any job prospects,” Johannes chimed in. “At least as far as the girls know. I think these could be two of our kidnappers, Captain.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The girls put up an awful fuss when Clay told them he had to go. Linda clutched her breast as if she’d been shot and broke down in a wailing fit. Esmeralda stuck out her bottom lip in a pout big enough to compensate for her overbite and sobbed until her shoulders shook.

  It looked as though the team might have to mount a rescue effort just to drag Madsen away. Trap’s jaw fell open when Clay got misty eyed at the parting.

  “I just ain’t no good at goodbyes,” the Texan said, a slight catch in his voice as they left the bawling prostitutes slumped at the bar.

  Outside, Roman gathered his Scout Trackers beside their horses. “Saddle up, men,” he said, pulling the latigo on his saddle to snug up the girth. He kept his voice low. “We’ll move out to the edge of town at a distance, sit back and wait. When those two make a move, we’ll follow them. With any luck they’ll take us back to where they’re keeping the girl.”

  The plan was straightforward enough and likely would have worked had it not been for Linda.

  She was a big girl and the flimsy wooden door flew off its remaining hinge when she hit it and staggered into the street.

  “Claymadsen! Claymadsen!” She whimpered his name as if it was all one word. Her yellow peasant blouse hung from one fleshy shoulder. Blood dripped from her swollen nose and splashed across the front of her torn clothing.

  When she saw Clay, her eyes brightened and she lumbered straight for him, dimpled arms outstretched in a plea for help.

  Madsen gave the captain a sheepish look. “Sorry, sir, I . . .”

  A squat Mexican man with a great, twirling mustache that covered most of his wide face crashed out seconds after the girl, his hand on the butt of his pistol. Another followed, shorter than the first, hiding behind a bulbous, troll-like nose. An instant later, a third man ducked his huge head, then turned mountainous shoulders sideways to fit out the doorway. His whiskey-shined face held wild eyes that appeared to look east and west at the same time. He bellowed like an angry bull and beat his chest, tilting his head this way and that to bring the gringos into focus.

  “It’s the Cyclops,” Clay muttered as he tried to peel Linda off him. “And he’s brought his two little runts with him.”

  “Hold on, boys.” Roman put up a hand. “We mean you no harm.”

  “Claymadsen,” Linda cried. “These men are murderers. They are the ones you look for. Please help us, Claymadsen.”

  The giant went straight for Roman. He was at least a head taller than the officer and twice as broad.

  The mustachioed bandit went for his gun as the Cyclops made his move. Roman, Webber, and Trap had all retreated from the half-naked prostitute and stood in a tight group by the horses.

  Madsen tried to draw, but found it impossible to bring his Peacemaker into action.

  “Save me, Claymadsen,” Linda bawled like a pestered calf. “They will keeeel us all!”

  “I would if you’d turn loose of my arms,” Clay spit.

  The bandit’s first shot went wide and smacked into the adobe building with a loud crack.

  At the same time, the giant bowled into the other three members of the team, sending them all flying.

  “Leave off hangin’ on me, damn it! You’re gonna smother me.” Clay peeled away one chubby hand, but she grabbed a fistful of sleeve with the other. Her fleshy thighs encircled his leg and she pulled herself in tight, sobbing against his shoulder and enveloping him between her enormous breasts.

  “Oh, Claymadsen!”

  Another shot split the air. Trap looked up in time to see the giant kick a smoking pistol out of Webber’s hand. Señor Mustache pitched headlong into the dirt, mortally wounded.

  Johannes went down with a giant fist between his eyes, hitting the ground so hard Trap could hear his teeth rattle.

  Roman rushed the big Mexican, plowing into him with his shoulder, while Trap attacked him from the other side. All three collapsed into a squirming pile, kicking and gouging as they fell. Trap’s head felt like it exploded when a huge hand caught him in the ear with a strong slap. He heard Roman grunt as he got the wind knocked out of him.

  The troll with the wide nose grabbed Linda by the hair and yanked her cruelly back and away from Clay. He held a knife to her throat.

  “Much obliged,” Madsen panted as he drew his Colt and shot the ugly little man over his left eye. “I thought I’d never get her off me.”

  The giant knelt over Trap and Roman, who were both addled half out of their senses. He held a bowie knife in his huge fist.

  Madsen sent a round into the dirt. “Sueltalo!” he snapped, putting another shot inches from the giant’s knees. Drop it!

  Trap regained enough composure to kick the blade out of the big Mexican’s hand.

  Webber pushed himself up slowly on one arm, rubbing his tender jaw. The front of his shirt and britches was covered in red dust. Roman hadn’t fared much better, and he spit to get the dirt out of his mouth.

  “Tie him up,” the captain said. He was still panting from the fight.

  Trap hobbled over to his horse and got a length of stout cord out of his saddlebags while Webber h
eld the giant at gunpoint. Clay tended to a sobbing Linda before he turned her over to Esmeralda, who’d wisely stayed inside and missed the whole brouhaha.

  * * *

  “Glad you had enough sense to take him alive.” Roman nodded a short time later at the two dead bandits. “I hope he can tell us something about where they have the girl.”

  Johannes knelt in front of the sullen giant, questioning him in harsh, rapid-fire Spanish. The big man said little more than an occasional grunt.

  Webber stood with a disgusted groan and shook his head. “He’s not talking, Captain. He knows where she is, I can tell that much, but he’s keeping it to himself.”

  Roman rubbed his chin in thought for a moment, eyeing the prisoner carefully. “Ask him his name.”

  “Como se llama?” Webber fired down at the prisoner.

  “Tu madre,” the man grunted.

  “He wants to talk about my mother,” Webber scoffed. “He’s not going to talk without some encouragement.”

  “Tell him he’ll hang if he doesn’t help us. Tell him I can’t help him if he doesn’t talk to us.”

  “Aye, sir,” Webber said, unconvinced it would do any good. He knelt and looked the drooling giant square in the eye, giving the man’s wide face a slap to make sure he was paying attention. “Escucha!” Webber said, and translated Roman’s threats.

  In reply, the giant coughed up the contents of his throat and spit them in Webber’s face.

  “You son of a bitch!” The trooper drew his knife in less than a heartbeat and slit the Mexican’s nose down the middle. With his hands tied behind him, the hulking man could do nothing but wail and thrash in the dirt as blood soaked the front of his shirt.

  “Sergeant Webber,” Roman snapped. “That is enough.”

  Johannes glared. The Mexican’s spit still dripped from the side of his face. His chest heaved with fury. He wiped his cheek with the back of his forearm and put away his knife.

  Trap and Clay stood by, holding their breath.

  The anger slowly ebbed from Webber’s red face. “I apologize, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I don’t either, son,” Roman said. His voice was quiet, but flint-hard. “But I’d better not see it again. I’ll not have you mistreating a prisoner while you’re under my command. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn it, man, we don’t have time for this. There’s a girl out there who needs our help.”

  Webber swallowed hard, staring at the ground. “Understood, sir.”

  “Very well.” Roman took on his usual relaxed tone again. He drew the Schofield at his hip. “Now, tell the prisoner I’ll not let anyone cause him any more pain, but I intend to shoot him dead right now if he doesn’t tell us where the girl is.”

  Webber hesitated. “Captain?”

  “Carry on, Sergeant.” Roman aimed the pistol at the wide-eyed prisoner. “It is, at times, necessary to kill quickly and as humanely as possible. That is the nature of battle. On the other hand, if we start to mistreat our captives, we’re no better than they are. I’ll not have it.” He thumbed back the hammer. “Tell him the bullet won’t hurt him at all, but he’ll still be very dead. Tell him he’s got ten seconds.”

  * * *

  It turned out that the giant outlaw’s name was Rafael Fuentes. He had a firm enough grasp of English that he didn’t need Johannes to translate a single word. It took him no time to tell Roman and others exactly what they wanted to know.

  CHAPTER 40

  “This damned antelope’s done soured to the bone.” Tug sniffed a piece of meat through a curled nose, then pitched it out the wide mouth of the overhang. He picked up his rifle and walked over to the girl. Hiking up his skin shirt, he rubbed a greasy hand over the pale belly. “I got me a cravin’ for some cat. You ever ate puma?”

  She pressed her face against the sand. Her throat was so dry she could hardly swallow, let alone speak. When she tried, it came out as a gurgling, unintelligible croak.

  “Brandywine!” the lion hunter shouted over his shoulder. His hungry gaze never left the girl. “I think she’s gonna die before long. We should take what we can whilst there’s still something left to take.”

  The Indian agent jumped up from his game and scurried over to check on his investment. He toed at her thigh with his boot. She recoiled at his touch and curled into a tight ball, protecting her swollen hand. “She’ll be all right with a little water,” he said. He dropped a canteen on the ground in front of her. “The Mexicans should have the letter delivered by now. They’ll be back with Fuentes and supplies any time.”

  Pushing herself up on her good arm, she curled her legs around so she could sit against the stone wall. Water. She didn’t want them to know it, but she’d have done anything for just one sip. She knew her shredded gown no longer covered her, but she couldn’t bring herself to care anymore.

  Death was a certainty now; it was only a matter of how painful it would be, how much torment and degradation she would be forced to endure with its coming. Thirst carried with it much more agony than she had imagined it would. Her tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of her mouth. Crying had plugged her nose, and her breath came in ragged gasps over cracked and bleeding lips. Her vision blurred and the sickening thump in her skull mixed with the white-hot ache of her broken tooth and the dull throb of her stinking hand.

  She vaguely remembered a warning—it seemed so long ago in her fevered brain. Someone had warned her that this sort of thing might happen. She pressed the canteen to her lips and let the water slide over her parched tongue. It was warm, but it was wet and she drank greedily until Brandywine jerked it away.

  “Go easy, Señorita,” the Indian agent snapped. “Too much will make you sick.”

  The lion hunter chuckled. “And we don’t want her sick,” he said. “She’s sick as a hydrophobic dog as it is, you blind, baldheaded nit. Me and Joe gonna go hunt us up some lion meat. When we come back, if you ain’t heard anything about the ransom, I aim to have me a little go with this young’un before she crosses over on us. I don’t care what you or anyone else says about it.”

  Before Brandywine could react, Tug wheeled and shot the Papago in the face with his big-bore rifle. The roar of the gun shook the small rock enclosure. The big Indian’s head evaporated and blood sprayed the cave wall behind him.

  Brandywine’s jaw hung open as he watched his fiercest ally slump in a lifeless heap to the sandy floor.

  The girl looked at what was left of the dead Indian and threw up the water she’d just drunk.

  Tug prodded her in the rump with the smoking barrel of his gun. “I’ll be back, Señorita. You get yourself cleaned up and I’ll go get us some fresh cat.” He looked up and grinned through blazing eyes at the speechless Indian agent. “Get her some more water. Come on, Joe,” he barked to his partner. “I got me a powerful hunger for some cat . . . among other things.”

  CHAPTER 41

  “Son of a bitch!” Madsen snapped as the Scout Trackers picked their way single-file up a rock-strewn trail. It was little more than a goat path out of their fifth canyon of the day. Acacia trees shredded their clothes and jagged rocks threatened to lame the horses every step of the way. A stiff wind picked up bits of dry vegetation and sand, driving them into the men’s faces with enough force to blast off a layer of skin.

  “This whole place looks like the Good Lord forgot where he buried somethin’ important and spent a couple thousand years digging ditches in the rock tr y-ing to find it. I’ve heard some troops say this country’s so rough,” Clay continued, “you can’t get through it without cussing your way up and down these damned gullies and mountains.”

  “I’m inclined to agree,” Roman shouted into the wind. “But from the sounds of things, you’re doing enough for the four of us.” The captain held his hat down with his free hand and nodded ahead. “Terrain flattens out some after we top this next ridge. I’d rather wait out this wind inside the protection of this cany
on, but we don’t have the time. Fuentes said the kidnappers are expecting a signal fire on Kill Devil Mesa by this evening. According to him, the cave is supposed to be northeast of there, so we’re not far from it now. With any luck, this storm will hide our approach and we can have the girl back by nightfall.”

  Though it was still early afternoon, dust filled the blowing air and made it difficult to see more than a few hundred yards. Each man’s face was caked red above the bandanna he wore to protect his nose and mouth. The horses walked with eyes half shut against the whirling debris, stumbling every other step in the uneven terrain.

  Drawn forward by worry for the kidnapped girl, the men pressed doggedly on, braving the cold and biting wind. The howl became too great for conversation, so they rode on in silence.

  It was a chance meeting. No war party could have possibly known the men were out on such a bitter afternoon. A dozen Apaches were returning from a hunt, on their way back to camp in the shelter of the slick-rock canyons. The two groups were almost on top of each other before either of them noticed.

  It was Trap who realized what was happening first. He caught the hint of cedar smoke on the wind, an instant before he glimpsed a fleck of a painted horse as it ghosted through the dust cloud twenty yards in front of him.

  The lead Indian saw him at the same moment and let out a piercing whoop.

  Trap spun Skunk back and ripped the bandanna off his face. “Apaches!” he yelled at the group.

  “Follow me.” Roman shouted his clipped order and turned his horse to the right, spurring it toward a dark outcropping of rocks that was barely visible in the shadowed distance. “Make for those boulders. There’s a canyon nearby so watch out.”

  None of them knew for sure how many Indians there were, but staying around to count heads was not a way to live very long in Apache country.

  The four soldiers let their horses have their heads. The animals, half-crazy from the moaning storm, took off at a dead run, jumping cactus and thorn bushes if they saw them, plowing through if they didn’t. Hoofbeats and piercing Apache cries carried behind them on the wind.