To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “What the deuce is that?” Brandice shaded his squinting eyes and looking up at the hazy sky.

  All around them, tiny glowing embers the size of stickpins whirled on the wind. The air seemed alive with millions of orange lights.

  “Pine needles,” Zelinski whispered, more to himself than to the bug specialist. “Another ten minutes and it will be brands as big as your arm.” He nodded to Voss. “You were right, Joe. I was going the wrong way.”

  The fire boss shouldered his rucksack and started down the backside of the hill at a lope, knowing the others would follow. His boys were a good enough lot, but they would never be able to make it out of this. George White had not returned, and if the 25th had been recalled to Avery, then they were all on their own.

  The time for scouting was over. It was time to retreat.

  CHAPTER 21

  A furious wind shook the dry spruce along the ridgeline the way a dog might shake a snake. A heavy pall of resinous smoke rode the wind through the whipping trees and stung the trackers’ eyes and noses. Blake had his bandanna pulled up over his face to help filter out some of the smoke, but it did little good. Ky had the lead and ducked his head against the wind, the brim of his hat folding down over his eyes from the force of it.

  Dropping off the lee side of the ridgeline, he followed the trail down and away from the brunt of the wind before reining his sorrel to a halt beside a charred twist of lightning-killed ponderosa. The mountain fell away abruptly, and the trail began to wind through a park of white pine. A ground fire had already swept through the area and cleaned out all the debris and snags beneath the huge trees without doing anything to them but blacken their skirts. The thin trickle of a mountain waterfall beside the debris and tailings of an old mine was barely visible through the haze on the rocky cliffs a half mile distant. The fan of green grass and shrubs that followed the only water in the area gave the bleak gray dress of the rocks a green apron.

  “There’s the mine you were talking about.” Roman spoke above the wind that folded the brim of his hat down over his forehead.

  Blake nodded. “There are some old shacks down in the bottom. If we move up a little, we should be able to have a good view of them from up here without getting too close.”

  Ky nodded, holding his hat down with a gloved hand against a sudden gust. Unbuckling his pommel bag, he produced a small brass telescope. “Bring your rifle and let’s go see what we’re up against.”

  Blake slid his .45-70, a twin of his father’s Marlin, out of the saddle boot and followed the marshal up the trail. He could see why his father and Clay had had no trouble following such a man. Roman listened to what the situation dictated and acted. Always moving forward, Ky Roman seemed an icon of action in a profession where politicians were the rule and preferred to send others to implement their plans. He himself was a doer, and led from the front rather than a desk.

  Once inside the dim forest, they made their way to a small outcropping that overlooked the narrow valley some two hundred feet below. A towering ponderosa pine sat squarely in the middle of the outcropping. Its girth was too big for Ky and Blake to both get their arms around, and made a perfect spot for them to hide behind and study the three tumbledown buildings that made up the old placer mine.

  A sun-bleached outhouse had been blown over by the wind—recently from the look of it—and the lonely wooden seat stood out in the open, a few yards from what had been the main house. A chicken coop with a tar-paper roof sat abandoned and caving in on the far side next to a small stream that led from the waterfall.

  “Not too wise to put the chickens that close to the water supply,” Ky mused, taking off his hat and lying down next to the pine tree.

  Blake took up a position with his rifle next to him, scanning the scene. At first, he saw nothing. Then, a flash of movement caught his eye through the broken window of the shack. He pointed it out to Roman.

  “I see. Someone’s in there all right,” the marshal said, letting his spyglass swing slowly in a wide arc across the valley. “The horse tracks lead over to that thick stand of fir to the left there. I can just make out the outline of a horse in the shadows.” Roman lowered the glass and rubbed his eyes with a bandanna. “If it weren’t for the smoke, I’d be able to make out how many there are.”

  He gave the telescope to Blake. “See if you can tell.”

  Blake looked, then shook his head. “I can’t make out the horses.” He moved the glass back to the broken window and jumped when he saw more movement. An Indian walked past the window, holding something in his hand. Blake fiddled with the telescope, drawing it in and out to focus on the dark recesses of the shack’s interior.

  “I can’t be sure,” he said, squinting with his other eye. “But I think I see the Kenworth girl. She’s leaning up against the other wall.” He coughed and dabbed at his eyes again, blinked to clear them from smoke, then adjusted the telescope some more. “Yep, it’s her.” Blake felt a wave of exhilaration wash over him.

  “We got ’em.” Roman took the glass back and studied the area for another full minute before he said anything. Even as he spoke, he kept his eyes on the dilapidated shack.

  “Remember, we’re chasing four horses. That means three in there with her—and that’s if the others didn’t swing around and join up. They must have known we would follow them, and yet they chose a place out in the middle of the valley where we were sure to find them. It makes for a rough approach, but it also leaves them little room for an escape. If not for the girl, I’d say you and I just sit here and wait them out. I’m not happy about her chances if we rush them with just two of us. We’d take them, but the girl might perish in the endeavor. Bad odds all around.” Roman shook his head while he spoke around the telescope. Blake had to roll right up next to him to hear him over the rising wind.

  “I’ll stay here and keep watch.” Ky lowered the glass. “Looks like they got a little fire going, so I expect they’ll stay here for a while. You rush back up the trail and tell your pa and Clay to come runnin’. With all of us in on this, we’ll have the girl back home by nightfall.”

  * * *

  Almost immediately after Blake disappeared into the swirling smoke, Juan Caesar stepped out of the shack. Roman watched him walk out of the wind beside the chicken coop and make water. Seeing the Apache after so many years made Ky’s mind swim. He had assumed the old outlaw was long dead, his thieving, murdering ways having overtaken him somewhere along the way. He watched the prowling way his old enemy moved when he walked, the slow way he swung his head back and forth to compensate for the lack of vision in his bad eye.

  Ky Roman was not a man prone to bad dreams, but memories of Juan Caesar had been responsible for many a sleepless night over the past twenty-five years. The fact that the Apache had once been a trusted soldier made matters even worse. Roman had handpicked him as a scout. When Juan Caesar went renegade and began to wreak havoc outside the reservation, the young lieutenant had taken it as a personal insult.

  Watching the man he’d once trusted took Ky back to Arizona. For a moment, he felt the desert heat and sandstone beneath him instead of Rocky Mountain granite. He could hear the screams of the women on the wind. The memory of the carnage he’d witnessed made him wish he’d not been so hasty to send Blake back. If Juan Caesar had his way, the Kenworth girl was in a very poor state indeed. The man had almost cost Roman his life. In return he’d taken the Apache’s eye....

  Ky drifted back to the fight that had almost killed him. The way Irene had been proud that he’d been strong and brave, but deeply troubled that he, Hezekiah Roman, the man she knew as a gentle, God-fearing father, could be so brutal as to beat another human so badly it would cost him his sight in one eye . . .

  The smoke-filled wind whirred against Ky’s ears. He was focused on Juan Caesar, and failed to hear the crunching of twigs behind him. When he did notice a small rock roll across the ground beside his elbow, he assumed it was Blake returning with some news. After all, his quarry was before
him, in the valley.

  “Run into a fire?” he said without looking up.

  “It’s good to see you, Hezekiah.”

  The voice, almost lost on the wind, made Ky’s blood run cold. After hearing of the Apaches with Feak, he’d been able to prepare himself for an eventual meeting with Juan Caesar.

  Nothing had prepared him for this.

  He lowered the telescope and stood, turning slowly with his back against the huge orange pine tree. Before him stood a ghost from his past.

  “How have you been, Captain?” The man was smaller than Ky remembered. Age could do that. But every bit as dangerous. The same wan smile across a ruddy face, the same nose that signified the unhealthy love for hard drink he’d developed toward the end. The fire of pure hate still burned in the darkness behind the man’s green eyes.

  “Did you make out ol’ Caesar down there?”

  Ky nodded, still unable to believe his own eyes. “I’m surprised to see either one of you.”

  “Thought I was dead, didn’t you, Hezekiah? Everybody did.” The man smiled. “You’d be surprised at the things a dead man can get away with. I even checked in on Irene while you were up in Spokane.”

  The air rushed out of Ky’s lungs. “You what?”

  The apparition raised a gloved hand. “She’s all right. She didn’t even know I was around. I just wanted to have a look at her for old times sake. I wanted to see all of you.” His green eyes narrowed and flared in intensity. “Especially our little half-breed friend. How is he these days?”

  “He’s well, considering.” Ky chided himself for his position. The ghost had moved to less than an arm’s length away. Ky had nowhere to retreat with the tree at his back. He felt for his pistol.

  “Don’t do that, Captain. The one I want is O’Shannon. My quarrel is with him alone. The rest of you are dross. Whatever happens in all this, I had no part in hurting Maggie. That was never part of the plan.”

  “What do you mean? Now look here, Jo . . .”

  The long steel blade went completely through Ky, pinning him to the pine. The voice was quiet but sharp, as the ghost pushed the knife home and held it in place against Ky’s struggles.

  “No! You look here, you arrogant wretch.” The voice strained as the man held Roman in place with a forearm across his chest, just above the blade. “I am sick to here with you people thinking you know so much more than everyone else. O’Shannon thought he could play God with my life. Now it’s my turn to play God with him. I’ve done a pretty fair job, don’t you think?”

  Ky shuddered and tried to get a breath. He tasted the salt of blood and felt the strength leave his legs. The man withdrew the knife and slipped Roman’s pistol out of the holster and tossed it to one side. The strength bled from Ky’s legs and he slid to a crouch at the base of the tree.

  The cruel ghost squatted beside him and smiled. He was close enough, Ky could make out the sour smell of whiskey and meat. “I didn’t harm Irene. Not yet anyway. Who knows, I may go back and let her convert me to that church of hers like she did you. That seemed to work her into a lather, didn’t it? A few words from the Good Book is all it takes to get her going, if I remember correctly.”

  Ky could only gasp. He heard a gurgling noise and realized it was his puny effort at trying to talk. “Jo . . . Maggie?”

  The man shook his head and snorted. “That’s just like you, Roman. You’re done for and you know it, but still you check on that miserable half-breed’s woman.” He wiped Ky’s blood off the knife on his pants leg. “She’s fine for now. Not that they didn’t try, the fools. I’ll have to look in on her myself after I’m done with our little Trapper.”

  The redheaded man patted Ky on the shoulder—softly, as if to reassure him. “I’ve got to go now. You shouldn’t linger too long. Look at this as a blessing. You’ll know soon if all the philosophy you’ve studied over these years has any truth to it.”

  * * *

  Alone with the wind and smoke, Ky pressed both hands against his abdomen, trying to staunch the flow of blood that poured from his belly and covered his shirt and trousers.

  He’d lost all track of time, but knew Blake would be back with the others soon. He had to hold on until then. His killer had been right—he was done for. But he had to warn the others of the danger.

  He had to stay alive long enough to tell them who he’d seen.

  CHAPTER 22

  Blake slid off his horse and led him in so as to stay undetected by the outlaws in the valley below. Behind him, Trap smelled blood on the wind and knew something was wrong before he saw Ky leaning against the pine tree. All three men ran to his side. Blake kept a wary eye toward the mine. Ky saw him and shook his head feebly.

  “Gone,” he groaned. “After you left . . . took the girl . . . could . . . only watch . . .” A solitary tear rolled down from the corner of one eye.

  Trap stooped down beside his friend and tried to check the wound. Thick blood oozed, dark as oil, between Roman’s clenched fingers. His teeth were clenched and his breathing labored. When Trap tried to look under his bloody hands, Ky shook his head again and smiled up at him.

  “Leave it . . . no use.”

  Clay’s face teetered between sorrow and murderous rage. “Who did this to you, Ky?”

  The wounded man tried to speak. Leaning his head back against the tree and staring up at the sky, he seemed to be gathering all his strength. He opened his mouth, and then swallowed against a spasm of pain.

  “Johannes,” he groaned.

  Trap looked over at Clay, who came up next to the two men and knelt beside them.

  “Hold on there, Ky.” Clay touched his friend’s shoulder. “Stay with us. You’ll be seeing Johannes soon enough.”

  Roman smiled weakly and struggled through three quick, shallow breaths. “Johannes . . . alive . . . Trap!” He let go of his stomach and grabbed O’Shannon by the sleeve with a bloody hand. Blood began to flow from the wound in earnest, and Ky’s already ashen face took on a blue-green hue. His voice was a tight whisper, and the others had to lean in close to hear him over the howling wind.

  “Maggie’s . . . safe . . . now . . . but watch out . . . Johannes is alive . . .” His eyes fluttered and closed Johannes is alive . . .“ His eyes fluttered and closed for a moment while he labored though another series of breaths. His body seemed to relax and the twisted grimace of pain lines fled his face.

  “Adios, boys,” he said, almost in his old voice, only weaker. “Look after Irene for me. Tell her . . . I’ll be waitin’.” He looked up at Clay and grinned. “I thought you . . . might like to know, Madsen, . . . this. . . doesn’t hurt like we thought it would.”

  Roman’s face went slack. Trap put an open hand gently over his eyes, closing them and feeling the last bit of warmth before his friend’s body grew cold.

  “Son of a bitch!” Clay screamed ferociously over the roar of the wind, his hat a crumpled wad of felt in his clenched fist.

  Trap stood and put a hand out to hush him. “They’ll hear you.”

  Clay jerked away. He turned toward the valley and spread his brawny arms out to the sides. “Bring ’em on!” he shouted. “Let them come and try to kill us and see where it lands ’em. Juan Caesar, you one-eyed bastard, come on up and see what I got for your other eye!”

  Blake looked nervously toward his father at Madsen’s outburst. Trap shook his head slowly and held up a palm to keep Blake back. He knew Clay well enough to know the more vocal portion of the anger would blow over like a hailstorm, while the quieter, more dangerous part would seethe and smolder inside of him until it exploded out on whoever was responsible for Ky’s death—or anyone else who got in between him and revenge.

  “What do you think he meant by talkin’ about Johannes?” Clay said while he knelt and used his small hand shovel to scrape out a makeshift grave until they could get back and move Ky to a proper gravesite back in Arizona, nearer his wife. The ground was baked hard, and he did little except scratch at the pine needles and for
est litter a few inches deep. “Ky said Johannes was still alive.”

  Trap chewed on the inside of his cheek and shrugged. “Do you think he could be?”

  Clay paused in his digging and looked up at Trap. “We never did find no body, but there’s no way he could have lived through that explosion. It would have torn him to pieces.”

  “Or buried him alive,” Trap said, staring into space, thinking about the past.

  “Who’s Johannes?” Blake stood by, alternately checking the trail behind them and the valley floor below.

  Clay threw the shovel down in disgust and pushed himself to his feet. Tears dripped off the end of his nose. “This is bullshit. I can’t dig in this rock.” His voice was gravelly from his screaming fit into the wind. “We’ll have to take the captain down and leave him in that shack and hope the birds leave him be till we get back.”

  Clay put a hand on Blake’s shoulder and sniffed. “Johannes Webber served in the same unit as your pa and me under the command of our good captain here. He died when you were a baby—at least we thought he did.”

  “Why would he want to kill Marshal Roman?”

  “That’s a good question, son,” Trap said. “He had a pretty good reason to hate me, but the captain and him were always on good terms. It’s a story that takes too long to tell for now. We should settle the captain and get on the trail. That’s where the answers are.”

  Clay took off his hat again and folded his hands in front of him. “I wonder if we should say any special words seein’ as how he was a Mormon and all.”

  Trap removed his hat, as did Blake.

  “I don’t really know,” Trap said. He wished Maggie was there, or his father. Either would know infinitely more on the matters of religion than he did. “I suppose we should just make our own peace with it, in our own way—that’s what we always done when he was alive and we were buryin’ someone else.”

  Clay nodded, his head moving up and down slowly while his eyes blazed.