To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “You could go too,” she said. “You are old enough to make it away from this place.” It was a difficult thing, leaving the tenderhearted boy behind.

  Frank toed the dirt. “No. I got nowhere else to go. I been at this school nearly my whole life. I’d probably get lost and wander into all kinds of trouble.”

  Tall Horse stepped closer and rubbed the gelding’s long neck. “Thank you for trying to help me this morning.”

  “You would have done the same for me.”

  “I’d like to think so,” he said. “But I don’t know. I believe you are braver than me.” He smiled at her with deep brown eyes. “Watch yourself, Maggie Sundown. There are people out there just as bad as the reverend—maybe worse.”

  Maggie gave a solemn nod. “I know.” She took the map from her breast pocket and unfolded it. There was just enough light to make out the lines. “Am I right that we are here?”

  The boy studied the map for a moment, then nodded. “This is Lebanon and this is us. It doesn’t show you much of what else is out there—only the big rivers and some of the mountains.” He pointed to the area south and a little west of them, just north of Texas. “They call this Indian Territory, but from what I hear, it’s mostly outlaws and cutthroats. I’d steer well clear of it if it was me.”

  Maggie shrugged that off. She tapped the map with the tip of her finger. “I am told the Nimi’ipuu, my people, are imprisoned somewhere in Kansas. That is this place?”

  Tall Horse smiled. “That’s what I have heard. But you can’t fool me.” He tapped the map on the outline of Arizona. “You are going here.”

  He clasped both hands and held them at waist level in front of him to give her a step up into the saddle.

  “Good-bye, Frank Tall Horse of the Ogallala Sioux. You are a good Indian, do not forget that. Perhaps we will meet again,” Maggie whispered, knowing the chances were unlikely.

  “Good-bye.” Tall Horse patted the horse on the shoulder and handed Maggie the reins. “You are a good human being. Do not forget that. Say hello to my friend for me when you see him. I hope I can meet your children someday.”

  * * *

  The road away from the Indian school led directly south, and Maggie kept to it for the first hour. Though the moon waned to less than half, the road was bumpy and rife with low branches and sinkholes. She held the powerful horse to a gentle lope for several minutes, fighting the urge to gallop until it was worn completely out or worse.

  She calculated she had about nine hours until the sun rose, and she intended to use every minute of it.

  Lamplights from small farmhouses flickered every few miles in the trees along the roadway and kept her moving forward. Dogs barked here and there, but none came after her. As long as she was around people, she would be in danger. The further south she got, the less of a problem that would be. According to her map, the city of Springfield lay somewhere to the southwest, but she intended to stay well away from there.

  The big gelding proved to be tireless as long as she kept him pulled back in the easy, ground-eating lope. She pointed south until the lamplights were spaced further apart and she felt she was well past town. When she found a stream she took to it, hoping to throw off any would-be pursuers until she could make more distance. Twice, she wasted precious minutes to double back on her own trail, working her way through a fetid swamp, full of dark shadows and hanging vines as big around as her wrist. The terrain was anything but flat, and she made much slower progress than she’d hoped. She could only hope the thick hardwood forests and rocky creeks slowed Drum as well.

  Two hours before daylight, Maggie began to look for a place to hide. She hadn’t seen a house for some time, but wanted to be well entrenched before daybreak and out of the eyes of any wandering travelers who might be able to help Drum when he did come looking.

  Thoughts of the wicked man sent her hand to the knife at her side. She wished for a gun, but consoled herself that it was better to play the rabbit than the wolf for the time being. If she could hide long enough, perhaps Drum would give up and she could make it to this place called Arizona.

  CHAPTER 14

  Trap figured the train had gone a little over a hundred miles to reach the water stop outside of Carthage. The tracks did a fair amount of snaking back and forth through the hills, so he could cut off a third of that distance if he took a more direct route. A night and a day of hard riding could get him back.

  As usual, Trap spent little time planning for the future. He had no idea what he would say when he reached White Oak, but figured his father would be proud of him for letting the Good Lord take care of the morrow. He’d decide what to do when he got there.

  To get there at all, he had to buy a horse. Though he was almost seventeen and comfortable enough in the saddle, he’d never had occasion to buy much of anything, let alone something as important as a horse. He knew a good one when he saw it, and hoped the money his mother had given him would be enough.

  The livery stable was located about a block from the water tower across the tracks from Carthage proper. It was a low structure, cobbled together of rough-hewn lumber and rusty tin. A low sun shone through a multitude of old nail holes on the large open door, proving that the forlorn building was little more than a pile of previously used scrap.

  Trap stopped halfway there and divided his bankroll into three small stacks. He put one in his vest pocket, a second in his front trouser pocket with his jackknife, and the rest he slipped inside the belly of his shirt. He knew enough to be sure there would be some bargaining involved in any horse trade, and didn’t want to be in a position where he played his entire hand at once.

  When he started walking again, he saw a boy about his age come out the double doors and dip two wooden buckets in the long water trough out front under the eaves. Trap waved at him. The boy looked up while he pushed the buckets down in the water and let them fill. He spit and turned his head to wipe his mouth on his shoulder. A grimy spot on his pale yellow shirt showed this was a regular habit.

  “Help you?” the boy said, hoisting the brimming buckets. He was hatless, blond, and several inches taller than Trap.

  “I was hopin’ to buy a horse,” Trap said. He came up beside the trough. “Want a hand with one of those?”

  The boy shook his head. “Nope. I’d lose my balance and keel over if you took one.” He stuck out his chin to point toward the doors. “My uncle’s inside pouring oats while I do the waterin’. He’s the man you’d wanta talk to about a horse.”

  Inside, the livery was as spotless as a horse barn could be. The wide alleyway was clean and uncluttered. The warm, comfortable smell of fresh hay and saddle soap hung in the cool shadows. Well-groomed animals stuck contented noses out of nearly every stall. The interior was in all ways the opposite of what the outside of the place looked to be.

  A row of polished saddles on pegs along the far wall reminded Trap that he’d not only have to buy a horse, but tack as well. He chewed the inside of his jaw and tried to look like he knew what he was doing. The boy went to fetch his uncle from a back stall.

  “What can I do for you, lad?” A smiling man strode forward on a wooden leg. He wiped his hands on a towel he had stuck in his belt and reached to shake Trap’s hand. “Nathan Bowdecker. I’m the proprietor hereabouts.”

  “Trap O’Shannon.” He shook the offered hand. It seemed honest enough—if a person could tell that sort of thing from a handshake. “I need to buy a horse.” He tried to keep his voice from sounding urgent.

  Bowdecker rubbed his chin in thought. He looked Trap over with deep-set eyes. “It’s awful late,” he finally said. “How’d you get here?”

  “Train,” Trap said simply.

  “You James O’Shannon’s boy?”

  Trap nodded. He wasn’t surprised. His father often traveled to do a little preaching. It helped tone down his otherwise restless nature. “Yessir.”

  “He’s a fine man, your pa,” Bowdecker said. “I’ve heard him go to expoundin’ a ti
me or two. I’m a Lutheran myself, but I do enjoy hearing the good word of God from you Presbyterians once in a great while.” His gaze narrowed. “It don’t add up, James O’Shannon’s boy running around Missouri this time of an evenin’ looking to purchase hisself a horse. You’re either running from somethin’ or to somethin’.. . .”

  Nathan Bowdecker had the forthright look of a man who would see straight through a lie, so Trap told him the whole story, including his observations of Drum.

  “Sounds like you’re on a mission,” Bowdecker said when Trap finished. “I reckon a man oughta follow his gut.” He rubbed his face in thought, then tapped his wooden leg. “My gut told me to go to sea on a whalin’ ship when I was still a lad. Lost my leg, but I saw things I’d never seen otherwise. I reckon it was worth the price.... Let’s get our business done then so you can be on your way. I got just the mount for you.”

  Mr. Bowdecker said he felt duty-bound to supply Trap with a sound animal, capable of making it all the way to Arizona.

  “I ain’t runnin’ any charity ward here.” Bowdecker smiled as he led out the short-coupled black. The gelding had a round spot at the point of its croup and a shock of white hair tucked into the thick black tail. “Skunk here will do you a good service, but he won’t come cheap.”

  When he heard the price, Trap sucked in air through the corner of his mouth like he’d seen his father do when negotiating the price of mutton.

  “I don’t feel right about sellin’ you anything less,” Bowdecker said. “The Comanche are still hittin’ it pretty good down Texas way and the trail between here and Arizona is chockablock full of outlaws and bandits. A man’s horse is sometimes the onliest way out of a pickle—particularly a half-Apache Presbyterian who doesn’t even appear to pack a pistol.”

  “Is that your bottom dollar?” Trap’s heart sank as he figured out how little money he’d have left over. He’d have to live off the land most of the way to Arizona—and without a rifle, that would be a pretty tall order.

  Bowdecker nodded. “Son, take a lesson from the Greeks; never trust a man who is willin’ to let you have a horse for less than market value. It’s a good bet such a beast has a bowed tendon or some other such malady—or at the very least is ornery as all get-out.” He leaned in close to Trap. “Tell you what I’ll do. You take ol’ Skunk off my hands and I’ll throw in all the tack as a gift for the service your pa did for this little part of God’s vineyard. Those Greeks never said a word about a gift saddle.”

  “He handles good?” Trap already had his mind made up to take the deal.

  Bowdecker gave him the lead. “Clamber on up and give him a try. You’ll find none better in all of Missouri for what you have in mind.”

  * * *

  It was nearly dark by the time Trap paid the liveryman his price and finished tacking up. He had nothing in the way of supplies, so it didn’t take him long to pack. The kind-hearted liveryman gave him a small coffee sack with some biscuits and a battered canteen full of water. Along with the money, Trap gave Bowdecker his heartfelt thanks.

  Skunk had a remarkably smooth gait for such short legs. He seemed to sense the urgency Trap felt to get back to Maggie, and covered the ground with a vengeance. Five minutes away from the livery, the stout little horse settled into a five-beat trot so smooth, Trap took a drink from the canteen and didn’t spill a drop.

  He was dog-tired, but that didn’t matter. Maggie was ahead—at White Oak. He couldn’t wait to see her, to see the look on her beautiful face when he rode up and finally told her how he felt.

  CHAPTER 15

  The Right Reverend Tobias Drum drew back and slapped Mrs. Tally across her round face. He wanted to punch her, but there were too many witnesses. A slap would be easier to explain away. The heavy woman staggered, swayed, and then fell back on her broad rump with a loud whoompf. Her face reddened, but it was not as red as Drum’s.

  “You were fully aware she was going, weren’t you?” the headmaster raged. He towered over the pitiful woman, contemplating how good it would feel to give her a swift boot to her heaving belly. “You let her slip away to make me look foolish.”

  Mrs. Tally gulped for air trying to catch her wind. A river of tears poured down her cheeks. She could only shake her head.

  Drum waved her off in disgust. She was too stupid to draw breath. A useless breather, that’s what she was, a pure waste of good air. She contributed little to society but snivels and weakness.

  He turned his attention to the red-eyed duo of Foster and Pugh. Both reeked like a whiskey keg.

  “And look at you two,” Drum spit. His voice shook. Dark eyes looked as though they could melt stone. “The one and only reason I hired you two idiots is to keep this sort of thing from happening.”

  Pugh opened his mouth to speak, but Drum raised his fist and gave it a vehement shake. “Do yourself a favor and keep quiet while you leave the grounds. I’ll not have buffoons in my employ.”

  The useless breathers taken care of, Drum turned his attention to the problem at hand. He couldn’t let the girl escape unpunished. She’d taken his horse, but worse than that, she’d usurped his authority. The Army and the church would surely look down on a man who couldn’t even keep fourteen-year-old Indian children in custody.

  Drum knew he’d have to follow her, catch her, and teach her a lesson she’d not soon forget—a lesson he’d enjoy teaching very much.

  Van Zandt’s Creamery wagon clattered up the drive, a sullen Cleveland bay mare in the traces. The boy driving it had an equally sullen look. A yellow bruise healed slowly in front of his left ear. A brindle hound slouched on the wooden seat beside him, lips pulled back in a smiling half snarl.

  Drum nodded to himself. This was perfect.

  “Does that dog know how to track?” Drum asked when the wagon came closer.

  “It do at that,” the boy said. “Toot can trail anything livin’.”

  “How about Indian girls?”

  “Injun gals got enough stink to ’em, I reckon just about any old dog could trail one,” the boy said with a grin. He knew most of the children surrounding Mrs. Tally could understand everything he said. “Why, you got one that’s escaped on you?”

  Drum nodded. “I do. What’s your name?”

  “Harry Van Zandt.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Drum said. He walked up to the wagon, ignoring the growling hound. “The girl who’s gone missing is the same one who’s responsible for the bruise on your face.”

  Harry rubbed his ear and took a deep breath. His face grew dark and began to resemble his snarling dog. “The O’Shannon runt done this to me, then slipped outta here before I could get even with him.”

  Drum raised an eyebrow. “O’Shannon may have done it, but he did it for the girl. And now she’s run off with my horse. I’ll be putting up a hundred-dollar bounty to those who ride with me. . . .”

  “And help bring her back?” Van Zandt finished the sentence. His eyes sparkled at the mention of such a large sum of money.

  Drum shrugged. “Let’s just see how it turns out. She’s a fighter—and she has stolen a horse. I’m not sure she’ll let us bring her back. Some around here might say hanging’s too good for the likes of her.”

  Harry’s scowl blossomed into a full-face grin. Even the dog appeared to glow with added enthusiasm.

  “I’ll go get my pa. He’s the best hunter you ever laid your eyes across. Toot can track with the best of ’em, but Pa’s dog, Zip, he’s got a mean streak, I’m here to tell you. Pa won’t let us bring ol’ Zip on our rounds on account of he hates redskins with a purple passion. He’d chew these young nits to pieces in no time.” The Van Zandt boy giggled. “When ol’ Zip catches the little tart, he’ll rip her to bloody red shreds.”

  Drum heard Mrs. Tally gasp behind him, but she said nothing. The pathetic woman was too weak to make any sort of stand against him. At least the Nez Percé girl was a fighter.

  “Very well,” he said to Harry Van Zandt. “You go get your fat
her and his mean dog, Zip. We’ll leave in two hours time. She’s a wily one, this Sundown girl. Be prepared to spend a night on the trail.”

  A string of drool dripped from the brindle dog’s mouth. She growled and licked her lips in anticipation.

  CHAPTER 16

  Trap had covered more than half the ground he needed to by the time the sun crested the line of green-topped hickory and smaller ash trees on a tumbled line of low hills to the east. Bolstered by the warmth of the rising sun, fatigue settled around him shortly after dawn. Every few steps Skunk’s smooth gait rocked Trap to sleep. Dreams of Maggie jerked him awake. Each time, the little gelding pushed on in the direction it was pointed.

  Trap followed the train tracks some, cut through a newly planted field of black soil, then moved to a brushy trail along a river he didn’t know the name of by the time the sun was full up.

  Shaking off the weariness, he thought of Maggie trapped at the school with Reverend Drum. Dread and worry chased away the thought of sleep. He took a biscuit from the coffee sack tied to his saddle horn, eating while he rode to make better time.

  Half an hour later, the heat of the day and the food in his belly sent another wave of sleep rolling over him.

  It was too powerful to fight and he lolled, relaxed in the saddle, falling forward when the gelding stopped dead in the trail. He grabbed a handful of mane to keep from tumbling into a locust bush. His eyes snapped open and when his vision cleared, he saw a muscular blue roan facing him, sniffing noses with Skunk.

  A sleeping boy about Trap’s age sat astraddle the new horse, his wide-brimmed hat thrown against a leather stampede string behind broad shoulders. He wore an ivory-handled revolver on his hip. His fancy white shirt was covered with dust. Sweat rendered it almost transparent.