To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  “A deputy from Montana . . .” Trap mused. “The chances are good. I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I want to get back to Maggie as quick as we can.” Waiting was something Trap was never good at.

  “Know what you mean,” Clay whispered, digesting the news. “I should check on Hanna.”

  “A word with you, sir!” a low voice said from the wood-paneled aisle behind them.

  “Me?” Trap said, turning. He relaxed his shoulders, ready to block a punch.

  A broad man with wire glasses and a thick neck stood square in the middle of their path. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up to reveal thick forearms and huge hands. “No, not you. I’ll deal with your issue later. I’m looking to settle with this man here.” He nodded his balding head at Madsen.

  “Are you Mr. Baker, the postmaster of Dillon, Montana?” Clay moved up beside Trap, shouldering in front of him slightly.

  “I am.”

  “Well, sir, that’s impressive, a real live, honest-to-goodness postmaster.” Clay fawned, bringing both hands up to his face as if he was smitten with a bad case of puppy love. “Now . . .” Madsen’s face grew dark. He let his hands fall to his side. “We have business elsewhere and you’re in our way. I’ll ask you once to step aside. I hope you heard me because I said once.”

  Baker’s eyes flamed. He wasn’t going anywhere. “You, sir, were extremely ungentlemanly toward my . . .”

  Clay’s right hand shot out and connected with Baker’s nose. The man’s glasses shattered, then swung from one ear. Blood covered his lips and chin. He swayed for a moment, blinking, then pitched across the back of a padded bench.

  “Now, that’s what I wanted to do to his wife.” Clay smirked. He rubbed the back of his hand, grimacing when he touched his knuckle. “Damn, those postmasters sure have hard faces in Dillon, Montana.”

  * * *

  Sidney, the waiter brought four coffees and set them on the table. Jittery about the prospect of smallpox, but resigned to a long wait, the passengers were circumspect. Every seat in the dining car was full, but conversations were hushed and tense. Birdie was nowhere to be seen.

  “Don’t you think Mr. Baker will come for you again?” Hanna said. She was sitting beside Clay now and Trap was next to Maggie.

  “I hope so.” Clay grinned. “Hate to leave anything unfinished. Trap and I were in a hurry to get back to you beautiful womenfolk so I didn’t have time to do things proper.”

  Trap lifted his coffee, eager to change the subject. “Here’s to Hezekiah Roman, the best captain a man could have.”

  Clay clinked his cup against Trap’s. “You got that right, partner.”

  “So you joined the Army and got assigned to Roman’s Scout Trackers after you made it to Arizona?”

  “Not exactly.” Clay shot a knowing glance at Trap. “We didn’t meet up with him for some time—and the Scout Trackers didn’t even exist before us. We were the first.”

  Hanna peered across her cup at Maggie as she took a sip. “But you and Trap got married as soon as you got to Fort Apache?”

  “Not for a while,” Maggie said. “And Camp Apache wasn’t even a fort yet. It was still just a pile of buildings and squad huts.”

  “This is all so fascinating. Here you are taking your captain—your dear friend—back to his wife in Arizona to be buried—that’s an extraordinary friendship.”

  “Ky Roman was an extraordinary man,” Maggie sighed. “When Trap went out under his command, I knew things would be all right.”

  “I should write down all those stories you told me.” Hanna leaned her head against Clay’s shoulder and sighed. “A half-Apache tracker, his beautiful Nez Percé wife, a stalwart Mormon captain, and a handsome Texan who flirts with everything in petticoats . . .”

  Clay let the comment about his past indiscretions slide. “It was a moment in time, Hanna, darlin’. When the Scout Trackers were up and runnin’, we were a force to be reckoned with . . . and the force behind us was Captain Hezekiah Roman.”

  “Tell me more,” Hanna said.

  Trap shrugged. “I’ll leave the storytellin’ to Clay. He’s got a way of making tales considerably more interesting than they really were.”

  Hanna snuggled down in her shawl, like a child getting tucked in for her nightly bedtime story. “I’ve read my last good book,” she said. “What else is there to do on such a chilly afternoon?”

  Clay grinned down at her through narrow, wolfish eyes. “I can think of a thing or two.”

  “You hush,” she said. “Now, go ahead and start telling. I’m waiting. . . .”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 26

  October 1878

  Camp Apache, Arizona

  When they reached the camp, the three adventurers decided it would be better to leave out any mention of Tobias Drum. They spoke only vaguely about Pilar de la Cruz and the bandits, but Trap could tell his mother viewed him differently. She seemed to know he’d moved to another level in his life, to sense that he’d spilled blood.

  The fact that he’d survived months on the trail, tracking Maggie all the way to Arizona, wasn’t quite enough to prove to the O’Shannons that their only son was old enough to get married. Though it was not uncommon for girls Maggie’s age to tie the knot, the reverend insisted the two lovebirds wait a year at the very least.

  Unwilling to throw Maggie to the mercy of the Army, the reverend and Hummingbird informally adopted the girl and let her live in the other half of their dog-run cabin beside the crude log school. He’d clasped his hands behind his back as he made the pronouncement.

  Trap and Clay were able to secure jobs working as packers and mule handlers for the Army’s campaign against renegade Apache. Clay was a talker, but he was a hard worker as well. The two were well liked by their superiors, and life around the Camp Apache, though full of sweat and long hours, was better than bearable.

  “I’ve got to draw a new pair of gloves,” Madsen allowed one evening on the way to check on a string of new shavetail mules. “These old ones are about rotted through with sweat.” As junior teamsters on the mule crew, Clay and Trap invariably drew the short straw when it came to work details. Breaking a rank mule was smack at the bottom of everybody’s list of enjoyable things to do.

  In keeping with post orders, both boys led their horses rather than riding them through the dusty parade ground. It was a sore spot with Clay, who considered it demeaning to have to walk anywhere he could ride. He squinted at the low orange sun and used a sweaty bandanna to wipe the grime and dust off the back of his neck. “King James is likely still puttering around in his shack. I bet he’d let me have a new pair of gloves if I took him some whiskey. We have to go by there anyway to get to the mules.”

  Sergeant Riley James, King James to those who dealt with him, was the quartermaster in Camp Apache. A grizzled and bent man in his early fifties, he appeared as old as dirt to the sixteen-year-old boys. In charge of uniform and equipment issue, King James held the ultimate power of comfort over men in employ of the Army. Uniforms only came in three sizes: small, medium, and large—and the large sizes went quickly. Though cavalry soldiers were normally chosen for their small build, there were plenty of hefty troopers. If offered a tot of whiskey, the king could usually be counted on to turn up at least one pair of large trousers. For a little more, he’d search until he found a large tunic hiding among his stores.

  His power alone was enough for the men to dub him King, but the real reason everyone, including his old friend General Crook, called him King James was because of the way he spoke. A whack on the noggin from an Apache war club had addled his brain, and though he still had a head for numbers, everything he said came out of his whiskered mouth like averse from the Good Book. He did his job, but everyone knew Crook had asked his subsequent replacements in Arizona to look after him as an act of kindness for his previous loyalty in battle.

  A huge padlock hung open on the hasp at the front door to King James’s adobe storehouse. Both boys remo
ved their hats—a covered head could bring forth an entire barn-load of damnation and wrath—and stepped into the dim interior. The smell of oiled paper and mothballs hung heavy in the musty air. A wooden counter ran the length of the place, separating the bulk of the stores from the narrow lobby area out front. On busy days the king opened both front doors so troopers could come in one entry for issue and go out the other. Today, only one door stood open.

  Trap waited just inside while Clay stood at the counter and cleared his throat. Wax-paper bundles, piled almost to the rafters, lined the back walls. Wooden crates of varying sizes marked “U.S.” in bold black lettering were stacked to the ceiling. For a soldier, it was like a candy store. Many of the items would bring a tidy sum if sold on the civilian market, and thus were kept under lock and key. The quartermaster was nowhere to be found.

  “Odd he left and didn’t lock up,” Clay muttered. “Sergeant James is particular about his kingdom.”

  There was a bundle of leather gloves tied with twine at the far end of the counter, but it didn’t occur to either boy to take anything without the king there to issue it. The wrath of King James would only bring the wrath of the iron-fisted Colonel Branchflower—and no man in his right mind wanted to risk that.

  “Maybe somebody already brought him some whiskey and he went to enjoy it while he watched the sunset.”

  It was common knowledge that James often drank a little on the job, but he waited until sundown to get really drunk. Trap suspected the man lived with a powerful headache from his injuries and used the whiskey to dull the pain.

  “I reckon my poor old paws can get by another day with the rags I got now,” Clay muttered. “Expect we better lock up as we go, in case he don’t come back tonight.”

  Trap gave a grunting nod.

  Two of the new shavetail mules were branded as incorrigible the day after they jogged grudgingly into Camp Apache. The big red animals had nearly kicked a young private’s head off when he got too close during Call to Feed. Had the mules been of lesser quality, the chief packer, Jose Morales, said he would have run the lot of them over the rim of the canyon to drown in the White River. As it was, the two culprits, along with three other white-eyed beasts, had been quarantined from the gentler stock and placed in a stout cedar corral out behind the quartermaster’s shack for Clay to work in the cool of the evening.

  Trap could tell the animals were gone as soon as he rounded the corner of the long adobe building. There’s a forlorn and lonely look about an empty corral, even from a hundred yards away. No guards were in sight and the double corral gates yawned open toward the far-off hills.

  A brooding line of gray-black thunderheads boiled on the horizon. The warm, earthy aroma of a distant rain mixed with the ever-present odor of cavalry horses and hung on the stiffening breeze.

  A jumble of tracks scratched the dust around the corral. Trap counted two distinct pair of flat-toed moccasin prints and an equal number of horses. He was easily able to pick out the slimmer, more U-shaped tracks of the Army mules, all of which were yet unshod because of their foul tempers and snakelike speed when it came to dealing with shoers.

  “Renegades,” Clay hissed under his breath. The young Texan’s attempt at a mustache finally had a good crop of brown whiskers cultivated on his upper lip. He’d taken to toying with the end of his new accessory when he was deep in thought. “They must have snuck in here while the sentry was off on some kind of frolic. There’ll be hell to pay when Colonel Branchflower finds out about this. Makes me glad I’m just a lowly civilian.”

  “The Army hangs civilians too,” Trap said under his breath.

  Clay shuddered. “You always do come up with words to comfort me.”

  Trap studied the rocky line of tree-topped mesas in the direction of the tracks. Dark clouds loomed closer by the moment. In a short time, all sign would be as gone as the mules, washed away in the rain.

  A voice from behind the loafing shed snapped him out of his thoughts and sent Madsen’s hand to his pistol.

  “Verily,” the wobbly voice proclaimed. “The wrath of the Lord will surely come upon one Private Penny for abandoning his post to chase strong drink and all manner of abominations.”

  Clay let his gun hand relax and grinned. “I can’t believe they didn’t finish off the old fool.”

  “I hear your words, my sons,” King James called from around the shed. “Come hither while I bear witness of what terrible deeds have come to pass.”

  Trap sighed. “Most Indians look at crazy folks like they got a little better chance at communing with the spirits.”

  “Lucky for Sergeant James he’s as numb in the head as they get.”

  King James leaned against the stack-pole wall of the loafing shed. He was bound hand and foot with frayed bits of hay twine. Flecks of straw mingled with his gray beard. Dirt covered his normally impeccable uniform. In ornate Biblical detail he explained that he’d heard a commotion coming from the mule pen. Worrying that Private Penny, the sentry on duty, had gotten too close to one of the rank mules, he’d gone to check on him and received a club to the head for his troubles.

  “Lo, they have fled with the wretched beasts, fled I say.” His voice rose in pitch and timbre. “Sound the trump and shout from the rooftops, heathens are among the tents.”

  Trap unfolded his jackknife and bent to cut the old man free. “Sergeant,” he said. “Begging your pardon, but can you walk?”

  “Yea, I say, verily I say, it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for any damned Apache to rob me of my power to ambulate.”

  Trap shot an entertained looked at Clay, then turned back to Sergeant James. “Would you be so kind as to go back and sound the general alarm? That storm is coming in fast. If we don’t take up the trail now, we’ll lose the stock for certain. Clay and me will get right on it. You send reinforcements out as soon as you can.”

  “Yea, ask and ye shall receive, knock and the very same shall come to pass,” King James decreed with a wobbly head.

  “Does that mean you’ll get us some help?” Clay raised a wary eyebrow. He was losing patience fast.

  “Yea.” The man groaned up on bent knees. He grabbed Trap’s hand with gnarled fingers and pulled himself the rest of the way to his feet. “It doth.”

  * * *

  At first, the tracks were easy to follow—down the brushy slope, along the White River, and then back south down a narrow canyon. The spot where the renegades forded was plainly visible, and Trap was able to keep the speed up for almost two hours while Clay kept his eyes on the surrounding trees and rocks, watching for signs of the mule thieves with weapons.

  The air crackled with the excitement of hot pursuit. Long hours on the trail together had taught them to anticipate each other’s movements. Both had learned enough of life to know that what they were doing was extremely dangerous. But neither considered turning back. The trail was before them, so they took it.

  The advancing storm pushed columns of wind before it, sending twirling dust devils through the piñons and scrub juniper.

  Evergreen trees gave way to sandstone and cactus about the time the first large drops of rain plopped against the brim of Trap’s hat.

  “Ashamed we don’t have a bugle with us so we could blow Call to Feed. I bet them mules would come runnin’ back to their oats no matter how mean they are.” Clay slumped in the saddle, both hands resting across the horn,

  “I don’t know how to play the bugle,” Trap said. He studied a pinched draw almost choked closed by a tumbled pile of gray rock. “And unless you been practicin’ while I wasn’t looking, you don’t know how either.”

  Clay smiled. “That’s the trouble with you, O’Shannon. You’re too damned practical.” He followed Trap’s gaze to a tower of sandstone, sculpted over time by wind and water. “You think they went up there?”

  “I do,” Trap said over a rising wind. He had to squint against the blowing dust and ducked his head to keep his hat from blowing off. “
Those mules are mean as snakes, right?”

  Clay nodded. “I guess I seen meaner down home.”

  To Clay’s way of thinking everything was meaner, prettier, or hotter in Texas. “Well, if they gave us trouble, they’re sure to do likewise to these Apaches. I only count two sets of tracks. Five vicious mules can make a handful of trouble for two of anybody—even renegade Indians. The tracks go every which way here, like the mules pitched a huge fit. I’m betting the thieves won’t go much further before they hide the stock and go for help—particularly with this storm coming in.”

  It was a long speech for Trap.

  “Well, sir.” Clay nodded at the rocks while he held his hat on against a howling wind. “If I was going to hide a passel of sorry mules, I guess that’s as good a place as any.” The Texan snugged his hat down over his head and pulled the Sharps out of its scabbard. “We best keep a sharp eye peeled. If the mules didn’t kill ’em, them boogers are likely to be holed up in there. Best I let Clarice out to play.”

  Trap grinned. “That’s why I brought you along.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Madsen hung his head in mock disappointment when they found the mules bunched in a piled-brush corral and no Apaches around to fight. He returned Clarice to her rifle boot and untied his lariat to build a catch loop for the brawny red boss mule.

  Rain pelted the rock with a fury now, splattering off every surface. It seemed to come just as hard from the ground as it did from above. Lightning periodically forked across the gray sky. Thunder cracked, echoing through the sandstone hills, dark red now from the sudden rain.

  The mules, still tied together with short lengths of rope between halter and tail, milled and bunched against the rock face at the far end of the thorny enclosure. Steam rose from their wet backs and disappeared in the chilling rain. The whites of their eyes rolled back and they stomped their feet nervously at each clap of thunder. Trap had watched one of these mules nearly bite the head off a stable hand. He’d narrowly missed getting his own skull kicked in on more than one occasion. It was a marvel that anyone, even an Apache warrior, had been able to even get near them, much less tie anything to their tails.