To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  The sandstorm itself seemed to join in the battle. It grew in intensity, picking up small rocks and hurling them like bird shot at white man and Indian alike. The haven of boulders was invisible in the billowing red curtain, but the troopers pushed for it anyway, knowing it was somewhere out there, somewhere next to a sharp drop into a deep ravine.

  Trap saw the rocks off to his left as he sped past. The others were somewhere nearby. Their shouting voices carried on the wind, but he couldn’t see them for the blowing dust. It was impossible to tell where he was, and he pulled back on the reins trying to stop.

  Skunk squealed as the ground gave way underneath him. Howling wind mixed with the clatter of rock and dirt as the canyon edge turned into a river of rolling gravel and loose dirt. The little horse scrambled to regain its footing, flailing wildly, pawing out at nothing. A sudden sinking sensation pushed Trap’s gut into his throat.

  They were falling.

  He let go of the reins to give his horse the freedom it would need if it ever did get its footing. A jutting branch snapped under them as they half-slid, half-fell to the canyon floor below. The next second, another tree upended the little horse and sent Trap spinning, head over heels, from the saddle. Dirt filled his mouth and nose when he tried to breathe. A harsh wind moaned and whirred in his ears. Then, something slammed against his head. A sharp pain screamed like a banshee behind his ear before the world around him went black and he heard no more.

  * * *

  “I can’t find him, Captain.” Madsen’s voice was tight. His youthful face quivered with anxiety and tension.

  The Apaches, equally afraid of an unknown number of enemies, had run the other direction in the blinding storm. They were nowhere to be seen by the time the wind abated an hour later.

  When they realized Trap had become separated, Roman and his men began a frantic search. From the rocks above, they saw Skunk, bruised and battered but alive, in the bottom of the canyon fifty yards below them. The wall of the shallow ravine gave way gradually. It wasn’t sheer, but it was treacherous nonetheless, and the men had to work their way down cautiously to keep their horses from losing their footing.

  The sudden storm had left behind an eerie silence. There was not a breath of a breeze. Even the crows were quiet.

  The canyon floor was a labyrinth of sandstone boulders as big as houses, their sculpted sides smoothed over time by water and wind.

  “He’s vanished.” Madsen’s frustration poured out in a bitter voice. Two hours of searching had yet to turn up anything but the little black gelding.

  “He’s around somewhere.” Roman put a comforting hand on the Texan’s shoulder. “We’ll locate. . . .”

  “Over here!” Webber shouted from a gap between two sandstone slabs. “I found his pistol.”

  Webber stood in a narrow side canyon, looking at the ground. He held a Schofield revolver in his left hand.

  “The wind didn’t get back in this little pocket enough to destroy all the tracks.” He pointed the pistol toward the sand at his feet. “Difficult to tell, but I think there were three people here.”

  Clay dropped to his knees to get a better look. “Wish we had the little runt with us so he could tell us what to look for.” He relaxed a notch, just knowing that his friend was alive for the time being. He took his hat off and scratched his head. “It does look like there are three sets of prints here, but it’s impossible to tell much else about them.”

  Webber scanned the rocks above, while Roman took a linen map out of his saddlebag and spread it out on a flat rock.

  “According to Fuentes, we’re near the cave.” He used his forefinger to trace the lines that signified mountains on the map. “We’ve got about three hours until dark. I’d wanted to make our move then, but if they have O’Shannon, we may not have the luxury of waiting.”

  Webber took a deep breath. “I hesitate to bring this up, but remember what they did to their last male hostage.”

  Roman let his fist bounce up and down on the map while he thought. “I know.”

  “Well,” Clay said, slapping his leg with his hat, “I say we just bust in there and shoot everyone who’s not Trap or Pilar.” He shot a glance at the captain. “One thing’s sure. If she’s still alive, Trap can keep her company till we get there. She’ll be happy to see a friendly face.”

  Roman took off his hat and held it in front of him. His brow knotted and he rubbed his whiskered jaw with his free hand. “Yes,” he said. “About Señorita de la Cruz.” His voice was a coarse whisper. “Mount up. I’ll fill you in on the details as we ride. There are things I’ve not been able to tell you until now—things you have a right to know.”

  CHAPTER 42

  A river of fire gushed through Trap O’Shannon’s head. He jerked awake from a dream of Maggie, struggling in vain against the thick ropes that bound him hand and foot. Blackness surrounded him. He fought to control his breathing and get his bearings. A familiar smell hung heavy in his nose and stung his eyes. Someone had pulled a coffee sack over his head.

  Voices echoed inside his skull, adding to the searing headache.

  “. . . not as good as a lion, but he’ll do,” a voice sneered nearby.

  “Where did you find him?” This voice was higher, twitching with nervous energy. “He may have something to do with the ransom.”

  Another, more youthful speaker cackled. “L-Lars s-ays we should c-c-cut his head off, like we did the o-other one. He likes to listen to the sss-screamin’.”

  “Shut up, Hiram,” the tense voice snapped. “You boys want your money or not? Let’s find out a little more about him, and then you can finish him off however you want to.”

  “Oh, let the young’uns have their fun,” the first voice said. “I only brought him back so they could have a little sport killin’ him. Maybe it’ll toughen ’em up a little. He don’t have our money.”

  Trap heard shuffling in the sand around him. A girl whimpered somewhere nearby. The pitiful sound made him think of Maggie and filled his belly with anger. He pulled and tugged at the stiff ropes until they cut into his wrists and ankles. At length, he lay back in the dirt panting, waiting.

  The soft hiss of footsteps on sand approached from his left. A boot crashed into his ribs before he could protect himself and drove the wind from his lungs. Powerful hands grabbed him by the shoulders, arching his back, while someone yanked the coffee sack off his head.

  He blinked to clear his eyes, trying to focus in the scant light of the cave. The gray glow of evening barely spilled in from outside. Inside, the small fire cast more shadow than it did light.

  “I know you from somewhere,” the small man in front of him said. Trap was able to put a face with the tense voice. “I’ve seen you before at Camp Apache. You’re that preacher’s boy. What’s your name?”

  “Trap O’Shannon.” He saw no reason to lie about something the man would surely work out on his own in a short time. Trap recognized him as Payton Brandywine, the Indian agent from San Carlos. His father had had more than a few run-ins with the corrupt official. “I know you too.” He had enough of his mother in him that he would never stoop to begging for his life.

  “Ohhhh, preacher boy.” A greasy man wearing buckskin clothing shook his head back and forth. “Maybe you can say us all a prayer before my compadres cut your guts out and feed ’em to the buzzards.”

  This brought a chuckle from the other men in the group. Trap counted nine, including the agent.

  Brandywine held up a hand to quiet the noise. “What brings you all the way out here?”

  “You.” Trap kept his face passive, though he seethed inside. It wasn’t in his nature to lie or bargain with men like this, but he needed to stall. It would take time for Captain Roman and the others to work out a solid plan now that they were a man short. “We got the note in Agua Caliente. My friends and I have the ransom money. They should be lighting the fire on Kill Devil Mesa any time now.”

  Brandywine beamed, slapping his fist against an open p
alm. “What did I tell you boys? I told you it would all work out, but no, none of you believed me. Now, we’ll all be rich men. You just have to be patient now.” He looked back at Trap.

  “Where are your friends now?”

  Trap shrugged. “Likely looking for me. Apaches got after us in the middle of a sandstorm and I got separated during the blow. Don’t worry, though, they’ve got your money. As long as the girl is still alive, you’ll get paid.”

  The man dressed in greasy skins jerked Trap’s head back by the hair and held a long knife to his throat. “If you got the note, what happened to the two Mexicans? How come they ain’t back yet?”

  Trap couldn’t move. He tried to relax, but found it impossible with the sharp blade already digging into his flesh. “The last time I saw them, they were sidled up next to Esmeralda and Linda back in town.”

  Brandywine put a hand on the other man’s arm. “Hold on for a minute, Tug. We got time to do that later. We’re talking thousands and thousands of dollars now. Let’s not throw it all away.” The Indian agent’s eyes gleamed in the firelight. The men around were silent now at the thought of such an enormous payday. “You’d better be telling the truth, O’Shannon. If I so much as smell a whiff of a double cross, I’ll let the boys cut your head off like they’re itchin’ to do already.”

  “No double crosses,” Trap assured him. “As long as the girl is still alive.”

  “She’s fit as a fiddle,” Brandywine said. He grabbed Trap by the shoulder, dragged him across the cave floor, and threw him next to the girl. He had no way to catch himself and slammed against the rock wall.

  The men jeered.

  When his head cleared again, Trap looked over at the girl. She was an awful sight. Naked except for the flimsy remnants of a tattered gown, she lay in a bruised stupor, cowering in her own filth. A young outlaw with a maniacal face and an unruly blond mop stooped down next to her and grabbed a fist of matted black hair. He jerked her head backward, exposing the girl’s face and delicate throat.

  She moaned, drawing a purple hand close to her chest. Her eyes rolled back in her head, then fluttered open to fall on Trap. They were dark, pleading eyes, void of all but the last shreds of hope.

  “Help me,” she croaked. “Please help me.” Her head lolled to one side.

  Trap gasped when he saw her, not so much because of her swollen face, broken teeth, or bleeding lips—but because this girl was not Pilar de la Cruz.

  CHAPTER 43

  “Inez Hinojosa?” Clay frowned. The men were riding now, working their way along the canyon bottom. “Why all the secrecy? Why not just tell us we weren’t coming to rescue the colonel’s daughter? We were bound to find out anyway.”

  Roman looked ahead as he rode, thinking out his answer carefully before he spoke.

  “Inez Hinojosa is an American citizen,” the captain began. “Have either of you ever heard of the Secret Service?”

  “Fake money and such?” Webber asked. He was leading Trap’s gelding and urged it to keep up with a cluck.

  “Exactly.” The trail widened into a dry creek bed, and Roman motioned the two men to ride up next to him. “Treasury has had its hands full since the war. Some people estimate that a full third of the paper money circulating in U.S. border states is counterfeit. Miss Hinojosa is a government agent. She sent word two weeks ago that she and her partner had uncovered a major counterfeiting operation in Mexico. Her partner was murdered and she fled north. She is friendly with the de la Cruz family and knew she could trust him. He agreed to let her pose as his daughter and contacted us to arrange a military escort.

  “Unfortunately for Miss Hinojosa, someone in her escort believed the colonel’s daughter was worth a substantial ransom. They have no idea who she really is, or that she knows the whereabouts of millions in counterfeit currency.” Roman stopped his horse and looked intently at both men. “If they did, she would surely be tortured until she gave up her secret. I don’t have to tell you how badly that much money would hurt the government if it was put into circulation.

  “Colonel Branchflower put me under strict orders to keep these facts from you until the last moment. The fewer people that knew the better—but our mission hasn’t changed.”

  “We still need to save her,” Webber shrugged. “No matter what her name is.”

  “I don’t know about you.” Clay urged his horse forward again. “But I’m going to save Trap. I don’t give a hoot in hell about any counterfeit money.” He eyed Roman warily. “I know you only had to do what you were told, Captain. It just takes a minute to digest all this new information. None of us hold it against you.” He paused. “Well, Trap might.”

  “He might at that.” Roman smiled. “And I wouldn’t blame him.”

  The clatter of small stones above them sent every man to his sidearm. Clay relaxed when he saw three desert mule-deer does bounding up the steep slope.

  “When they stop,” Roman whispered to Clay. “Shoot one.”

  Clay was already returning his Colt to the holster. “Captain?”

  “Shoot the deer, Sergeant!” With that, the captain gave a shrill whistle that echoed off the high rocks.

  The does stopped in their tracks and looked back, big ears twitching, curious at the unusual noise.

  Clay took careful aim with his Peacemaker and dropped the lead doe thirty yards away. She fell instantly and tumbled down the mountainside, almost at the horses’ feet. The other two deer flagged their tails and bounded out of sight in an instant, evaporating from view.

  “Wish it was always this easy to retrieve meat,” Madsen said as he put his pistol away. “Don’t know what you have in mind, Captain, but the kidnappers may have heard that shot. They’re likely to know we’re here now.”

  Roman nodded slowly. “Pistol shots don’t carry far in all these canyons. I doubt anyone heard it. In any case, they have O’Shannon. I imagine they know we’re here already. In fact, I hope they do.”

  Webber chuckled softly. “I can tell you have a plan—and I want you to know I’m behind you no matter what—but at some point I think you’re going to have to tell us what it is.”

  Roman nodded at the jumble of cliffs and piled rocks ahead. “It’s difficult to make a concrete plan when we don’t know what’s around the next bend. The cave is nearby if Fuentes was honest with us. With a few minor changes to stack the odds a little more in our favor, I’m inclined to proceed with the plan as Sergeant Madsen presented it.”

  Clay jerked back in surprise, startling his roan. “Me? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Captain Roman. I never laid out any plan.”

  “Oh, but you did.” Roman dismounted and walked over to the dead deer. “We’re going to kill everyone who isn’t Trap or the girl. Now, let’s get this deer gutted and slung over O’Shannon’s horse.”

  * * *

  By dark, Trap’s headache had fallen off to a dull thump behind his left ear. It was bothersome, but he could live with it. One look at the poor girl slumped beside him was enough to make him feel guilty for worrying over his own pitiful pain. It was nothing compared to hers.

  She shivered in her fitful sleep, whimpering like an injured pup and pulling her knees up tighter to her chest.

  Impotent fury welled in Trap’s chest, pressing at his gut, until he thought he might be sick. He couldn’t help but think of Maggie lying there in such awful circumstances, and supposed it would always be that way. If he saw a woman in trouble, he would always think of what he would do if it was his sweet Maggie.

  Trap shook his head to clear the thought, and attempted to calm himself by taking careful stock of the situation. A cold throbbing in his toes drew his attention to his feet. His boots and socks were gone. A quick glance around the chamber revealed one of the blond twins had himself a new set of Army-issue brogans.

  All the men but Brandywine cussed and laughed at each other while they huddled over some kind of game. The Indian agent sat alone, staring out the cave mouth.

  Trap wiggl
ed his fingers and found his struggles had loosened the ropes—not enough to escape—but enough to be able to twist his hands some. If given a chance, he might be able to pull his arms under and bring them in front. Roman and the others would be coming soon. Trap wanted to be able to fight when they did.

  * * *

  Five hundred yards away, Hezekiah Roman pulled a dry tuft of bunchgrass, crushed it in his hand, and let it drift away on the night breeze. Only the faintest sliver of a moon cut the night sky, but a white curtain of countless stars provided enough light to navigate.

  Once he got a fix on the wind, the captain began to heap dry brush, sticks, and anything else that would burn into a large pile.

  Johannes pushed a sharpened cedar stave, as big as his wrist, lengthwise through the skinned mule-deer carcass. Clay took one end and helped him position it over two boulders to one side of the wood.

  “This ironwood will burn hot and long,” Clay said, pulling a match out of an oilskin bag in his shirt pocket. “We were lucky to find it.”

  “I don’t believe in luck, Mr. Madsen,” the captain said. His voice was reverent in the darkness. “Change out of your boots and into moccasins before you light the fire. We’ll need to be as stealthy as we can for this to work. We’ll leave the horses here. By the time the meat starts cooking good, we should be in position.”

  * * *

  Haywood, the whiskey peddler, scooped up the yellowed bone dice and held them in a grimy hand. He slowly turned his head toward the cave mouth and sniffed through his pug nose. His sagging eyes relaxed and he gave a fluttering sigh. “You boys smell what I smell?”

  Brandywine tilted his head and drew in a lungful of night air. He could smell something—something sweet and delicious floating on the gentle breeze—just a whiff at first, tickling the nose and pulling the men to their feet. Moment by moment the savory odor grew stronger. Stomachs used to canned goods and stale coffee began to growl. Mouths began to water.

  “Venison,” Bent Jim moaned, licking his lips. “Who the devil would be cooking venison hereabouts?”