To Hell and Beyond

by Mark Henry

  Brandywine slapped his thigh and shot a gleeful look at O’Shannon. “You say your friends have the ransom?”

  Trap nodded. The girl flinched in her sleep when he spoke. “They’re prepared to meet you tomorrow like you instructed in your note.”

  A crooked smile spread over the Indian agent’s round face. He smoothed his thinning hair and smacked his lips, bouncing with energy, hardly able to contain his excitement.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you, Brandywine?” Tug spit a slurry of tobacco juice through the gap in his front teeth. “You look like you’re about to catch fire.”

  “Don’t you see?” The agent slapped his knee again. “This is just perfect. Those fools have the money with them. I say if they’re stupid enough to cook their meat where we can smell it, we ought to go help ourselves—to dinner and the cash.”

  Realization rippled slowly over the men, each catching on at different speeds. The twins were the last to figure it out.

  “If we go ahead and take the money tonight, we won’t need to turn the girl over tomorrow. You can keep her at no extra charge. We win the whole damned pot.”

  “What about the preacher boy?” Hiram sneered, his voice twitching with anticipation. “C-c-can we go on a-h-head and k-kill him?”

  Brandywine held up a hand. “All in time, Hiram. Let’s make sure we have the money first, then you can have your fun.” He walked to Trap, looking down at him. “How many friends do you have out there?”

  “Twenty,” Trap said.

  Brandywine kicked him hard in the side, doubling him over in pain. “I never expected you to tell me the truth anyway. It doesn’t matter. They don’t know we’re coming.

  “Hiram,” the agent said, spinning on his heels. For the first time in a week he thought he might live to spend his money. “You and Lars stay here and guard these two. Don’t do anything to them until we get back. The rest of you boys get your guns ready. Those men out there have our money and I’m ready to go take it from them.”

  “Y-you better bring us b-b-back some meat.” Hiram stood, unhappy at being left behind.

  Tug elbowed the boy in the ribs, hard enough to make him flinch and touch the spot gingerly. “We’ll bring you meat back, don’t you worry about that. Just do like Brandywine says and take care of the prisoners.”

  Hiram grinned, showing a mouth packed full of crooked, yellow teeth. “Oh, we’ll t-t-take c-care of them all right.” He began to cackle and his brother Lars joined in.

  Tug grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off his feet with a powerful arm. “Listen, you stutterin’ little bastard. I don’t care what you do to the runt, but you leave that girl be till I get back, you hear me?”

  “I h-hear you, T-Tug.” Hiram swallowed hard.

  Lars nodded his agreement. “Do what we want to the runt.”

  * * *

  Hiram and Lars sat poking the campfire for some time after the others left. They whispered to each other, giggled hysterically, then whispered some more. Every now and then they’d leer at the girl or look at Trap and draw a finger across their throats.

  Trap scooted up next to the wall next to the girl. He didn’t want to startle her.

  “Can you hear me?” he whispered.

  She opened her swollen eyes and stared at him. There was a sudden wildness there, as if she’d been awakened from a nightmare, but it subsided when she realized who had spoken to her. She gave a slight nod. “I hear you.” Her voice was hoarse and frayed.

  “I don’t want to frighten you,” Trap said. “But those boys are working their courage up to try something any time now.”

  She sighed. “I know. I’ve been waiting for this time. Maybe it will all be over.” Her head fell sideways, so she looked Trap square in the eye. She was young, not too much older than him. She had the broad-hipped build Clay thought so much of, and could have been pretty if not for her present condition. “I’m Inez Hinojosa. What’s your name? Since we’re about to die, I think we should at least introduce ourselves.”

  Trap pulled at the ropes behind him, gritting his teeth at the effort. “Trap O’Shannon, United States Cavalry. I came to rescue a girl named Pilar de la Cruz.”

  The girl gave a halfhearted chuckle, but winced at the pain it caused her raw throat. “They think I’m her.”

  “Inez, listen to me,” Trap said. “We don’t have much time. They’ll try for me first. But I’m going to need your help.”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding tired and unconvinced.

  “My hands are tied, but yours aren’t. They will underestimate us because they believe we are helpless.”

  Her face was expressionless, but she held up her injured hand. The ring and little fingers jutted out at right angles to the palm. They were purple and swollen to twice their normal size. “I’m afraid I won’t be much use to you.”

  Hiram was already on his feet. He threw another armful of branches on the fire and stood for a minute, staring with gleaming eyes at the prisoners. Lars stood behind him, a little to the left.

  Trap watched them carefully out of the corner of his peripheral vision, knowing that if he made eye contact they might sense his determination. He wanted them to believe he’d given up.

  When Hiram started to move toward him, creeping in for the kill with a wood-handled butcher knife, Trap let his head fall sideways next to Inez’s ear. “Do what you can,” he hissed. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “It’s good to meet you, Trap O’Shannon,” the girl croaked as Hiram made his move.

  CHAPTER 44

  Trap rolled away on his back, kicking up at Hiram’s hand. He connected and felt the white-hot pain as the blade sliced the ball of his foot. Hiram yowled in surprise and the knife spun away, clanking off the cave wall.

  Lars moved in to help, but Inez threw herself into him, screaming like a spirit of the damned. All the rage from her long hours of torment and suffering boiled out of her and overflowed onto the startled boy. She wrapped her arms around both legs and pulled him to the ground, sinking her teeth into the tender flesh of his thigh.

  “Turn aloose of meeeee!” he squealed, beating her on the top of the head. She held fast.

  Trap kicked out again, as Hiram descended on him. He caught the boy a glancing blow in the midsection, knocking him sideways but not doing much damage.

  Quickly, Trap pushed his arms down as far as he could and brought them up in front of him. He was still tied hand and foot, but he was far from helpless. He knew Inez wouldn’t be able to hold out for long; he had to finish this fast.

  When Hiram fell on him again, Trap let him come, rolling to the side at the last possible second. He delivered a powerful haymaker with both fists to the back of the other boy’s skull. Reaching over Hiram’s head, Trap pulled the cord that bound his wrists tight against the stunned twin’s throat. He wrenched back with all his might, feeling the windpipe collapse as he twisted and pulled.

  Hiram flailed wildly, both hands clawing at Trap’s wrists. It did him little good. In a matter of seconds the gurgling stopped and the boy lay still.

  Trap pushed him aside and rolled toward the knife. He had it in an instant.

  Lars had been so busy with Inez he’d not noticed his dead brother lying in the sand. When he finally knocked the girl out and wrenched himself free from her grasp, he turned to face Trap and a butcher knife in the belly.

  He groaned and slumped forward, his mouth open, gasping for air like a suffocating fish.

  Trap pushed him aside and let him finish dying in the dirt beside his filthy brother. He held the knife in his teeth to finish freeing his hands, then bent to cut the cords around his ankles. When he was free, he dropped to his knees to check on the girl.

  He put a hand to her neck. She had a pulse, but not much of one. She was a fighter, though, she’d shown that. He carried her to a clean spot by the fire and put her carefully in the soft sand, taking care to watch her injured hand, then took off his shirt and draped it over her shivering,
twitching body. He gently brushed a lock of hair out of her face.

  One eye was swollen completely shut; the other only opened a crack. She smiled. “I’m glad to meet you, Trap O’Shannon. Could I please have a drink of water?”

  * * *

  “What the hell do you think you’re doin’, preacher boy?” Tug stood at the mouth of the cave, his rifle in his hands. The lion hunter’s chest heaved from anger and the exertion of a long run. His face glistened with sweat in the firelight. “You gone and done it now, haven’t you, boy.” He nodded at the dead twins. “Well, I don’t care about no money. I aim to get me a little of that sweet thing there and there ain’t a thing you can do to stop me.”

  Trap scrambled to his feet, casting his eyes around for a weapon of any kind. In his haste to take care of the girl, he’d left Hiram’s knife on the ground beside Lars’s body.

  “You’re an awful brave man,” Trap said. He heard Inez moan softly behind him. “Killing an unarmed man and molesting a half-dead girl . . .”

  Tug spit and gave a long belly laugh. “Aw,” he said. “You’re gonna make me get all weepy.” He raised the rifle to his shoulder and aimed at Trap’s belly. “This’ll be slow. That way, you can watch—”

  A boom like a clap of thunder rocked the inside of the cave. Trap flinched, knowing he was mortally wounded. When he opened his eyes he saw Tug had fallen to his knees. The lion hunter’s face twisted, his jaw hung open in a mixture of shock and outrage. A dark and ugly stain spread across his chest.

  “Damn it,” he spit and fell face-forward into the sand. His rifle hit the ground an instant before he did.

  A moment later, Clay Madsen stepped into the cave. “Bad hombre like that shouldn’t stand out in a silhouette if he don’t want to get shot.”

  “What took you boys so long?” Trap suddenly felt heady and collapsed back into the sand next to Inez. “I thought I was going to have to kill all these outlaws myself.”

  “With what, your teeth?” Madsen knelt down in the sand beside his friend and shook his hand. “I was worried about you, compadre.” He grinned, blinking moist eyes. “Most of all, I was afraid you’d get all sad and despondent without me around to tell you stories.”

  Roman and Webber came in the cave with pistols drawn. Both men relaxed when they saw things were under control.

  Webber toed the bodies of the dead men, kicking weapons out of their reach to be on the safe side. “How many were there?”

  Trap counted in his head, trying to remember faces. “Nine, I think. You got Brandywine?”

  Roman slid the Schofield back in his holster. “Juan Caesar won’t have to worry about him cheating the Apache anymore.”

  “This is all of them then.” Webber smiled smugly and nodded his head. “This cave is a fortress. I don’t care how determined we were; if we would have attacked this place head-on, we’d have been slaughtered. Captain Roman, I have to hand it to you. Your little plan saved the day.”

  * * *

  Clay and Inez had already formed a tight kinship by the time they reached Camp Apache. He didn’t seem to mind her broken tooth, and she appeared genuinely interested in hearing lots of stories about Clay Madsen and Bastrop, Texas.

  After two days of rest and reuniting with their respective sweethearts, the three sergeants sent a special invitation, penned in Lieutenant Fargo’s flamboyant hand, to Captain Hezekiah Roman, asking his presence at a ceremony in the Camp Commander’s office. The Reverend and Mrs. O’Shannon, Maggie, Inez, Mariposa, Webber’s sweetheart, Lieutenant Fargo, and Colonel Branchflower were all in attendance in the cramped, but tidy room.

  Dressed for the first time in the blue kersey uniform of a cavalry trooper, Trap O’Shannon did the honors.

  “Sir!” The entire room came to attention when Roman walked in, hand in hand with his beautiful Irene. Trap held a shining saber out in front of him in both hands. He offered it to Roman. “The men—your men—wish to make you this gift.”

  Irene Roman gave her husband’s arm a squeeze. He snapped to attention and accepted the sword. His eyes glistened as he drew it from the metal scabbard and held the polished blade up to the light. “I am deeply honored, men.” He coughed to clear the catch in his throat. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

  Colonel Branchflower harrumphed from behind Fargo’s desk. “Don’t keep us in the dark, Captain. Read the blasted thing.”

  Roman swallowed and took a deep breath. As strong as he was, he leaned against his wife for support and read haltingly the words engraved on the blade.

  “TO CAPTAIN HEZEKIAH ROMAN—A MAN WORTH FOLLOWING. THE SCOUT TRACKERS. OCTOBER 1878. SANGUIS FRIGITIS!”

  CHAPTER 45

  1910

  Idaho

  “Do you reckon the good captain would mind a little toast of some good hot coffee over his casket?” Madsen sniffed, using a red bandanna to wipe a tear out of his eye. “I miss the straitlaced old son of a bitch.” He tipped his hat. “Pardon the language, ladies.”

  Trap smiled and helped Maggie out of her seat. “I imagine he’d be happy to see us.”

  It was chilly enough to see their breath in the mail car, and everyone but Maggie buttoned their coats up around their necks.

  Clay raised his cup above the simple pine casket. He started to speak, then seemed to think better of it and changed course. “If we haven’t said it yet, it’s too late, I reckon.”

  “Forgive me.” Hanna Cobb reached up to touch Clay gently on the arm. “I know I’m an outsider, but from what you’ve told me, Captain Roman knew full well how you felt about him.”

  “I hope so,” Trap said, raising his cup next to Clay’s. “I sure hope so.”

  A muffled grunt from behind a stack of bags interrupted the toast. Clay’s eyebrows shot up and he set his cup gently on top of Roman’s casket. “If you don’t mind holding that for a minute, Captain,” he said, drawing his Colt.

  Trap followed suit and pulled the Schofield from under his coat. He motioned the ladies back toward the door.

  “Who’s there?” Clay snapped. He pointed the pistol at the boxes. “Come out and show yourself.”

  A head full of disheveled black hair poked warily over the top of a steamer trunk. Two eyes as big as pie pans looked back and forth from the Colt to the Smith & Wesson. “What have I done to make you boys so mad?” the man said. He slowly raised two rough hands above his head.

  “It’s the sick passenger I was telling you about,” Hanna said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Reed,” the man said in a hoarse voice. “My friends call me Big Mike.”

  “You sick, Big Mike Reed?” Clay kept the pistol aimed in.

  “No, sir,” the wobbly man said. “Leastways, not anymore. Got a hold of some bad whiskey back in St. Regis. Thought it was gonna rot my guts out for a while there. The swayin’ of the train nearly did me in, I don’t mind tellin’ you.”

  “So you don’t have the smallpox?”

  The man’s mouth fell open. “Smallpox? I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister.”

  * * *

  Blake O’Shannon arrived a short time later and after a short conversation with his father through the window, boarded the train with Dr. Bruner from Wallace. The doctor took one look at Reed and declared him hungover, but as of yet not infected with smallpox.

  There was a sudden commotion outside the mail car door as the doctor helped the queasy miner to his feet. The portly conductor eased in backward, shoved into the cramped and narrow confines of the mail car by Birdie and Leo Baker.

  Leo’s eyes were swollen and blue. A bandage crossed his pink nose. Birdie’s piled hair had fallen a good six inches. Her black boots were scuffed and the tail of her linen blouse was untucked and trailing behind her. Nostrils flared on her prominent nose. Her squinting eyes burned with revenge.

  “Get out of my way, you incompetent imbecile. This is all your fault for letting that filthy Indian woman on the train in the first place.” The beefy wom
an beat at the conductor’s raised arm with a rolled-up newspaper.

  “Ma’am,” the pestered man said. “Please, let’s work this out like civilized adults.”

  Leo weighed in at that. “Are you implying that my wife is uncivilized? Why, she’s the most civilized person on this train.”

  “No.” The conductor frowned. “Mr. Baker, I must insist—”

  “Insist this, you ignorant bastard.” Leo Baker took a wild swing at the conductor. Maybe it was his lack of spectacles, maybe he was just a poor pugilist, but his punch missed completely.

  The conductor stepped to one side and Leo, along with his wife, who’d crowded in behind him, both fell headlong into a wide-eyed Big Mike Reed. The postmaster’s balding head hit the queasy miner square in the gut, causing him to throw up all over Birdie’s coiffure.

  Birdie wailed in outrage.

  Leo pushed himself back to his feet and fumed. “I am the postmaster of Dillon, Montana. I deserve a little respect around here.”

  Clay attempted to step forward, but Blake raised his hand and winked.

  “Oh, this is bad, sir,” he said. “Very bad.”

  “And just who might you be?” Leo tried to console his screeching wife. “You look as though you are part of the problem.”

  “Blake O’Shannon, deputy United States marshal.” He plowed ahead before Leo could make any more comments about him looking like an Indian. He turned to the doctor. “Doc Bruner, I believe it would be prudent to quarantine the Bakers for a few days since they’ve had such close contact with someone who may be infected—for their own safety, that is.”

  Bruner grinned, then caught himself. His brow creased and a serious look crossed his face. “You are right, Deputy.” He found a packing blanket and draped it around Birdie’s sobbing shoulders. “This is extremely sensitive. We don’t want to start a pandemic. Afraid we’ll have to keep you here in Idaho for a while.”

  Leo looked up at him, suspicious. “How long? I have a conference in Phoenix in a week.”