The Road to Hellfire

by Michael Panush

  They followed hidden, narrow trails, where Stokes’ gang had to dismount and walk their mounts along winding paths that snaked through the rock. The canyon walls seemed to close in, like the clutching hands of a giant. Cane and Emma walked in the center of the outlaw troop, Silas Stokes himself riding just behind them. The trail rose and fell at steep angles, jagged rocks and dust under their feet and a pure blue, cloudless sky somewhere far above them.

  Time passed slowly. Emma and Cane didn’t talk, focusing on keeping up with their captors and trying to save as much energy as they could. Emma slipped countless times on the rocky, narrow trail, and Cane steadied her with a quick and gentle hand. She didn’t say a word in thanks, merely glanced at him with nervous eyes and nodded her head furtively.

  Every so often, Cane saw something out of the corner of his eye. He spotted scraps of red cloth against the red rocks, always vanishing before Cane could fix them in his vision. He knew they were being followed. It was Apache. Cane was sure of that and the fact was not so surprising.

  But then he saw something else, standing on an upper ledge and gazing down at them. It was a strange figure, skeletal and faint against the blazing sun, like a hazy mirage that would vanish if stared at for too long. Cane saw a man’s outline, but terribly thin and spindly. And the vision shone, its head and chest gleaming like mirrors. Cane squinted up, but it vanished before he could tell what it was.

  Finally, the trail narrowed into a wider canyon. Stokes raised his hand. “Stop here and sip of your canteens,” he ordered. “The San Tomas is a ways further.” He threw back his head, staring up at the blue sky. “And drink well, my friends!” he cried. “After this, it’ll be champagne from golden goblets!” He looked down at Cane and Emma. “Well, I ain’t too certain in your case.”

  Emma stared up at him and met his eyes. “I am certain, sir, that your future will include no libation besides whatever they happen to have in your cell – prior to your hanging. Once you reach the flames of Hell, I doubt the devil will share his cup with you.” She clutched her arms. “And rest assured, that is where those who threaten the innocent will go. And you, Mr. Stokes, have—”

  “Miss Finch,” Cane said, keeping his voice soft. “That’s enough on that subject.”

  “Oh.” Emma nodded slowly. “Yes.” She looked back at Cane and bowed her head. “I must thank you, sir, for the care you showed to me on the trail. And throwing down your firearms to spare my life from Stokes’ hand, previously.” She tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. “There are cruel men in this country – but there are good men too, and it is good to know that I—”

  “A good man!” Stokes interrupted Emma with a harsh, snorting laugh. “You think Clayton Cane’s a normal man – or a good one? That El Mosaico is just another fellow? Darling, that just ain’t the case.” He pointed to Cane. “Have a look at his face, Miss Cane. You can see it just ain’t right. That’s because he weren’t born – but built.”

  “That’s utterly preposterous.” Emma looked back at Cane. “He is merely scarred.”

  “The scars come from when he was sewn together. Was some mad plantation-owner, back during the War Between the States. He figured that the South would lose, on account of not having enough men – so he took a whole bunch of corpses from different battlefields, stitched them all together and used black magic, and evil science and even a little Voodoo from his slaves to bring the finished product to life.” Stokes leaned down on his horse. “And Clayton Cane is the finished product. He’s a living weapon, and even though he escaped from the plantation and ran into the swamps, his man-killing nature didn’t go away. And El Mosaico – as the Mex call him – has been killing ever since.”

  Slowly, Emma turned to look back at Clayton Cane. “Mr. Cane?” she asked. “Is that true?”

  “Yeah.” He spoke without looking at her. He hated Stokes just then – and he hated himself as well. Cane turned away from Emma and looked down the canyon. That was when he saw a scrap of red cloth against the red rock. It was gone in a second, but Cane immediately knew that it was no trick of light. Not in Apache country. He glanced back at Stokes. “We gotta go, Stokes. We ain’t alone here.”

  “The hell you say!” Stokes snarled. “I don’t see no one here! This canyon’s empty as a vulture-picked eye socket!”

  But he was wrong. Right after he spoke, the Apache emerged from their hiding places. They had approached, surround Stokes’ gang and hidden themselves in a matter of seconds — all without making a sound. Cane expected no less from the Chiricahua. An Apache could disappear when you blinked, then reappear with a knife to your throat. Cane’s hands dropped down to his empty holsters on their own accord.

  Stokes raised his pistol at the dark-haired men who stepped out from the shadows, and his gang brought up their guns. None of them fired. Cane looked over the Apache, who had already covered the white men with their long rifles and the occasional bow and arrow. They were lean fellows, wearing loose cloth shirts stained red with dust, breechcloths and high moccasins. All of them had long black hair, some flowing freely or tucked behind headbands – and knives, war clubs and revolvers on their belts.

  Cane saw one of the Apaches slip down and land before him. He recognized this old Indian, from the streaks of gray in his hair to the crimson paint slashed below his tired, dark eyes. His face was lined and weathered, like the red rocks themselves. He was Pablo Rojo, scourge of the US Cavalry and the North Mexican border country. In the past, he rode Magnas Coloradas and Cochise and stood well in the company of those famed war chiefs. Now he looked at Stokes and then his eyes darted to Cane.

  “Mosaico,” he said. His voice was old and weathered.

  “Pablo Rojo.” Cane nodded politely.

  “Hold on now!” Stokes cantered his horse to stand in front of Pablo Rojo. “I’m the one in charge here – not him. El Mosaico’s no more than my prisoner. I bested him in combat! I’m the tougher man than him and I’ll kill anyone – heathen or white – who cares to say I ain’t.” He still clutched his revolver. “So you deal with me, Pablo Rojo, and I’ll tell you how things are gonna be.”

  Pablo Rojo looked over his shoulder and stared down the trail. “You ride into the canyons that are home to the ghosts,” Pablo Rojo said. “You go to the cursed mines.” He drew his finger across his throat. “It is a nest of hornets and you will stir them by your actions. I do not care if you blunder to your deaths, but the hornets will spread through the canyons and the Apache will pay for the mistakes of white men, as they have done many times before. I will not have it.” He turned back to Stokes, looking down the barrel of his revolver. “You will not go down to the San Tomas Mine.”

  “Heh. You got some nerve, talking to your betters like that.” Stokes looked from Pablo Rojo to Cane. “I can see why you know his name and respect each other – you’re two peas in the same savage pods. Both a couple of killers that don’t know nothing but the taking of lives.” He glared back at the Apache. “Well not me, you damn savage. There’s a fortune of Spanish gold waiting to be taken and no savage heathen’s gonna stand in my way.” He cocked his revolver.

  “If you try, we will kill many of you,” Pablo Rojo announced. His tone had not changed. “The fewer men enter the cursed canyons, the less the ghosts will be disturbed.”

  “So now you’re threatening me and my men?” Stokes asked. “Figures. A savage don’t speak no language but that of death and violence. Ain’t that right, Cane?” He kept his revolver leveled. “Well, that’s fine by me. I speak a little of that lingo myself.” Stokes went for the trigger. Cane saw Pablo Rojo already leaping to the side, a second before Stokes’ pistol cracked away. The bullet crashed into the stone, right where Pablo Rojo had been.

  Bullets crashed through the air, cracking against the stones and making the whole canyon resound with gunfire and stink of smoke. Stokes’ outlaws were bold and brutal – but they were not Apaches. They died quickly, shot off their horses or thrown from their mounts in the hail of w
ithering rifle fire and the occasional feathered arrow.

  Cane ran to Emma and grabbed her arm. A dead man sprawled on the ground before them and Emma covered her mouth. She looked up at Cane. “This is our chance, isn’t it?” she said, whispering as bullets flew around them. “We can escape.”

  “You ain’t going nowhere!” Stokes rode next to them on his horse. He swung down from the saddle, a revolver in one hand. “Go on, Cane! You know the Apaches! You’ll come in handy! Go on down that canyon or I’ll shoot the schoolteacher in the gut – see if I won’t!” He held onto his horse’s reins, dragging the panicking beast along.

  “You’ve already got the Apache good and pissed,” Cane replied. “They won’t forgive you.”

  “You arguing with me?!” Stokes’ revolver slammed out, cracking into Cane’s face. The bounty hunter stepped back, feeling the harsh impact against his forehead. “We ain’t got the time for that! Down the pathway or the next one goes to Miss Finch!”

  His head ached and his vision blurred, but Cane still turned and hurried down the trail. He kept Emma close to him. An arrow whistled past them, arcing near Emma’s legs. A bullet struck a rock near them, sending stinging fragments hissing into the air. Cane glanced back and saw that Stokes was still following them, along with three of his gunmen. Their guns clattered away at the Apaches, throwing down enough fire to cover their escape.

  Somehow, they made it from the wide canyon and down into the narrow path. They stumbled over rocks and sweated in the blazing sun, the Apaches whooping behind them as they came down to finish off the wounded. Like Pablo Rojo had said, the Apache did not give chase. They just wanted to thin Stokes’ herd and that they had done. Besides, there were now scalps to take and wounded to deal with.

  “Hell with them,” Stokes muttered, as he pulled along his horse. “They signed up with me, hitched their wagons to my train. Should’ve known it was trouble.” He turned back to his three remaining outlaws. “Keep your guns close, boys!” he ordered. “And stay on the trail! We ain’t going much further – and we’ll walk out of here as rich as kings!” But Stokes’ men responded only with grumbles and mutters, as they trudged further from the bloody canyon.

  Cane looked at Emma as the first scream came echoing across the canyon walls. Her face was pained and red. “It’s all right,” he told her. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she pulled away suddenly. Cane’s arm fell to his side. The poor woman was terrified. He didn’t blame her. And now that she knew what he was, there was no way she could seek solace in his company. Stokes was right. He was as savage as this harsh land and all of its occupants.

  They walked down the narrow trail, which seemed to cut straight through the living rock. It sloped down, taking them deeper and deeper into the mountain. The rocks cast jagged shadows across the trail and Cane felt a cold wind whistling through the canyons, with a noise like a protracted, whispering scream. He kept pace with Emma Finch, keeping his eyes peeled for any way to escape – but it was looking more and more unlikely.

  They walked further down the trail, until evening fell over the canyons. The sun started to sink and the usual oppressive heat of the badlands was replaced by a hateful, windy cold. Cane and Emma worked their way down the trail, Stokes in front of them and his three gunmen behind. There was no chance to escape. Emma hadn’t said a word to Cane, not since the Apache attack. Cane began to wonder if they would ever find the San Tomas mine – or if it was to be found at all. Despite his fatigue from the journey, he began to hope they wouldn’t.

  But then he heard Silas Stokes release a little tittering laugh of pure joy. “Here we are!” Stokes hurried down the trail, which opened up into a broad valley. He raised his hands like he was some priest welcoming in a congregation. Stokes spun around, looking back at Cane, Emma and his men. “Here we are, boys! The lost San Tomas mine! Our fortunes await!” His horse trotted down after him and stood motionless on the rocky floor.

  Cane and Emma stared around the valley. Emma shuddered at what she saw. There were a few cabins and blockhouses, all built around a tunnel entrance that seemed like a great gash carved into the mountainside, shored up with weathered wooden planks. But scattered across the stone floor, long since picked clean by vultures and desert beasts, were human bones. Dusty and gray, they seemed like so much rotting wood. Cane could imagine the bloody massacres that had followed, of Indian slaves dying before the whips and muskets of the cruel conquistadors. The mark of violence remained like a bloodstain that would never fade.

  Stokes marched down into the valley, kicking aside bones with his boots. He had eyes only for the mineshaft. “That’s where the trove must be – all that gold and silver just waiting there to be taken. But it’s dark as a black panther’s armpit right now. We’ll get a good start in the morning.” He raised his voice “Get some of the kindling down here and make a fire!” he ordered to his men.

  They listened to their boss, gathering up kindling while Cane and Emma walked to the center of the little camp. Emma gingerly sat down on a flat piece of rock. She looked up at Cane. “There was death here,” she said softly. “Wasn’t there?”

  “Yeah,” Cane replied. “Still is, I reckon.”

  “This is a terrible place I have come to.” Emma lowered her eyes. “I regret leaving Boston now. I regret leaving the house of my loving parents to walk into a wilderness where I know I do not belong. Perhaps I believed that my education and manners had something to offer the residents of this place, but that must be far from the truth. And now I fear that I will never return.”

  “Hey.” Cane looked down at her. “You’re right about it being a tough place. But it’s changing. I know that, sure as I know the sun’s gonna come up when this night is finished. Men like Stokes and the Apache – and me – are all gonna go away. But folks like you, good people who are brave enough to risk their lives without resorting to killing, will remain. They’ll shape the future of this place. Everyone else will just be ghosts.” He knelt down next to Emma, looking her straight into the eye. “And you ain’t out of place. You got courage – more than you realize – and a will that’s stronger than anything, else you would have broken down long ago. You may have chosen a tough life, Miss Finch – but you’re suited to it.”

  Stokes’ outlaws tossed a few dried sticks into a loose pile and one of them struck a match and tossed it in. Soon a fire was roaring, casting warmth over the outlaws, and Emma and Cane. They sat in a loose circle around the campfire, the fire making shadows dance and leap on their faces like shifting bands of dark war paint. The full moon hung high in the sky above them, like a big silver dollar against a cushion of black velvet.

  “Living’s gonna be free and easy once I get my hands on that gold. Yes, sir.” Stokes jabbed at the fire with a stick, raising a shower of sparks. He looked up at Emma. “What do you say I take you down to Mexico, sweetheart? Make you my queen and live with you forever?”

  “Sir, if a mangy coyote made such a proposition to me, I would give it greater consideration than the request you have just made.” Emma stared into the fire, not meeting Stokes’ eyes.

  “Oh. You’re a haughty girl, ain’t you? Don’t you worry. I’ll cure you of that.” Stokes looked up suddenly. “You hear that?” he asked. It was his horse, snorting and whinnying. The animal was just at the edge of the fire, tethered to a rock on the ground. Now the animal seemed frightened. Stokes reached down for his revolver. “Could be Apaches,” he said. “Sneaking up on us.”

  “No.” Cane looked up from the fire. He saw a figure shining in the distance, just at the rim of the fire’s glow. It was the sameone he had seen earlier, on the ledge above the canyon trail. The same glow was on the spindly figure’s chest and head, though it was the moon and not the sun that was reflected. This time, Cane saw more of the shimmering shapes behind it, and then the spindly limbs were bringing up a dark tube.

  A harquebus, which had not fired for centuries, roared to life and spat a bullet into the nearest of Stokes’ men. He slum
ped over, a bloody gash punched through his chest, and fell into the roaring fire. Cane sprang to his feet, grabbing Emma’s arm and hauling her up. More harquebus shots whistled past them, kicking up the dust and scattering the piles of bones. The outlaw in the fire went into spasms as the flame licked his skin. Cane stared into the shadows.

  The conquistadors were there, just like the legend said they would be. The curse of the priest kept them in their canyons, forced never to leave and never to die. Now they stood as strange, skeletal figures, their armored breastplates and morion helmets streaked with rust and still gleaming. Their skin was dry and withered. It was pressed closely to their limbs and faces so they seemed as thin as the bones at that filled the canyon. Cane’s eyes darted over their weapons as the dead conquistadors came in from the shadows, looking at the halberds and broadswords that were so marked with rust that they seemed bloody. Once again, he cursed the fact that he did not have his pistols.

  A dead Spaniard ran to their fire, swinging down his heavy halberd at Stokes. The outlaw leader rolled out of the way, going for his guns. “Hold them back!” he shouted. “Keep them dead men away from me!” One of his gunslingers came to his feet, trying to raise his shotgun. The conquistadors fell on him, and he was skewered with three sword points in a matter of seconds. He fell to the ground, gasping and gurgling as he died.

  Cane came to his feet, helping Emma up. He saw a conquistador charging for them, swinging his halberd high. Cane lunged out and grabbed the rough wooden handle of the great axe. He pulled it, dragging the dead Spaniard closer, and then slammed his fist into the corpse’s jaw. The dead skin felt like old leather under his knuckles. Desiccated bone shattered from the blow and the dead man crumpled to the ground.

  They ran from the campfire. Stokes’ horse remained, still tethered to the rock. None of the Spaniards seemed to notice it. Cane and Emma hurried back from the campfire, trying to stay one step ahead of the flashing blades of the dead conquistadors.